In survival mode, one can do things that he or she could otherwise not do. The limits of pain and endurance are increased. Tolerance for risk in increased. Fear of pain is diminished and that fear is shifted to the fear of failure….to not survive. Think of a situation and play it out in your mind.

But people often don’t realize when it is time to be in survival mode. Or maybe they don’t have what it takes to survive; to hold on to the rope a little bit longer; to hold their breath underwater a few more seconds; to not stop moving when their body is cold.

Some people are more fearful of being offensive to someone than surviving. Like when a stranger is walking by your car and you are afraid to lock the door because the obvious noise it would make would be offensive.

I am amazed to hear of stories where someone’s hand got trapped and they starved to death. Clearly not a survivor. I would either get unstuck or chew my hand off.

What I cannot figure out right now is if I am stuck and I need to chew my hand off, or do I need to hold on a bit longer; hold my breath a few more seconds; and not stop moving. Do I keep ignoring the call to ease? It is telling me to take a break, to slow down at work, to sleep a little extra, and take time for myself. Or do I keep going? Doing the job when its hard. Take care of what needs caring for, even if I get less sleep. But at some point the hand will lose strength to hold on; the breath will give out; the cold will take over the body. The wisdom in it all is to know when that time is near, then retreat.

Tomorrow will tell us a lot. We have a meeting with Dr. Bible around noon. We’ll discuss the next phase. We’ll see the numbers. We’ll gain perspective on the whole situation. Chemo could be done and that will be a relief.

But through it all, we are not miserable, just tired. God is faithful to sustain us. He gives us strength to keep going. He gives us wisdom. He gives us hope and joy. He helps us survive.

Remnants of a party surround us. Vases of flowers. A freezer full of sweets. A folded tent waiting to be picked up. And memories of a great time. But like every good thing, it came to an end and now life goes on.

Tara is putting on some weight. She was bragging to me just now how she finally has some fat. Yeah fat! She was supposed to have her last chemo today, postponed from last week, and once again her counts were too low to do it again. Evidently this is common toward the end of a chemo regimen.

We are starting to feel like it is time to be done….with mixed emotion. On one hand she cannot wait to start running, stop feeling tired, grow some hair, and more. But on the other hand, we are wondering how we will feel to not be doing anything to fight the cancer. It will be just ‘wait and see’ each month at the blood tests and periodic scans. It will be a whole new challenge for us.

Living in fear is not an option. It has potential to rule a life, but it won’t ours. I sure talk tough. All I am hoping is that my heart will follow my tongue. So we’ll keep saying the right thing and pray that we can do this next phase well. Friday we have an appointment with the Oncologist to discuss the next steps. We’ll keep you posted.

We traveled home from the Cities yesterday in near silence. My gestures of affection were met with resistance. A gentle rub on her arm would usually return a glance and a smile or at least an opening of her hand so that hers would embrace mine. But not this time.

I had ended our time away from the kids rather abruptly in her opinion. I insisted that we get home because I also wanted time with them this weekend. But the reality was her surprise party was starting soon and I had tried gentle hints up to that point. Now I had to move quickly to get her home, and the only way I could do that was to be a jerk. And I didn’t mind because I knew it would end well.

And it did. With many friends, good food and family time, we celebrated the end of chemotherapy, which, when planning a month ago, was supposed to be last Friday. We celebrated her 42nd birthday, which was nearly a month ago. We celebrated of the goodness of God in sustaining us for 6 months when at first it I thought we could not make it for even one. We celebrated the kindness and generosity of our friends who prayed for us and supported us in that time.

It was a day to remember. One where “He put a new song in our hearts, a hymn of praise to our God.” (Psalm 40). But we don’t expect it to be over. Nay nay! There will be pain, uncertainty, much need for help, and tears. But there will also be comfort, certainty, provision, laughter and joy. And I am not just talking about us.

