Just a quick update. Tara will be meeting with the Oncologist tomorrow….without me for the first time since the onset of her cancer. She should gain a better sense of how many more weeks chemo will go on. She will learn how the CA125 acted with another missed treatment (last week). She will get the big dose of chemo (assuming her blood counts are good enough to receive the treatment). She should get the fluid in her abdomen drained once again. It will be a big day.

Tara will spend the time with a good friend who has been by her side all along. They will go the appointments together. If I am lucky, they will relay info back to me so I can also be in the loop.

We had some good rest this weekend and a chance this afternoon to just talk about life. The talks usually start after the door gets locked. We lay on the bed; this time with covers still messed up from last night’s sleep. Tara lays on her back, and me on my stomach, feet hanging off the end of the bed, scooting my head close enough to hers where a whisper will do. This is just the pattern. Multiple times we respond to knocks on the door. “What do you need?” It could be anything, from tattling to “Can I have a snack?”

Most days lately have not been like this one. We have been living “regular”, if there is such a thing. We have been going about our business as if nothing is wrong. Tara has been feeling great. This day, though, Tara was down physically so it caused us to pause. And that is not all bad.

We want so bad to be intentional about our lives, but that seems too hard. I don’t know if it is just an excuse, but we talked about simply living in the moment of each day instead of planning so far ahead. There may be things we overlook, but I think we will most easily have peace and joy along the way by doing it this way.

We discussed parenting, and that the most important thing to us is to take our kids on a path that will most likely result in an impacting encounter with Jesus. This could be that path, we pray. We disagreed on some details of this journey, and some tough things were said; and we wrestled with them, finally meeting at a place where we could both land.

Tears always fall in talks like these. Sometimes from feelings of failure and missed opportunity, and other times, from pain. Tears alternate between hers and mine; each at our own time being strong for the other. This kind of intimacy is only found in mutual suffering. It is one of the many blessings of cancer.

So this day will go down as a good one; one we will remember. One that reminded us again that we must wait patiently for the Lord, and he will listen to us and hear our cry. He will bring us out of this trial; out of the muck and mire. And he will set our feet on a rock and make our footing firm. He will put a new song in our mouth, one of praise to our God. And as a result, many will see and fear the Lord and will put their trust in him. – Psalm 40:1-3

Rolling thunder invaded my dreams this morning. A freight train. A distant explosion. It could have been either, or even something else. I can’t remember how it played into what I was dreaming at that moment, but it fit. But the big clasp woke me. Tara too. It was around 5:00.

As if thinking on this for a while, she said “It would be a gift to me if you took care of yourself. Get your eyes checked. Check your heart and your cholesterol levels….” and so on. It caught me off guard. Aren’t we supposed to be thinking about her health, not mine. For 6 months now I have not taken care of myself the best. Little things like eating, exercising, sleeping and hygiene, all get my leftover effort.

I need to be a whole man (physical, emotional, spiritual and mental) to properly care for my family. I take care of my mental self through work. My emotional self by being able to express my feelings and wrestle with them, whether it is to Tara or other friends. My spiritual self through prayer, reading scripture and other worship. But my physical self has been neglected.

Great! Another thing I have to think about. I really don’t want to go there, but now I must because it is important to her. And she is right, how can I care for her and the kids if I am not well physically. So God, once again I need your help to do something I cannot do on my own. Multiply the hours in my day. Give me motivation to do what I need to do.

I used to say “I’ll sleep when I’m dead”, mocking the need or desire to “waste” my time with sleep. I thought it was boring. Did you know that if a person sleeps 1 hour less every day than he or she otherwise would have, they add 3 years of being awake over the course of their life. So if someone can sleep 6 hours instead of 8 hours every day of their life, they could walk over 78,000 miles over the course of their life while the longer sleeper is just laying there. You could watch 8700 additional sports games or play that many more games of monopoly.

But right now, we are tired. Sleep sounds wonderful. Each day of the week accumulates into an end-of-week fatigue that can only be satisfied by a large dose of weekend lethargy. But I don’t think anything would be different if Tara didn’t have cancer. Somehow we just allow ourselves to be that busy with work and life; mostly work.

