two thousand and fourteen

I keep getting a message on my Facebook page. Telling me to look at how awesome my year was..
And random pictures have been somehow collated to give the overview of the year that has been..

for Suzanne Gakowski.

They are lacking though, these pictures.

They lack the reality of extremes that I endured in the last 365 days. 

The year can, in a way, be summed up in a conversation I had with a great friend in the early days of September.
Sheldon was in a hospital bed..horrendously ill.
Cancer was wreaking havoc with us.
And I went on a coffee run. Sitting in the passanger seat, I said with something of a sigh.. "I'm not sure if I can become a motherless child and a widow in the same year..."

This year has been all about extremes.

Feeling intense grief.
Unbearable loss.
Fear.
Faith.
Absolute desperation for a miracle.
Commitment to believing.
Mountains of doubt.

Extremes. 

Those extremes don't last.
The intensities fade.
Intense grief is numbed to an ongoing reminder that she has gone home first. That she glimpsed that wonder and majesty of a heaven clad Jesus and no earthly, daughters love could keep her here. 

The unbearable nature of my loss becomes bearable... Because there is not much option otherwise. You bear it or it beats you.

Fear and faith walk close to each other.
It's what you feed that grows.
Feed your fear, fear will multiply.."what if this... What if that...." There it goes. Fear growing fat.
Feed you faith, faith will strengthen. "Even if this..Even if that..." It is well.

There are moments..
They live deep in my soul.
They moved in to my world this year.
This 2014.

The moment Helen got engaged.
The moment we took mum and dad to Romeo and Juliets for their anniversary dinner.
The moment my twins turned 7.

The moment I sat on a plane, clutching my bible and my sisters hand as we flew with hammering hearts to be by her side.

The moment I knew it was not a matter of if but a matter of when.

The moment that when became now and she left.

The moment I sat my sons on my lap and whispered that Granny wasn't coming home.

The moment I walked into a coffin room, confronted with the choice.

The moment we stood in that church with an ocean of love behind us and cried our grief out.

The moment my eldest son whispered that he would be my strength, and that I needed to remember that a Granny was actually more alive in heaven than she had ever been on earth. 

The moment that Helen walked down the aisle 10 weeks later, resplendent in white and married her love.

The moment that Sheldon rang me, voice hoarse and told me the cancer was killing him... Growing faster than I could believe. 

The moment I saw him in a hospital bed, fading.

The moment he was wheeled away into surgery.

The moment the tumor was removed and I hugged that surgeon tight.

The moments..

This was a year of big moments.

But through it all

Through it all

My eyes are on You.

Through it all

Through it all

It is well.

IT IS WELL.

 2014-   it is well.

Maybe not great at times.

Maybe not happy at times.

Maybe not easy at times.

But it is well.

It is well with my soul.

There is a deep peace that still reigns over each of the moments. 

Where would I be without that peace, that is an anchor in the face of the squalling waves? 

So... I will smile at the stroke of midnight and watch as 2014 is placed in the past. 

I will look at the moments.

I will remember the goodness. 

I will welcome 2015 with wide open arms. 

I will declare that 2015 is a year of peace, hope for some calm sailing, believe that our miracle will continue it's outworking. 

And through it 

IT IS WELL. 

No weapon formed...

Ok.
It's time to say this:
No assignment against
No weapon formed
No flood of woe
Against me and my house will prosper.

These are the words on my lips
Morning
Noon and
Night..

No weapon
Will prosper.

No gain made
By worry and by stress.

Worry is simply deciding that thinking continuously about the current and possible state of affairs is going to do some possible good.
When was the last time worry brought about an answer?
When was the last time worry came hand in hand with peace?
Has worry ever fought the battle of fear and won?

No.
Never.

Worry eats away at faith.
Worry erodes peace.
It steals rest and sleep
It burdens the already weary.

So.. I make a conscious decision each time the hungry dog called worry comes sniffing, with its bloodthirsty fleas called fear clinging to it's back. I decide that worry and fear are best left outside.
I don't feed them my time and my energy.
Instead..
I find these words on my lips:

No weapon
Formed against us
Will prosper..

Memories are made of this..

