12 Months of Questions

Mood: sad

Tomorrow was supposed to be the day Jeff got his next CT scan. The day when we were supposed to hear whether or not he really is in remission. Thanks to insurance we have to wait until next week....at least, I hope it's next week. 

Lately, my head has been a mess. I am stuck somewhere between the longing to move forward, and the pain and worry of last year. I cannot help but remember that on April 8th of last year, my husband was in surgery. And I was waiting for him, reading "Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets" for the fourth time.

The past 12 months have been, without a doubt, the scariest of my life. I spent a good amount of the last year caring for Jeff and the more he returns to a state of normalcy, the more I am forced to take care of myself once again.

There are things about myself that I love. And things I would undoubtedly change. But, the worst feeling is thinking that I actually don't have any idea who I am at all.

I think I've gone my whole life searching for a definition of who I am. I guess I hoped that with marriage I would know who I am. Or that becoming a mother would give me an idea. The thing is, marriage is a relationship not a definitive or tangible thing. And I cannot have kids, and being a stepmother really is not the same as a biological mother. I suppose that I have always searched for meaning in myself as I relate to others, but spending a large chunk of this past year alone, I have had to really take a look at who I am.

One of the things that this year has forced upon me is to live in a state of complete unknowns. To live life in the gray area that I struggle against so much. And I have had to do a lot of it by myself. To be honest, only Jeff has the ability to understand what I have been going through. And even he can't understand it all, the infertility for instance. I so desperately want to have an answer for all of the struggle and pain and suffering, and for now all I have is silence. I'm learning to be okay with that. Because I have to be.

I pray that we have some answers next week. And that for the first time in a year, Jeff and I get so damn good news. 

Today Doesn't (Suck)

Mood:  ready


Original title, eh? In all seriousness though, I felt I owed it to myself and to my readers, whoever you are, to be completely honest about this whole cancer process.

Yesterday I blogged only a few hours removed from the news that my husband still has a mass (actually two but only one large-ish one) in his lungs. We arrived home from the hospital and I had time to take off my coat before I had to turn around and pick Malcolm up from school due to a fever of 100.1. It was not a good afternoon in the Lilland household yesterday.

The silence that hung in the air between Jeff and I was charged with fear, anxiety and devastation. We knew we might not get good news, but I don't think either one of us was quite prepared for how badly wounded we would be if we heard bad news.

That's what is so amazing about time, though. It truly does heal and just 24 hours later, I'm ready to fight again. Right after I posted my blog from yesterday I logged on to my tumblr account because I love going there when I do not feel like concentrating on anything. The first two posts that appeared on my dash were:

"Honestly, you just take a deep breath and say, fuck it." - Johnny Knoxville

and:

"You can't control what goes on around you, you can't. But for me, I think there's staples of moments, that crazy moment where you think you're indestructible. And then that moment where you find out that you're not. And then that moment where all of a sudden you go, 'Okay, I'm not indestructible but I'm going to be okay.'  You have this life and we all have these lives we live but it takes a bit of learning before you realize not every drama's going to kill you and not every hard day has to lead to another one." - Andrew McMahon

And I was kind of like, Okay God, I get it.

Because I realize that either I can roll over and let Jeff's potential cancer return paralyze me with fear and sadness, or I can decide that we got through the past year so we can get through the next few days, then weeks, then months.

I know that this mindset will not always be easy and I am sure that there will be moments in which I am utterly afraid and defeated. I can only pray for the strength to keep going during those moments. I have never considered myself to be a strong woman, and truthfully I still do not. I am too anxious to be strong. But when it comes to the boys in my life, well, right now I do not have a choice but to find what little strength I can and to hold on like hell.

And for now, that feels like a very brave and strong choice indeed.

So I'll heed Johnny Knoxville and Andrew McMahon's advice. I'm going to take a deep breath and I'm going to remember that I, while far from indestructible, am going to be okay.

Amen. 

Today Sucks

Mood:


I don't know why I bother including a mood anymore on my blog. Maybe it's a throwback from the MySpace days when I got to choose a stupid looking emoticon to go next to my headline of the day. Most days I have a mood that helps me to create a cohesive post; it serves as a sort of theme for what I am trying to say.

