Picture Perfect

Some photos for you this week of what we were up to the last few weekends in July.

We attended the dedication to Walt and Kim's newly built indoor-outdoor riding arena in Elbert, Colorado--a 20 minute drive from here. These are people Bryan works with, people we are becoming friends with.


They let the kids feed Levi some "cookies." Josh would have preferred a real cookie that he could eat. But feeding the horse was a satisfying second.




Walt and Kim are followers of Jesus, and their point in building this massive arena is to invite mothers and daughters to riding lessons as a ministry to them, and to have Bible studies with the Moms and the daughters are getting their lessons.

They've named the place "Glory Falls." Isn't that lovely?

So listen to this: The "official" part of the day had just begun with two riders giving a demonstration in the outdoor circle when the weather turned.

It was a sunny day. That part didn't change. . . But an amazing rain started to fall. "Amazing" because it was like a barrage of silver bullet rain drops was streaking down. The fell gently. But spectacularly. I could see each drop, they were that sparse. But I could see each drop! They were that big and shiny!

The guests all walked back inside.
Gemma, transfixed, walked outside.

Glory falls.








Last week, we went to Grand Lake with Miss Betsy and her family. They have been going to Grand Lake for many, many weekends throughout many, many years. If they aren't in town, they are most likely at Grand Lake.

Betsy and Amy (her daughter, who is now 18 and who graduated from high-school as a 100% homeschooler--congratulations, Amy!) told me that they have been looking forward to a trip to Grand Lake with us since a few months after we first met 4 years ago.

At last, our weekend arrived.

Grand Lake, Grand Lake, Grand Lake! So what is it?

It's a lake. It's gorgeous, like every other lake I've seen in Colorado. The drive out I-70 and then North is gorgeous, like every other Westward drive in Colorado we've made.

(What scenery?)

There is a little tourist town right along the lake, complete with wooden board walk and shop owners who've been in business long enough to watch Amy and TJ grow up. And there are cabins and lodges all around for the tourists to rent.


We stayed in a place that was right along a river. The kids would have been happy climbing on the river rocks for the whole 2 days we were there.

This is Amy, who says she used to skip from one side of the river to the other. But now she realizes she should have a modicum of caution.

A little bit older and a lot less bolder than you used to be, eh, Amy?




This is TJ, now 16. I notice Josh relating to him
more and more as a boy. This is the age when kids start to realize there is a difference between men and women. I'm glad Josh has a big brother like this.








RATS! I had a photo right here of Bryan and Terry (Miss Betsy's husband), but I hit "delete" one too many times and whamo! It's gone. Blogspot does not have great software for fiddling with photos, so I'm not going to try to re-load it.

My incompetence is your loss.

After the river rock scrambling, we walked around town for a bit. Had an ice cream cone. Then walked half a block down to the lake. The town was having some kind of festival. I still don't know what for. It included a bandshell and I was treated to a rythm and blues band concert.

Man. I could have listened to them the whole weekend.

Bryan swam with the kids in the lake. He insisted it was crazy-frigid-cold. But the kids kept playing in it. Something about youth doesn't register extremes.

As for me, doctor's orders: because of my port removal wound, swimming was verboten for a week.


There was a sandy beach to dig in, too. Aside from all this, the Burches had also brought their canoe with them. Gemma and Josh got a lot of rides that afternoon.

On Sunday morning, we rented a pontoon and toodled around the lake.

There were only a few other vessels to share it with, and many, many lake mansions to ogle, including a house Lucille Ball had built.

I liked imagining what the lake looked like before anyone had built anything. . .

Then Daddy asked Gemma if she wanted to drive.

It wasn't just a turn holding the steering wheel.

He gave her a full-blown nautical navigation lesson.

"When you're crossing another boat's path, maintain speed and direction."

"When you're approaching another boat head-on, always veer right."

"When you're passing a non-motorized vessel, reduce your wake."

It was. . . cute.

You-know-who was not to be out-done.

He waited so patiently for his turn. He watched Gemma intently. He was quiet the whole time Daddy was talking.

And then, when he sat down at the wheel, the very first thing he did was jam the geer into full speed.

He done drived that sucker!





Later in the afternoon, the town had a parade.

Our kids had never been to a parade! If we lived in a smaller town, this would not be. But the expected crowds at Colorado Springs affairs are, like, 70,000+ people.

I've yet to talk myself into dealing with that.

Parades are mentioned often enough in children's books, so they knew that the whole point was to stand on the side of the street while a bunch of stuff drives or walks or marches by.

