When we met with Dr. Campbell a week ago, my blood tests had shown that my tumor marker numbers were creeping up. Not sure what to make of this, Dr. Campbell ordered a CAT scan. We had the results yesterday. According to the CAT scan, the cancer is either stable or shrinking. This is great news.

However, my neuropathy from the chemo drug Halaven is becoming bothersome. My fingertips are numb which leads to more kitchen accidents and difficulty typing, but not much else. My feet and legs up to my knees are also affected. I often feel as though I have to consciously lift my left leg in order to walk. I’m slower on stairs and feel clumsy in my gait. Dr. Campbell’s concern with my neuropathy is not so much that I have it now (it’s not wrecking my life) but that if we do the Halaven too long, the neuropathy might not reverse when I go off of it (not a fun lifetime issue).

So here comes the sports analogy…is it time to pull the pitcher? For those of you who are about as big a baseball fan as I was at this time last year, pulling the pitcher means taking the pitcher off the mound for the rest of the game. The manager can do this any time and replace the pitcher with a relief pitcher from the bullpen. Once a pitcher is replaced, he can’t pitch the rest of the game. And, due to the toll pitching takes on the body, likely won’t pitch for another 4 games. Pitching a full 9 innings is actually rather rare. It takes a savvy manager to know when to pull the pitcher or when to leave the pitcher in–trusting that even though he let a few walks go by he still has some 90 mile an hour fastballs left in his arm. Taking him out too soon can mean the waste of a good pitcher for the rest of the game.

Dr. Campbell, our savvy manager (I’m picturing him as Tiger manager Jim Leyland now), is not ready to pull the pitcher. He thinks that Halaven (now known as Tiger pitcher Justin Verlander) still has a few fastballs up its sleeve. Until Halaven/Verlander hits a batter (my neuropathy gets worse) it’s staying on the mound.

OK, sports analogy over.

For the most part, I am happy with this. I struggle with the limitations I have because of the neuropathy and the pleural-drain-that-won’t-give-up, but I’m happy that life has gone back to what we know as normal and that the CAT scan showed good things. I’m glad we’re not picking up the phone to the bullpen just yet.

Cheer on Verlander with me, won’t you? This 7th inning is really dragging on, but we know he’s not American League MVP for nothing!

One poem that Dad had us memorize that year was John Milton’s “On His Blindness.” In it, Milton explores what it is to serve God, envisions the power at God’s behest and concludes, “who best bear his mild yoke, they serve him best” and then, “they also serve who also stand and wait.”

I can remember quite clearly Dad’s passionate explication of this poem. Relating it not only to Milton’s own blindness, his dependence on his daughters to read and write for him, but also to us. We were hale and healthy high school seniors, but Dad assured us that this would not always be the case. There were times we would only be able to “stand and wait” and this was service to God as well.

There may be a bit of irony that the man who fervently taught this lesson is also the man who is half of the pair who gave me my very dominant ABD gene. Always Be Doing. If I am not actively doing something, I get a little nuts. I walked in on Dad vacuuming the underside of my living room rug this winter. It’s a darn strong gene, that ABD.

But this winter has been a lot of waiting for me. Lying and waiting. Sitting and waiting. Sometimes standing and waiting. Even now that I’m more active and back to a more normal schedule there is waiting. I’m more tentative in my actions and certainly not as productive. This is hard for me and I end up feeling guilty that I’m not doing more.

It’s in this guilt that Milton’s line comes to me. And while I usually attribute this only to the recall of Scripture when I least expect it and most need it, I think this is the work of the Holy Spirit. That, too, felt strange. Does the Holy Spirit speak to me in poetry? Isn’t that the work only of Scripture?

My question was answered on Easter morning. A gorgeous service at church and the sermon based on Mark’s account of the resurrection. Mark’s account is spare and differs from other accounts in that it describes a man dressed in white. The man is not identified as an angel or Jesus, but bids the women to tell the good news of the resurrection. The sermon focused on his clothing which the pastor called “resurrection clothing.” She had much to say about it, but what struck me most was her conclusion, her challenge to us. What, she wondered, did our resurrection clothing look like? Could it be an apron, a 3-piece suit, a lab coat, a hospital gown? “Hospital gown,” I thought, “she just said hospital gown. When I am wearing a hospital gown, I too am serving God. I, too, am wearing the clothing of the resurrection. They also serve who only stand and wait!”

This makes the waiting and the standing easier. It calms me for my two significant doctor appointments this week. It allows me to curl up in the chair reading Percy Jackson book one while Zoe sits on me and reads Percy Jackson book four. It gives me wonderful time with my mom even if it is at the cancer center. It gives me the patience to empty my drain one. more. time.

I’m waiting. I’m serving. I’m thankful.

However, yesterday it was good that they were together. We served Zoe breakfast in bed and then hustled off to see the doctor. We knew that my tumor marker counts were slightly up. My fluid production is also up. So we were a bit on edge over what the next course of action would be.