My house is quiet tonight.
I'm not actually normally awake at this hour, but my heroic husband is in Sydney for a quick high five session with his oncology team (more on that another time)..and I can't seem to find sleep- it has slipped out unannounced. How inconsiderately rude that selfish slumber seems to be.


My sons are sun kissed from being in the pool today and sleep has kindly stayed with them.
I remember that feeling.. being 10 years old and spending the hot scorching summer days in the pool. I would be so water logged, so pruned and wrinkled skinned.


I've been thinking alot about memories today.
Today is one of those line in the sand type days.
Each day since we said goodbye to mum has been tough, but today was 6 months.
And I don't know why, but the marker of time is important.


It tells us to pause..
To recognise that time is actually passing.
That we didn't stop the clock that night.


I noticed that the challenge with memories and moments like today is this: we have to partake in the moments we have lived- while we actively live in the moment we have now, making new memories. (That's ok. read that again...)


I face this challenge each day.
When I water my plants by my front door- plants that mum planted for me- I remember that she despaired of my absolute ability to kill all things green. I remember the joy that her garden gave her. And as I'm standing there, probably drowning my plants, possibly killing them with kindness, I look up and watch my sons speed up and down the sidewalk on their bikes.

I live in the beauty of all those past moments I spent with my mother while I actively file away a moment I am in right now...
Because one day, when my sons have grown up and are living their grown up lives, I will see a kid zooming around on an orange bike. I'll hear the no-holds-barred laughter of a happy 7 year old. And my mind will call to attention the moment that I watched my sons ride around our street, while I watered my plants and thought of my mum.

Here's what I have learnt in the tragedy of loss:
Don't live in the past with no regard for the moments you have right now.


What is in front of me each day that is worthy of being a moment I will remember for the days to come?
I didn't know it then, but the time I sat with mum in a cafe at a beach in Redcliffe would be a morning that I relive and hold onto for it's preciousness... the last time it was just me and her. Just two BFF's chatting about life and kids and.. well.. we actually just talked normal stuff. But that normal stuff is the stuff that precious is now made of.


Don't shrug off the opportunity to do the normal stuff with someone you love.
Don't rush through the mundane, waiting for the excitement. Memories are made up of those mundane minutes.
Don't wish that a baby would grow up, or a toddler would learn how to look after themselves.
They do.
And then you reach back into the recess of your memories to see that brand new, 6 pound bundle. You close your eyes to recall the giggle of a toddler who was being tickled.


If you know anything of our journey, you'll know that 7 weeks ago we were staring down the prognosis of mere months for my husband.
He was in a bad place.
We had lost mum only months before and I couldn't reconcile the titles that were swirling around my brain- how could I handle being a motherless child and a widow in the space of months if Sheldon was to succumb to the cancer?
Well, he didn't and I don't and this is where I am-
Where we are-
We are living.
One hand is firmly wrapped around the moments that we have known and experienced and lived through, the other is high fiving the moments we have right now.

Memories are made of this... 

What a difference a day makes...

What a difference a day makes

24 little hours.

Brought the sun and the flowers 

Where there used to be rain..

In a long ago life I sang a bit of jazz..

Ella, Louis, Dinah...Dinah. What a voice. She was a particular favourite of mine. And I loved to sing that song- what a difference a day makes...

Well, a day 12 days ago made a difference.

Let me tells you all about it.

If you have been following along with our story, you'll know what's been going down. But let me give you the abridged version.

Jan 28th, 2013: Sheldon diagnosed with a rare form of cancer (GIST) 

Feb 4th, 2013: First surgery to remove primary tumor and small bowel resection.

March,2013: Start targeted chemo Gleevec

April, 2013: Move from Newcastle to North Queensland to be around family. 

June, 2013: both of us get full time work and we find out that the Gleevec is working beautifully on all tumours. Life is good. We are enjoying normality.

April 20th,2014: We suddenly and unexpectedly lose my mum. Grief is a SOB that hits all of us and life seems upside down.

