tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-221011422024-03-07T17:56:04.084-05:00Helping Me UpKimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10909390837115961404noreply@blogger.comBlogger453125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22101142.post-91824304677417547912020-09-10T17:09:00.003-04:002020-09-10T17:09:25.620-04:00Against the Odds<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">On this day, five years ago, Steven received his second transplant. After his diagnosis I made a point not to Google anything. There was zero research done by me regarding his disease (AML, inversion 3). I fought my nature and decided that in order to get through this, I would need to trust the doctors and nurses that were treating him. And pray.</span></span></p><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">And that is what I did. </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">It was not easy. There were times in the year between his first transplant and second transplant that Steven said he was done fighting and was ready for it to be over. There were times he was dangerously close to getting his wish. It was awful. It was brutal. And the fallout still isn't fun.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">BUT.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">And this is a HUGE "but".</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">He made it to this point. Five years. </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">In February we visited with Steven's physician. At that time she said she would show us something when we reached the five year mark that would illustrate just how far Steven had came. She didn't go into details at that time because she didn't want to jinx anything.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">However, due to COVID, Steven has been having televisits and doing labs locally, eliminating our scheduled appointments in St. Louis. On his recent televisit, Dr. Jacoby shared with us the truth about Steven's diagnosis. One I had never dared to ask. One that I couldn't have bared to know at the time. </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">She told us that she had a graph that showed the prognosis of Steven's diagnosis and the life expectancy associated with it. This graph showed that Steven, with his diagnosis, only had a 10-15% chance of surviving five years. The odds were obviously not in his favor. His prognosis, in the words of the very first doctor that we saw at Mercy, was "not good".</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">However, at five years the tide changes and the chance of relapse is very small. Very. Small.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">This is a milestone that I didn't even dare to think about. A milestone that was made possible by thousands, upon thousands, of prayers. God has shown himself to me in so many ways during the last six years. The love, care, prayers, and concern displayed by Steven's doctors and nurses, family and friends, and by SO MANY of you on Facebook has been one of the ways He has revealed himself to me. As I said last week, on the anniversary of Steven's diagnosis, YOU. ARE. POWERFUL. </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">When everyone's love and prayers join together, you truly have the power to change the world. </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">And, save a life. </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">I love you all.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">********</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl q66pz984 gpro0wi8 b1v8xokw" href="https://www.facebook.com/garrett.thormodson?__cft__[0]=AZXoejIT9NN6oVRx7iSBh4Tw2QaWiDH-BdjtkoEZUnsxUirDhr7npRV4brqByXr1rAhMo4MRGu4iJVeg3bECqqTsStyMmQtERI9YWhv-gCfoWA_k5QacE8jeyn7gj-QzcXg5e7nrg8eg_U1dcev-EMcg19G7JbOA4172U22eMQ7So-08b7dDSp7w-nGcU6EuKvA&__tn__=-]K-y-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><div class="nc684nl6" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Garrett Thormodson</div></a></span> - If not for you, Steven would have never even had a chance. We will never be able to articulate how much your gift means to our family. You saved "us".</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">(If those of you reading this haven't signed up to be a bone marrow donor, please do!!!)</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl q66pz984 gpro0wi8 b1v8xokw" href="https://www.facebook.com/camille.kochs?__cft__[0]=AZXoejIT9NN6oVRx7iSBh4Tw2QaWiDH-BdjtkoEZUnsxUirDhr7npRV4brqByXr1rAhMo4MRGu4iJVeg3bECqqTsStyMmQtERI9YWhv-gCfoWA_k5QacE8jeyn7gj-QzcXg5e7nrg8eg_U1dcev-EMcg19G7JbOA4172U22eMQ7So-08b7dDSp7w-nGcU6EuKvA&__tn__=-]K-y-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><div class="nc684nl6" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Camille Kochs</div></a></span>, <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl q66pz984 gpro0wi8 b1v8xokw" href="https://www.facebook.com/tami.g.ford?__cft__[0]=AZXoejIT9NN6oVRx7iSBh4Tw2QaWiDH-BdjtkoEZUnsxUirDhr7npRV4brqByXr1rAhMo4MRGu4iJVeg3bECqqTsStyMmQtERI9YWhv-gCfoWA_k5QacE8jeyn7gj-QzcXg5e7nrg8eg_U1dcev-EMcg19G7JbOA4172U22eMQ7So-08b7dDSp7w-nGcU6EuKvA&__tn__=-]K-y-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><div class="nc684nl6" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Tami Gonzalez Ford</div></a></span>, <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl q66pz984 gpro0wi8 b1v8xokw" href="https://www.facebook.com/megan.telfairmiller?__cft__[0]=AZXoejIT9NN6oVRx7iSBh4Tw2QaWiDH-BdjtkoEZUnsxUirDhr7npRV4brqByXr1rAhMo4MRGu4iJVeg3bECqqTsStyMmQtERI9YWhv-gCfoWA_k5QacE8jeyn7gj-QzcXg5e7nrg8eg_U1dcev-EMcg19G7JbOA4172U22eMQ7So-08b7dDSp7w-nGcU6EuKvA&__tn__=-]K-y-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><div class="nc684nl6" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Megan Telfair Miller</div></a></span>, <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl q66pz984 gpro0wi8 b1v8xokw" href="https://www.facebook.com/wendy.goodrichklafehn?__cft__[0]=AZXoejIT9NN6oVRx7iSBh4Tw2QaWiDH-BdjtkoEZUnsxUirDhr7npRV4brqByXr1rAhMo4MRGu4iJVeg3bECqqTsStyMmQtERI9YWhv-gCfoWA_k5QacE8jeyn7gj-QzcXg5e7nrg8eg_U1dcev-EMcg19G7JbOA4172U22eMQ7So-08b7dDSp7w-nGcU6EuKvA&__tn__=-]K-y-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><div class="nc684nl6" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Wendy Klafehn</div></a></span>, <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl q66pz984 gpro0wi8 b1v8xokw" href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=547725670&__cft__[0]=AZXoejIT9NN6oVRx7iSBh4Tw2QaWiDH-BdjtkoEZUnsxUirDhr7npRV4brqByXr1rAhMo4MRGu4iJVeg3bECqqTsStyMmQtERI9YWhv-gCfoWA_k5QacE8jeyn7gj-QzcXg5e7nrg8eg_U1dcev-EMcg19G7JbOA4172U22eMQ7So-08b7dDSp7w-nGcU6EuKvA&__tn__=-]K-y-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><div class="nc684nl6" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Kim Coons</div></a></span>, <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl q66pz984 gpro0wi8 b1v8xokw" href="https://www.facebook.com/Merikate?__cft__[0]=AZXoejIT9NN6oVRx7iSBh4Tw2QaWiDH-BdjtkoEZUnsxUirDhr7npRV4brqByXr1rAhMo4MRGu4iJVeg3bECqqTsStyMmQtERI9YWhv-gCfoWA_k5QacE8jeyn7gj-QzcXg5e7nrg8eg_U1dcev-EMcg19G7JbOA4172U22eMQ7So-08b7dDSp7w-nGcU6EuKvA&__tn__=-]K-y-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><div class="nc684nl6" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Merikate Alexander</div></a></span>, <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl q66pz984 gpro0wi8 b1v8xokw" href="https://www.facebook.com/savannah.cincoski?__cft__[0]=AZXoejIT9NN6oVRx7iSBh4Tw2QaWiDH-BdjtkoEZUnsxUirDhr7npRV4brqByXr1rAhMo4MRGu4iJVeg3bECqqTsStyMmQtERI9YWhv-gCfoWA_k5QacE8jeyn7gj-QzcXg5e7nrg8eg_U1dcev-EMcg19G7JbOA4172U22eMQ7So-08b7dDSp7w-nGcU6EuKvA&__tn__=-]K-y-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><div class="nc684nl6" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Savannah Cincoski</div></a></span>, <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl q66pz984 gpro0wi8 b1v8xokw" href="https://www.facebook.com/emorris14?__cft__[0]=AZXoejIT9NN6oVRx7iSBh4Tw2QaWiDH-BdjtkoEZUnsxUirDhr7npRV4brqByXr1rAhMo4MRGu4iJVeg3bECqqTsStyMmQtERI9YWhv-gCfoWA_k5QacE8jeyn7gj-QzcXg5e7nrg8eg_U1dcev-EMcg19G7JbOA4172U22eMQ7So-08b7dDSp7w-nGcU6EuKvA&__tn__=-]K-y-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><div class="nc684nl6" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Emily Morris Ferguson</div></a></span>, <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl q66pz984 gpro0wi8 b1v8xokw" href="https://www.facebook.com/emilee.wiesehan?__cft__[0]=AZXoejIT9NN6oVRx7iSBh4Tw2QaWiDH-BdjtkoEZUnsxUirDhr7npRV4brqByXr1rAhMo4MRGu4iJVeg3bECqqTsStyMmQtERI9YWhv-gCfoWA_k5QacE8jeyn7gj-QzcXg5e7nrg8eg_U1dcev-EMcg19G7JbOA4172U22eMQ7So-08b7dDSp7w-nGcU6EuKvA&__tn__=-]K-y-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><div class="nc684nl6" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Emilee Crawford Wiesehan</div></a></span>, <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl q66pz984 gpro0wi8 b1v8xokw" href="https://www.facebook.com/corigoeten?__cft__[0]=AZXoejIT9NN6oVRx7iSBh4Tw2QaWiDH-BdjtkoEZUnsxUirDhr7npRV4brqByXr1rAhMo4MRGu4iJVeg3bECqqTsStyMmQtERI9YWhv-gCfoWA_k5QacE8jeyn7gj-QzcXg5e7nrg8eg_U1dcev-EMcg19G7JbOA4172U22eMQ7So-08b7dDSp7w-nGcU6EuKvA&__tn__=-]K-y-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><div class="nc684nl6" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Cori Brown</div></a></span>, <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl q66pz984 gpro0wi8 b1v8xokw" href="https://www.facebook.com/Lasha1878?__cft__[0]=AZXoejIT9NN6oVRx7iSBh4Tw2QaWiDH-BdjtkoEZUnsxUirDhr7npRV4brqByXr1rAhMo4MRGu4iJVeg3bECqqTsStyMmQtERI9YWhv-gCfoWA_k5QacE8jeyn7gj-QzcXg5e7nrg8eg_U1dcev-EMcg19G7JbOA4172U22eMQ7So-08b7dDSp7w-nGcU6EuKvA&__tn__=-]K-y-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><div class="nc684nl6" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Laura Steinmetz</div></a></span>, <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl q66pz984 gpro0wi8 b1v8xokw" href="https://www.facebook.com/sheena.cronbrumfield?__cft__[0]=AZXoejIT9NN6oVRx7iSBh4Tw2QaWiDH-BdjtkoEZUnsxUirDhr7npRV4brqByXr1rAhMo4MRGu4iJVeg3bECqqTsStyMmQtERI9YWhv-gCfoWA_k5QacE8jeyn7gj-QzcXg5e7nrg8eg_U1dcev-EMcg19G7JbOA4172U22eMQ7So-08b7dDSp7w-nGcU6EuKvA&__tn__=-]K-y-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><div class="nc684nl6" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Sheena Cron-Brumfield</div></a></span>, <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl q66pz984 gpro0wi8 b1v8xokw" href="https://www.facebook.com/sammy.wilson.940?__cft__[0]=AZXoejIT9NN6oVRx7iSBh4Tw2QaWiDH-BdjtkoEZUnsxUirDhr7npRV4brqByXr1rAhMo4MRGu4iJVeg3bECqqTsStyMmQtERI9YWhv-gCfoWA_k5QacE8jeyn7gj-QzcXg5e7nrg8eg_U1dcev-EMcg19G7JbOA4172U22eMQ7So-08b7dDSp7w-nGcU6EuKvA&__tn__=-]K-y-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><div class="nc684nl6" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Sammy Conlin</div></a></span>, <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl q66pz984 gpro0wi8 b1v8xokw" href="https://www.facebook.com/kadie.marler?__cft__[0]=AZXoejIT9NN6oVRx7iSBh4Tw2QaWiDH-BdjtkoEZUnsxUirDhr7npRV4brqByXr1rAhMo4MRGu4iJVeg3bECqqTsStyMmQtERI9YWhv-gCfoWA_k5QacE8jeyn7gj-QzcXg5e7nrg8eg_U1dcev-EMcg19G7JbOA4172U22eMQ7So-08b7dDSp7w-nGcU6EuKvA&__tn__=-]K-y-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><div class="nc684nl6" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Kadie Orton</div></a></span>, <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl q66pz984 gpro0wi8 b1v8xokw" href="https://www.facebook.com/lindsey.streeter.3?__cft__[0]=AZXoejIT9NN6oVRx7iSBh4Tw2QaWiDH-BdjtkoEZUnsxUirDhr7npRV4brqByXr1rAhMo4MRGu4iJVeg3bECqqTsStyMmQtERI9YWhv-gCfoWA_k5QacE8jeyn7gj-QzcXg5e7nrg8eg_U1dcev-EMcg19G7JbOA4172U22eMQ7So-08b7dDSp7w-nGcU6EuKvA&__tn__=-]K-y-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><div class="nc684nl6" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Lindsey McIntyre</div></a></span>, <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl q66pz984 gpro0wi8 b1v8xokw" href="https://www.facebook.com/christina.havey?__cft__[0]=AZXoejIT9NN6oVRx7iSBh4Tw2QaWiDH-BdjtkoEZUnsxUirDhr7npRV4brqByXr1rAhMo4MRGu4iJVeg3bECqqTsStyMmQtERI9YWhv-gCfoWA_k5QacE8jeyn7gj-QzcXg5e7nrg8eg_U1dcev-EMcg19G7JbOA4172U22eMQ7So-08b7dDSp7w-nGcU6EuKvA&__tn__=-]K-y-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><div class="nc684nl6" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Christina Mraz</div></a></span>, <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl q66pz984 gpro0wi8 b1v8xokw" href="https://www.facebook.com/jamie.bugg.528?__cft__[0]=AZXoejIT9NN6oVRx7iSBh4Tw2QaWiDH-BdjtkoEZUnsxUirDhr7npRV4brqByXr1rAhMo4MRGu4iJVeg3bECqqTsStyMmQtERI9YWhv-gCfoWA_k5QacE8jeyn7gj-QzcXg5e7nrg8eg_U1dcev-EMcg19G7JbOA4172U22eMQ7So-08b7dDSp7w-nGcU6EuKvA&__tn__=-]K-y-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><div class="nc684nl6" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Jamie Lynn</div></a></span>, <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl q66pz984 gpro0wi8 b1v8xokw" href="https://www.facebook.com/erica.m.garcia03?__cft__[0]=AZXoejIT9NN6oVRx7iSBh4Tw2QaWiDH-BdjtkoEZUnsxUirDhr7npRV4brqByXr1rAhMo4MRGu4iJVeg3bECqqTsStyMmQtERI9YWhv-gCfoWA_k5QacE8jeyn7gj-QzcXg5e7nrg8eg_U1dcev-EMcg19G7JbOA4172U22eMQ7So-08b7dDSp7w-nGcU6EuKvA&__tn__=-]K-y-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><div class="nc684nl6" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Erica Maria</div></a></span>, <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl q66pz984 gpro0wi8 b1v8xokw" href="https://www.facebook.com/jeneca.mathews?__cft__[0]=AZXoejIT9NN6oVRx7iSBh4Tw2QaWiDH-BdjtkoEZUnsxUirDhr7npRV4brqByXr1rAhMo4MRGu4iJVeg3bECqqTsStyMmQtERI9YWhv-gCfoWA_k5QacE8jeyn7gj-QzcXg5e7nrg8eg_U1dcev-EMcg19G7JbOA4172U22eMQ7So-08b7dDSp7w-nGcU6EuKvA&__tn__=-]K-y-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><div class="nc684nl6" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Jeneca Mathews</div></a></span>, <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl q66pz984 gpro0wi8 b1v8xokw" href="https://www.facebook.com/kdienst?__cft__[0]=AZXoejIT9NN6oVRx7iSBh4Tw2QaWiDH-BdjtkoEZUnsxUirDhr7npRV4brqByXr1rAhMo4MRGu4iJVeg3bECqqTsStyMmQtERI9YWhv-gCfoWA_k5QacE8jeyn7gj-QzcXg5e7nrg8eg_U1dcev-EMcg19G7JbOA4172U22eMQ7So-08b7dDSp7w-nGcU6EuKvA&__tn__=-]K-y-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><div class="nc684nl6" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Kate Stockmann</div></a></span>, <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl q66pz984 gpro0wi8 b1v8xokw" href="https://www.facebook.com/mandy.piela?__cft__[0]=AZXoejIT9NN6oVRx7iSBh4Tw2QaWiDH-BdjtkoEZUnsxUirDhr7npRV4brqByXr1rAhMo4MRGu4iJVeg3bECqqTsStyMmQtERI9YWhv-gCfoWA_k5QacE8jeyn7gj-QzcXg5e7nrg8eg_U1dcev-EMcg19G7JbOA4172U22eMQ7So-08b7dDSp7w-nGcU6EuKvA&__tn__=-]K-y-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><div class="nc684nl6" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Mandy Piela</div></a></span>, <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl q66pz984 gpro0wi8 b1v8xokw" href="https://www.facebook.com/kathyjo.beverly?