This weekend will be filled with more fun as my younger sister and her family are coming into town. On one side of the weekend or the other, Tara will get fluid drained again. It is starting to become uncomfortable. We’ll play it by ear.

But one thing is for sure, we will enjoy our sleep, however little or much we get.

In 1995, my brother worked in Marion, Arkansas about an hour away from where we lived in Memphis. When it was time for him to move I wanted to help. So we packed up his apartment and offloaded everything from his second story balcony. He dropped it down to me and I caught it. It was the easiest way. Most everything was light, except for a few boxes of text books.

We saved those boxes for last. The first box was dropped and I didn’t brace enough. It leveled me. The second I braced for even more. He leaned over the rail as far as he could and dropped it. Once again, I caught it’s full force and it brought me down. I was a bit reluctant to receive the third box. As he grunted to get it up on the railing, I gave it the biggest effort yet. It dropped and to my surprise, he had switched the books out for pillows. The force I exerted to counteract the books was released when the weightless box hit my arms. My feet flew up in the air, I nearly flipped backwards, and I landed on my back.

When I expected too little I was flattened. When I expected too much, I was flipped. We are trying to figure out what to expect for the next phase of our journey so we are not flattened or flipped. Yesterday Tara met with the the gynecological surgeon as a final post-operative check up. Things looked good. She talked about what to expect next in terms of fluid, reoccurrence, and more. We were told we should plan some trips this fall and winter to places that Tara wants to see. That will be a lot of fun.

But no matter what, the expectations are broad. And I don’t know what to expect or how we should brace ourselves. So we just need to live each day like it is our last; like we should be doing anyway. We need to invest in our children; like we should be doing anyway. We need to love on each other; like we should be doing anyway. I guess it is pretty simple after all.

About 10 years ago my Grandmother was ill. She had been feeble for a decade before that, but this time we sensed it was nearing the end. I told Tara that we needed to go visit her. So we did; all the way down to Laurel, Mississippi. It was precious to see our 3 children at the time interact with a spirited but feeble woman. And it was great to look her in the eyes to tell her we loved her.

But about 30 minutes into the visit, she busted us. She said, “Y’all are just here cause you think I’m gonna die.” She was right. So I admitted it. There was no point in beating around the bush. “I’m pretty sure we all will, Grandmother, but you’re probably going a bit quicker than the rest of us.” We conversed pleasantly about it from then on.

Now my siblings will give me grief for writing this, and hopefully it will spur laughter and conversation among us rather than frustration, but within a few weeks of each other, they will all have visited us. In the back of our minds, we wonder if they are visiting for the same reason we visited Grandmother. I mean we do that, right? Maybe we never even verbalize it because we feel bad to say it. A simple back-of-mind notion moves us to do the thing we know we should do.

Or maybe, just a wake up call like this moves us to do the things we know we should do, and is otherwise too hard. That sounds more like it. We appreciate what we have when we realize we could lose it. We long to express our love to the people who mean the most to us. That is what our family and friends are doing, and we are very grateful for it.

Over the last 5 months, Tara and I have experienced comfort and encouragement from many people. It is refreshing when it comes from people who recognize that they are also broken. Who don’t get too spiritual or religious, rather just talk to us. And when they do, they don’t know what to say, so they simply say “I am sorry!” or “What can I do for you?” Who serve us in selfless ways rather than self-gratifying ways. Who help us find life’s joy in the midst of suffering. Who encourage us to do well at what we are doing.

We have learned so much through this and have much still to learn. We are learning that suffering produces joy and faith. In fact I think it is very difficult to live a life of faith without suffering. We have learned that many people suffer in different ways and it is equally difficult and significant for each person, regardless of how it looks on the outside. We have learned how to better serve others who suffer. To not pity them, rather help them to suffer well. To not simply tell them where to find hope and go on our merry way, but to go on a leg of their journey with them.