May, 2014: Sheldon has a routine check up in Sydney with his oncology team- we discover that the Gleevec has stopped working in spectacular fashion and the tumours have rapidly grown (20 times their original size in a matter of months) We are gutted. We cry.. A lot. Things have changed. The grief that rocked our world with the death of mum seems to compound. I don't know what normal is. Life is spinning.

Sheldon goes to Sydney for an unknown and extended time to start the stage two chemo treatment. Sutent is the new drug and we pin hopes on it smashing the tumours. He comes home and seems to be doing great. I have to learn how to breath again. 

July, 2014: We move house. Again. Don't I love to move.. Not.

Early August, 2014: Sheldon has been having serious pain in his left leg. He goes for ultrasounds and ct scans- nothing is found. He gets told he has a bulged disc- I tell him to stop complaining and take some Panadol. The pain gets worse. We think it might be a side effect of the Sutent. 

Saturday, August 9th: I've never seen him in such pain. He can't walk. I call my sister to come and be with the kids and we rush up to the hospital. (Sidenote: my sister has been at my place since that night. She's a legend)

Monday, August 11th: ultrasound and CT shows that sheldon has DVT from his groin to his ankle in his left leg. Also has pulmonary embolism in his lung. I feel like I've been punched..hard. You see, my mum died from a pulmonary embolism. 

Tuesday, August 12th: We find out that the Sutent chemo has stopped working on the large tumor in the area between his kidney and stomach. The liver seems to be responding beautifully. But it's the big one... That's the one that is dangerous. We feel the breathless feeling steal back... We call in all our prayer teams. We call the oncologist in Sydney and begin the drama of liasing between the Base hospital in Mackay and the oncology team in Sydney. After many phone meetings between doctors, we get told that we must be in Sydney ASAP. 

Saturday, 16th August: Sheldon says goodbye to our sons, it's heart wrenching.. We know the serious and life threatening nature of the tumor. We have been told time and time again that this tumor could be what takes his life. Because it's in a tough spot... Unresectable.. That's what they call it.

 I have taken leave without pay from my job. I have walked into my classroom and told my year 9 kids to be good, do their homework... They cry. I cry.

 I hold my sons and try not to let them hear how hard it is to leave them. 

(Side note: I learnt something profoundly in this moment- I learnt that as much as I live for my kids and love them beyond any known matter, I serve a God who loves them more. He has His eyes firmly on them. He has His arms solidly around them. He has placed people in their world right now who have determined to be there for them. My sisters. My brother. My dad. The wonderful neighbours around the corner who take them to school. The teachers who pray with them. My kids are doing well..)

We get on a plane. Just the two of us.. The DVT pain is unbearable and he can barely walk. We have an appointment on Monday to sit down with the oncologist. 

Monday, 18th August: We head to Concord hospital early. Sheldon has blood tests and we wait for the oncologist appointment. It's a freezing cold day. I've escaped any touch of winter in balmy North QLD and find myself struggling with the sudden cold. Our good mate and Goodlife church pastor, Dave Connett comes to the hospital and waits with us. We wait. Hey- I'm getting good at waiting. Professor Beale comes and calls us into his consultation room. He's serious. He holds onto our hands for a second longer than normal.. It gives us a message. I feel like I need to throw up. Prof Beale runs through the results. It's nothing we don't know. The large tumor is our primary concern. We might be running out of options. Surgery MIGHT be an option... He wants us to tell him that we know that it's a life threatening surgery. He needs to hear that we are aware of the chances. 

Let me tell you something about my husband. He's a fighter. And he's incredibly stubborn. He told Prof. Beale that regardless of the threat, he wanted to fight.. And the fight meant surgery. Sheldon did not ever regard not going into surgery as an acceptable option. He didn't care about the odds. Because, at the end of the day he was looking at mere months if the tumor stayed. Mere months. 

The oncology appointment ended with no clear answers. Except for the clear message that Sheldon wanted surgery. I wanted an answer. I needed an answer. The thought that edged around the periphery of my mind was that horrendous "what if...". What if no surgeon wanted to touch it. What if it was too late. What if... (Sidenote: the what ifs will always be there. What if this.. What if that... Here's a tip: don't get sucked into the drama and stress of the "what if" vortex. Know what is immovable in your world... The "what ifs" can't shake the immovable).