__cft__[0]=AZXoejIT9NN6oVRx7iSBh4Tw2QaWiDH-BdjtkoEZUnsxUirDhr7npRV4brqByXr1rAhMo4MRGu4iJVeg3bECqqTsStyMmQtERI9YWhv-gCfoWA_k5QacE8jeyn7gj-QzcXg5e7nrg8eg_U1dcev-EMcg19G7JbOA4172U22eMQ7So-08b7dDSp7w-nGcU6EuKvA&__tn__=-]K-y-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><div class="nc684nl6" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Kathy Jo Beverly</div></a></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"> - YOU GUYS ARE THE GREATEST! You attended to me, as well as Steven. You pulled us both through. When the kids were there, you took care of them, too . (<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl q66pz984 gpro0wi8 b1v8xokw" href="https://www.facebook.com/kadie.marler?__cft__[0]=AZXoejIT9NN6oVRx7iSBh4Tw2QaWiDH-BdjtkoEZUnsxUirDhr7npRV4brqByXr1rAhMo4MRGu4iJVeg3bECqqTsStyMmQtERI9YWhv-gCfoWA_k5QacE8jeyn7gj-QzcXg5e7nrg8eg_U1dcev-EMcg19G7JbOA4172U22eMQ7So-08b7dDSp7w-nGcU6EuKvA&__tn__=-]K-y-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><div class="nc684nl6" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Kadie Orton</div></a></span>, they still remember the donuts.) If you take anything away from the time we spent together, please know YOU MAKE A DIFFERENCE.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8CVasypXZcyD4apo3WJHei0zbbJNx_N2ABywLR1klHmva7z_XlgQw0IxpEic8dFcraxHK4n0H88VOg4dRbukx787BfbfwxemRp9x7UAeZQeMrPfQv-N6y6x6PhqkDW2C2inE8/s1080/golf+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="851" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8CVasypXZcyD4apo3WJHei0zbbJNx_N2ABywLR1klHmva7z_XlgQw0IxpEic8dFcraxHK4n0H88VOg4dRbukx787BfbfwxemRp9x7UAeZQeMrPfQv-N6y6x6PhqkDW2C2inE8/s320/golf+%25282%2529.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzwuMl2XpH4Uj4HTS8flFHRm4b0zs2iM4nJjneByL_jk3p9ONcY9vTenRwOOyX8mBZN7Gdw19KYmSp2KYONca-Ey2wkHvtjqAa9MplsVS6BncNFo0_XJW4RRwekKMO8uHWhS-T/s2048/IMG_1500_original.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzwuMl2XpH4Uj4HTS8flFHRm4b0zs2iM4nJjneByL_jk3p9ONcY9vTenRwOOyX8mBZN7Gdw19KYmSp2KYONca-Ey2wkHvtjqAa9MplsVS6BncNFo0_XJW4RRwekKMO8uHWhS-T/s320/IMG_1500_original.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></div></div>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10909390837115961404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22101142.post-8117391201145576362019-09-04T19:34:00.005-04:002019-09-04T19:34:55.533-04:001826 days<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">T</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">oday marks five years since we walked into a hospital, unaware that it would be over a month before we would walk out...and, <i>essentially</i>, straight into another one. We spent roughly 190 days in a hospital and 113 days in a duplex near the hospital. Or, roughly, 302 days away from home.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So much has happened in five years. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">****</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Steven has been in remission six days short of four years. (<i><b>FOUR YEARS</b></i>!) This is not something we take for granted. In fact, when I weigh everything against where we have been, it’s easy to say “<i>We are doing good</i>!” or "<i>Steven is doing good!</i>" when asked how we are. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Although there might be a handful of things, at any given time, that we are struggling with due to the leukemia diagnosis five years ago, we both know that life at home, free of cancer, <b>is </b>doing good. When we say we are "<i>doing good</i>", we really DO mean it. We both have been worse, in comparison.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">However, I have recently felt like I have done a disservice to others by omitting some of the struggles that this journey has held. "<i>Doing good</i>" could be misleading to some. I have been told by a few people in the oncology nursing field that they have directed people to, or printed, parts of my blog for other patients going through what we have. The people that have read it or followed us along on our journey might have been left wondering where life has taken us, or believing it held a fairy tale ending. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I have also had several people reach out to me in the years since Steven’s illness. Most were looking for advice, some were looking for understanding, and others were just happy to find someone who had walked a similar path as theirs.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Because of this, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I don't want my lack of updates (on Facebook or this blog), regarding Steven’s health, to lead anyone to assume there is some fairy tale ending. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><i>It is untrue and would be extremely detrimental to believe this.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Let me explain why. When you are in the throes of this disease, or any other struggle life throws at you, you can not help but compare your progress, or lack of it, to others. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">With cancer, everyone I have met on this journey has admitted to measuring themselves against people who have walked the same path. You look for correlations where there might not be any, and signs that you might have a similar, or dissimilar outcome. At a time when your future feels so uncertain, you try and find anything that can help you navigate it. For someone to believe that we just went back to living a "normal" life free of any lingering effects would be wrong, and I wouldn’t want anyone to think that they are alone in their struggle. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><b>They are not. </b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">If we have learned anything over the last five years it is that this disease and the treatment associated with it, <i>PERMANENTLY</i> changes your body and mind. In fact, doctors have told us exactly that. You don't just "get over" cancer. Or two stem cell transplants. The effects of it all stays with you.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">For Steven, it is easy to identify the physical parts of his body that don’t work like before. His hips hurt. His knees hurt. His eyes are dry and inflamed and sometimes his vision is bad. He is weaker and has less stamina. An ingrown toenail is cause for an emergency doctor visit. As is a lingering cold. Physically he is not the person he was before. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The physical changes were/are easy for him to recognize. He can look in the mirror and see the proof. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">The mental changes? That is a story all in itself. <i>The rest of the story, actually. <b> A story for another day.</b></i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">****</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">When I think about where we've been...I also think about what we've came through. I remember the statistic that was given to us by a nurse. We were told early on that the vast majority of couples that had a spouse going through Steven's diagnosis ended up divorced. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I was appalled..<i>.and a little judgmental</i>. Five years has taught me many lessons.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Don't judge what you don't understand. This road is HARD. You change. They change. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Did I mention that it is hard?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">However,<b><i> for me</i></b>, it is worth it. Every morning that I wake up with my husband next to me...it is worth it. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">(Not to mention it is affirmation that I haven't killed him yet.)</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #004000; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: georgia;"><b><i>(Despite</i></b> cancer, some things never change.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">(Just kidding.)</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #004000; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: georgia;"><i>(Kind of.)</i> </span> :)<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">****</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">This road has been a struggle and I have no doubts that we haven’t seen our last. But there is hope. And help. And support. And my prayer is that our story gives others hope.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">If you are traveling down a similar road, don’t give up. Think of all you stand to miss. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">It doesn't have to be a struggle caused by cancer. There are plenty of curve balls that life can throw your way. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I think it is safe to say that most of us, if not all of us, are not the people that we once were. For a variety of reasons. In a variety of ways.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">God has used the struggles of this last five years to build a relationship with me that I didn’t know was possible. He will do the same for you. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">The support that has came from a wide-reaching community is one my mind could not have fathomed five years ago.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I will be the first to admit that I don't have it all figured out and I am as far from perfect as they come. I’ve been known to “cuss a little”, I love Kid Rock, and as mentioned before, at times my patience runs thin. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I am too quick to judge others and myself</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><i><br /></i></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><i>The list goes on and on</i>. <b>Ask anyone</b>. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">However, despite my long list of flaws and inadequacies, I have never seen God as clearly as I have the last five years.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Whether you are a patient, a husband, a wife, a caregiver, a friend, a mother, a father, a son, or a daughter...don’t give up. Don't grow bitter. Don't turn away from those you love, turn towards Him. Each morning God allows you to wake up is yet another day to continue on His work in progress. A day to grow closer to Him and to His will for you.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="background-color: white;">We aren't done until He says we are... And I am so thankful that 1826 days ago He wasn't done.</span></span></span></span><br />
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Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10909390837115961404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22101142.post-82373293228749748142018-09-03T22:19:00.000-04:002018-09-03T23:16:28.766-04:00Faithfully<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small;">T</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small;">omorrow will mark four years since we walked into a hospital, unaware that it would be over a month before we walked out...and then, essentially, straight into another one.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: x-small;">The knowledge of where we’ve been and the struggle associated with getting to where we are now never leaves my mind. It doesn’t leave Steven’s either. No doubt it was this fact that brought on the conversation we shared one night before bed. As we were lying there, silently waiting for sleep, Steven said “I am so thankful that I have gotten to see the things I’ve seen. There was a time I didn’t believe I would be around to see them.” Lakyn’s 8th grade graduation, ballgames, the FFA award ceremony, Blake growing and becoming less of a boy and more of a man were a few of the things listed. And then he paused. Almost as an admission of guilt, Steven said, “There was a time that I felt so bad that I thought that the best thing that could happen would be for me to fall asleep and not wake up. I’m so thankful that I am still here.”</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: x-small;">I physically felt the heaviness of his statement. It was a weight sitting on my chest. I don’t know if the weight was due to the realization of Steven’s struggle during that time, or the remembrance of my own.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: x-small;">I held onto him and said a prayer for the future and what it would hold for all of us, and I thanked God that he has allowed my husband to wake up each morning.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;">*****</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: x-small;">Thank you all for your continued prayers, support and concern for my family. There is rarely a day that goes by that someone doesn't ask how Steven is doing...and, as I stated before, his diagnosis was four years ago. You still care. That fact does not go unnoticed.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This community is good. So very good. And you have all done more for me than you could ever know.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: georgia, times new roman, serif;">I</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> have never heard God's voice so clearly, or felt as close to Him, as I have the last four years. I don't think God moved...or spoke louder. I think I just listened closer and more intently. And you, my friends, made it impossible to not see the hands and feet of Christ at work. You ministered to us. Your actions preached a sermon. Your love healed wounds.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;">I will never forget what we've been through, and honestly, I don't want to. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;">This experience has changed me. It continues to change me.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #222222; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;">And I thank you all for that.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></span>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmVwXKaW-kydHy1251QucKwCzkKJZEtK_y0b5ZCFoUQNZxG6uwm2nOVej0dkAcJMFAxbUekFdSafqskwPKW4HfLBNv19yPavZs7W6kszQlv6B3javGJCSY0S9n6uozzmFrfF6Q/s1600/family0718.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmVwXKaW-kydHy1251QucKwCzkKJZEtK_y0b5ZCFoUQNZxG6uwm2nOVej0dkAcJMFAxbUekFdSafqskwPKW4HfLBNv19yPavZs7W6kszQlv6B3javGJCSY0S9n6uozzmFrfF6Q/s320/family0718.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></span>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10909390837115961404noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22101142.post-18010708585925860132017-04-05T22:55:00.000-04:002017-04-06T20:43:38.013-04:00Change<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Change.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not something that I generally seek out or look for. I am a creature of habit and routine and I
enjoy it. However, a little over two
years ago my life was forced to change.