But, today, I do not have a mood like that and I am not sure that I would ever have the words necessary to form a coherent, cohesive post.

Today sucks. It just does. It is a horrible, no good, very bad day and I wish that it were over.

Only, at the same time, I kind of don't want it to be over because....what then?

Friends, the news from the oncologist is inconclusive. At the end of November there were still masses in Jeff's lungs. And there are still two in there now. The oncologist "has no idea" what they might be and so Jeff is facing another surgery.

If it is once again cancer, I am not sure what happens next. If it is not cancer, Jeff is good to go as soon as he is healed from surgery.

I have tried my very hardest to remain optimistic during Jeff's cancer, but today, as I drove us home from the hospital the only thing I could think was:  what if I lose my husband to cancer?

I do not believe that I am going to lose Jeff. I believe that we have a long, happy and healthy life ahead of us. But. Isn't it enough already?

I know that cancer does not care who you are. It does not strike down those who are "bad" people. No, cancer attacks without prejudice or reason.

I want desperately to stop writing about cancer. I want so badly for Jeff to return to a state where he is no longer scared of his own body. I want a sense of normalcy once again.

But, we do not always get what we want. I know that there is a lesson here or that things happen for a reason, and in time I trust I will have the knowledge that seems evasive now. For the time being, however, I will do what I need to in order to get through each day and I will pray that Jeff and I have some good news coming our way in 2014. 

Black and White

Mood: thankful



My most hated nickname from my family is Drama Queen. I HATE that nickname more than any of the others, and my dad has an affinity for calling me Poopstain so I think that is saying quite a lot. The reason that I hate it is because, well, it's true. And I hate this about myself. I live my life in extremes, in black or white. I am forever disappointed that life is a series of confusing, convoluted, nebulous events rather than concrete absolutes

Today is one of those days where I am just so disgusted by myself and my need for things to be 100% one way or the other. I really do wish that I could change, but time and again I find myself disappointed over unclear or indirect answers.

Today Jeff, Malcolm and I headed to the oncologist for his post chemotherapy CT scan. A little over three hours after arriving at the hospital we arrived at our moment of truth. Were we facing a happy, healthy holiday season? Or another battle for Jeff's life?

I wanted so, so badly to hear that Jeff is 100% in remission and is healthy and has kicked cancer's ass. I really did want to hear that.

And, for the most part, that is what we heard. Thank God that Jeff is healthy! The oncologist declared Jeff to be in remission, but, there are still spots visible on the CT scan. They do not appear cancerous, and it is unlikely that these spots are, however the oncologist just is not sure what they are. He says that he does not believe them to be cancer. A needle biopsy is out of the question due to the position of these spots; they are located too close to blood vessels. If a biopsy is to be done it would be invasive surgery removing the mass and a chunk of lung.

So, while we got tremendous news today, is yet one more shade of gray in a world that I so wish was black and white. The poetic justice of the CT scan images is too much, really. It is the white and black that are normal. The gray masses are the unknown, the threats, the unanswered questions. 

I am truly thankful that Jeff is healthy and the smile on his face once he heard the news...I haven't seen one like that in months. I cannot say how relieved I am to know that all of his heartache and physical pain from chemotherapy has resulted in his health once again. Yet, I cannot get these masses off of my mind. I know I am in for a long holiday season because I am a drama queen and I worry about everything. Cancer continues to humble me and I continue to learn and grow because of it. 

Now we play a waiting game again, and on top of being dramatic I am eternally impatient. In January Jeff returns to the oncologist for another CT scan and more blood work. If the masses are gone, we are totally in the clear. If they are not, we are facing a bone marrow transplant.

Thursday, when we sit down to eat I know I will not be without worry or anxiety, because that is just who I am. But, I will be thankful that my husband is alive. I will be thankful that Malcolm has a father with many years of life and love ahead of him. And I will be thankful to bear witness that God has carried us through this. 

The Sun Will Forever Keep Rising

Mood: keep rising


A few weeks ago as Jeff and I drove the hour to pick up Malcolm I was singing along in the car to Andrew McMahon and his Jack's Mannequin music. If you know me personally, you will have heard me fangirl about Andrew previously, either I forced you to listen to him, became incredulous that you didn't know who he was or spouted a million reasons why your life would be a million times better with Andrew in it.