Tuesday, August 19th: We spend the day with Dave and Bec... waiting (again) waiting for a phone call this time from the surgeon who potentially will be tackling the tumour. Prof. Beale had told us he was going to make a phone call to a surgeon who might be interested.

3:34pm. The phone rings and I'm so overcome with adrenaline and "arghhhhh" that I'm shaking through the entire conversation. It's the surgeons office. A Doctor David Joseph wants to meet with us tomorrow. I ramble something incoherent. We have a surgeon appointment. 

Wednesday, August 20th: We meet Dr. Joseph. He's calm, confident... We are high fiving as we leave the appointment. The surgery is booked. We have a date. It's in a fortnight, to ensure that the chemo is  out of his system. We spend the time before the surgery date hanging out together... 

That is until....

Sunday, 31st August: 2am. Sheldon wakes me. He's in pain, vomiting.. His heart rate is ridiculously high, his skin is clammy.. It's not good. I rush him to the Concord emergency department. The next few hours are a blur of emergency scans, nasal gastric tubes, rooms full of surgeons... I didn't know if this was the tumor bursting and bleeding out... If this was a pulmonary embolism wreaking havoc.. It was not a good morning. 

By 5pm we know that the tumor is impeding his bowel. Basically it's shutting down. I feel a sense of heaviness hit my stomach. This is what we didn't want. This is a bad sign. My sister, Julie, jumps on the first flight out of Brisbane to be with me. The surgical team tell us that the surgery that we were supposed to be going into on Thursday, 4th September, is going to brought forward..it's an emergency situation.. So Sheldon is put on a saline drip and nil by mouth. I go home and sleep. I'm exhausted. 

Monday, 1st August: I am up at the hospital by 7am. We are ready for surgery.... Anytime. Anytime now.... I leave the hospital at 9pm. No surgery. Tomorrow they say. Sheldon is kept on nil by mouth. Not even ice.

Tuesday, 2nd August: I'm up at the Hopital by 7am. We are ready for surgery... Anytime... Nope. Not gonna be today. The surgical team tell us that they are trying to get a theatre free for the required hours the surgery will take, while also making sure that they have an intensive care bed available for after. Because Concord is an emergency general hospital and Sheldon is on the emergency list, he keeps getting bumped- it's good news in the fact that he is stable, bad news because he has been NIL BY MOUTH since 2am Sunday morning. 

Wednesday, 3rd August: I'm at the hospital by 7am. Maybe, just maybe today will be the day. 

No. In fact. No. 

The surgical team tell us that Sheldon can drink something. He drinks lemonade. The first thing he has had in nearly four days. We transfer him over to the Mater hospital and the original surgery date is back on the table.

Thursday, 4th August: The day that made a difference.

We thought we were good at waiting.

We had had waited for so many appointments, we had spent the past 4 days waiting at Concord.. But that Thursday...it took waiting to whole 'nutha level.

I'm not going to give you a blow by blow account of what I went through that day. Maybe sometime I will. But let me give you the "highlights". 

* I was supported that Thursday by prayer. By praying people who dropped everything to spend time storming heaven on our behalf. 

* I was supported that Thursday by family who carry burdens... Who find something funny to laugh at in the most dire of times... Who make sure that I eat and have coffee. 

* I knew what peace is... This is gonna take a whole book worth of writing to explain- but basically in the face of fear and the logical threat of the dangers of surgery and it's success, I felt PEACE. I can't even tell you.... 

* As the hours ticked by... 2....3....4.....6....7.... I waited. 

I. Waited. 

If you are in the middle of something tough.. Just wait. Go back and read what I have to say about waiting. It's in previous blogs. Wait. Don't lose hope. Just wait. 

* At the 8th hour... Well..... At the 8th hour. 

I was pacing around near the elevator doors. I heard my sister yell for me. 

I ran. 

There. 

Dr. David Joseph was in his surgical blues. 

He said that it was a hard surgery. Very hard. 

I asked him how much of the tumor he got out..

 He grinned.

He said "I got it all..."

I think I ugly cried. 

I'm pretty sure I almost barrelled Dr. Joseph over.