And after a good visit with Dr. Campbell, we are staying the course. We both feel good about this decision. The side effects of the Halaven (neuropathy, fatigue) are manageable. I’m doing OK.

It was after we had gone through all of this medical stuff, that I got personal and told Dr. Campbell that it was the anniversary of my diagnosis six years ago and also our daughter’s birthday. I thanked him for all he had done to keep me around.

To my surprise, he said, “It’s not me, it’s you. It’s your determination. If I could bottle that and give it to other patients, I would.” He went on to talk about making a normal life for our family and how important that was. It turned into a really wonderful and meaningful conversation. A huge shot in the arm. I was giddy from the appointment and overwhelmed with gratitude for Zoe’s 10th birthday.

In the Meyer family we have a phrase that I think came from my Grandma: “grim determination.” It has become a bit of a joke: i.e “you think you’re going to fix that with just grim determination?” Mark has noted my grim determination in less than flattering times.

What I wish I had said to Dr. Campbell is that it’s not my determination. Sure, I’m the one who has to swing her legs over the side of the bed and get up every morning, but it’s Mark who already has a hot breakfast cooked, the dog fed, the dishwasher emptied, and the music playing. It’s my parents who are maintaing the “normal” of the house–doing laundry, cleaning, running errands, etc. It’s my brother who calls every day to check in and drops off meals on a moment’s notice. My sister who visits me in this bleak winter bringing me stories and laughter. When I’m running low on optimism, it’s my mother who spoon feeds it to me like soup, sharing from her genetically generous store.

It’s my administrators who tell me to come in only when I feel well enough. My colleagues who fill in every crack I’ve left behind. The friends who visit and notice something to be done and just do it. (Who paid the parking ticket that I noticed on the van this winter, by the way?!). It is Mark’s family who offer help time and again.

So I guess if it’s not Dr. Campbell and it’s not me, then it’s you. It is you who have given out the grim determination. You who have urged me on to the amazing gift that is Zoe’s tenth birthday.

Emily reminded me a few months back that when I was first diagnosed with metastatic disease I said I just wanted to live until Zoe was in double digits. My reasoning was that she’d have natural memories of me. Well, as usual, I’ll be asking God for even more. We got Zoe’s ears pierced yesterday and I thought about how I want to see it all–the proms, the graduations. I don’t just want 10 anymore. I want 10 times 10.

Fortunately, the host of people who are praying for me, bolstering me, and caring for me seem to want it too. I wouldn’t have an ounce of grim determination without you. I am giddy with gratitude.

It was in November when my med switching was driving me crazy and Birdie was making me even crazier. I had been praying for “the right dog at the right time” since Daisy died and had been convinced when we got Birdie that the prayer had been answered. However, a week into her tasmanian devil puppyhood, I was convinced we had made a big mistake. I was saying something like this around the lunch table when Roberta said, off-handed and laughing, “good thing you’re not doing it for you, huh?”

Oh. Right. Zoe. Every night Zoe was praying gratitude for Birdie. Even with the pin-sharp puppy teeth, Zoe would play with Birdie every chance she had. Birdie was exactly the right dog at the right time. Maybe not for me, but without a doubt for Zoe. In time, she has become exactly the right dog for all three of us.

The second time Roberta set me back on my heels was more recently. I had been feeling rather sorry for myself. Still with the drain (today is day 88, but who’s counting?), still with the bald head. Roberta came up to me a few weeks back, put her hand on my arm and said, “I have been praying for you…how is your breathing?!”

Oh. Right. Breathing. That’s what this was all about. I couldn’t climb stairs without a rest at the top. Couldn’t read aloud without a break. Would bring in groceries and need a rest after each bag. My breathing. It took me a minute. “My breathing is fine,” I say. “Wow, what an answer to prayer,” says Roberta. I walk the dog at a good clip. I go from the basement up to Zoe’s room and sit down ready to read aloud. I bring in bag after bag of groceries (and I even shopped for them myself–unlike this winter when Mom and Dad fetched every little thing). I can breathe.

I love my job for many reasons. Working with people like Roberta is certainly one of them.

So, we’ll stay the course with my current meds. I will have two more rounds of Halaven (4 treatments total). They will be at a reduced dosage since my white counts are so low. After that, we’ll check tumor markers again and if they are low enough I would possibly get a break from the chemo. That would be nice, too.

I have been slowly getting stronger as time has gone on with this treatment. The last two days have been as close to normal as I have been in months. I’m hoping it continues.

Thank you for your prayers and care. We have been so well taken care of.

Yesterday, I had chemo again and my hemoglobin was very low so I had a blood transfusion today. My drain also stopped working yesterday, so after a CAT scan following chemo I had a new drain put in and then removed to have a different drain placement this morning. It has been two long days at the cancer center for me and my favorite mom.

Last weekend, during my lovely sister’s visit, my hair made a mass exodus from my scalp. This means I actually let Becki near my head with a scissors and I am now wearing hats and waiting for my scalp to be less tender so that I can try the wig Mom got me last fall.