I wasn’t given a choice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember writing about struggling to sort out God’s voice
and wondering how you would know if and when you heard it. I have not developed an ability since that
time and am still inherently human and inherently flawed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Go figure.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
God’s voice doesn’t boom down from the heavens speaking to
me audibly and loudly, leaving no doubt of His will. I still pray and, at times, even though I
know God hears, I even find myself giving God permission to pass them over for
more important and pressing things.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>As if that is how God works…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But why would God care about the day to day issues of my
life? Ok. Maybe I can sometimes understand why he would
care about Steven and his health and life.
Yes. Those things are far
reaching and affect our children… But the daily details of our living? Does He care to hear about that?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>I believe He does.
More and more. Each and every
day. I believe He does.<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>*******<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have described myself as having “prayer ADHD”. My prayers aren’t exactly formal, and I don’t
always <i>sign on</i>, or <i>sign off</i>.
My prayers tend to be more open ended conversations, generally
one-sided, that happen all throughout the day.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
*If I hear of someone that needs a
prayers, I start mentally speaking to God on their behalf in that moment. It might not be pretty, or fluid, or
even…reverent. It comes off as more of a
plea. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
*If my morning goes smoothly and
things seem to just fall into place, I thank God for over-seeing my struggle
and helping me out<i>. (You know,
sometimes just getting the kids in the car, on time, and to work/school without
someone wanting to cry is a miracle in itself.) </i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
*I talk to Him about relationships
or concerns. I ask Him to shut my mouth
when I need it shut and to open it when it needs to be opened. I ask for him to intercede and help others
when they, too, are struggling.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In short, there is a lot of mental, one sided conversing
that goes on…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I imagine God shakes His head a lot at me.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, maybe due to the “mental noise”
that I have going on in my head, most conversations ARE in fact one sided. However, often times God is still gracious and shows me the answers to my prayers quietly in the coming days. They may be shown to me in the love of those
around me. The answers may be shown to
me by witnessing an example of a behavior (and the often unseen ramifications)
of a behavior that I don’t want to exhibit, but may have found myself tempted
to. And sometimes they are shown to me
by His silence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, the answers usually come, but rarely are they
direct or announced. Most times I have to look for
them…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, when my “one sided thought conversing” is
interjected with an extremely foreign thought, I take note. And I wonder…was that God? Is he telling me what to do?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There have seldom been times that the thoughts were SO
foreign that they literally stopped me in my tracks, but it has happened. These moments stick with me and, well, <i>me
being me</i>, I have to think about them.
Sometimes I really don’t want to.
Sometimes what I feel that I am being asked to do isn’t
comfortable. Sometimes the thought
placed on my conscience is sobering. And
sometimes what I am asked to do requires a huge leap of faith.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I have to ask myself…do I <b><i>have</i></b> faith?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The answer isn’t as simple as I would hope for it to be. Faith is something that is easy to cling to
if it requires nothing of us. However, any
time there is a challenge, or something that is uncomfortable, I believe it is
in our nature to look for a loophole.
When it comes to knowing with certainty that you have heard God’s will, <i>for
me</i>, I have found there is no way to know without a doubt. This alone leaves a little wiggle room for
you to give yourself permission to take a pass on acting on something you
believe you are called to do. You can
actually <b><i>justify</i></b> your actions regardless of what action you decide to take.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Faith also means that IF you do act, you can’t bail out when
the going gets tough. God never promised
us that the path He called us to walk would be easy…just that it would be worth
it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Believing that is <b>faith.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
******</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>“If today you hear His voice, harden not your heart.”<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While at church a few weeks ago we
had the previous verse as our Responsorial Psalm. For years I had heard it and not thought much
about it. I think at first glance you
would think, “<i>Why would my heart ever harden if I was to hear God’s
voice? I <b>love</b> Him</i>.” But I began to think of it differently. I think the earlier justification that I
wrote of could potentially be a hardening of our heart. Only we know our true
motives…and those motives don’t have to be <i>evil</i> to be against what God
is telling us to do. Just different.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The twinge we feel when we see a
homeless person…but then we tell ourselves “<i>well, they are probably making more money
than I am just by standing here begging on this corner</i>”. Is this a hardening of our heart? Or are we just being realistic?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll be the first to say I don’t
know.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That is an example that we may not
come into contact with very often in our small rural town…but we all have
examples that are personal to us. You
probably have scenarios that apply to you and your life and justifications that
you have made. <i> Or maybe it’s just me.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I will say that with many things,
upon examining my own conscience, my own behavior, and my own environment, I
have found that change has been necessary, and in most instances what was best
for me, my family, and my relationship with God.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*******</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Recently, I have found myself making voluntary changes in my
life and I am trying to wrap my head around this. I am unsure if all of life’s shakeups caused
by Steven’s illness has made me much more brave, or if maybe I am just <b><i>hearing
more clearly</i></b>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Either way, things are definitely changing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The last two days I have been out of town training for my
new job and learning a wealth of information about the systems in which I will
work with. I am currently sitting on a
bed in a hotel room typing on a computer. (<i>A hotel, not a hospital!</i>) I have gotten to know several other
women from other school districts and I may have been the dork that called home
to Lakyn and said (much like a five year old) “<i>your mama made some new friends today</i>!!!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p>Yeah, God isn’t the only one shaking His head at me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But that is ok…because I am convinced he also smiles at me
sometimes too. Why else would the timing
of this trip…which has been scheduled since my first week in January, coincide
with the first week of Steven being off of steroids-again? <i>Steroids that he was NOT on in January</i>? (Oh how I love/hate that drug!)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<br>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hear that absence makes the heart grow fonder…and mine was
<b>already</b> pretty fond of him! Good
thing I will be home tomorrow night!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
******************************************************************************</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Please keep praying for Steven and for continued improvements with his health and mobility. You have all been instrumental in us surviving all the changes we have endured the last two and a half years and have, whether you know it or not, encouraged us to be better and do better. You have all been amazing and supportive, and we wouldn't have made it this far without you.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br></div><div class="MsoNormal">Your prayers have caused...<b><i>CHANGE</i></b>. Change in both Steven's health and in us as people. And, yes, God only knows there are still things that this girl needs to work on. Many things, in fact.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br></div><div class="MsoNormal">Change.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br></div><div class="MsoNormal">Never forget how powerful your prayers are.</div>
Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10909390837115961404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22101142.post-7778223268544454872016-10-12T15:18:00.004-04:002016-10-12T15:18:55.012-04:00The ViewAs I laid there in bed, it felt as if his arm was burning into my skin. He felt so hot.<br />
<br />
My heart started racing and I recalled the last time when Steven's skin burned mine while lying in bed. <em><strong>May 2015</strong></em>. A trip to the emergency room and some blood work later and we learned he had relapsed. As I felt my stomach start to turn, I was reminded that Steven had told me that he had gotten physically ill twice this week, and he had blamed it on the pain meds. In May 2015, Steven had been vomiting intermittently leading up to his relapse...and the doctor later blamed recurring disease.<br />
<br />
<strong>Recurring disease. </strong><em>Disease that had showed up only 8 weeks after a clean bone marrow biopsy</em><strong>.</strong><br />
<br />
In a time when my mind had started focusing on the battle in front of us-hip replacements, I think I had grown too battle worn to focus on the reason for this war. My heart rate kept increasing and I thought I would be ill as I felt the last two years play through my mind like a movie reel. I counted back the weeks since Steven's biopsy and knew we were right at the six week mark. <em>Six weeks...more than enough time for things to change. </em><br />Unable to stand the anxiety anymore, I sat up in bed and turned towards the sleeping Steven. I put my hand on his forehead, and then his cheeks, searching for a confirmation of the fever I feared was there. He stirred and turned away, in an unconscious effort to remove my hand from his face.<br />
<br />
<em>His face felt cool.</em><br />
<br />
Steven continued sleeping and I knew I couldn't. Lying there in bed my mind would not be silenced. I went into the living room and sat in the recliner, in the stillness, and took in my surroundings: <em>my home.</em> <br />
<br />
My prayers for Steven's continued health turned into prayers of thankfulness that I was sitting in <em>my</em> home, with my children in their rooms, sleeping soundly. I also prayed, <em>with fear clenching my heart in a way that I hadn't felt in a while</em>, that God would spare us all from revisiting the hell that we had been through two times before.<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
I am unsure as to why I have experienced a resurgence of the anxiety, fear and depression lately, but I am sure some of it is self induced. As I wrote before, sometimes our minds are our own worst enemy. Expectations should never be made because they only set you up for failure, and yet time and time again, we have them. Expecting life (<em>and Steven and I</em>) to get back to normal is probably the biggest culprit.<br />
<br />
Steven's personality is altered by the withdrawal of prednisone. (<em>One more week and he will be completely off of it.</em>) I think this is a fairly common occurrence, and he is not alone in this phenomenon. However, surprisingly, he is unaware of the change and says he doesn't notice the increased agitation. He knows it's happening because those of us that live with him have told him...and we (<em>halfway</em>) joke about keeping our distance. Sometimes this exacerbates the problem, but it is a lose/lose situation either way.<br />
<br />
Positivity that once was Steven's trademark has been traded in for negativity. His normal laughing demeanor and mischievous eyes, turn harsh and cool. No conversation goes without him putting this new stamp on it, which, at times, leaves me avoiding conversation entirely.<br />
<br />
I know that this will pass, and that the pain he is experiencing magnifies it all. If <strong><em>I</em></strong> had severe pain that prevented me from being who I have always been, I would not be the most uplifting person to be around either. <br />
<br />
<em>I do not fault him for any of this.</em><br />
<br />
<strong><em>But I do feel it.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
And I miss my husband...even when he is lying next to me in bed. <br />
<br />
I <strong>do</strong> get to see the "old Steven" when he is visiting with friends, mainly because I think it's easier for us to slip into a different persona when dealing with those that aren't privy to the ins and outs of our day to day occurrences. I believe this is normal and, honestly, I am glad that it is. Not only does it allow me glimpses of Steven's humor and charm, it reassures me that he is <em><strong>still</strong></em> Steven.<br />
<br />
And I <strong>so</strong> love Steven. I do.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>In sickness and in health.</em></strong><br />
<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
Please know that this is, in no way, an attempt at gaining sympathy, or painting a picture of "poor, poor pitiful me." (<em>Anyone who sees me and all my excitement at the kids ballgames can attest to the fact that I am not a fading flower.</em>) In fact, I don't really know why I needed to even put this in words other than it being my mind's way of sorting out all the clutter that is inside it. I had a nurse in St. Louis once stop me and explain that she had found my blog and she asked if she could print off certain posts for family members of her patients. She explained that she believed it would be beneficial to them to see someone that is on the same path, and to gain comfort in knowing they weren't alone. <br />
<br />
I don't necessarily believe that this post is one of those posts, but who knows? It might be. If I only shared the upside to the transplant/recovery process, it would be a disservice to anyone who might have walked a similar path. There <strong>are</strong> downsides, albeit in contrast to leukemia, they don't hold much weight. <br />
<br />
This process isn't one that is over once you hear the word "<em>remission</em>", although how amazing would it be if it were? This is a new life for us. A "<em>new normal</em>" to quote an overused term. Medications, doctor's appointments, restrictions, etc. is part of our day to day life, and we are barely 40. Although necessary, there is nothing normal about this process... The transplant, the chemo, the medications, the effects? None of it normal.<br />
<br />
But we are here. And we are still moving forward.<br />
<br />
<em><strong>One thing is certain: the view up ahead looks a lot more promising than the view looking back.</strong></em><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10909390837115961404noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22101142.post-75172345358562988932016-09-30T16:18:00.000-04:002016-09-30T16:35:20.945-04:00Blinded by the Light<div data-contents="true">
<div data-block="true" data-editor="909o" data-offset-key="ff1va-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="ff1va-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="ff1va-0-0"><span data-text="true">Yesterday, after being kind of down all week, I had a couple of hours alone. </span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="ff1va-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="ff1va-0-0"><span data-text="true"></span></span> </div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="ff1va-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="ff1va-0-0"><span data-text="true"><em>This NEVER happens</em>.</span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="ff1va-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="ff1va-0-0"><span data-text="true"></span></span> </div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="ff1va-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="ff1va-0-0"><span data-text="true">I found myself actually returning to bed, burying my head in the covers and forming my own little pity party. As I laid there, I started thinking about all the ways that my life is...<em>well</em>...<strong>less than fun</strong>, right now. However, I noticed that each time I wanted to wallow and dwell on all the "bad" circumstances, and the separation I feel from everyone else, I kept finding my thoughts turned to all the many ways my family has been blessed, and all the people that had blessed us.</span></span><br />
