They were right -- 40 ain't that bad

I know I’m breaking a cardinal rule of blogging by posting on a Monday, but I’ve just got so much to say.

I attended a poetry reading today. Perhaps I should clarify that I was one of the poets. I read three of my poems – including an old favorite, The Christmas Thank you. We chatted and discussed, and then two people turned to me saying, “Have you ever considered…” while handing me their business cards.

Let’s back up a bit.

While this Saturday morning I was seated in a circle with a group of Lewis fans sharing poetry, last Saturday morning I lay in my bed pondering the ramifications of turning 40 (I was equally nervous on both occasions).

The first 20 years of my life were spent growing up. Then my goose was born and I spent the next 20 years of my life helping him grow up. He’ll be turning 20 this July. Which means that task is done. I’ll always be his mother, and hopefully his adviser, confident, and friend. Be he no longer needs me in that dedicated role.

The question became, What will I do with the next 20 years?

I decided that maybe now it’s time to really focus on my writing. So I got out of bed and sorted through my poems, chose some and clipped them together, promising myself that I would publish them. That would be my birthday gift to myself (along with all three seasons of Due North).

Now back to today’s poetry reading.

One person handed me his business card, telling me that he has a connection at DANA Farbor if I were ever interested in doing a poetry reading there. He felt that others would benefit from the perspective and hope I found through my own cancer experience.

The other, with tears in her eyes, handed me her card and told me that I had to get my story out there. She’d just self-published her own story in November and has already sold 600 books. She wants to market my story. She is going home to put my poem on her website right now.

As I ponder the obvious hand of God in this, I realized that both of these people were new to our group. They had come to hear another poet. But God had wanted them to hear me.

So I’m sitting by my melting lake, listening to the crackles and streams of water running under the ice, knowing that God is on the move.

And suddenly, I’m oh-so-excited to be 40!

I just wanted to let you know…

Priceless

“May I join You?” I still feel the hesitance. He is God and I am just me. Unworthy. Little. Sinful.

                But He exudes joy at my presence. “Yes. Please. Of course. Come sit. Why do you keep asking? You know I want You to come and sit beside me. This is Your spot I’ve saved for You. Please come sit and join me.”

                “Thank You, Abba. For loving me.”

                He just smiles.

                It’s quiet. Then He asks, “Do you doubt my love for you?”

                “No,” I answer. Not quickly and defensively. But slowly and thoughtfully. “No. I don’t doubt it. I just wonder why.”

                “Because I made you. Because you’re mine.”

                Again it’s quiet.

                “Now what are you wondering?”

                “Why did you make me so flawed?” The question comes out without me really thinking about it. When I hear it, I’m shocked. Am I blaming God for who I am?

                “What are the flaws you see?” He asks, without a trace of anger.

                I think.

                “I’m impatient. I get angry. I forget to visit You, or worse, I refuse to. I have dark spots inside.”

                “Dark spots?”

                “Dark spots. Areas I can’t go. Things I won’t think about. But that make me who I am.”

                “And were they there when I made you?”

                “No. Living my life put them there.”

                “So I didn’t make the dark spots –“

                “And You didn’t make me flawed.”

                “So, just because what I made got dirty, should I love it any less?”

                “No.”

                Long silence.

                “Can I have your dark spots?”

                “Will I have to look at them to give them to You?”

                “Maybe. Do you trust me?”

                “Yes.” Emphatically. Immediately. “Yes, I trust You. You may have my dark spots. You may have my life. You may have my son. My crafts. My gifts. My money. My clothes. My emotions. My time. My present. My future. And You may have my past.”

                “Thank you. I give you back today.”

                “That’s it?” But it’s not a complaint. It’s a joyful release. A realization that all I’m required to do is live today. All I’m responsible for is right now. No worries about tomorrow. No regrets about yesterday. I only have today.

                “That’s it.” And there’s happy laughter in His voice. Perhaps even pride that I’d begun to catch on? And love. Lot’s of love.

                “Yes. I trust You.” I say again.

                “So what will you do?” He asks.

                “Hmm?” I was lost in thought of trust, love, friends.

                “So what will You do with today?”

                “What do You want me to do?”

                “Live.”

                And a couple of doubts creep in. A couple of fears crop up. I need more details. I want more specifics. How do I live? What exactly should I do? But He’s quiet.

