From an article originally posted March 13, 2014…

There are moments, hours, segments of time where I think, This is all a mistake. I have passing thoughts that the part of me that lit up in the machine last week was an accident, or a product of an old virus that my lymphatic system couldn’t keep up with and indicated cancer falsely. Then I have moments were I know the machine is right, I know the aggressive nature of my cancer, and I sigh, and cry, and lose my breath.

Today, I head into another scary snort. I have stopped being brave with this particular snort and I ask to be gently put to sleep. I am in the middle place of sleep as the magnets swirl, and scream, and look inside my brain. I always look at the ones that usher me from place to place, I look to see if there is sadness in their faces. I look to see if they saw a giant tumor that made everyone run to come see. But I can never tell from their expressions. I imagine they have seen more than I would ever want to see.

Friday, I go see my kind-faced oncologist. I expect this to be a hard meeting. My doctor loves what he does, but when he meets stories like mine his face grows old and tired. He is my age, we have kids the same ages, he loves the beach, and he often comes to me tanned from something joyful. He needs to get away. He needs reminding of joy and goodness and sun with his littles. I hurt that I am the one to expose his lack of control. His limitations for fixing this.

So, the butt end of this week that looks so scary has been prayed over. God knew about this week long before we did. He is already there. This news is no surprise to him. I’m comforted that in the breath-taking moments of grief and hard, He is right there. He has planned that the one that has daily prayed for me very specifically will be in my home to greet me on my couch. She will be quietly sitting here as we try to tell and retell the story—the future story of me. She will listen, she will cry with us, and she will pray. Like all of us, she will be learning the farce of control. She will see the beauty of the free fall—that isn’t a free fall at all.

I came today back to the page that comforted me when I newly came to my diagnosis. These words have been often read, reread, and swallowed. These words bring peace.