Well, not much has changed for me since I was 18 where Andrew is concerned. I still fangirl when I go to his shows (Jeff was greatly amused this summer when we saw him) and his music is still what I listen to when I need to sort out the really big things in my life.

Something Corporate got me through college and the portions of graduate school that I made it through. And his lyrics were there when the program proved just too much for me. My faith shaken, Andrew reminded me that my life had a purpose, and it was okay to spend some time figuring it out. (By the way, I'm STILL working on that).

Something Corporate was the soundtrack to my life the summer I finally left a mentally and physically abusive relationship. Andrew's voice and melodies and words soothed the wounds that were, and some days still are, raw and hurting. 

Jack's Mannequin has seen me through several horrendous bouts of depression, some of which I truly did not want to come out of on the other side. Andrew has said that it's always really heavy for him when people tell him that he saved their lives, and I can only imagine what hearing that must be like. He's said that it's those people that saved themselves and he's glad to have been there, but truly I am not positive I'd be typing this today if it were not for some of his lyrics.

Anyway, as we were driving Jeff joked that I loved Andrew McMahon more than him. Without pausing I said, "No, it's just that he's been in my life for a lot longer than you have."

And that is true. 11 years of music and inspiration later I still feel like I just discovered this man.

Tonight, I'm writing from a lonely place.

Jeff got news that he needs a fourth round of chemotherapy. While we are grateful that he'll celebrate Christmas cancer free, it's a scary time for us. His job put him (without allowing him a choice) on unpaid leave and my freelance writing doesn't exactly bring in the big bucks. Medical bills pile up, regular bills pile up...life does not stop because you get cancer. A cancer expert my dad looked up has been in touch with Jeff to say that the fourth round is unnecessary, so we face a difficult decision. Well, Jeff does at least. I'm here to support him regardless of the decision.

I've been filling my days with taking care of Jeff, Malcolm, the dogs and the day to day things that need to get done. I stay plenty busy. And I'm happy to report that I actually have been making a concerted effort in the weight loss front. It's my nights that are impossible. Jeff is asleep, too tired to sit up for a minute so that he can take his medications. Malcolm is asleep. The dogs are asleep. And I am alone with my thoughts and my fears and my insecurities. And the scariest thing of all: the fear of death. Of Jeff's. Of my husband's. Mourning my grandfather's passing. My professor's life being cut short by his battle with cancer.

I sit alone, night after night in a house filled with noise as I try to cancel out these feelings. These thoughts. The loss and sadness weighs so heavily some nights that I cannot breath without pain in my chest. I know, and 100%, that Jeff will make a full recovery and we will live long and healthy lives.

But at night, when I'm all alone, when the noise can't distract me, I wonder...what it...what if the happy ending looks completely different for Jeff and I? What if my husband dies? Cancer is a really hard thing for people close to you to handle. I am reminded of my infertility struggles. Often, when people don't know what to say, they simply say nothing. And that hurts worse than anything. When you desperately want to know you are not alone, but are far too exhausted and drained to reach out, and all you hear is radio silence. That is the worst.

These nights are lonely. And endless.

But I have Andrew. And the sun will rise and push the loneliness and fear away.

I have written this post several times. And I always end up deleting it for fear of coming across too depressed or too negative. And that is truly not my disposition. Tonight I am feeling scared, but also a little brave. I promised to blog my experience with cancer and I would be remiss if I did not admit that there are moments of the utmost weakness and terror. There are moments where I can simply not hold the tears any longer and I fall to my knees weeping. And there are moments of laughter and happiness and joy.

If you want a small taste of the range of emotions, beautifully composed, listen to "Keep Rising" by Jack's Mannequin. The lyrics follow.