                “I’ve already told you all that,” he finally answers.

                But I want more. I want direct orders to follow.

                “Why?”

                “So I don’t make any mistakes. I trust You. I just don’t trust me. Make me trustworthy. Make me worthwhile.”

                “Your worth is the price I paid for you. Your worth is the extent of My love for you.”

                “That would make me priceless.”

                “Exactly.”

                And my mind jumped a couple of steps ahead. “That would make everyone around me priceless.”

                “Exactly.”

                “So that’s what I’ll do today.”

                “What?”

                “I’ll feed Your sheep. I’ll love Your people.”

                “Thank you.”

                “Thank You.” And I jump up off the savior’s mat and run back to my kitchen to begin baking.

Giving Up...

I just got home from a follow-up with my plastic surgeon. I’m at peace now as I type this, curled up on my couch under a crocheted blanket, watching Stella devour her late supper. But I think I experienced every emotion possible on my drive home. And I’m tired.

The appointment did not go at all as I expected. 

But then, most of them don’t. At the last one, the doctor and nurse had come in, checked out the stitches, smiled, said everything looked good, and walked out again all before I’d had a chance to open my mouth and say hi.

At the one before that, the doctor had escorted me into his “back room” and done a procedure that I thought we were simply going to be making an appointment for.

He’s full of surprises.

But I guess I am, too. And I had been trying to tell him about my new plans for the past two appointments.

You see, after the last procedure, I had decided it was time to try something new.

It had hit me (again) that every surgery, procedure, and stitch was done to make me look normal. But I wanted to be normal. I wanted to be just another woman out there – without the scars, discolorations, radiation tattoos, and cancer reminders. Somehow, every time I headed into surgery, I expected this to be The One. And every time, it wasn’t. 

No matter how hard he works, my plastic surgeon can’t give me what I had to let go of.

I almost wrote “what cancer took from me.” But I didn’t. Because it didn’t. Cancer didn’t take my breasts. I surrendered them. Because I wanted to live – and that was a small price to pay for survival.

So I realized again, that I will never be “normal.” But that I can be Me.

 I began exploring other options, and I discovered mastectomy tattoos. There are many, many other women out there who have walked where I’m stumbling along, and they’ve created their own normal. They’ve found a new beauty. They’ve created a canvas that tells their story with joy – replacing what they let go of with something they can hold on to with pride.

I went into today’s appointment planning to tell my surgeon that I wanted to stop reconstruction efforts and instead get another tattoo. 

He came in, sat down in a chair facing me, and slowly said that he was sorry but that he couldn’t help me anymore. He said that he felt like we’d been running a marathon, and we could actually see the finish line, but that he just couldn’t get me there. He’s not fully happy with the results, but there’s nothing else he can do. At least not now, maybe someday in the future.  He loved the idea of a mastectomy tattoo, and can’t wait to see what I end up doing.

As I sat there, listening to him talk, and slowly nodding my head, I’m thinking, “Ok. He wants to stop. This is what I wanted. So why am I suddenly trying not cry?” And I realized that he was giving up. 

The doctor who from day one had kept saying, “Yup. We can do that,” was suddenly and abruptly admitting defeat. “I’ll see you in a year.” 

After three years of seeing him every three months or more, six surgeries and a handful of procedures, and who-knows-how-many stitches, he gave me a hug and walked me to the door. I walked out. I thought about sitting down in the waiting room to text a friend, but the frugal part of my brain encouraged me to go pay for parking first.

I paid my ticket. Got in my car, and drove home.

I cried a little. I mourned the loss of choice. For a moment it felt again like cancer had won. I was angry for a moment, too. How dare he give up on me!!! He promised!! I was frustrated. I was scared. I was sad – I hadn’t expected to say good-bye to him today. It’s funny how we can get used to seeing doctors, and actually start to miss them a little. And then I was simply tired.

I’m still tired. It’s been a long journey. Six and a half years since diagnosis. I guess it’s a good time for a hiatus. A good time to stop and rest. Reflect on what’s been done, ponder on what I can still do.

As I typed that last paragraph, I remembered the phrase that Abba whispered to me as I lay in my first MRI tube. “Be still, and know that I am God.”

He is God. And not only is He God, but He is Love. And he is All-Knowing and All-Powerful. He will never walk away from me, and He will never, ever, ever give up on me.