Here's what they did not know about parades: These people who are driving and walking and marching by often throw candy.

Gemma and Joshua couldn't believe it! Candy! Being thrown! Into the street! At their feet! It's CANDY!

They're so simple, these kids.

I love it.

Gemma asked for a very special item to be her souveneir. It cost a bit more than what I think a souveneir should cost, but it fit her so well, I couldn't resist. And she had gotten the idea from our time at the rodeo, so I felt glad to oblige. (Oh, I haven't told you about the rodeo? Next week, then, friends. Next week.)

I bought it for her. She wore it all weekend. Something about it seems perfect. Maybe you'll agree.

We left Grand Lake on Sunday afternoon, about 4:00, for a 3 hour drive home. We've learned that the biggest component of a great weekend getaway in the Mountains if your trip includes I-70 is to beat Denver traffic.

We timed it pretty well and slipped home right behind the bulk of the congestion. The 3 hour trip ended up being 3 hours and 15 minutes.

Not bad at all.

Being pleased about a un-snarled drive home after a weekend of such pleasure?

Yep. We're pretty simple, too.

And Then, All At Once. . .

It's been a big week for this super hero cell.

On Monday, I went to the chemo barn for the last time to receive my last treatment of Herceptin.

(Did you think I was already done with the chemo barn? No, I've been going every three weeks for this medicine. I wrote about it on my other blog in great detail. Suffice it to say here that it takes 30 minutes to receive through the port that was surgically implanted in my chest last year. And there are no side effects.)

A year ago, I would have predicted that I'd greet a day of "last treatment" with smiles and cheers and my arms pumped up in a Rocky pose. I'm done, right? Victorious, right?

But, oh, the weeping! As the appointment approached. During the appointment. After the needle came out for the last time following the infusion. As I hugged the nurse, Shannon, who had been there since the middle of chemotherapy.

Lots of tears.

Sometimes, I'm good at identifying my own feelings. This time, I knew there was a big portion of joy, a big portion of relief, and a big portion of gratitude. These things make us cry.

But there was something else that was a little sick in my heart, too. What was it?. . .

After the infusion, my friend (who'd accompanied me) and I went to Starbucks and celebrated with tall mocha frappucinos. (Does "tall" mean the biggest size there? I think they have a different term for it. But we had the biggest size there. Bought for 2 bucks apiece, no less, because the guy at the register wanted to celebrate along with us!)

Monday night was sleepless. This was partly because of the really big mocha consumed at 4:30 PM. But it was also because I'd detected a lump along my scar line, right where the tumor had been, and it was painful and tender to the touch.

I was going to an appointment with the surgeon the next morning to make arrangements for the port to be taken out, so I knew I would ask him about it.

All that night, I tried to think of how I would be able to tell my parents that the cancer was back. How could I tell my sisters and brother? How could I make all the phone calls that I'd made the first time around? I played out 60 different conversations in my head.

Caffeine + a Lump = a bad combination

I prayed that night for a decisive answer the next day: If this is cancer again, or if there is something in my body to be found, then let the doctor be concerned enough to tell me to talk to my oncologist or get a scan or something.

But if this is nothing to be concerned about, then let that be clearly explained and then let this be the last night I ever wonder whether I have breast cancer. This is why we took aggressive measures, after all, to do all we humanly could to guard against future breast cancer. I want to live in that peace and not doubt it.

Here is the good news: the fact that it is painful and tender means that it's not cancer, it is instead scar tissue and chest nerves trying to reconnect. Cancer doesn't feel like anything. (Which is how a tumor could grow to, say, 9 cm without my being able to feel it internally.)

All the anxiety helped me to understand something about my emotion of this week. There is a bit of grief in saying good-bye to "being a cancer patient." It's been my project for 14 months. It's been the thing I've done and studied and written about and concentrated on. And now it's not.

There is an emptiness.

I realized during those 60 mental conversations that there is something comforting in relating to people in this way. Comforting only, I think, because I've been doing it for 14 months.

But I'm not that cancer patient anymore. I have the "Congratulations!" certificate from the chemo barn nurses to prove it.

***
The surgeon I saw on Tuesday is not our guy, Mayfield, who was deployed to Iraq at the end of May. Mayfield was not supposed to leave until August, but the Army moved the date up on him, causing him to cancel his 9 day vacation to Germany he'd planned with his wife. Further evidence that the military, at times, goes out of its way to make its best people hate it. . .