</div>
</div>
<div data-block="true" data-editor="909o" data-offset-key="95nnc-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="95nnc-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="95nnc-0-0"><span data-text="true">
</span></span></div>
</div>
<div data-block="true" data-editor="909o" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true">Try as I might, although I still felt down, I <em>knew</em> that I had <strong>no</strong> reason to feel this way and that I had fallen into a trap of feeling sorry for myself. It's so easy to do.</span></span><br />
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /><br />Each of us have things in our life that we feel alone in. I am sure of it. Whether it is health, finances, jobs, relationships, children...we all have things that we wish were better. It is easy to stew about those things which causes our mindset to change. Once you start finding fault, or falling victim, (whatever the case may be), it is easy to start adding to the pile. <em>Or at least it is for me</em>.</span></span><br />
</div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true"></span></span> </div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true">Yesterday I emailed Steven's nurse and updated her on the condition of his hips. The appointment for his orthopedic doctor is on Tuesday, and we both know that surgery is inevitable. I shared with the nurse that Steven's pain level has increased dramatically, probably in part to the tapering of the steroids (which probably helped to mask the inflammation.) He is now taking pain pills to take the edge off and is using crutches inside the house. Of course, in public, he will not use anything to assist him walking, therefore we are limited in what we do, or where we go. Thankfully, because he knows how much he missed with the kids when we were in St. Louis, it is still a priority to go to all their ballgames, and he still hasn't missed one. This is so important to the kids, <em>and me</em>.<br /><br />I also shared that Steven's knees and shoulders had started to ache as well, and questioned if this could also be due to bone damage, all the while dreading her answer. And...well, while we were on the subject, there was this issue of a sore throat that he had been having...</span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true"></span></span> </div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true"><strong><em>Head, shoulders, knees and hips...knees and hips. </em></strong>(Sing with me now.)</span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true"></span></span> </div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true">Suddenly, <em>because of my own doing</em>, I couldn't see the light at the end of the tunnel, despite the fact that I was basking in it.</span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true"></span></span> </div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true">*****</span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true"></span></span> </div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true">I spent the time in St. Louis praying for the day when my husband was cancer free. It is all I longed for, and what I prayed for. </span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true"></span></span> </div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true"><strong><em>He is currently cancer free.</em></strong></span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true"><strong><em></em></strong></span></span> </div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true">This past week I started losing sight of how far we had came and started only looking at how far we have yet to go. I would like to say that my feelings were prompted by such heartbreak over Steven's pain...but that wouldn't be entirely true. Although I <strong><em>hate </em></strong>seeing him hurt, it would be much more honest of me to admit that the theme at my pity party was probably celebrating poor, pitiful me. <em>Poor Kim, she has to do this. Poor Kim, she has to do that. Poor Kim, she wants to be able to do these things with her husband. </em> </span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true"></span></span> </div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true"><em><strong>Poor Kim...when will anyone ever take care of her?</strong></em> </span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true"></span></span> </div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true">Oh yes. It was a great party. Aren't you sorry you weren't there?<br /><br />Thankfully, as I stated, the party was crashed with reminders of blessings that have rained down like confetti, making this journey all the more bearable and colorful. I knew that my mindset had to change. It isn't "<em>poor Kim</em>" at all... No, in fact, Kim is so very fortunate and she needed to realize it. </span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true"></span></span> </div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true">And so, <em>although not easily</em>, I. Realized. It. I got up, got moving, said a prayer of thankfulness, and carried on.</span></span></div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true"></span></span> </div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true">I decided to purposefully look upon all the good things in our lives. How could I, of all people, fail to see how lucky Steven and I are? If nothing else...<em><strong>we are home</strong></em>. It is far too easy to look out into this world and find those who are struggling much more than I am. Than Steven is.</span></span></div>
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true"></span></span><br /></div>
<div data-block="true" data-editor="909o" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true"></span></span><br />
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true">
</span></span><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true">Sadly, we are far from being the only people with trials. In fact, it would be much harder to look out into the world and find someone without them. Impossible, actually. There is more than enough suffering to go around... I hope to maintain this clarity, and I will strive to help carry someone else's burden or lighten someone else's load. It is, in all actuality, the best way to make you put down your own.</span></span></div>
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
</div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
<em>Who knows, maybe I will even forget where I placed it.</em></div>
</span></span><br />
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
<span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true"></span></span><span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true"></span></span><span data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0"><span data-text="true"></span></span> </div>
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f4gfp-0-0">
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Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10909390837115961404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22101142.post-65231022837267121272016-09-20T12:19:00.000-04:002016-09-20T12:19:03.548-04:00Dear Donor
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dear Donor,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have tried to mentally compose what I would say to you if
this day ever came.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, once, only
a few weeks ago, I sat down at the computer to start putting those thoughts
into words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then I stopped myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although my husband was doing well, it felt
as if writing a letter that can only be sent after someone reaches the one year
milestone, might be tempting fate.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Although, honestly, I don’t know that I believe in
fate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What I do believe in?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Prayers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mercy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Miracles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the unbelievable
selflessness that was shown to us by a stranger- you.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Two years ago, my husband started feeling more tired than
usual and blamed it on a cold that he couldn’t get rid of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was a self-employed fence builder and
worked as a contract laborer building pipe fence around power substations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was hot outside and he was welding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We blamed his fatigue on that, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">but this was my husband, and we should have
known better.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">*****</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You see, my husband has always been a bit super human and
had survived both a bull-riding accident that severed his liver, as well as a
tractor flipping over on top of him, breaking his leg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was the hardest worker I had ever known
and solid muscle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He rose before <st1:time hour="5" minute="0">5 a.m.</st1:time> to leave for work and many nights, didn’t
come home from work until after 8.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Dedication to his family was a priority, as was providing for them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In fact, this is what he was known for, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">aside from his handlebar mustache</i> - being a hard worker <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i></b>
being an AMAZING father.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">*****</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On <st1:date day="5" month="9" year="2014">September 5, 2014</st1:date>
we found out that it wasn’t a cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or
his heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or mono.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, my husband, the definition of health, was
diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukemia-AML.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In one moment, our world crashed down around us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember telling the kids that their daddy
had leukemia and our son, 9 years old at the time, said “That’s CANCER!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fear in his voice only mirrored the fear
in our hearts.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Shortly after his diagnosis it became obvious that he would
need a stem cell transplant to have any chance at survival.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My husband and I traveled three hours from
home and stayed there for four months, separated from our children, while he
received treatment and his first transplant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The first transplant was a blessing in more ways than one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The stem cells were from his brother, from which
he had been estranged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The two siblings
were brought back together.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Yet, despite the
blessings, five months later my husband relapsed.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In an effort to get him back into remission he underwent
intensive chemo once again, and this time you could see the devastation his
body was enduring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Throughout his prior
hospitalizations and transplants, he would get up every day, put his clothes on
and treat it as any other day…determined that it would be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, after his relapse, his body just
wasn’t able to do that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My husband,
previously 165 lbs., weighed in at 113 lbs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The super human before me looked like anything but.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, for the first time, even he doubted that
he could make it through this horrible disease.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Although we were never without hope, I would be lying if I didn’t admit
that hope <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">had</b> started to fade
somewhat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When the doctors started looking for another donor in May
2015, after his relapse, we found that the only 10/10 match could not be
located.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They started looking at the
possibility of having to go with donor that wasn’t a perfect match, but were
hesitant to do so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the meantime, my
husband underwent more chemo, closer to home, in an effort to prevent the
leukemia from getting worse.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">About the same time that we found out that the chemo had
been successful in almost completely eliminating any trace of the mutated gene
that caused his cancer, which was unexpected, we also were told that a 10/10
match was located.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">YOU</b>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">*****</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Last year, when everyone else was thinking about celebrating
Labor Day, you were getting ready to be a miracle worker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A potential life saver.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As we prepared to travel the three hours back to the
hospital to begin treatment to prepare my husband’s body for transplant, our
hometown, who had rose up in support of our family, was reminded to pray for
you, the donor, during this process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I hope you felt those prayers that day, and every day since.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You have changed my life and I didn’t have cancer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both of my children are changed forever, and
they didn’t have cancer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, it goes
without saying, my husband was changed physically, and emotionally, because of
you and he <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DID</b> have cancer.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">But he doesn’t today</b>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thanks to you.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You have allowed my family 365+ more days as a family of
four that we wouldn’t have had without you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You have caused our eyes and heart to be opened to the selflessness of
strangers around us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You have made this
big world, smaller, and reminded our family how we are ALL deeply connected.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This year, the year that my husband wouldn’t have had
without your gift, we have gone on a family vacation to <st1:place><st1:placetype>Gulf</st1:placetype>
<st1:placetype>Shores</st1:placetype></st1:place>. He was able to spend summer
break with his children. Because of you, we have had more time to laugh
together, play together and love together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My husband has been able to go and watch our kid’s baseball, volleyball
and basketball games.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has been able
to enjoy the farm and family he had worked his whole life for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My children and I have been able to see his
physical body recover, and because of your gift, I hope that their mind can
erase the image of their daddy when he was so ill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You have allowed us a year to fully
appreciate the outpouring of love, support and kindness that has been shown to
us, and you have given us hope that one day, we will be able to repay it
all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You have allowed others, through our experience, to better
appreciate the gift of life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You have
given us hope that this story we have shared might have a happy ending.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You have given others hope, through my
husband.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You have motivated others to
register to become donors because you so selflessly were.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In short, YOU have changed the world.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It might sound too grandiose to be believed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will be the first to admit that we live in
a small town that most have never heard of, and in comparison to others, our
“world” is pretty small.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That being