This morning I woke up in a strange bed with no sense of time. The room was dark and strangely quiet, other than the faint hum of the air conditioner. As the fog lifted from my mind the pieces came back to me. We were in a hotel room after a great evening of retracing some of our steps back in the early 90’s when we fell in love.

The moments last night were significant. We walked the shore of Lake Valentine where we once walked regularly, holding hands and wondering if we might spend our life together. The canoes were still there where I knew which one was broken and I could wrestle out of the lock and chain and sneak out on the water. We walked to Seminary Hill and to Bodein and Nelson, each of our freshman dorms, and to the townhouses we stayed our sophomore year.

The memories flooded back; people, places, events; all spontaneous conversation that came without effort. We remembered when I told her, after Thanksgiving our sophomore year, that I was leaving Bethel to go study forestry in Missouri. She thought I was crazy and that we were done. I knew I wasn’t and we weren’t. It was simply another spontaneous adventure I had to do. A month later I was gone.

The story obviously continued over the next 23 years. But without a doubt, after this last 6 months, I look into Tara’s eyes with a TOTALLY new respect and admiration….and passionate love. She has done this journey very well. And I am talking about the entire 23 years, not just the last 6 months. Not many people do. That is too bad.

“Remember when……” That is what we will all say when something is over. You will either remember doing it well or not. Do it well.

Deeper friendships have come from the last 6 months. Both Tara and I look into the eyes of our friends with a whole new respect and admiration. It is hard to be a consistent friend to the needy, which we have been. To realize what has been done for us is humbling.

With those many friends, handshakes are passionate, hugs are intimate, looks are sincere, words are insufficient. Our appreciation is overwhelming to us and often brings us to tears.

I pray that we can be better friends as a result; with more compassion, more understanding, more generosity. We will not wait to get well first before doing this. We will begin now in whatever ways we can. Sacrificial living is not just for those who feel able. It is for the Maiers to try right now.

The moon was huge tonight. It came up over the eastern horizon as big as the sun, and it was more spectacular, in my opinion. I have always loved the night. Tara, sunny days. I remember a vacation we took to a southern beach. Just the two of us. We spent the mornings outside together, but the afternoons were too hot and sunny. She loved it and insisted that was the point of being there. But I cowered in the hotel room on those afternoons with the blinds pulled shut and the AC cranking. About 6:30 pm I would venture out.

We are such opposites. I need spicy food to really enjoy it and if it is spicy at all, she won’t. I can’t sleep if it is hot. She can’t if it is cold. I like to wing it. She is all about the planning.

Today was the planned chemo day for Tara. Just the low dose Taxol. But low blood counts sent her packing again. So much for planning that one, or really anything for that matter. We talk about things that will happen next week and next month and she throws up her hands saying, “Is this some cruel joke on me? I cannot plan.” In the next breath, she resigns to, “I’ll just take each day for what it will bring.”

God prepared us perfectly to be together. My weakness, her strength. Her weakness, my strength. Our weakness, His strength.

I was seventh on our line up and I could pretty easily count down their line up to find my opponent. And I did. But there was no way this guy was my size. He was a gorilla of an eighth grader. Muscles bulged out of him where they shouldn’t have. It made me sick to my stomach knowing I had to face him. “Coach, I don’t feel well today. Can I….”. “Sit down Maier. I see him too. You’ll be fine.”

My yellow lab once saw a great dane from 20 yards away. He squealed like he was hit by a car, rolled over and peed himself. Just because of the shear size of the other dog. I pretty much did the same thing. But I got on that mat anyway and I started out wrestling like I was already beaten. I all but rolled onto my back and nearly stuck my own shoulders to the mat. But I held out a bit, and as the match went on, I realized he couldn’t beat me. I think I could have actually won, had I not started out like I did.

This week has the danger of being that way for me. It is midnight. My alarm is set for 5:15. I am a bit mad at myself for having some work left that I had to get done before tomorrow. I feel beaten already. Tara will need me this week. How can I be there for her when I am already spent?