Had he left in August, he'd have been able to remove my port in the nick of time. But he selected a surgeon for me--even while getting his own affairs in order in the hurry of shipping out with no warning--and briefed this doctor on what needed to be done.

What needed to be done?

Amy needed to be permitted to keep her port. And the replacement surgeon he selected was a guy who, Mayfield surmised, would be willing to do what needed to be done.

(It's not really, ahem, protocol, to permit patients to do this. I was told.)

I won't advertise the name of the surgeon, lest any trouble befall him. And I have another post to write that details my time spent in his care.

Right now, I am going to skip to the part where he said, "Are you free tomorrow?" and I said "Yes," and he scheduled me for the port removal on Wednesday, whereas I'd been expecting to wait another 2 or 3 weeks before getting onto his calender.

So. Last Herceptin on Monday. Appointment with Dr. Replacement on Tuesday. Port removal on Wednesday.

As Bryan drove me to the removal appointment, I still felt that sadness I described. I told him about it, and figured out loud that it would just take a couple weeks, maybe a couple months to get over it.

I did the procedure, some details to follow later, and walked out of the office holding a bag which was holding my port. I was smiling. That sense of grief and emptiness was gone.

I hugged Bryan and the kids in the waiting room. And then, all at once, I was done.

A Few Items Finally Collected

Considering the conditions that started me on the blogging road, I have written far less about breasts that you'd expect.

Today, it's time to back fill.


1. Having no breasts is not as good as having two breasts, but it is a lot better than having just one breast.

There is something. . .pleasant about the symmetry I have now. With one, I still had all the maintenance requirements that may have looked normal to everyone else, but always felt to me inconvenient.

Now, I can add to my figure if I want to, but I don't have to wear any special garments up top if I don't want to. And since our party on May 22, I haven't.


2. While at Glenwood Springs, I was changing in the locker room when I noticed a woman in my same aisle. She was being very Korean about getting dressed. She seemed particularly pleased with her breasts, which I thought had been worked on. (An easy conclusion to reach: age shows all over a body, not just in those parts.)

Well. Whatever. Right? But I still had to get dressed myself and I wasn't about to move to a different aisle because I is what I is, baby. And I will confess to all of cyber-space and its readers that I wanted to see her reaction when she saw me.

There is not one iota of me that envied her, or wanted to look like her or, more importantly, that blamed her for looking as she did. I was not, I promise you, harboring the thought, "I've had work done on my breasts, too. Only it was to save my life."

Instead, it was more like, "I'm proud of my body, too. . ."

What kind of reaction would I get? Did I want? I can't say.

She looked. Terror flashed across her face--eyes widened, eyebrows furrowed, a silent gasp. Is this a way of describing surprise? And then: humility. She turned away and got dressed in just seconds and then got out of there.


3. Related point: If 1 in 8 women are diagnosed with breast cancer, a breastless torso could be a more common sight.

If we all knew what it looked like, we'd fear it less, wouldn't we?

And when it came time for that 1 out of 8 women to decide on treatment options, if there were less fear, maybe there would be more willingness to go ahead with removal instead of pursuing "breast conservation" with desperate optimism. And then maybe there's be fewer cases of Stage II patients getting lumpectomies only to end up being Stage IV patients a few years later.

People make their own choices, of course. Each patient will decide for herself and I will not ever call that decision wrong. But what I don't want to see happen that I'm sure happens a lot is the following: The zeal for pursuing all life-saving measures is hampered by a woman's fear of living without breasts.

Fear not. Life goes on. And I'll go Korean in all the locker rooms available to me now to prove it.


4. Related to this, Dr. Susan Love coined the term "slash, poison and burn" to describe removal, chemo and radiation.

Not helpful, Dr. Love.

It's what we have to do, you know. And making it sound so terrible doesn't make it easier for us to go through with it.


5. Advantages to being breastless:

• I can work out in complete comfort
• I can get dressed in under a minute--I seem to remember spending a lot of time adjusting and fiddling and getting everything to look right
• I was wearing a t-shirt outside on a cool day when a chilly breeze swept in and made me sprout goose-bumps. Chilly, but no worries!

6. At our pool, where I practice swimming, obviously I wear a bathing suit. Modest though my suit is, there is no disguising missing body parts.

It is a family-friendly place. It seems to me there are no oglers--men nor women--around. But, come on, people notice other people at a pool. Not in a critical way. But with a dose of evaluation? Yeah. Sure. Are you going to deny it?

I've made friendly acquaintances with most of the other parents. It is not that anyone has ever stared at me. But quite a few times, I've caught a glance and a look that, roughly translated, reads, "What's. . .going on. . .exactly. . .?"