said, the world is changed one person at a time and YOU have changed many, many
people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, the actions of a person
that we have never met have altered multiple lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Family, friends, neighbors, acquaintances and
people that have joined us on this journey have ALL been changed by YOU, through
your gift to my husband.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My heart is full and I know I am failing at adequately
conveying what my family wishes to say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Thank you” is not sufficient.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
fact, I don’t know any word in the English language that is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whatever your life holds, know that you have
already made an impact that many will never have the chance to make.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are, in every sense of the word, a
hero.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My children’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, of course, my husband’s.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">*****</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There are so many times that our family has mentioned you in
conversation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whether it was because my
husband, after 42 years, suddenly developed a liking to Chinese food, or
because of some new interest he picked up… you, the donor, are brought up,
wondering if we can in fact, attribute these new qualities to you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We wonder if there are physical or
characteristic similarities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
contemplate whether or not you share his amazing (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yet sometimes maddening</i>) sense of humor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We think about the circumstances that
prompted you to register as a donor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
the kids and I wonder if you know what an amazing man you saved and what an
amazing man you are.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I hope you do.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I pray you do.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There just aren’t words enough to express it…so I will just
end it with:</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With humbling and inexpressible gratitude, </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Your recipient’s wife<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10909390837115961404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22101142.post-36753128823821547992016-09-15T16:17:00.002-04:002016-09-15T16:17:29.030-04:00Imprinted On My HeartSaturday, September 10, 2016, Steven celebrated his first re-birthday. It was a day that the kids and I, <em>and I am certain Steven as well</em>, had hoped and dreamed about. Making it a year seemed a milestone that, this winter, seemed almost unreachable.<br />
<br />
Weeks, marked off by trips to St. Louis, passed and gave way to months...and now we have found ourselves at the year mark. And it seems surreal. <br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
A few months after Steven's <strong>first</strong> transplant, I naively thought about all the ways we would celebrate him making it to a year... I wanted to include everyone that had supported us and helped us and cheered us on along the way. I wanted each and every person to be able to be thanked, <em>appropriately</em>, by us. I wanted us to celebrate the amazing care, concern and generosity shown to us by others, AND celebrate Steven's good health.<br />
<br />
However, as we now know, that milestone wasn't to be reached, and a lesson was learned. <br />
<br />
Even after seeing first hand the fragileness of life, I had, only months removed from a hospital, began planning the future as if it were guaranteed. Of all people, I should have known better. <strong><em>So much better.</em></strong><br />
<br />
However, I think that this is a flaw that most of us have. We are surrounded with news stories depicting tragedies everyday. We all know someone whose life was altered suddenly, without warning. And yet, we get up each day and<em><strong> expect</strong></em> to do the same tomorrow.<br />
<br />
I am trying to be more aware and appreciative of each moment, regardless of how <em><strong>ordinary</strong></em> it is. Months went by that I longed for ordinary, and now, I am choosing to<strong><em> embrace</em></strong> it.<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
As Saturday approached, no parties were planned. The year mark was ushered in quietly, but with incredible thankfulness. As I woke up next to my husband, I turned to him and wished him a "Happy Re-Birthday" and thought of how different the view was, one year later. <br />
<br />
<em>Steven got up and started getting ready for the day ahead.</em> <br />
<br />
You see, it is appropriate that on "<em>Steven's day</em>", the kids were the center of our attention and efforts as Steven wouldn't want it any other way. Our kids have always ranked Community Days just under "Christmas and birthdays" when it came to excitement and fun and incidentally, Conway was celebrating Community Days this past weekend, at the same time we, as a family, were celebrating Steven reaching his first big milestone. <br />
<br />
We hadn't been able to go with the kids to Community Days for the previous two years, as Steven was in the hospital both times. This year was special as we were able to, once again, share this beloved tradition with our kids.<br />
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Lakyn and I sat with family and watched the parade, waiting for Steven and Blake to make their appearance.</div>
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Blake had recently purchased his own tractor with money that he had made selling his calves and was extremely excited to show it off at the parade. Steven rode beside Blake on an axel, allowing Blake to sit tall (<em>and independently</em>) in the driver's seat. As he drove past, enthusiastically waving at everyone, you would almost think that he was running for office, and I couldn't contain my smile... I joked with Blake about wearing out his arm waving, and he said he couldn't help it..."<em>everyone is just SO nice</em>!!"<br />
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And he is right. <strong><em>They are</em></strong>. If we have learned anything these past two years it is that, <em>most people</em>, are SO nice.<br />
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Of course, it wouldn't be Community Days without a turtle race and Steven had collected turtles for a week. In fact, Friday morning he retrieved one and it "bailed" off the back of his truck as he was bringing it home. Luckily we found it, in the driveway, and it's escape attempts were unsuccessful.</div>
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Lakyn was unsure whether or not she would be considered "too old" to participate, but picked a turtle <em>just in case. </em>Luckily there were no age restrictions, and Lakyn wasn't too old, therefore we figured that Grady wasn't too young. This worked out nicely for Grady, since his turtle won it's "heat". At six months old, he made a smooth $6 in the turtle race, which wasn't too shabby. <br />
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Blake's turtle also won it's race, which increased his spending cash by $6 as well. However, that didn't last long since there is always something to spend your money (<em>and your parent's money</em>) on at Community Days.<br />
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As the boys loaded up to head home and rest a bit before coming back that evening, Lakyn and I bought a funnel cake and decided that it would be our "<em>re</em>-<em>birthday cake</em>". We ate it on the way home, following the boys, and our friends, Jerry and Sharon, the whole way home. The sight was something I enjoyed, and appreciated. </div>
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Lakyn even climbed out the sun roof to capture the moment.</div>
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And, of course, returning home never gets old.<br />
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Later in the afternoon, when we returned, Lakyn, who had been working at a booth raising money for her class trip to DC, continued to make sales.</div>
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Then, while taking a break, she walked over to me, in front of her friends, and gave me a hug - <em>a good, long hug</em>. Being in no hurry to break apart, she held me, or I held her (<em>I am not sure which</em>), for quite some time. It didn't escape my notice that my girl...<em>my baby girl</em>, was as tall as I was. <br />
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In that moment I wanted to cry at the realization of the all the things she had been through and the woman she was turning into, and I wanted to curse my inability to make time stand still</div>
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Later that evening Blake asked me if I would ride the carousel with him, and I agreed. My heart warmed as he grabbed my hand and I couldn't help but realize that I am already on borrowed time. The fact that he hasn't already became "too cool" or "too big" for this is surprising, and I mentally vowed to imprint the feeling of his hand into my mind. And heart.<br />
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We waited in line and discussed which animal we wanted to get, and I decided that I wanted to ride the chicken. Although he was previously wanting the lion, he told me he wanted me to get to ride on the one I wanted.... <em>As if it mattered</em>. It was as though my sweet boy didn't realize that I didn't care about the carousel ride at all...I just wanted to be with him. <em> Especially because he <strong>wanted</strong> to be with me</em>.</div>
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As the carousel took off I was surrounded by music from my high school days. Being physically unable to refrain from singing along with a song I know (<em>it <strong>has</strong> to be an actual medical condition</em>), I belted out the song while riding the carousel and found Blake just looking at me as then leaned over and rubbed my back. I smiled at him and asked if I was embarrassing him.</div>
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<em>He claimed I wasn't, although I think he might have been trying to spare my feelings.</em><br />
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As he continued to rub my back and shoulders and look at me, I asked him why he was staring. He told me, in complete earnest, that he wasn't quite sure <em><strong>what</strong></em> he should be doing at this time... He didn't know if he should just watch me, or attempt to sing with me - even though he didn't know the song, and had decided that instead, he would just rub my back as I sang.<br />
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<em>And so he did.</em></div>
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As the ride came to an end, he leaned over and said, "<em>I love you, momma</em>", and gave me a kiss right there on the carousel. My heart exploded into a million pieces. I wondered, <em>had I not missed this tradition with my kids - two years in a row</em>, if I would have taken the time to go stand in line and ride this child's ride with my son. Would I have stepped back and taken note of the importance of his invitation?<br />
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Honestly, I don't know. In fact, I don't know if Blake would have asked me to ride with him had our last two years been anything other than what they were. I don't know if Lakyn would hug me and hold on, despite being surrounded by friends. Maybe they would have already outgrown this need of me. Maybe they wouldn't understand and appreciate the presence of their parents. </div>
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I will never know what my children would have been like had our lives not been altered the way they have. Has it changed them for the better? The worse? I am not sure. <br />
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I do know, however, that they have a daddy that will never take for granted his time with them and a mommy who is trying her very best to slow down enough to let them love her... I can not imagine having missed this weekend with my kids, and neither can Steven.<br />
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This time together was the very best "re-birthday" present ever and I hope this tradition never ends.<br />
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<em>Community Days -2007</em></div>
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<em>Community Days - 2009</em></div>
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<em>Community Days - 2009</em><br />
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<i> Community Days - 2010</i></div>
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<i>Community Days - 2010</i></div>
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<em>Community Days - 2012</em></div>
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<em>Community Days - 2013</em></div>
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<br />Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10909390837115961404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22101142.post-85018794165410780842016-08-22T15:16:00.000-04:002016-08-22T17:07:41.200-04:00Living ColorToday we are officially two weeks away from the two year anniversary of Steven's diagnosis.<br>
<br>
<em>Two years.</em><br>
<br>
It is hard to wrap my head around that, <em>seemingly</em>, large passage of time, because for us, time stood still... We missed events, people, anniversaries, birthdays and the day to day occurrences that most people take for granted. Our world was, and our days were, dictated by disease. <br>
<br>
All I need to do is look at my children to see what I missed and what I lost. In the midst of treatments and remission, relapse and results my children kept growing and kept doing. For much of this, I was absent.<br>
<br>
However, all I need to do is look at myself, my husband, my children, and the world around me, to see what I have gained. <br>
<br>
*****<br>
<br>
I have always tried to be a good person - a good <em><strong>human</strong></em>. Some days I did a better job than others. Every day I fell short. However, after Steven's diagnosis, I realized just how short I had fallen.<br>
<br>
There is something about cancer, and it's diagnosis, that magnifies every emotion a person can experience. It is almost as if our senses are heightened to every stimulation. Maybe it isn't cancer, per say, but death. <br>
<br>
It makes sense, after all. <br>
<br>
My senses were heightened after <em>giving birth</em>, and my heart thought it would explode with the new discovery of love. Why wouldn't those same senses be heightened when "<em>living"</em> death? <br>
<br>
When you stand to lose the only life you've ever known, every sense you have is raw and exposed. However, during this period of exposure, every stimulation took on new life. A kind word could shape an entire day. The offering of hope could redirect thoughts. An unexpected act of generosity could reform every preconceived notion that had been held about this world we live in.<br>
<br>
<em>And this heightened awareness started to reform me.</em><br>
<em></em><br>
The more I was "given", the more I wanted to give. It was the only way to balance out the emotions that assaulted me. Thankfully, and sadly, you don't have to look hard outside of yourself to find people who are in greater need than you. The world is full of those who are in need of love, money, friends, hope, understanding or <em>perspective</em>. Granted, some of those things are easier to give than others, but all are in desperate need.<br>
<br>
In fact, I believe that <em><strong>world reformation</strong></em> starts when we look first at the needs of others.<br>
<br>
*****<br>
<br>
I can say that my perspective has completely changed and this change has tilted my world on it's axis. The things I once believed were important continue to fade day by day, the people I once held the closest I have relinquished back unto themselves and the time that I once prayed to stand still now moves forward and I am thankful to have made it, successfully, through one more day.<br>
<br>
Each day I continue to grow. And some days, I take a giant step backward. However, even on those days, I can't unlearn the things I have learned, and that alone holds me accountable.<br>
<br>
While we are all free to give love, money, friendship, hope and understanding to those around us, we can't give someone perspective. But life can, <em>and does</em>, give us that.<br>
<br>
People will, by nature, only see what they want to see until they are forced to do otherwise. Some people live their entire lives and never are.<br>
<br>
I used to be consumed with frustration by people like this - those who failed to see the results of their self centeredness on the world around them. Now I know that God will open their eyes in His time as He continually opens mine.<br>
<br>
I used to want to plan, and formulate, and manage every aspect of my life so that it would go smoothly, without incident. Life forced me to see that only God plans lives and lives without incident aren't really lived. <br>