He. Got. It. All. 

He said Sheldon was doing amazingly. 

He said (and I quote) "My colleagues have been telling me this was impossible. It was a very hard surgery. But I opened him up and I just kept going.." 

Dr. Joseph- he's one of my favourite human beings right now.

I was delirious.

 I called dad. 

I called friends. 

I waited at the door of ICU to see my champion husband. 

When I got in to see him, he was ventilated and should have been sedated enough to not notice much. But that boy heard my voice, opened his eyes. I told him. It's all gone babe. He got it all. 

He remembers that. He remembers hearing me. Hearing me say it was good. 

8 hours in a major surgery and he wakes up to my voice. I love that. 

So.... 

The tumor is out. 

Mere months are a prognosis of 12 days ago.

Because what a difference a day makes.

Don't tell me that God doesn't work miracles.

That surgeon.

That surgery.

The removal of that tumor.

Miracle. 

Miraculous. 

In the impossible.

In the unrescectable.

In the unlikely.

That's the difference that day made.

A battle cry.

The art of the battle cry has existed through the ages. 

It's the stuff of legend, of fact and fiction.

It's Hellenes, with the high pitched "alalalal" of the Iliad.

It's the US marines and their "oorah" as they prepare to launch.

It's "Freeeedommmmm" and it's "For NARNIA!!".

Its the stir and whine of the bagpipes as they call the young men out from the trenches in the muddy, bloody fields of France and Turkey.

A battle cry exists to-

Awaken the readiness of the fighter. It says, "time to stand up and fight now."

It exists to-

Rally the troops. It says, "we are in this. We have got this. Let's do this."

It exists to-

Alert the enemy. It says, "here's your notice enemy! Hear our roar and the sound of our cry. We are coming for you!!" 

I'm standing, knee deep in the trenches of battle.

We've come to the  front line. 

There is a shift that takes place in battle when you come near the front line. 

The normality of everyday life is shrugged off and everything is focused on the fight. 

The trenches are dug in a little deeper.

The weapons become bigger, lethal in their accuracy. 

Our front line means we are far away from our children.

The front line is not a place for little boys.

My heart is evenly and painfully divided directly down the middle as I stand firmly on the front line and glance often over my shoulder towards home, wanting to be the one who tucks squirmy 7 year olds into bed and kiss their squishy faces. Wanting to be the one who feels 9 year old arms wrap around me and squeeze with the intensity of a sons devotion. 

Someone told me once that being a mother meant you saw your own heart beating in the smile of your child's face.

My beating heart is far from me.

My heart is divided. 

Because I'm a mum. And I think I'm indispensable. 

And I'm a wife. And I need to stand right next to my husband- here, and hold his hand as we fight.

Sometimes it feels like it's going to crack under the pressure, but then... Just as I'm about to crumble...I hear it. 

It starts as a tiny whisp of noise, a remnant of something that could be a word...

It shifts focus, the louder it gets.

It reminds me that this battle is not forever, that peace will come back to our house once more.

It tells me to stand up and prepare to fight.

It rallies the warriors around me. The armies that have chosen to stand along side us, lifting up our arms in this fight. Oh... The words that I could write about my warriors. 

The faithful grandmothers and aunties who carry us in their midnight vigils. 

The resolute friends who laugh with us and cry with us in the face of the fight.

The selfless family members who have put aside their agenda to take up our agenda.

And finally.... This stirring of noise that takes on an unmistakable sound...

It tells our enemy that we are coming for it.

Fear... We are coming for you. Back off. 

Doubt.. Your day is done, with your dark thoughts of what ifs and maybes. 

Cancer... You are vile. We have your number. No more hiding and growing and sucking the life from my husband. 

The battle cry soon echoes and rolls and resonates until I can bear the weight of being on the front line. 

Do you know what my battle cry sounds like??

The battle cry is you.

You.

Praying.

Calling me.

Loving my kids.

Sharing our burden.

It's you.

It's you, speaking words of strength when I need to feel a bit stronger.

It's you, on your knees and storming heaven when I don't have any words left to pray.

Each time you utter those words,

 "God, heal Sheldon. 