"Keep Rising (Passenger Demo)"

I could feel the pressure drop
And hope was just a broken bridge
And when the clouds refused to stop
They said you'd find the plan for this

And there was no place I could run
Just days without the sun
I was a ghost in waiting
Sleep to dream and hear you saying

Don't be afraid
The rain will make us what we are
And I will keep you sane
Just waiting with me in the dark
Cause this feels a whole lot like living dead

If it's just this song
To keep us in the universe
While the wars are waging
I will be strong
There's no chance we could lose this fight

With the love that I'm facing
With the night so long
When the morning comes we'll know the truth
The sun will forever keep rising

So they plugged my wires in
And told me I was born to fight
(Maybe you were born to, maybe you were born to die)
Sometimes the best machines don't win
Could you stay and get me through the night
Cause I'm so afraid.

The rain will make us what we are
Don't let me fade just waited with me in the dark
Cause this feels a whole lot like living dead

It's just this song to keep us in the universe
While the wars are waging
I will be strong
There's no chance we could lose this fight
With the love that I'm facing?
With the night so long?
When the morning comes we'll know the truth
The sun will forever keep rising

And we sing
Till we watch the streetlights all fall fast asleep
Yeah we sing till the sun rains down on everything
It's just this song to keep us in the universe
While the wars are waging
I will be strong
There's no chance we could lose this fight
With the love that I'm facing
With a night so long

When the morning comes we'll know the truth
The sun will forever keep rising
Keep rising
Keep rising, yeah
The sun will forever keep rising
Keep rising
Keep rising, yeah
The sun will forever keep rising

*Lyrics from www.azlyrics.com

Jeff's Fundraising Page at Give Forward:
http://gfwd.at/19AoOzG

Win Some, Lose Way More

Mood: defeated



I've always tried to be kind. To live my life in a way that showed compassion for others. To imagine other's lives and try to see things that are kept hidden. One of my very favorite quotes is "be kind to everyone you meet, for everyone is fighting their own battles." I love that quote because it is true. And because sometimes, we all need a gentle reminder of that.

Jeff was admitted to the hospital on Monday night. Tuesday morning Malcolm and I went over to the hospital around 9. Just before 11, I took Malcolm back home, got him lunch and took him to school before stopping to grab some lunch for myself to take back to the hospital. Panera sounded good, so in I went. I ordered behind some well-dressed gentleman and his fiancee, but my order was prepared before theirs. As I stepped forward to grab my bag he turned to this beautiful woman with the perfect hair and makeup and Gucci purse and said, "I'm so tired of people being too lazy to dress themselves."

In another lifetime I would have slunk out of the Panera and berated myself for looking like such a hot mess in my yoga pants and band t-shirt. But not in this lifetime. Instead I turned and looked him directly in the eye and said, "Sir, actually, I just didn't think that I needed to be business casual to go and sit with my husband who is unconscious in the hospital." And then I smiled.

That shut him right up. Which was my intention.

But, it's still bothered me all week. Partly because HOW DARE HE? And, in part, because I did look like a hot damn mess. In college, the one time where it is acceptable to go everywhere in sweats, I didn't. I did not attend a single undergraduate course in anything less than jeans with my hair and makeup done. I was also so self conscious that I would have never been seen without makeup except by my roommates, and only then because it's pretty unavoidable.

The older I get, and the more comfortable I am with myself, the more I realize that I don't need to please everyone. And that trying to do so  just ends with me upset and feeling defeated.

The thing is, I already feel defeated this week. It has kicked my ass. I have spent more time in the car than I have sleeping and I am beyond hormonal. I am trying so hard to be the caring spouse, the fun and educational stepmom, the daughter, trying to be a friend. I feel like I haven't done a single one of those roles justice this week. I have failed in every single way I could this week.

Here's the thing though; in the same lifetime that would have found me leaving Panera silently I would spend all weekend beating myself up and hating myself. And sure, I'll probably do some of that. It's just in my nature. But, I will also try again. I'll get some sleep and I'll tend to Jeff. I'll recharge myself so when we get Malcolm back on Sunday night I'm ready to practice handwriting and play with his superheros. I will rise again.

They say cancer is a family disease, and I couldn't agree more. It touches every single aspect of life and affects all interpersonal relationships. It's brutal and it's scary, it's humbling and hard, but it has already taught me how much stronger I am than I think. And that, despite my previous opinion of myself, I AM a fighter. I will be knocked down on my feet 1,000 more times before this is done but guess what? I'll get up 1,001. And that is a beautiful lesson.