<br>
I used to be very unforgiving of myself, and sometimes others, when my high standards weren't met. Life has shown me the only standards that matter are God's. I have to remind myself of this constantly, but my heart is more open to accept it now.<br>
<br>
*****<br>
<br>
I have so much work to do on myself as a person, but the last two years have been a crash course that I needed. A boot camp of sorts. I wish I could have learned what I have learned without the pain, suffering and anxiety that it caused me, Steven, our children, and others, but I am forever grateful I learned it.<br>
<br>
<em>Some never do.</em><br>
<br>
Almost two years later and I am not sure the old Kim would recognize herself. <em>(And I am not just talking about the weight I put on eating my feelings and sitting around a hospital...)</em> Although it didn't come without a price, I don't want to go back to my old mindset.<br>
<br>
And, honestly, I feel sorry for those who continue to live in their own, small, black and white world, where the biggest concern is theirs... How sad.<br>
Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10909390837115961404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22101142.post-11192675762451114572016-08-15T15:34:00.004-04:002016-08-15T21:39:37.329-04:00Hardbound MemoriesBack in the olden days, long before "the l word" entered our life, I used this blog as a way to record random bits and pieces of our family's life, and record my thoughts. (I can't blame my family for those.) I was initially coerced into starting one, and those who strong armed me wrote too. Then they stopped and I continued. Of course, only a handful of people ever read what I wrote, (<em>and even that is probably being generous</em>) and honestly, no one cared.<br>
<br>
<em>And that was ok. </em>That wasn't why I wrote.<br>
<br>
My blog wasn't something I promoted or even really told people about. Only those who shared an interest in blogging generally stopped by, or a friend or two that kept caught up on the freak show that was sometimes my life.<br>
<br>
After a few years went by, my mom discovered I wrote (<em>long story</em>) and inadvertently shared my blog with most of her email contacts. <br>
<br>
<strong><em>Yeah.</em></strong><br>
<br>
So, in return, I did some quick house cleaning to make sure that I hadn't wrote something that would embarrass someone...and called it good. I was ok with embarrassing myself, just not embarrassing others. My mom also started printing out books of each year's blog posts and putting them into hardbound books and giving them to me to keep.<br>
<br>
What began as a thoughtless, mindless avenue to vent, brag, relive and review became a tangible item to scrutinize and dissect. Coincidentally (<em>or not...</em>), I also stopped writing as much. <br>
<br>
Then, Sept. 2014, my husband was diagnosed with leukemia. I couldn't process it all. My life turned into one that I didn't want to live and yet, there I was. And there he was. And our kids? Well, there they were too, being shuffled between home and hospital and living with their aunt and uncle. I started to write again in an effort to keep everyone "in the loop" but it transformed into a place where I would try and process the current situation, and many times I felt as if someone else had done the writing. I would re-read what was written and try to take my own advice. <br><br>Many times the advice that I "gave" myself included encouragement to get back out into life and live. Slowly, little by little, that has been just what I have been doing. And it feels good.<br><br>I don't want my kids to look back through these hard bound books that contain snapshots of our lives and someday believe that our days were devoid of any normalcy and happiness from September 2014 on.<br>
<br>
<em>They weren't. They aren't.</em><br>
<br>
Although, as Steven admitted this weekend, worst case scenario thoughts are always there and bring fear and anxiety daily. The "<em>what ifs</em>" can not be escaped. Day to day life often brings with it thoughts of the future and ours is still very uncertain. Steven confessed to wondering about, and worrying about, the ramifications if blasts were to show up when he has blood drawn, or if leukemia was once again detected when he has his bone marrow biopsy in two weeks. <br>
<br>
<em>And I worry too.</em><br>
<br>
I always will. I have written frequently about my anxiety and worries and the, sometimes, crippling fear, but I haven't written much about living these last two years.<br>
<br>And we <b><i>are</i></b> living. Thank God, we are all, still here, living.<div><br></div><div>I have decided that living is just as good of a reason to write, and record, as worrying is. Probably a better one, actually.</div><div><br>
So, consider yourself warned. Although I might not share all my posts on Facebook, if you happen onto my blog, the content might just be that of someone who is living this crazy life they were given...and trying to make the best of it.<br>
<br>
<em>After all, aren't we all just trying to do just that? </em><br>
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You have all made living this life a little bit easier, and for that, I thank you.<br></div>
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</div>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10909390837115961404noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22101142.post-75196027730801392782016-07-08T15:19:00.001-04:002016-07-08T16:03:54.812-04:00Loosening my gripIn life, I found that I have always clung to the familiar. <em>The certain</em>. <br>
<br>
That principle stood true when dealing with everything from foods, to friends, careers, and beliefs. However, looking back, it is hard not to be overwhelmed with the realization that I have spent so much energy in my life shielding myself from unfamiliar situations. These situations ranged from not trying foods that I *think* I won't like, to avoiding people, places and situations that I wasn't familiar with.<br>
<br>
Thankfully, not everyone is like this, and it's definitely a good thing. I have found that I have held close many things in my life that I should have loosened my grip on years ago. <br>
<br>
Lately there has been a sadness that has lingered in my heart that I haven't been able to shake. For the past (<em>almost</em>) two years, my emotions have primarily been dictated by Steven's health. I have rarely felt sadness, joy, fear or anxiety about anything other than situations directly related to my husband's health and the subsequent well-being of my family. However, lately, other emotions have started sneaking in. <br>
<br>
Maybe this is a good thing. Maybe it's about time. Maybe it's a sign that I have started moving forward... <em>Maybe</em>.<br>
<br>
Going through a major life changing situation forces you to loosen your grip on those that weren't willing to come with you through your journey. My reach didn't extend far enough to hold on to them...<br>
<br>
Unfortunately, cancer is not comfortable and I pray it isn't familiar to you. <em>Thankfully, it also isn't certain, which is why we are where we are today.</em><br>
<br>
So I take a break from our journey, only to find that I am not the same person that I was when I started. My eyes are opened wider. My grip has loosened and I have let some things, and some people, go. However, I have also reached out to others along the way. I branched out. I was forced to venture out into the unfamiliar. I gave up on comfortable because I had found it was only an illusion, and at best, temporary. <br>
<br>
Today, while asking God to help me let loosen my grip on another circumstance and disappointment, it became so clear to me that holding on to things only prevents better things from being within your <em>reach</em>. (And, yes, I know it's been said a million times. Still, today, it felt that the message was <em><strong>meant</strong></em> for me.) I don't believe God intended for our hands to grasp things, but to be open to people. I don't believe he meant for us to hold a few close, in turn preventing us from touching others. <br>
<br>
I can help people who couldn't help me. I can care about people who will not care about me. I can open my eyes and see things clearer than before and be open to being led wherever God chooses...<em>even if it is unfamiliar and uncomfortable.</em> <br>
<br>
<strong>Yes, my grasp must be loosened.</strong> <br>
<br>
<em>But, I probably still won't eat salad.</em><br>
<br>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10909390837115961404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22101142.post-30371681364216254772016-06-29T16:46:00.000-04:002016-06-30T10:42:45.345-04:00The messageAs I stood in the shower covered in soap and shampoo, my mind went wild. It started by recalling events of the previous baseball practice that Blake had, when in some sort of twist, connected in ways that even I don't understand, I found myself thinking about God, His voice and His will for us, and how we are to recognize it.<br>
<br>
Seems like a stretch, doesn't it? <em> Imagine living in my head...</em><br>
<br>
I stood there in the shower with water running down my back, reliving moments in the past. Many moments of my past I wish I could forget, and the time since Steven's diagnosis takes up a space all it's own... Thinking about some of the things that we have been through, and seen, can be a stumbling block for me. If I keep my eyes on today, the present, I do fairly well. <em>Usually</em>. However, the past and it's heartache, and the future and it's uncertainty, leaves me shaken. <br>
<br>
I have found that life leaves you two alternatives: finding strength, and the resolve to plant your feet to withstand the current or simply allowing the current to carry you away. The current is powerful and comes in many forms. Sometimes it is lethargy...and allowing the world to reduce you to a form that sits and observes as life passes you by. Sometimes it is avoidance and denial...where you refuse to consider what 'might be'. Sometimes the current is made up of the world and the desire to just wrap yourself up in the promises of what life offers <em>if only </em>your life had taken a different turn...and the emotions that envelope you when confronted with the fact that your life<em> is what it is. </em>Yet your life is yours alone to determine what you do with it.<br>
<br>
<em>In the end, that is all that matters, right? What we've done with this life we have been given.</em><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>*****<br></i>
<br>
So, again, I was asking myself if I would know God's words, and will for me, when and if I heard them. I was wondering if that unmistakable path of communication really existed for us...<br>
<br>This train of thought led me to, once more, think about <b>the</b> preacher and his visit to our house last August. I put myself in his shoes and I thought about the anxiety that <b><i>I</i></b> would feel, pulling up to a home where two people I had never met lived...where one of them was inside, currently dying. I thought about the awkwardness of introducing yourself to these people, only to declare that the Lord had sent you to tell them that cancer wouldn't win, and that the sick would be healed... I thought about the nervousness that the drive over would contain, the mind spinning thoughts that played out every possible reception that might be given. I imagined that I would wonder if the worries and the pain they were experiencing would cloud both their vision and hearing and that, instead of hope, blame might instead take root.<br>
<br>
Then my mind settled on the fact that, despite anxiety, nervousness and uncertainty, something stronger had been at play that day in August. Something was stronger than the possible ridicule, embarrassment, and backlash that he, the unknown preacher, might face, and that something, or someone, told him to "go". And he listened...<div><br></div><div>*****<br>
<br>
I have found that over time, it has become increasingly obvious that not everyone's mind works like mine does. Not everyone thinks about the effect that actions, words, and attitudes have on others. Not everyone thinks about the motives, and situations that push others to act a certain way. Not everyone has their mind running wild trying to understand people and why they do what they do. Not everyone would think about the preacher and what he was feeling when he knocked on our door, because they would be busy thinking about what they were feeling...<br>
<br>
<em>And that isn't necessarily a bad thing.</em> <br>
<br>
<em>Maybe those people are more free to do and say what they feel and think. Maybe there is a certain freedom in that way of thinking...or not thinking.</em><br>
<em></em><br>
But my mind thinks. Constantly. And generally, it's in an attempt to understand. <br>
<br>
However, that day, in the shower, I wondered if I would ever be able to be like that preacher and cast all the doubts, and worries, and over-analyzing aside and<em> find myself able to listen to, obey, and truly<strong> understand</strong></em> what I <em>believed</em> to be the voice, and will, of God<br>
<br><em>Surely His words could pierce through my scattered, never ending thoughts. But would I hear Him?</em><br>
<em></em><br>
Almost as if in an answer to my heart and mind's questioning, an image, almost like in a movie, flashed through my mind. The memory was so clear and vivid. In that instance I knew that, without a doubt, God could speak to, and be heard by, me. Yes. Even me.</div><div><br></div><div>In fact, He already had. How could I have forgotten...?<br>
<br>
I saw myself sitting in a pew at the Cathedral Basilica in St. Louis. I had came to the 8 a.m. mass with my mom and dad, while Lakyn and Blake stayed back at the hospital with Steven. It was the Sunday morning following our surprise admittance in October 2014, when we found that the chemo hadn't worked, and prior to Steven's first transplant. That morning, in church, I am not sure that I heard much of anything that the priest said. My thoughts were racing and my fears had me under their control.<br>
<br>
I was in tears before the mass even started. Shortly after it did I remember looking back as a young family, with four small kids, entered the pew behind us. I wondered at their choice of seat considering the activity level of their children, their late entrance, and the open pews in many other places...places much less visible and in much further proximity from other church goers. Still, I had other things to think about...<b>me</b>. <b>My</b> life. <b>My</b> husband. <b>My</b> kids.<br>
<br>
I remember spending the entire mass praying and trying to make bargains with God although I was pretty sure He didn't work that way. I promised to bridge gaps in relationships. I promised to reach out to loved ones that I had let grow distant. I promised to forgive those who I felt had done unforgivable things. I promised so much... I begged God to save my husband and each time I gave a reason why he deserved to be spared, it seemed as if God pointed me elsewhere. As much as I tried to tell God why <strong><em>I</em></strong> needed Steven, and what I needed from Him, God kept showing me what others needed <em><strong>from</strong></em> me.<br>
<br>
I cried. I sat there during mass surrounded by a chapel full of strangers, and I cried. I hated being weak and I tried to keep it under control. I didn't want sympathy from my mom and dad, or even gentle touches of their reassurance. I knew they couldn't give me the peace I needed and kindness made it even harder to keep myself in check. <br>
<br>
Throughout mass, my prayers were only interrupted by the sound of cries, talking, playing and banging on the wooden pew behind me, coming from the four young, restless children: the oldest, maybe four, and the youngest in a baby carrier. I marveled at the young parents, and the number of kids with so few years separating them. I would glance backwards, occasionally, wondering if there was any discipline that the parents would exercise, because the distraction was becoming increasingly apparent. Here I was, in a church, begging for God's grace...and yet I was barely able to sort my thoughts for the sound of squeals behind me. My mom looked over and gave me a knowing glance, letting me know that the kids were as big of a distraction to her as they had been to me. I lowered my eyes, and again bowed my head.<br>
<br>
During my prayers, I truly felt that God, by refusing to give me peace about Steven's situation, must be telling me that He wasn't going to see him through. I wanted to hear Him, and feel Him say that Steven would be ok. However, that morning, all I felt was desperate. And alone. <br>
<br>
After mass I knelt down and said my final prayers. I raised up and prepared to go. I needed to get back to the hospital to make sure Steven, and the kids, were still ok. The anxiety of being away from them had almost gotten too much to stand and I felt an urgency to get to them. I picked up my purse as the kids behind me were being wrangled by their parents in an effort to get them bundled up and out the door.<br>
<br>
I turned to leave and it was then that I felt God speaking...and I knew it. It made me uncomfortable and I didn't want to believe that it was Him. So I hurried myself and mentally told myself all the reasons why I couldn't do what He wanted, or why I must have misunderstood Him, and began to leave. <br>
<br>
In that moment, the feeling was so strong it was almost as if someone had put their hand out and stopped me in my tracks. I knew then that I had to follow through, or I would have a feeling of disobedience all day. If not longer...<br>