It is in these times that I can see God at work more. Or not really see Him at work, but I see the result of his work. Because I have already come to the end of what I have to offer for the week, and it hasn’t even started. And like every time this has happened before, at the end of what I have to offer, I find that we still have all we need. That is the miracle of the sustenance of God. Until we get here, with nothing left, we cannot experience that miracle.

But it sucks in the process. Like right now. I see an opponent that I cannot beat and it is so tempting to quit. God I trust you to come through again.

Twenty five years ago on a night like this I would be dropped off at the Zimmerman’s farm not knowing if my friend was already out there or not. I carried an army duffel with a sleeping bag, a few cans of food, a knife and some matches. Each Friday it was assumed that we would both be there, and we always were, although often a few hours apart.

Looking back, those hours apart were some of the best. I would sometimes lay on the train tracks looking up at the stars, daring myself to fall asleep there. Every sound could have scared me if I would have let it. It was pitch black in the middle of nowhere. I thought about my future, was amazed at creation, prayed with faith, and in those times, there was no doubt of God and his goodness.

I spent so many hours just looking up at the moon and stars. No one ever taught me that the North Star stayed in the same place and that all the constellations rotated around it. I just watched it enough to know. I knew where and when to find Orion, Cassiopeia, Ursa Major and Minor and more. A familiar Three Amigos whistle or a “Hey Jay. Are you out here?” would bring me back to reality.

It has been a while since I have had alone time like that to just look up. I would feel selfish to take it. There are so many needs that I am currently not meeting. The closest I get to “alone” is driving around everyday in my car for work. That is not really alone, and I’m certainly not looking up. Instead, each minute is filled with communication or planning the next part of the day.

A friend graciously ordered pizza for us tonight. When they offered earlier this week, we didn’t realize how bad we would need the help. It was a huge blessing. For the first time in a while, Tara felt terrible today. It could be the effects of the chemo, 72 hours later. Or it could be that she had her belly drained today, which sometimes upsets her stomach. Most likely a combination. We are hopeful that a good rest will fix it.

I have tucked the two youngest kids in bed and prayed with them. Andrean and Esther are still with friends and will be home soon. Micalyn is getting ready for bed. Tara, asleep. I am alone. Will I go outside and look up? I’ll let you know.

“Hold it right there!” was like the starting pistol for the race to get out of the stadium.

We had just watched an evening Royals game and the challenge that stared us in the face was to get into Arrowhead Stadium, since it was right there. We were athletic teens and hopping a tall fence was no problem. So we did. We were innocent in our intentions. Once on the field we fantasized about catching the winning pass. We ran pass patterns on the turf. We were amazed at the crown of the field; how much it sloped to all sides. I stood at midfield and looked up to see the names on the ring of honor and felt I was treading on holy ground.

Really, what did we think would happen? We didn’t and it did. The chase was good but only lasted a few minutes. We spent the next few hours in a holding cell with nothing but cold concrete walls and conversation about what would happen next.

Running is not an option. Oh, trust me! We have thought about it. If we could see another way out we would go for it. But this thing now is about the fight. When cancer said “Hold it right there!” Tara showed me the other side of ‘fight or flight’. She turned to face it. Now she is more like running right at it. She has embraced this temporary new life; baldness, skinniness, sluggishness, etc. and has done it with joy. Take a look at that picture. That is not a woman who is running from it. She is a woman who finds joy.

The good news is that the CA125 number is down. Bad news, we will need to do a few more treatments. The good news means that treatment continues to work. The other numbers are also going in the right direction; things like neutrophils, hemoglobin, kidney function, etc.

They did not drain the fluid. They said it is less than it has been. That is also good….other than it would have been nice to drain some down for comfort.

Are we ready to keep doing chemo into August? I guess if it is working we will do it. We are thankful for progress.