To all those who have reached out after my last post, please be patient I promise I have read your messages. And I cannot express my gratitude. This weekend I will be answering messages, this week was just too crazy for anything more than this generic thank you. But there are people who have reached out and touched my heart and I will be forever changed because of the kindness shown to me.

Thank you.

From the bottom of my heart.

Thank you.


If you are able, please consider donating to my husband's fundraiser, or spread the word if you are unable to give financially.
https://www.giveforward.com/fundraiser/8t73/jeff-lilland-s-testicular-cancer-fund

Are You There God? It's Me, Ashley.

Mood:  scared, exhausted


When we got the news that Jeff's cancer had returned and that he would need three months of chemotherapy, I made a promise to myself that I was going to blog my way through the experience. And so, I write tonight. Bear with me. I am running on 5 hours of sleep and a day from hell. As I started this post I got angry at myself for not writing more of this journey. But, it occurred to me that we have only gotten through one full 5 day cycle of chemo. He has about 8 more to go. It's been just over a week....

That week has felt like a million years. I'm positive that I have aged at least 20 years.

Jeff has tolerated the chemo fairly well, and at the end of his third day we were actually pretty hopeful that he'd get through this without much discomfort and pain. The end of his third day was two days before my last post. Perhaps we got too excited too quick, or perhaps we were just incredibly naive about what this process really is.

The thing is, you really don't know much about chemo and cancer and IVs and pills until you are forced to know. I've always valued knowledge and learning and books but I find, as I sit here too scared to sleep, crying for my husband, for Malcolm, for myself and the loss of some imaginary sense of innocence, that there really is truth to the whole "ignorance is bliss" thing.

I know now, that cancer and chemo seem to be one step forward and three miles back.

I spent all of last night and this morning trapped in my head and hating myself. I got my period for the first time in a year and I hated that it's more confirmation that I can't have a child and that I was even thinking about given our current situation. I hated how fat I have gotten and that I haven't done a damn thing about it. I hated that I have no "best" friends in Iowa and that I'm too scared to get close enough to people to make any. I hated that sometimes I feel like I have no best friend at all. I hated that my sister is too far away and I haven't spoken to my brother in a year and that my mom could do nothing more than listen to me sob over the phone. I hated that Malcolm saw me cry and that he kissed my stomach to make me feel better and all I could do was cry more.

I hated so, so much today.

Jeff was running a fever all day. I hated watching him try to fight it. I hated that he seemed to be unable to do so.

He has been admitted to the hospital with the fever and a low white blood cell count. And I sit on the couch, alone, crying. And scared. The one thing I did know going into this battle is that it is very rarely cancer that takes a patient. It is an illness or infection that they just can't fight. And I am trying so, so hard to KNOW that Jeff is not going to go due to an illness...but I also told myself he wouldn't get this bad. I told myself the cancer was gone after his surgery in April. I seem adept at lying to myself.

And while I have no idea what will happen later tonight or tomorrow morning or the next day, I do know that I don't hate the fact that Jeff is in the hospital. I don't hate that I can't breath because my throat is so tight from choking on tears. I don't hate that Malcolm left the hospital telling me how much he was going to miss Daddy tonight. I don't hate any of that because I am just so aware of what I do have. I am alive. I have Malcolm to talk to, even if it's sad and scary sometimes. And I have a husband I love that I get to see tomorrow morning. And I have a Pomeranian cuddled on my lap, licking away the salty tears.

I have a great iTunes playlist going. I have a pink glittery cup holding my water. And I have people reading this. This might not get read by many people, I don't know. But if it does, I hope it gives you some hope. Or a bit of happiness. Life is scary. As much as we learn and plan and love and think, so much is out of our control. Sometimes it's important to remember that. And to stop fighting for control for a moment and to just be. And to allow what will happen to happen.

And if God is reading this,

Help.

Sincerely,

Ashley

And it Begins

Mood:  scared, sad



On Friday Jeff finished his first week of chemotherapy. We got to the hospital at 5am on Wednesday for his port insertion surgery. We left the hospital at 4pm after his 4.5 hours of chemo. 11 hours at the hospital, no matter how pleasant the staff (they are incredible) or how great it is to have your own room with a bed for the chemo (seriously that is sooooooo nice), sucks. 11 hours at the hospital sucks.