God, bring about the miraculous. 

God, pour out your peace on them now. 

God, protect their boys and wrap them in your arms. 

God, guide the surgeons as they go in after this monster tumor." 

Each time you cry out with me in the middle of this battle.

That's my battle cry.

It tells me to stand.

It tells me I have an army.

It tells our enemy that it's on.

Next week is a big offensive in battle strategy.

Tuesday is hospital admittance and a vascular procedure to put in a filter to help protect his heart and lungs from the blood clots that are filling the veins in his leg.

Thursday is the big surgery.

Doctor Joseph is going to remove the very large, very life threatening tumor that is currently residing between Sheldon's stomach and kidney. 

He's got this. 

He's confident.

So...

While the front line battle rages, keep up the battle cry.

Love you.

Xo

My friend, Horatio G. Spafford

It's story time.

There once lived a man named Horatio G. Spafford.

Horatio was a lawyer.

Horatio had a lovely home, a lovely wife and a handful of lovely children.

Everything was lovely.

Until tragedy waltzed in one day and Horatio lost his 4 year old son to a terrible, senseless disease. 

Horatio and his wife and their remaining children were grief stricken. The loss of a child... Heartbreaking to say the least.

Well, a few years passed and Horatio invested a large amount of money into real estate. It was the mid 1800s in Chicago and real estate was booming. 

Unfortunately mere months after investing a large portion of his wealth,  the Great Fire of Chicago swept through and turned his investments to ashes... 

With the grief of his loss compounded by the strain of financial loss, Horatio planned to get away for awhile.. You know, get out of town and get his head on straight.

He booked passage on a ship that was headed to Europe. The plan was to take his lovely wife and their four daughters away from the site of so much heartache. Just before sailing, business got crazy and Horatio sent his family on ahead of him. 

Horatio: "Hey honey.. How about you and the girls head over to Europe early... Relax in Paris for a few days, you know... Shop, eat cupcakes. I'll get the boss off my back, get some hours in and I'll be over before you can say 'Spafford family vaycay.." 

So... Anna and the girls set off. 

Horatio went about his business.

One day, a telegram arrived at his office. 

From Anna.

It began..."saved alone..." 

It continued. It told Horatio, the dad who had already buried a 4 year old son, that tragedy had laid hold of the ship and it had sunk to the depths of the ocean, taking his four daughters with it. They were 11,

9,

5 and 2 years old.

Horatio....

Buried his son.

The fire consumed his wealth.

The ocean swallowed up his girls.

Horatio G. Spafford. 

A man who intimately knew the breath sucking wrench of grief. He knew the exhaustion that creeps up and folds around you in the moments that those body wracking sobs ease up. He knew the numbness that comes with each reminder that death has visited and taken what you earnestly thought was yours to keep. 

I'm a fan of Horatio G. Spafford. 

Not because he lost the treasures he valued most on this planet.

But because of his response to that loss.

You see, I reckon that some things in life are pretty much out of our control. 

Like terrible diseases.

Like awful accidents that rob lives.

What is in our control is the way we respond and react to what is before us, staring us down every single day.

And Horatio??? Well... Horatio responded with these words, penned as he stared down the expanse of sea that was the resting place of his babes...his little girls.

Horatio wrote:

When peace like a river 

Attendeth my soul

When sorrows like sea billows roll.

Whatever my lot

You have taught me to say

It is well

It is well

With my soul..

It

Is

Well

I have been singing those words.

A lot.

We sang them on that hardest of days when we stood before a polished timber coffin that held the dearest and most precious of people I had.

Sorrow like sea billows rolled...

Grief and pain whipped up a savage storm.

And I think about Horatio.

Who lost so much.

And who stood and said whatever was his lot, whatever came his way- it is well.

It can be called prophesying.

Self talk.

Speaking life.

It's saying "Hey soul!!!! Hey emotions and intellect and thought process.... IT IS WELL." 

It's not being 'happy' or even 'ok '.. I mean, loss is loss and it sucks. Severely.

But somewhere in the chaos of grief is the lifeline that is echoed in the words "it is well with my soul."

It is well. Because I know that just beyond this veil of humanity is the eternity that waits.