Through all of this I feel rather calm. My new drain is comfortable and drains from the front rather than from my back so that I think I will sleep better at night. I’m not terrifically upset about my hair coming out. When I do get to work, I love it just as much as usual and my wonderful colleagues pick up my slack with grace and kindness.

I’m hoping that I can continue to “be like Birdie” until the drains are out and my hair is in.

However, I do know that there is one Birdie thing that I will not do. I will not climb up onto the grill to survey my fiefdom and get a good look over the privacy fence (as pictured below–Dad took the photo through our garage window–she’s hard to catch up there once you open the door). I’ll let that be Birdie’s special thing.

I tried to keep reminding myself of that today as I received my new chemotherapy, Halaven. Halaven will likely give me more fatigue and nausea and maybe some more hair loss. However, Halaven also gives me hope that the fluid production in my lungs will slow and that I’ll be able to be done with it once and for all with a pleuradesis (sp?) procedure. I am still producing over a liter a day of nutrient-leeching fluid and blood. My mornings are the worst as I try to make up for the fluid lost in the night. I must force myself to eat and drink. Usually by late afternoon and evening I am up and about, if a bit drained. My parents stay with me throughout the day doing all that needs doing and more. They are shouldering our burden exceptionally. There aren’t words of gratitude that suffice.

And if my earthly parents are doing this for us, what must my heavenly parent be doing? I imagine God is telling me to be patient and that things will happen in God’s time, not mine.

As I was settling into my chair for chemo today, I got a text from a former student. It said, “Praying for you today, Mrs. Turner. Remember God is in control.” I wonder if this was Jesus Calling again.

We didn’t get the clarity we were hoping for, but we did get this… We are still winning the War (though I usually shy away from these “war on cancer” analogies, it works in this case). My tumor marker numbers were drastically lower–great news. And the CAT scan showed mostly reduced tumor activity with only a few nodules increased slightly in size. So, on paper, I’m doing fine. But. I feel awful most of the day. So it’s the Battle of the Pleural Fluid that we are trying to resolve to get to the bottom of why I’m so nauseated, etc.

This will take us back to the Interventional Radiologist to get the pleural fluid resolved faster. We will be making calls in the morning to try to get seen by him. Dr. Campbell is deferring to his expertise on the mechanics of draining the lung–there may be other options than the bulky lung drain I have in now. In addition to the physical draining, Dr. Campbell will be putting me on a new chemo to try to dry it up as well.

So, grateful for our position in the “war”, Mark and I are embarking on the Battle of the Pleural Fluid. With the unflagging support we have around us, we must be able to turn this one around. Thank you for your prayers. Dearly.

Awake! awake, and greet the new morn, for angels herald its dawning. Sing out your joy, for soon he is born, behold! the Child of our longing. Come as a baby weak and poor, to bring all hearts together, he opens wide the heav’nly door and lives now inside us for ever.
To us, to all in sorrow and fear, Emmanuel comes asinging, his humble song is quiet and near, yet fills the earth with its ringing; music to heal the broken soul and hymns of loving kindness, the thunder of his anthems roll to shatter all hatred and blindness.
In darkest night his coming shall be, when all the world is despairing, as morning light so quiet and free, so warm and gentle and caring. Then shall the mute break forth in song, the lame shall leap in wonder, the weak be raised above the strong, and weapons be broken asunder.
Rejoice, rejoice, take heart in the night, though dark the winter and cheerless, the rising sun shall crown you with light, be strong and loving and fearless. Love be our song and love our prayer and love our endless story, may God fill ev’ry day we share and bring us at last into glory.

We couldn’t have been far into the second first when the tears started leaking from my eyes. Later in the service came a sermon that got me scrambling for tissues a second time. By the end of the service, I was well out of tissues and Zoe was giving me sidelong glances. I was comforted that the woman in the pew ahead of us was wiping her eyes too.

Though I have a genetic predisposition to cry in church, it is hard for me to explain crying in church to Zoe (Mark has gotten used to it by now). To let her know that they are not sad tears or necessarily even happy tears. They are tears of recognition. They are, somehow, worshipful tears. Tears of welcome to a God who has shown up and held my heart yet again.

We have sung it each Sunday since, so the lyrics have cemented themselves more firmly in my brain. I find them coming to me when I drift to sleep or when I wake up. “Though dark be the winter and cheerless”–could the author possibly have lived in West Michigan? I remind myself to be “strong and loving and fearless.”

I am looking forward to singing this song on Christmas. I expect I may even cry. Welled up gratitude spilling over for tidings of comfort and joy coming to us even today.

So this is how we are finishing up 2011, just as we began it. Zoe with pneumonia. My family is all in town and they are taking very good care of us. We are so grateful.

What also makes me thankful, however, is how many doors we really could walk in and say “Here is our hot mess!” and how many of you would welcome us in. Even if you were hosting a party. (And we hope the two we are missing are a blast tonight!) That’s just how wonderful all of you are.