Thursday and Friday were, time wise, much easier. Only about 2.5 hours per day at the hospital and Jeff was able to sleep through the majority of his treatments.

We saw his oncologist on Friday and he gave us some good news; if Jeff hadn't gotten physically ill from the chemo yet, he probably would be spared the violent vomiting.

We got pretty excited as Jeff hates vomiting and historically I have a tendency to be a sympathetic puker. If I don't  get sick I spend a few hours feeling nauseous at the very least.

We knew going into the weekend that these days would be when Jeff would most likely be at his most fatigued. And that's been very true. My husband can barely take a 5 minute shower without passing out from exhaustion. He cannot hold the comics he bought in anticipation of a ton of bed rest for more than 3 minutes and can't focus on the words or pictures for that long. He can't sit up. It is so painful to watch as he lies lifeless on the couch, this man who usually has a problem sitting still. It is painful to watch tears fall down his face when he can't hold a toy to play with his son. And it is most painful to be 100% helpless to make him any better. All I can do is watch and take care of him the best I am able.

Today, I managed to sleep in after a sleepless night. I got up, checked on Jeff and drank some coffee. He got in the shower and I thought about going for a walk with Zooey. I decided it would be best to wait and make sure he had everything he might need before I left the house, so I chose to go after he was out of the shower.

He got out and could not walk. He fell to the couch and asked for one of his anti-nausea pills, but it was too late.

As he ran to the bathroom I lost hope once again. I rubbed his back as he got sick and grabbed his special mouthwash, a pill and his Sprite. I massaged his shoulders while he could barely manage to hold his head up as he was sick. And my soul was ripped apart.

That's the thing about cancer. It takes away all happiness and hope at the very sneakiest of times. I knew that we had a long road ahead of us. And I knew that things would likely get worse than they had been this week. But I had faith that Jeff might escape with some shred of dignity. And that I might escape with hope.

Cancer strips the humanity of those who deal directly with the disease. Jeff is reduced to a person that I no longer know. His sense of humor and laugh, his energetic demeanor....they are hidden within, forced to take a backseat to this illness. My outgoing personality has retreated, and now I live in fear. Fear that this disease could win. Fear that Malcolm will have to watch this happen to his daddy and fear that I can do NOTHING to help. I have zero control and power and I am afraid.

I have become, in sorts, a robot. Waking each morning at 1am to check on Jeff and getting up later to take care of Jeff, the dogs and Malcolm. Then we go to chemo and I sit and watch as medicine pours into Jeff, draining him of all the life I am used to.

I know we are far from alone in this, and I am very aware that we are lucky. We have an excellent prognosis and only 3 months of this to deal with. I get that. I think that prior to treatment I told myself how lucky we were and I expected that to help with all of the negative side effects. The fact is, this sucks. While we are lucky, it does not change the fact that Jeff is sick. Very sick. And I cannot help. We are wading out way through this hell and hopefully, we will see a light at the end that helps keep us going.

To those who are offering support, financial, religious, spiritual, physical....whatever....we thank you. From the very bottom of our hearts and souls there is nothing we could do to ever repay the kindness and gratitude we have been shown. The John Stoddard Cancer center is amazing and our families have been a constant source of support in every sense of the word.

As we face the next few months, unsure of what will happen financially or physically, we know we have each other. And that we have an amazing group of family and friends that have reached out to let us know just how loved and cared for we are. Thank you. It seems like hardly enough to say, but it is all we have for now.

I'm watching Jeff sleep now. The dogs are curled on him as if their presence might protect him for future pain and sickness. Zooey sits in my lap, my constant companion. I sit here, praying for hope and some sense of peace, even if it is fleeting. I pray for an answer to our financial situation. And I pray, most of all, for the health of my husband. That he not suffer and that he returns to himself as quickly as possible. 