I may sound like I know what I am talking about. I don’t. It is Tara who is teaching me. She has reminded me that this sickness is no accident. It was appointed to us to carry. And the end result isn’t what matters, rather it is all about the journey. How we depend on God and show him off in the process. That is what matters.

This late night thought is what I will rest on as I doze off to sleep tonight. Thank you to those who are helping us to suffer well, not simply helping us try to end the suffering.

Thankfully it was just the two of us when the car skidded in the gravel out of control and came to a stop perpendicular to the road. It was fairly simple. I was driving and the challenge was to close my eyes and trust my brother to verbally direct me from the passenger seat. As we traveled, in my mind I was veering slightly to the left and when I heard “left”, I assumed that he was affirming my suspicion, so I turned the wheel right to correct my course. In reality he was saying to turn the wheel left. You see I was already on the right shoulder and when I turned the wheel more to the right, we were instantly in trouble. He screamed. I opened my eyes to our car nearly in the ditch and swerved to stay on the road.

There we sat. My fingers tight on the steering wheel. Both of us in disbelief at what just happened. He couldn’t understand why I did the opposite of what he said, and I couldn’t understand why told me to turn more in the wrong direction. It was simple communication and we did it poorly. My assumptions weighed in and with my best intentions, I made a bad decision.

We have been saying that Tara is doing good, and she has been. But she was turned down from getting chemo today due to low blood counts. This seems contradictory to what we have been feeling and it confuses me. This is where I start assuming. I need to remove my assumptions and just listen. I may think we are on the right shoulder, but the reality is I cannot see and I do not know. And if I do anything to try to correct our course, I could really mess things up.

I must continue listening to the one who can see and who does know. God is omniscient and omni-present, meaning he knows all and is everywhere. And even more, he loves us and will continue to provide for us exactly what we need, when we need it. Sometimes that is hope, other times healing. Sometimes peace, other times understanding. So I will continue to depend on the goodness of God. This is how I will stay on course and keep this family safe.

Just the chance that tomorrow could be her last chemo is an encouraging thought to sleep on tonight. We have come so far in just over 5 months. I read back through the old posts, recalling what we felt in February, March, April, May and June. There has been a slow progression of healing, if you look simply at averages.

Tonight as we were leaving the fireworks show in Stewartville, I watched as Tara scurried across the road. You could almost call it a jog. That is HUGE. I see how she interacts with everyone throughout the day. She is vibrant. She is loving life and doing most things she was before.

Now we look toward the next phase of this process. There is a scan next week with a determination of whether or not she will need the three more weeks (1 round) of chemo. They think likely so but maybe not. Either way we are really close.

So we continue this journey with hope and encouragement.

The morning of the Fourth of July. We celebrate our independence. Do we remember what that means?

Last night was epic. We had 18 mortars loaded ready to be lit. Two other senseless individuals helped. The goal was to make a continuous spray of colorful light fill the sky. Up to that point we had only sprinkled the sky. With propane torch in hand I laid on the street with the wicks facing me, all tied into twos, threes or fours. I feared the burns I incurred in previous years doing this same thing.

The torch turned to high lit the fuses quickly. Within seconds deep concussive blasts launched the explosives hundreds of feet straight up. One after the other, and often simultaneous. I kept lighting, down the line, while over head the sky truly was sprayed with color and noise.

The sixteenth tube was tired. Instead of launching the mortar it exploded off its base and sprayed burning powder back into my face. It felt like someone threw a handful of sand at my face, at high velocity. In my own little way, I felt like I was wounded in battle. And I was proud to have served.

I wish I could say that I have served my country. I would be proud to die that way; for our freedom. I cannot imagine the color and noise in the sky being an enemy’s artillery intended for my harm; intended to kill or to break my will and run; feeling the shredding of shrapnel rather than the grit of gunpowder that I felt. Courage and honor.

Is it less heroic to die another way? It depends on how you die. Tara and I have talked lately about how we do and don’t want to die. It would be horrible to not die well; to not finish your last breath with courage. We have promised each other that we will help the other when that time comes. Where, o death, is your sting? Where, o grave is your victory?