It is well. Because He, the commander-of-angel-armies, Is in control. Even when I can't see it or feel it... Especially then.

Weather I am in a season of peace

Or in a surging storm of heartache..

It is well with my soul. 

Sheldon is the greatest example of this at the moment. 

He is asked often how he is going, and how his faith is holding up...

And his answer, unswervingly, is that his reliance and trust is not dependent on the outcome of tomorrow. Whatever his lot...WHATEVER his lot- it is well with his soul.

Let me leave you, dear hearts, with this. 

The hope that is ours.

The balm that soothes the sting of loss.

This final thought, that was my beautiful mums great joy- the joy of her salvation.

My sin, oh the bliss of this glorious thought

My sin, not in part but in whole

Is nailed to His cross

And I bear it no more

Praise The Lord

Praise The Lord 

Oh my soul....

Looking for a new normal.

Life has changed.
The changes are subtle and they are glaring.
Change is meant to happen- it's the proof of life  that things change. Yes, change is inevitable- maybe just not in the way it has marched into our world of recent times.

I think back to a time when the most pressing matter that faced me was something that I now consider a triviality..
I have endured the erosion of normal.

Layer by layer my normal has disappeared.

Cancer diagnosis erodes at normal.
Chemotherapy rounds erode at normal.
Death and grief erode at normal.

Watching my family deal with the hand of loss that we have been dealt has eaten into the normality that I prided myself in maintaining.
It's nice to be normal.
Normal is safe and secure.
Normal is bland and unassuming.

Normal was ringing my mum to complain about my husband and his tendency to work late.

That was then.
This is now.

And as much as I would like to revisit 'then' sometimes, I have to learn how to be here in now.

My fear is that I will spend all my time and energy wanting my previous normality that I will miss the new normal that I wake up to every day.

I can't be that person who allowed grief and tragedy to eat away at me until there is merely a shell left..

I am trying to learn how to live this new normal.
How to accept the pace of our days as we cycle through rounds of chemo, walking towards a surgery.
How to accept that I don't get another phone call to mum, another leisurely coffee catchup.
I was talking to my sons today about needing to borrow Grannies car while mine is in the fix-it shop.
And Lukas (7 year old)  said, "how can you even talk about her, even say her name, without crying? My throat hurts so much right now because I want to cry whenever I hear someone say Granny."
It made me want to pull over and howl. I told him to cry whenever he needed to. That it's ok to cry.
And I asked him what his favorite memory of Granny is. His reply was going to the beach with her.
And then he said "...but now that's your job. To take me to the beach. I love it there..."

So this is the new normal.

I'm finding little snippets of it everyday.
Its all around me, I just need to see it.

The thing I have realised is that simply because my normal has changed, good times and beauty and peace are still available.
They are all there... In this new normal.

A lesson in the art of waiting.

We are waiting.
I don't like that word much right now.
When all the beautifully well meaning people ask me:
"How are you going? What is happening??"
I want to reply with gusto:
"We are fighting.. we are in treatment.."

Instead, my reply is:
"We are waiting...."
Waiting for a phone call to say the treatment is approved, now let's annihilate those life sucking tumors.
Waiting for the battle to start.
Waiting for the distance between our little family to stretch out between us.

I'm not saying I want what the end of waiting will bring us.
I'm not eager to have my husband get on a plane and fly away from us.
I'm not excited about the second stage of treatment.

But when the waiting is done, the fight resumes.
I know that this week has been tough on Sheldon. He had been busily leaving long 'to do'  lists for his staff at work. He has been meeting with doctors and bankers, making sure that every eventuality has a covered base.
But niggling in the back of his mind is the thought that each moment that we are WAITING is a moment where the cancer is not under all guns drawn attack.

I wrote a song a lifetime ago. It said:
"Waiting for a perfect life
Seems to take so long...
Until my waiting
Anticipating
Becomes my willingness
To draw closer
Closer to the place
Where I wait on You."

So my words have circled back to chomp uncomfortably on my backside.
Yes... We are waiting.
Yes... I would prefer to be fighting rather than waiting.