<br>
With mascara trailing down my cheeks, red eyes, and a face swollen from all the tears that had been shed over the previous five days, I turned and faced the overwhelmed young mother. As she saw that I was turning and directing myself to her, she looked up at me with questioning and a bit of apprehension. <em>Rightly so</em>. I had glanced back throughout church, generally with tears in my eyes, and pain on my face, and I am sure that the sight hadn't felt overly warm or welcoming. <br>
<br>
<em>Shamefully</em>, maybe I hadn't intended it to be.<br>
<br>
But in that instant I knew, with no doubts, what God wanted me to do and what I needed to say. I looked at her and then looked at her children. With tears in my eyes, I commented on how beautiful her children were, and I told her how amazing I thought it was that she made a point to get up, get her four small children ready for church, and come attend the 8 a.m. mass with her children and her husband at her side. <br>
<br>
As I continued talking, I could see her start to visibly relax, although she had to be wondering why this crazy woman, with crying eyes, had decided to start up conversation. I told her that I had two children of my own, years older than hers, and that I knew what a struggle it was to get everybody ready and out the door on time. I told her that I admired the determination she had to make sure that they made it to church, and that I was sure this importance would not be lost on her children.<br>
<br>
She smiled and let out her breath which she had held, and nodded, seemingly both in acceptance of the compliment and in acceptance of the strain that she carried and held all through mass, when she knew that it would have been easier if they had just stayed home. In that moment, I could almost see the relief and I hope that my words fired her determination to continue the Sunday morning battle, and beat the stress that, no doubt, attending services brought. I believe that is what God intended my words to do...because they weren't my words. <em>They were His words and I was the voice</em>.<br>
<br>
I was the voice that didn't want to be used and had many reasons why: I was physically a mess and I couldn't keep the tears from flooding my eyes. I had my own problems. I, myself, had fought irritation over their lack of obedience, and restlessness, while I was trying earnestly to talk to God.<br>
<br>
<em>Yet, God used those children, and their parents, to talk to <strong>me</strong></em>. <br>
<br>
In my life, I have never had a conviction as strong as that one and there was no doubt who was convicting me.<br>
<br>*****</div><div><br>
I pray that the same held true for the preacher who claimed Steven's healing. Despite a million reasons he had to stay away...he knocked on our door and shared his experience. I often think about him and his words- the words that I <em>have</em> to believe were God's.<br>
<br>
I hope that the woman and her children still attend church. I hope that love and understanding floods everyone that sits near to them. I pray that my heart may be open to hear the voice of God more often, because there has never been more peace than I had in that moment-the moment when I knew I had done as He willed me to do.<br>
<br>
Although my words were meant for that family, I believe that God intended for my actions, and the humbling of myself, to be a lesson for me. God, in that instant, showed me that it wasn't about what He could do for me, but rather, what I<strong> <em>should</em></strong> do for Him.<br>
<br>
<em>I hope I never lose sight of that.</em><br>
<em></em><br>
What hope, and what encouragement, would we all bring to others if we listened to God, and did as he asked? What would our conversation looked like if we "talked" to God about someone other than ourselves? </div><div><br></div><div>He is there. I believe that if He is able to speak to me, through my strung together, and far off thoughts, He is able to speak to us all.<br>
<br>
<em>How has God spoken to you?</em><br>
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</div></div>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10909390837115961404noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22101142.post-65212285649545507122016-06-15T15:38:00.003-04:002016-06-15T15:38:26.930-04:00His Gift<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed" id="id_5761adde0e9245b49123054">
This morning, while driving to work, I was admiring a rainbow that had formed after the early rain. My mind raced witha million thoughts, much like it does at nearly any given moment. However, one thought settled: This rainbow, was MY rainbow. A rainbow from God, for my birthday. <br />
How corny is that? I had just decided that the rainbow before me, for the world to see, was meant just for me.<br />
<br />
I realize it was ridiculous and I knew it even as I thought it, but that didn't k<span class="text_exposed_show">eep my mind from continuing on. As I marveled at God's handiwork and majesty, the thoughts continued...</span><br />
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If this rainbow, my rainbow, was sent to me, WHAT was it's message? Was it the traditional promise that God wasn't going to let the rain (literal and figurative) keep falling? That there wouldn't be a flood? What message was God sending me, with the gift of a rainbow on my 40th birthday? (Yes, the gift that I had claimed as mine...)<br />
<br />
So, I decided to google, "the biblical meaning of a rainbow". I wanted to know, in google's words, what the broadly accepted view was and what scholars had deemed the "right" message. And the answer? "<em>A symbol of God's faithfulness and mercy".</em><br />
<br />
Yes. A symbol which God gave "me" on my 40th birthday. My thoughts immediately clung to the coincidence of the "40". After experiencing rain for 40 days and 40 nights, Noah was "gifted" a rainbow. On my 40th birthday I was too. <br />
<br />
40... Once again, I turned to Google, wondering the biblical relevance of 40, as determined by people much smarter than myself. I knew it was mentioned many times throughout the Bible, but what was the common thread? I found out that "40" in the Bible, generall represented a period of "<em>testing, trial and probation".</em><br />
<br />
So, today, on my 40th birthday, I am choosing to believe that God gave me a visible gift of His faithfulness and mercy, after this period of testing, trial and probation that my family has been through. I am clinging to the belief that God has already permanently healed Steven, and that I will continue to build on the faith that has been made stronger during my last "40". <br />
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Faithfulness and mercy. I couldn't think of a better gift.<br />
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Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10909390837115961404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22101142.post-50929386539908516332016-06-02T16:50:00.001-04:002016-06-03T09:01:54.969-04:00WaitingI was standing at the foot of my bed folding laundry that was still warm from the dryer. I had called Blake in to join me so that I could talk to him about his upcoming birthday.<br>
<br>
Admittedly, it was like my mind had unconsciously just blacked out that week on the calendar and I didn't even realize it. Once I realized that it was three weeks away, it jarred me with the unexpectedness of it all. <div><br></div><div>How had I failed to have it on my mom radar? The weight of the oversight felt like it would crush me. This was my son's birthday and I was his mother...and all these years I tried to never lose sight of the fact that when you are a child, you <em><strong>live</strong></em> for Christmas and your birthday. There are all sorts of reasons this is true, and yes, I know gifts are one, but happiness and joy and being celebrated are all reasons too.<br>
<br>
And I had failed to even <em>think</em> about his day of celebration.<br>
<br>
I could offer up excuses. For the past week, I have been trying not to think about the future at all. The news last week of Steven's lowered counts, and the intensified fear of relapse, set me back to a place I hadn't been for awhile. It's funny how it took me being in my bed with covers over my head, dreading the day ahead, sick to my stomach and fighting back tears and wishing I didn't have to get up, to realize how far I really had came in <em>my</em> recovery.<br>
<br>
******<br>
<strong><em></em></strong><br>
I started seeing a psychologist after returning home. I needed somewhere to go with my pent up worries and fears and I knew that she couldn't take them away and that no one could, but I was willing to do anything that would help...<em>and it sure wouldn't hurt</em>.<br>
<br>
After taking a "test" of very odd and random, yes-no questions, I was surprised with a few of my diagnoses. Obviously, I was rated high on anxiety/depression. That alone was pretty spot on and I didn't need that test to tell me that. Not far behind, though, was PTSD and social aversion. <br>
<br>
The last week has given me perspective that I didn't have before. Returning to where I was, reminded me where I had been and I<strong> had</strong> came a long way. I didn't avoid going to the grocery store or Wal-Mart, or to a public place. I enjoyed going to my kids' ballgames. I would leave the house to go out and eat with family.</div><div><br></div><div>In fact, I had returned to work in January, and had forced myself to act "normal" since then. However, in hindsight I now realize I was acting less and less.<br>
<br>Yes. I had definitely gotten better, but each day this week has been a struggle and many days I went to bed feeling like I had lost the battle. Letting my mind linger too long on the "<em>what if</em>" of relapse was enough to paralyze me all over again. The fear of being separated from my kids and the fear of losing my husband had me regressing and returning to the place where I had once been before and I know my kids deserve better. <br>
<br>
*****<br>
<br>
As I folded a pair of Blake's jeans I looked at him and said with excitement, "<em>So...what do you want for your birthday, buddy?"</em><br>
<em></em><br>
He looked at me and his face grew red. Then his eyes got glossy.<br>
<br>
I knew what was coming and I started towards him.<br>
<br>
"<em>What? Why are you about to cry?"</em><br>
<em></em><br>
As the dam burst he shared that all he wanted for his birthday was for his "<em>daddy to be ok</em>". I told him that was all I wanted too, and that, right now, he was. Right then, in that moment, his daddy was at home, and healthy, and active.<br>
<br>
In an avalanche of emotions he released feelings that had been kept inside-probably some for almost a year and he spoke of how he felt like we "always" missed his birthday since Steven's illness. Even before I could gently remind him that only one birthday had passed since Steven's diagnosis, and that we had made it home from the hospital last year in time for it...or remind him that even though we had to leave the party early to go back to St. Louis that evening, we made sure that everyone stayed and the party went on, Blake, still crying, but in a wisdom beyond his ten years, realized all that himself and said..."<em>It isn't that. That's not what I meant. It's just...I guess...bad memories."</em><br>
<em></em><br>
And my heart shattered.<br>
<br>
Because, oh, how I knew of the bad memories. Suddenly, I wasn't so surprised that I hadn't thought of Blake's birthday. <a href="http://helpingmeup.blogspot.com/2015/06/this-little-light-of-mine.html" target="_blank">That day...that painful day</a>. Blake playing outside, cake and presents sitting around, people laughing in the other room...and Steven sitting at the kitchen table telling me that he felt like his 113.6 pound body was shutting down on him and that he wasn't going back to St. Louis - because he wanted to just stay home and die.<br>
<br>
<em>Yeah</em>. Bad memories.<br>
<br>
Although Blake's memories aren't the same as mine, and he doesn't know about his daddy's feelings that night, he knows that his daddy was so very sick. He knows that we had to leave in a hurry. He knows that we spent that night in St. Louis and that a few weeks later we found out that all that chemo that contributed to the physical shape my husband was in, had failed to completely kill the cancer because it was still alive and well. He knows that the friends that were supposed to come over and celebrate his birthday with him, <em>didn't</em>, until August due to the fear of exposing Steven to illness.<br>
<br>My aching heart moved me and I picked up his 86 pound body that is almost as tall as mine and I carried him to the chair in my room and I rocked him. And we both cried. I assured him, without false promises, that right now, everything looked good with his daddy. Right now, I didn't see any reason that his birthday wouldn't go off without a hitch. However, I also told him that I can't promise that things won't change and, unfortunately, we both know how quickly they could.<br>
<br>
<em>And then God punched me</em>.<br>
<br>
Not really. But He might as well have. And I needed it.<br>
<br>
I had been praying that I would come to clearly recognize God's voice, and yesterday it came through loud and clear...and it sounded a lot like my son's.<br>
<br>
"<em>Mom? It feels like all we are doing is...just waiting</em>."<br>
<br>
Right there. That's when He hit me. Because the moment the words left Blake's mouth, I knew what he meant. I have struggled with this since September 5, 2014.<br>
<br>
I am waiting.<br>
<br>
I am not living.<br>
<br>
I am waiting.<br>
<br>
I am waiting for something...some false sense of certainty, whether in the form of a cure <em>or a death</em>.<br>
<br>
<em>Isn't that awful? How horrible am I?</em><br>
<br>
Do not mistake those last two words of that statement for a wish. If God was to take my husband from me, it would cripple me like nothing ever has before. I pray and pray and pray for God to save my husband, and I pray again that He listens. I am sick with worry in a way that many can never imagine, and so, I also ask you not to judge.<br>
<br>
<em>This false sense of certainty I long for?</em> I venture to say that you take it for granted too. <div><br></div><div>I know that only God knows what tomorrow holds and we are called to trust Him, but this world, it lulls you into a false sense of security. How easy is it to go day to day and just expect tomorrow for things to be the same? Most people just take it for granted...</div><div><br></div><div>But now I never can.<br>
<br>
I attend graduation and see pictures of kids and their parents and wonder if my husband will still be alive to see our children graduate. A possible school trip for the next school year is being planned and my daughter asks if I can chaperone and go along and I can't commit because even in just a year our lives could look drastically, totally, unrecognizably different. </div><div><em><br></em></div><div><em>How will our life look</em>? Well, that is anyone's guess. </div><div><em><br></em></div><div><em>Where will we be</em>? St. Louis? Home? </div><div><em><br></em></div><div><em>Will we still be together</em>? In tact?<br>
<br>
<em>Sure, I have heard it before.</em> You could say that everyone's life bears the risk of trials and loss. And they do, and you are right. However, has someone told you that there is a 50% chance that <em><strong>yours</strong> (in the very near future)</em> will? </div><div><br></div><div>If so, then you know, <em>all of a sudden</em>, no decision is an easy one.<br>
<br>
And so you find yourself sitting in the <em>waiting room of life</em>.<br>
<br>
I don't believe that is where God intends us to be...or where He has put us. <br>
<br>
*****<br>
<br>
I asked Blake what exactly he felt we were waiting for. I sensed I already knew, but I wanted him to tell me, and I didn't want to put words in his mouth.<br>
<br>
I was a little relieved when he only voiced the positive, "<em>for daddy to get better</em>".<br>
<br>
He knows, and I know, that we both know there is another side to the "waiting". It had been only a few weeks before that he had asked me, again, how many years had to pass before we could feel more certain that his daddy wouldn't relapse. I told him, "<em>3-5 from the time of transplant and we are now eight months out</em>".<br>
<br>
He nodded.<br>
<br>
That's too much waiting for any child to have to do.<br>
<br>
He will be almost 16 years old (and Lakyn will be 18) when they get done waiting for "th<em>eir daddy to get better".</em> <br>
<br>
<em>They will be so much older than that if he doesn't, and I don't mean their age.</em><br>
<br>
The waiting has to stop. I have got to force myself to stop it. I never, ever would have believed that the kids would've picked up on this struggle, much less feel it themselves, because I thought I <strong><em>had</em></strong> came so far. <br>
<br>
<em>Far isn't far enough.</em><div><i><br></i></div><div>The kids have wanted to go camping but my own "<i>bad memories</i>", associated with Steven's relapse last May, had kept me from it. I never told the kids why, and despite their begging, I still haven't planned a trip this summer. </div><div><br></div><div>I just keep <i>waiting...and my waiting is preventing my kids from having good memories. Good memories to replace their bad ones. </i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>So...with you all as my witnesses, I am vowing to try and wait no more.<br></i>
