For my nonfacebooking friends, to elaborate to include more fluff, and to document forever...
Sunday morning I woke up and my first thoughts were for Sharon and the rest of Ron Dunn's family. Ron passed peacefully in his sleep a couple nights before that after a battle with cancer. I texted Grant and let him know that I had prayed. I told Grant that I would sing at the celebration of life. I heard His voice telling me to offer my voice. The family accepted my offer.
Before the service Sharon shared with me that Ron had listened to my advice and tossed his pills when he was done taking them;) I always encourage bad behavior, but during a brief visit, I told him that it's ok to get mad and act like a baby sometimes...oops:)
At his funeral, as I stood in front of a grieving family, I was glad that I was listening for His whisper. It was as if He was with me as I sang to Ron's family and friends. Pulling my attention to those in need. Whispering instructions each step of the way. Don't overstep boundaries, be respectful of the grieving, sit quietly and still until it is time to sing.
When it was my turn to sing, I could feel His presence. I could hear His voice in my head.
This afternoon I was reading a book and it talked about making eye contact. "When someone lifts up your head, it's an invitation for eye contact. It's a way of clearly showing, "I see you, I'm here with you. I want to connect with you."'
It's profound to me that I picked up this book today. It has been sitting on my nightstand since I went to NC. As I practiced my solo, I kept telling myself to look at the family during specific times in the song; knowing in my heart that I was singing for a reason.
To let them feel His hand. To remind them to believe. To honor a wonderful man. To be a witness.
________________________________
Fast forward a week (4/19). I'm set to have chemo on Tuesday. I woke up yesterday feeling well and ready to play taxivan for the final basketball game of the season and soccer fun, but when I undressed, I noticed my port site didn't look right. Part of my scab from where they cut me open to put in the port came off and my port is currently exposed. This in NOT GOOD. The port is a direct line to my blood stream AND heart. If infection occurs, it is bad. Really bad. So, I've talked to a couple of my favorite clinic nurses (brother and Laine). Laine talked to the NP on call in her department. I emailed my oncologist and talked to the on call oncologist. Everyone is in agreement that I need to come in asap and have the port removed.
I'm leaning toward simply having the port removed. This way I don't have to be put under anesthesia again and I don't have to worry about this happening again for a while. Since my foob implants are nice and perky, they have to place the port higher than they would on a patient without foobs. My arms and my collar area are the only skinny areas left on my swollen (not fat, swollen;)) body. Because I'm thin in this area, they can't get enough skin to sew it up properly and I move around too much for it to heal. I can have the treatments via IV in my arm until my veins will no longer cooperate. As long as I can get my oncologist on board, that will be the plan moving forward. He is calling first thing tomorrow morning to discuss.
I had a pity party for myself yesterday. I cried for the first time in a long while. * If you see me "crying" in public, I'm probably not crying. My eyes are like faucets and decide to run ALL THE TIME. It's annoying, but I'm getting used to it.* I ate combos and had a few beers that a friend dropped off to cheer me up. We sat around a fire with friends that understand setbacks all too well.
My fingernails are starting to change color and have deep ridges in them. I may lose them all together at some point in this treatment.
Today, I'm done with my pity party. I just want the port out so I'm not at such a high risk for infection.
I'm choosing to BELIEVE. In good. In light out of darkness. In strength only found when I lean on Him.
Lots of love,
No comments:
Post a Comment