After two weeks of this, I decided to be a little pro-active. As we talked, I'd find natural opportunities to include a story from this past year, or some other way to mention that I had cancer.

Without fail, their response: "Oh? What kind of cancer?"

And I say, with a genuine smile, because I think they are all so sweet to play dumb, "Breast cancer. That's why I have no breasts."

I go on to say that the treatment is all done, that it turned out to be a joyful, magnificent year, that we experienced so much love and so much of God's power--that it's all good.

With the air cleared, I'm getting to be good pool-friends with them.

7. But is it "all good"?

Well. It's mostly good. There are still moments of searing grief once in a while. Last night I came to the obvious realization--but one I don't think I'd been willing to deal with--that this is what my body will be like for the rest of my life here on Earth. That long after this past year is a distant memory, I will still have scars and not breasts.

I prayed with Bryan. And, specifically, I found myself telling God that if I can enjoy Him and experience Him as intimately and powerfully and. . .consistently as I have this past year during this trial, then it would make the loss bearable. Joyful, even. I would consider it a good trade.

Tonight, during our church service, God answered me with a promise: The pouring of His life into mine would be far greater than what was poured out of my body this year.

How great? I asked. 4 times? 10 times?

So great, He answered, that I would not have the terms to quantify it.

I don't know what this means, friends. But it's going to be fun to find out.

8. Finally, a Gemma story that I've smiled about for months, but have just now found the right post in which to share it:

You know how children make malapropisms not to be funny, but because they really think they are using the right word?

Well, Gemma thinks that nipples are called, "Nibbles."

Without realizing it, she amplified the cuteness of her mistake. She saw some guy with a six-pack of abs on a magazine cover at the store and said, "Look how many nibbles that man has."

Either two or eight more than I have, depending on how you count.

To Do and To Go

We approached this summer looking to make up for what feels like the lost time of last summer. This yearning plus the kids' ages plus the related fact that Joshua is no longer in diapers means that we've starting looking at the list of Things We Intend to Do and Places We Intend to Go and then doing and going.

This weekend, we headed to Glenwood Springs for a few days.

The highlight reel:

We were packed up, pulling out of the driveway, when Bryan handed me two sets of Mapquest directions and asked, "Which way do you want to go?"

There is nothing that qualifies me to answer that question when it is in the context of geographical directions.

I said, "Let's see if Mr. Colorado is home"--because he'd mentioned something about going one route that would take us above tree line and that the view was worth the trip.

He was home. He told us which of the two Mapquests would take us the scenic route, called Indepence Pass. It would take us above tree line, to about 12,000 feet, and then back down the ridge on our way to Glenwood.

And scenic, it was.

The whole drive was breath-taking. . . thought-taking, even, as Bryan and I hardly said anything and I, at least, didn't even have a daydream. I just looked and looked and looked. It was incalculable majesty.

We pulled over at the twin lakes reservoir for a picnic at lunch time.

The following photos are from the picnic stop, too, but I've embedded them among the somewhat unseemly stories:

We also pulled over to a generously sized shoulder about 30 seconds after Joshua announced that he had to make potty and couldn't hold it. Bryan hopped out and helped him. A few seconds later, the boys got back in and we were off.

Maybe 40 yards up the road, we saw a blue sign: Point of Interest, 1 Mile.

Bryan said, "Too bad, Josh. You could have whizzed at a Point of Interest."

To my way of thinking, the entire route was a Point of Interest.

In the midst of the grandeur, Gemma announced that she'd finished one DVD on her portable player and would soon start another. I said, "Put that away for a little while, honey. Enjoy the scenery."

She said, "What scenery?"

This became our catch-phrase for the weekend, and probably for life. Bryan or I would look up to see a waterfall crashing down the mountainside and then say, "What scenery?"

And we did make them put the movies down as we made the final ascent past the tree line to the top of the pass. They neither objected nor applauded.

We were just minutes away on the Interstate from our hotel when an electronic sign alerted drivers that a massive accident ahead required an exit at mile 105.

Most of the cars in front of us were getting off at 109, one exit earlier. In fact, the right lane was now crawling because the exit had completely backed up. Due to indecision? Slowness? Concern over the exit traffic? We passed up 109 and then quickly came to a crawl of our own.

You know what we were feeling right then because you've been there yourself. . .

Then, up ahead, a Hummer turned from the left lane, crossed the median strip of grass, and booked on by, now going the opposite direction

Amy: Look at him go. . .