And to my husband, who I am sure will read this when he wakes....Do not feel guilty or badly because you are not able to function as you once could. Do not feel uneasy that you need help and to be taken care of now. We all love you. And we all support you in this fight. And if I could, I would fight this for you. But as I cannot...I will sit by your side and bring you water and pills and rub your back when you are sick. And I will watch you sleep with a smile on my face knowing that one day, we will look back on this and remember just how fortunate we are to have our lives and our health for many, many years to come. 

Storms

Mood:  numb

It's been dark on and off all day and I have been patiently waiting for a thunderstorm.

The timing of the ominous thunder and lighting and dark sky is truly impressive.  Really, very poetic. Sixteen minutes ago my husband called me from work. He never calls, we just text all day.

His cancer is back. The mass in his lung is cancerous.

And the heavens have opened up in response.

As I watch the trees whip back and forth and the rain pound the street outside, all I can think is that the current climate inside is what I should feel like on the inside.

But I don't. Where there should be tears, my face is dry. The sobs are not coming, but instead are stuck in my throat. I feel nothing. I want to feel pain or anger or hope, anything. But all I can manage is staring out the window in complete and utter shock. I am sure the tears will come, just as the rain is now. I know I will be angry as I watch my husband fight for his life. But right now, I feel nothing. My hands shake and my heart feels as heavy as the tree braving the storm outside, but I am numb. I am without words. I am without feeling.

I am not, however, without love. I am not without hope.

As Malcolm bounces on the couch next to me the knowledge that we must tell him how sick Daddy is soon weighs heavily upon me. But no, I am not without hope. He will have to watch as his Daddy fights and is sick and ceases to be the Daddy he is used to. But Jeff will recover. And Malcolm will bounce back. They're both resilient.

And I? I will stand with them. I will hold Jeff's hand and stroke his head and drive him to and from the hospital. I will play with Malcolm and get him to and from school and make cupcakes for Jeff's birthday on Saturday.

I will hope. And I will love. And I know that we will all be alright. The storm will pass, just as the one outside will as well. And when it has passed, there will be a rainbow and sunshine and a brighter tomorrow.


(I wrote this last night....update.....today we will go to the oncologist and discuss his treatment. We are all as okay as possible, and Malcolm is still blissfully unaware that there is anything wrong with his Daddy. The storm last night ended up being a small tornado in Ankeny....there are trees uprooted and split directly in two. The cupcakes I made are bright and colorful and cheerful and today we will all enjoy one together and celebrate Jeff's birthday. And next year, when I make Jeff birthday cupcakes again, we will celebrate the bravery, strength and courgae of Jeff and this small family in the face of cancer.)

To My Husband, on the Eve of our Anniversary

Mood: thankful, in love

Dear Jeff -

Tonight, we sit in anticipation of the anniversary of our wedding day. Two years ago, we stood for a chilly run-through of our wedding. As my dad and I made our way to the spot where we were to say "I do," I remember him making me laugh because I was so afraid I would cry. While I was a girl that planned a million weddings, I'm not sure I ever truly saw myself as a bride. And in that moment, in my sweater and Uggs as we practiced the walk that would make me your wife, I felt happier and more beautiful than I can remember. Surrounded by family and friends, Malcolm running all over the place and screaming happily into the microphone, that night in totality was one of the best nights of my entire life.

As we laid in bed, too excited to sleep, I remember wishing that this feeling would never end. The excitment, the happy anxiety.

And today, the night before the 2nd anniversary of our wedding, it has faded. All things do. And it is currently replaced with a terrifying anxiety. Tomorrow we will go to a procedure that will give us answers as to the status of your health. I cannot hold your hand through it, but know I will be with you throughout. Tonight, I want you to know that I never imagined marriage would be like this. I knew it would be work and I knew not everything can be happy and sunshine.

We've had our share of horrendous fights and moments that made me fear for our future. And we've fought a battle for your health together. I never in a million years would have guessed that before we made it to our two year anniversary, we would be facing a cancer battle.

But we did. And if cancer is what we're looking at once more, we'll fight it together. I do not have any magic words that will make you less anxious or that make tongight less scary or painful. But I do have a hand for you to hold and a shoulder for you to cry on and a lap where you can rest your head when you are tired. Know that I love you, yesterday, today and tomorrow.

ySo, Yes, the magic of our wedding has faded. The flowers are long dead, the candles melted to nothingness and the dress hanging usless in a closet. And while we don't get to drink from our beautiful, Swaroski crystal flutes on our second anniversary since you will barely be in any shape to move, there is no place I would rather be than supporting you through this.

