And Then the Storm Calmed...

 

I was in 9th grade the year Hurricane Hugo came through South Carolina. I lived in Florence at the time and reports said we had 145mph winds. It lasted the entire night. I remember three aspects of the storm vividly even all these years later:

1. The sound of the relentless howling of the wind. It was deafening. It went on for hours only briefly outdone by the sounds of snapping pines all around us. It was powerful. I remember my stepdad being amazed that for a few hours, he couldn't, even with all his might, get the front door of our house to open. He was a big guy, but the wind was just that strong!

2. The heavy cloak of blackness that enveloped our neighborhood and house. The city had cut the power to our area before things got too bad to prevent any fire emergencies that they couldn't respond to safely. With no streetlights, no night lights, and no stars or moon to be seen, it was actually a bit terrifying if I am being honest....even for a "too cool to care" teenager. I am not sure I have seen such a level of darkness since. 

3. The comfort I felt from being near my family huddled under the stairs with our blankets and snacks. I knew no matter what we went through, I wasn't going to go through it alone. 

However, for as intense and powerful as a hurricane is. there is an equal or greater intensity in the calmness in the just after. My mom actually woke me for it. I remember sliding out of my sleeping bag and joining her on the porch. She had made some coffee in a pot on our grill and poured me a cup. We just sat there in mostly silence. It was all so very still. And the colors were so vibrant. The green was greener. The blue sky was crisper. 

That is how this moment of my journey feels. 

On May 20th, I sat in the infusion chair for the last time and got my final dose of immunotherapy. Then 30 minutes later, I stood at the bell with the intensity of Hurricane Hugo and rang it loudly. Claps from nurses and schedulers, patients still hooked up to their own port drips and IVs, and their families erupted. 

And then as the noise faded, I exhaled. Not just the kind of exhale that we do over and over minute by minute of our days, but one of those long slow intentional exhales that originates somewhere deep inside and makes your legs feel wobbly when you expel it. The kind of exhale that says...this person has forgotten to breathe. 

And ya know...there is a truth to that. When you get a diagnosis, when you face a fight, sometimes you hold your breath a little as you walk through it. You meter yourself. You hold back planning beyond just the now right in front of you. You get a little more careful, a little afraid to take a chance or rock the proverbial boat. Living becomes just surviving and sometimes you don't even notice that you are doing it. 

So, I rang my bell, hit the button to go down the elevator, and left the building that I had spent so much time in for the past two and a half years. I got into my car beside my amazing husband who truly has stood by me with a depth and completeness that makes me fall in love with him all over again. And then we just drove home back to our lives. 

Only it all looked a little crisper. 

I've spent the weeks since appreciating that, thanking God for this space of time, and daydreaming about plans to garden, and entertain, to travel, and renovate, and longing to catch up on visiting all those people that I haven't been able to have time to see. 

However...and bear with me here....

I have been truly so very elated and appreciative of this new dawn...this calmness and the crispness of new possibilities and opportunities that the closing of this journey's chapter brings but...

I have also been nervous and even a bit fearful. There had become a rhythm to my schedule of treatment and a sense that I was "doing something" actively to kick cancer's butt. This "control" over doing something to keep it at bay is now wrapping up. I feel vulnerable again. 

Jumping back to my Hurricane Hugo memory a minute....

What I didn't really mention to you guys earlier in the recounting of that amazing calm after the storm morning on the porch with my sweet mama was that we had lost nearly every tree in our yard and our porch looked like an island. We were completely surrounded by at least 2 ft of water (which would remain for more than a week btw but that is a whole other story for another time.)  I am sure for my mom there were panicked thoughts about what to do, how to survive, how to navigate this all with clean-up crews, the insurance company, and her employer. I am also sure she felt fragile and vulnerable.

 But in that moment, she chose to appreciate the gift in front of her. She exhaled.  She thanked God, then she made the conscious effort to begin to breathe again...one breath at a time. And I realized in thinking back on it that she showed me how to do the same. 

Another truth that came to me yesterday... Yes, my active treatment has stopped. But God's hand and movement in all of this started WAY before my first infusion and He continues to move and will continue to move in and through my life until my very last breath. I can remind myself of that and let His presence calm my spirit.

I want to say special thank you to my friends who have reached out to encourage me and who have come alongside me with cheers as the journey has begun to wind down. Thank you for your gifts, your prayers, your meals, and for also loving on my kids and hubby too during this season. Every bit of it has mattered. It has made a difference. Your kindness has reminded me that God sees me and that I am not alone and I am eternally grateful. 

My next scheduled PET scan is July 12th. I would appreciate prayers over that for calmness, clear scans, and wisdom for the doctors as they interpret it.