But I have today.
We have today.
And I get to choose to be frustrated in the wait or satisfied in the knowledge that waiting is not long term.
It's not.
Someday soon we will get that call and he will board that plane. All too soon he will start that new drug. Before we know it we will be knee deep in the battle.

So maybe waiting is the gift in all of this. Maybe it's the time we need.
Time to sit at the beach on a Saturday morning and watch our boys jumping waves.
Time to catch up on episodes of Dr.Who that, strangely, neither of us have seen before.
Time to prepare ourselves for whatever it is that is before us.

Maybe it is the act of waiting that calms the heart and sharpens the mind.

Maybe, instead of waiting FOR something to happen, I should wait ON the One who provides me strength and refuge.

"They that WAIT UPON the Lord will get fresh strength. They spread their wings and soar like eagles..." (Isaiah 40)

I'm mistaken in my thinking that in waiting I am powerless and nothing is happening.

In those moments of the wait I get a chance to take stock of what has been, what is now and what comes before.

I get to stand still at the crossroads, for that is where waiting always happens- at a crossroads of what was and what will be.

So, if you are waiting for something to happen. If you are at a crossroads of what was and what will be, can I encourage you to join me in welcoming the wait.
Appreciating what the wait is allowing you.
Taking the stillness of the wait and finding a moment of refreshing and renewing.
Let waiting become a willingness to draw closer to the One who renews and refreshes.

And when the wait is over we will fight.

Hello... Again.

We've been somewhere near here before.
Close to this juncture..
Nearby this path of 'what-ifs' and 'why, oh why'..
It all looks familiar and yet it's heartbreaking in the new aspects we are facing.

Yes..it's been a while since I wrote to you all.
I was quiet for a while. Busy enjoying normality...
And now- well, I guess this is hello again.

Here's what's been happening in my little world:
* we fought hard when the cancer diagnosis was first given and we saw great success for 12 months of the phase 1 chemo treatment.
* we moved north to be around the support force that is our families.
* we both got amazing jobs. We love our jobs
* we enjoyed the serenity of our little house...

And in the days and weeks and months that slid by, I relaxed.
I found myself wondering what I had been worried about when diagnosis and prognosis and treatment were all new words.
After all... Things had been bad and scary at the start, but surely those days were a thing of the past.. right????!!! Surely my family had experienced enough of a rough time.

And then my world rocked...no, shattered into a gazillion pieces on Easter Sunday. My strong, courageous, noisy, brilliant, generous mum went. Just like that. She was here, and then she went. Just one breath. That's the difference between being here and being gone.
We grieved and I honestly didn't know what I would do without my go-to person.

And I thought.... Ok, now I can't be stretched anymore.
We've dealt with the cancer diagnosis and those hellish early days.
We've transplanted our lives...
We've said goodbye to mum....
Enough already.

Sheldon got on a plane this week. He flew into Sydney to have the checkup. The last time he had been there, it was glowing good news. Cancer shrinking. Cancer being beaten back. Time was ours, stretching out in front of us. It was a great checkup.

That was then.

On Wednesday afternoon, at 3:02pm, I heard his voice on the other end of the line. It wavered and cracked wide open as the words I desperately didn't want to hear were said... "Babe... It's not good. Not good at all.."

And everything stopped.
The world actually stopped spinning.
Just for a second.
That second.

This is now.

So.... Here we are. At the starting line of a path called "phase 2"..."plan B"....
Plan B is a new type of chemo.
The word on the street is that it's not a walk in the park... It's a tougher treatment than what we've known. We fervently hope that Sheldon responds well.
Because fighting this is a given.
It's not an option to NOT go down this path.
Their names are Krystopher, Matthew and Lukas.

Hello again.
I have to say- I didn't miss talking to you all while I was busy living our life .

I write this so you know.
So you can keep up to date
So you can know what to close your eyes and whisper a prayer about...

I write this so it doesn't drown me... Swamp me...
Wring me out....

Writing helps me sort my head out.
So thanks for reading this... This sorting room for my thoughts and my questions and my ups and my downs.

Tomorrow we are taking the boys to search for platypus, to have a picnic in the mountains and make some memories.

That's a happy day.