I love you. You have been a constant source of support and I hope that you think the same of me. I know our marriage isn't what either of us expected, maybe not even what we wanted. But it's what we have and we work together each day to make it better. We grow stronger and I love you more each day.

So tonight, as we wait with anxiety high and Malcolm plays, know I am thinking of all that has lead up to this moment. And that even during our darkest days, there is no one else I would rather wake up with tomorrow. Even when tomorrow means treaking to the hospital for a 5 hour wait as you undergo a procedure that determines your fate. I love you.

Your wife,

Ashley

Cancer: A Lesson in Humility

Mood:  humbled

This post has taken me nearly two weeks to write. So bear with me....


I don't know who reads this blog, I suspect my parents. My sister. Maybe my brother. Close friends from the east coast. A few co-workers from Iowa. Other than that, I have no idea. Many of you probably already know then, that my husband Jeff had a brief battle with testicular cancer in April. We got the all clear and he's been having two month check-ups.

His last one was August 30.

I hate going to the cancer center at the hospital. I hate that we have to go. I hate dragging Malcolm along as he sings and chatters and Jeff and clutch to what little sanity we have left before the appointment. I hate the waiting room.

Last time we walked in, sat down and within two minutes watched a woman have a complete breakdown as she left the office. I've never heard wailing and sobbing so loudly in public before. And it's not at all that I was uncomfortable, but I was completely helpless. I don't know what prompted her tears and it really is irrelevant. I wanted to hug her, to tell her she mattered, to do anything that might momentarily relieve the pain in her heart. All I could do was wipe my own eyes and focus on Malcolm reading the story he had picked up from the front of the office. Jeff and I caught each other's eyes and the heartbreak I felt was mirrored.

To get to the office that Jeff's oncologist is in we have to walk past a pediatric cancer office. The first few times we went it was empty. The last two times we've gone, there have been children, younger than Malcolm, and mothers waiting. Each time we walked past that office or we left the cancer center with only a two month check-up appointment and a bill of all clear I realized how immensely lucky we were/are. Sure, we got the news that Jeff did have cancer at this office, but it was out of his body by the time we needed the oncologist. And at least our child was accompanying us because we didn't have a babysitter and not because he needed an appointment.

With each time that we left I got a little more confidence. It was a little easier. We didn't hear bad news. We weren't taking Malcolm. Maybe, just maybe, one brief battle was all we had to endure and we were now impervious to bad news and the devastation that is cancer. After all, Jeff is in his early 30s. I have yet to hit 30. Malcolm is only 4.

That's the thing about cancer, though. It doesn't care how old you are or who you are or where you're from or what you've done. Cancer attacks without rhyme or reason. And that, is a humbling lesson to learn. You grow up knowing of the horror stories or watching them play out. The first funeral I remember attending was for a very good friend in high school who died at the age of 15 after a horrendous battle with leukemia. My grandfather battled cancer for a large part of my adult life. But, you know, it just doesn't happen to you.

Until it does.

On August 30th we found out that there is a mass in Jeff's lung. Testicular cancer typically reappears in the back, according to the oncologist. That doesn't mean it can't come back in the lungs. So, now we wait for his biopsy. I really don't have coherent thoughts on what is happening now. Except that it sucks. And it's scary. And I hate it. And, I know better than to expect that nothing is wrong because I've learned this year, if nothing else, that nobody is immune to anything. Cancer sucks.
And it can happen to those you love the very most. Those that you've pledged to spend the rest of your life with....and only had 2 years with. It happens. And it sucks.

As we wait, I guess I'll try and keep calm. And laugh as much as possible. And enjoy every second of health that Jeff has at the moment. If the mass is cancerous he's looking at a three month round of chemo. So. I'll take deep breaths when I need to and cry when I have to and laugh every second that I can. And I'll remember above all else to count every blessing I have instead of focusing on what is going wrong. Because positivity matters.