Bryan: Too bad we're not in the Explorer.

(We were in the Volvo sedan, which also has four wheel drive. So. . .it wouldn't be that crazy to try. . .)

Then a pick-up truck did the Hummer move.

Amy: The ditch between lanes doesn't look too steep.

Bryan: You know how embarrassing it would be to get stuck?

Then a Pontiac Firebird did the pick-up move.

Amy: A sedan! Look! That sedan did it!

(All the while, I was thinking there was no way Bryan would make the move. He follows the law, not out of fear of getting caught, so it made no difference that there were no cops around, but because his heart is streaked with a deep, deep respect for rules and regulations. Hence a 20 year military career.)

Then a Toyota Prius did the Firebird move. A Prius!

Amy: Babe! That hybrid just pulled it off!

Maybe Bryan could have slept knowing he'd been bested by a Pontiac Firebird. But the Prius was too much to take as it puttered past us in the opposite direction.

We approached the spot where the other cars had made the U-turn, and we turned it ourselves.

This, happily, put us at the front of the line for the exit at 109, because there were only other law-breakers coming from our new direction.

The exit sent us along a state highway that ran alongside the Interstate, and soon this traffic slowed as well. Bryan said, "We're going Korean on them"--

This is a compliment to Koreans. Kind of. They drove not like maniacs, but like people who were shrewd enough not to be part of a traffic problem. For instance, in Seoul traffic, motorcyclists and drivers of small cars just hopped the curb and drove on the sidewalk. Pedestrians, watch out!

And "going Korean," to Bryan, is not the same as "law breaking."

Bryan stayed on streets. And then cut through a Lowe's parking lot in order to go around the intersection that was now being controlled by a state trooper. Once again we, happily, found ourselves at the head of the crowd.

Our hotel was great. The kids' favorite part was not the indoor, heated pool, but, by a slim margin, the juice dispenser in the dining area. They figured out they could combine cranberry with apple juice into the same glass with just a few touches of buttons. Brilliant!

A quote from each:

At one point, I said, "You can watch a TV show while I'm taking my shower, and then I'll read to you before bedtime. But you can only watch it if you're sitting in bed quietly."

Gemma said, "Dad will police that."

Where did she get that verb?

A different time, I told them, "Please get into your jammies."

Joshua looked at the T-shirt he was wearing, saw that it was clean enough for his standard of nightwear, and said, "All I have to do is take of my shorts, and voila! I'm in my jammies!"

The highlight of Glenwood Springs, for their age, anyway, is the hot springs swimming pool and its water slides. We spent all of Saturday there, taking a break in the afternoon to see Toy Story 3 (Loved it!) and eat dinner before returning for an evening swim.

I've heard of people who find hot springs to be very refreshing, as though they can detect the mineral content of the water.

For me, it just seemed like warm, salty water. But here's the big news about me and that pool: This summer, I have been learning to swim.

Yes. You read that correctly.

Don't get be wrong: I know how not to drown. I can do Ethel Merman strokes that get me from here to there with my face above water the whole time.

But never in my life have I known how to do the freestyle or, associatedly, how to swim for fitness.

This was to be my summer. Why? Mostly, it's because conquering cancer makes me feel like I can do anything, and not being dead right now makes me want to actually do the things I've always thought I'd like to try--like, for instance, learning to swim the real way.

So I've been practicing each day I take the kids to the pool. I asked Bryan for a basic lesson, and I've been asking the various swimmers, life guards and swim coaches I've met at the pool for little pointers here and there. Much the way golfers talk about their game, I think.

A very big day for me was about 2 weeks ago, when I put my face into the water without wearing a nose plug.

Another big day for me was when I swam a 25 meter length of the pool without stopping.

At Glenwood Springs, I swam the 30 meter width of the pool without stopping, and, more importantly, spent more time thinking about the saltiness of the water than about what I was doing, which means that it's becoming more and more automatic for me! What a breakthrough summer for me!

Now, the limitations I work against are much less issues of mechanics and much more issues of endurance. Swimming is hard, hard work. . .

I find it all pretty mysterious, because I can go for an hour on the treadmill at a pretty brisk clip with my heart rate elevated in the cardio zone, but after those 30 meters of swimming, I was sucking wind. Phew!

My goal is to be able to swim 4 lengths of our pool here by the end of the summer. That does not include doing kick-turns.

I know, I know. You've finished this last part about my swimming and my little victories towards learning and you're thinking: What scenery?

But hey--Glenwood Springs. Some swimming action. That's two things off our list.