<br>I also challenge you to put aside anything that makes you hold back from living the life that you should, and the life that your kids need you to live, because your kids are growing up while you are <em>waiting</em>. <em>Waiting for whatever it is that you are waiting for</em>. I think most of us have something, and it isn't always as dramatic as a husband and father fighting cancer, but it is debilitating just the same. God does not wish this for us. I have got to find a way to give God this anxiety and stop pulling it back out of His hands.<br>
<br>
I know that this will be a huge challenge for me. My heart is in it, but when my mind is gripped in fear, my body follows suit. And vice versa. Logically, I can know what I should be doing and why, but emotionally, sometimes it all threatens to be too much. And so I will pray more. I ask you to do the same.<br>
<br>
This year, <em>this summer</em>, I don't want to wait anymore. I'm going to need your prayers to get out of this waiting room and out into life. Please pray for our whole family.<br>
<br>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><strong>Living-2010</strong></span></div>
</div></div></div>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10909390837115961404noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22101142.post-3110569392543841262016-05-12T21:04:00.001-04:002016-05-12T22:44:22.030-04:00Perspective<div>Sunday will be one year since Steven relapsed. We are so thankful that this year, we are starting the summer off at home. When school let out today, Steven picked the kids up...a vast difference from where we were last year on the last day of school. </div><div><br></div><div>Tomorrow we have plans to set the pool up. Last year we never did. </div><div><br></div><div>There are so many differences and so many things to look forward to. I'm working on focusing on those things. </div><div><br></div><div>Yesterday my anxiety was sky high as I started off the morning making an appointment for Steven to have his hip x-rayed and making sure that his labs still looked good. <i>They did.</i> He had mentioned at our last appointment in St. Louis that he had pain when walking and raising from the sitting position, but he was optimistic that it would get better.</div><div><br></div><div> It hasn't. </div><div><br></div><div>The doctor decided to look into it and make sure everything looked alright. Although I am sure that this is most likely just a result of all his body has been through, my mind hasn't forgotten what <b><i>we've</i></b> been through. I'm afraid it never will.</div><div><br></div><div>However, God has a way of gently speaking to us, and making us listen, even over the noise of our brains screaming at us. Yesterday, just when I felt that I would buckle under the weight of the world, a message from someone Steven and I had met along our journey came through. While asking about Steven and I, they also asked for some assistance in a matter. <i>My assistance</i>. I agreed and once again, I noticed that helping others was extremely efficient in taking <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">the focus off of me and my worries, and shifting the focus to someone else. </span></div><div><br></div><div>It's good to be reminded that it's not all about us in this great big world. Regardless of how big our problems or worries seem, <i>it's not all about us.</i></div><div><br></div><div>Shortly thereafter, I received another message from someone totally different, someone I hadn't met, someone that wanted to share with me her experience. Our experiences were different in every aspect other than we were caring for someone we loved with cancer. However, that alone is more common ground than I ever hope to have with someone.</div><div><br></div><div>In her message she shared how reading about Steven's trials, and 'witnessing' how he has came through them, has helped her. It was then that I was, once again, reminded of how there is strength in numbers and regardless of how we might feel in the moment, we are <b>not</b> alone. </div><div><i><b><br></b></i></div><div><i><b>No, it's not about us in this great big world, but we aren't all alone in it either.</b></i></div><div><br></div><div>I guess it's all about perspective.</div><div><br></div><div>I shared with Steven the events of my day - something I'm trying to do more of. I have found that trying to shield him from my anxiety, strains, and worries, in an attempt to not to add to his own, ends up making both of ours worse. As I let him in on the story of the strength that his journey had provided another, he broke down. <i>It hasn't been for nothing</i>.</div><div><br></div><div>Perspective. I think it's something we've both gained and something I hope to never lose sight of. Sometimes, when I start letting worries, and life, get the best of me, I need to remind myself that it's not about ME, but rather, it's about Him, and what we can do to help each other out on this journey. </div><div><br></div><div><i><b>Help each other. Love each other. Keep your perspective.</b></i></div><div><br></div><div>If I don't remember, I'm pretty sure He will end up reminding me.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdHiXn0ZR1koFUmaXww8HZOiRVZJEPr0TOBie7esBFY-cwTGqP8rROoBVXTzeTdn9Vx0UgFpgil9IfFLza90UwawUmThETJATjpuZsSubZtfQGK5-EpOtwVzvZqXxXQJj9Ctpl/s640/blogger-image--380983332.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdHiXn0ZR1koFUmaXww8HZOiRVZJEPr0TOBie7esBFY-cwTGqP8rROoBVXTzeTdn9Vx0UgFpgil9IfFLza90UwawUmThETJATjpuZsSubZtfQGK5-EpOtwVzvZqXxXQJj9Ctpl/s640/blogger-image--380983332.jpg"></a></div>(Picture of the space shuttle launch taken from the International Space Station. Kind of puts it ALL into perspective, huh?)</div></div>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10909390837115961404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22101142.post-80951292129326722352016-04-15T13:27:00.001-04:002016-04-15T13:27:11.279-04:00Borrowing bravery<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed" id="id_57112368c4a5f8024119861">
Apparently a couple of days ago it was National Siblings Day. Long before my life was turned upside down Sarah was by my side and she was much more than a sibling to me. She came into my life to fill in the parts of me that were missing. That hasn't changed.<br />
<br />
Before Steven and I started dating, he worked for my dad. One night he was hauling hay and he and dad had finished up for the night and there was some equipment left in the field. Mom had fed everyone and dad was planning on taking Ste<span class="text_exposed_show">ven back out to the field to have him bring the tractor back to the house but a neighbor stopped by needing something. He turned to me and said, "<em>Kim, take Steven out to the field</em>", and then continued on his business with the neighbor.</span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show"></span><br />
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Such a small statement but my heart had stopped. <br />
<br />
This was huge. We had worked together but this would be the first time we would be alone together. At least, really alone. It was too big and I was nervous. I hadn't mentally prepared for this. I needed courage. Courage to be alone with Steven. Steven who was so perfect...and so amazing...and so funny. <em> What would I say? What would I talk about?</em> I would end up sounding like an idiot. I couldn't do this. No. I was not ready for this moment. I needed courage and backup. So I got some...<br />
<br />
<strong>I took Sarah.</strong><br />
<br />
Ten years younger than me, I loaded up my five year old sister, and she and I took Steven to the field. (No, he didn't mind, but, yes, he totally called me on it and I remember his wink well.)<br />
Sarah has been with us both many, many times since. <br />
<br />
I could not even begin to name the rodeos we went to together, dates she went on, or number the nights she stayed with us once we were married. She really belonged to us both. I know that Steven wouldn't have stood up, on the bride's side, for anyone else at their wedding. <br />
<br />
We have enjoyed so many girls days. I let her dress like me and took her with me to a couple of college classes. She has been by my side for so many concerts that I have lost count. She is always willing to delay the start of any diet until "Monday" if we get the chance to eat somewhere together. She is the person I can go to that will shoot it to me straight even when the truth isn't always what I want to hear. She is the person that put on a feather boa, big sunglasses and sky high heels to sing and dance the night away with me at an Elton John concert.<br />
<br />
And she is the person that stayed with me the night I found out that my life would never, ever be the same and curled up beside me and cried with me as she assured me that we would get through this. <br />
And she is the person that has taken in my children, twice, and cried when we returned home because, although she was happy we were home, it meant that she would miss having my kids with her each and every day.<br />
<br />
Many people have siblings, but I will not be convinced that anybody has one like mine. I am incredibly blessed. I love you Sarah.<br />
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Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10909390837115961404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22101142.post-91297121840822218062016-04-08T16:46:00.001-04:002016-04-08T17:32:02.297-04:00The glue that holds us togetherJust three days ago I was recapping our St. Louis visit with her via text message. I knew she understood the anxiety that returning to St. Louis brought. Although the "city" has brought my husband health, it has also seen some really dark times, and I have spent the loneliest months of my life there. And there is always a question of how long his health will last. And she understands.<br>
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<em>Her husband's visit was the very next day.</em><br>
<br>
Although we never met during Steven's first transplant, I found out that they were on the transplant floor the same time as we were. They lived in the same row of duplexes post transplant. And they visited the same doctor's office back in Springfield once they returned home. And I was oblivious. <br>
<br>
<em>But she wasn't.</em> <br>
<br>
Because we had another mutual friend on the floor, she had found my blog, and through it, found me, and later the courage to introduce herself. I immediately felt like I had known her my whole life and mourned the time we had lost after the first transplant. We needed each other then so badly...and we didn't even know it.<br>
<br>
Tuesday, on the way home, she shared that she still, a year and five months out, got that sick feeling when returning to "the Lou", and she was fighting it then. The anxiety and the sickness was taking hold, and it was such an isolating feeling.<br>
<br>
I told her that there were days, that, after what I have been through, that I feel so fierce and so strong that I think I can take on the world...and then seconds later I feel as if I could shatter into a million pieces and I wonder if anyone would notice and care enough to try and pick them up and glue them back together.<br>
<br>
<em>And she gets it</em>.<br>
<br>
It isn't a plea for sympathy. It's so far past that. Sympathy isn't what we are after and in fact, it turns my stomach. I don't want soft spoken "<em>bless your hearts</em>..." I don't want averted eyes and pats on the back. I don't want, "<em>I don't know how you do its</em>", because if we are being honest, I don't know how I do either. <br>
<br>
If these are your responses to people like me, know that I am not judging you, because I've been you. The person that doesn't know what to say, or what to do. The person who wonders if they should even acknowledge the struggle, or when they should stop. The person who wonders if it is still a struggle, or if the person just somehow gets used to their new life.<br>
<br>
They don't. <em> I will answer that for you.</em><br>
<br>
As long as there is loss, an emptiness, a cancer diagnosis, a major life altering event that has forever changed their life, they are not used it. "Used to it" implies that it isn't noticed any longer. I could be wrong, but I don't believe that this ever happens. It may become easier, but I don't think you ever get used to your life being so devastatingly different. It may not hit you like a tidal wave, but you still feel the impact and the sting.<br>
<br>
*****<br>
<br>
I can not ever remember once liking my physical appearance. Never. I always wanted to be a petite, dainty, small thing that had the masculine man that took care of her. There were multiple problems with this picture I had painted in my head and my physical stature was just one.<br>
<br>
Mentally I am not one that likes to just sit back and let someone take care of me. This is an issue. (<em>At this moment</em> <em>I am wanting to bang my head on the desk and cry, "Why?! Why?! You were such an idiot!" ...</em>) However, even when Steven was able, I wouldn't let him. I took care of things. It's what I did. He was busy working his tail off and so, when I wasn't at work, I was working at home too. I never just sat around. <br>
<br>
I reflected on this many times as I found myself throwing wood into our wood stove this past winter. Sometimes in frustration I would kick the frozen wood that was stuck together in the pile, and I would find myself laughing. It was during these times when I was outside, doing things many women wouldn't/couldn't do, until they had no choice, I thought about how growing up I had already had these expectations placed on me. I milked cows for my dad, got up wood, and helped haul hay. I did many things that boys did because my dad didn't have boys. It wasn't something I was necessarily proud of, but I wasn't ashamed either. It was something that just was and I wanted to be something else.<br>
<br>
<em>But God had different plans.</em><br>
<br>
God knew I needed to be strong. God knew I needed to be headstrong and want to take care of things myself. God knew that I would have to be ok with getting in and getting dirty. God knew that although I thought I wanted to be dainty, and petite and the little housewife that was too feminine to ever be dirty...I wasn't going to be cut from that cloth and that wasn't the life I was going to be led to lead.<br>
<br>
<em>So...I am still strong.</em> <br>
<br>
It is hard for me to stop there and not to go on and say something negative about my body, or my weight, or my appearance. But I will stop there. And I will be kind, for once, to the body that has allowed me to care for my family. The body that has allowed me to work hard, and be tough, and endure months of sleepless nights lying on a hospital cot. A body that has woke up to help her husband in the middle of the night, and walked down a hospital hallway to sit alone in a waiting room and look silently out the window. A body that has sorted medicine and sorted socks. A body that hugs her husband, her kids, her friends and anyone that whose face mirrors the sadness I have seen in my own. <br>
<br>
A body that has refused to give up even when my mind was so very tired, so very sad, so very anxious, and just wished that it would.<br>
<br>
<em><strong>A body that refused to give up because it is strong.</strong></em><br>
<strong><em></em></strong><br>
*****<br>
<br>
My friend and her husband went to their appointment on Wednesday, just one day after Steven's and her text that day made me sick to my stomach. I've been sick ever since.<br>
<br>
Her husband's labs revealed an issue and he has since been readmitted to Barnes. It is a very real possibility that her husband, now one year and five months post transplant, has relapsed. He is having biopsies today.<br>
<br>
My heart is broken. I didn't sleep well last night as I thought about them in their hospital room and I knew what they were going through. Today they have been on my mind all day and when I talk about them I am fighting back tears. I have been there. In some ways, I am there still.<br>
<br>
We were only five months post transplant when Steven relapsed and they are <strong><em>one year and five months!</em></strong> My heart feels the icy cold of anxiety creep in and instead, this time, gets angry. My heart screams out, "<strong><em>When can I finally get some peace?! When can I rest easy? When can I sleep through the night without the dreaded fear creeping up?!"</em></strong><br>
<strong><em></em></strong><br>
I honestly don't know if I will ever rest again. <br>
<br>
I know that the doctor said that three to five years seems to be the point when you can start to relax. If we make it that far, I am afraid I will have forgotten what relaxing is by then. I'm not sure I will know how to go back. And I have too many friends that I have added into my heart and I am now carrying them with me. None of us can relax until we <strong>all</strong> make it through. I don't think I will ever rest again.<br>
<br>
<em>However</em>, I <strong>do</strong> know this: <br>
<br>
<em>Lori, I am not the only strong one. </em><br>
<em></em><br>
<em>You are incredibly strong. You are a force to be reckoned with. </em><br>
<em></em><br>
<em>You can do this.</em><br>
<em></em><br>
<em>You are not alone. Not even close.</em><br>
<em></em><br>
<em>We love you. God loves you.</em><br>
<em></em><br>
<em>If the time comes and you feel the need to shatter, into pieces, please rest assured, I will come, and I will bring the glue. You will, once again, be strong. I promise.</em><br>
<em></em><br>
<em>Prayers my friend.</em><br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10909390837115961404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22101142.post-73364601743086944962016-01-26T20:17:00.000-05:002016-01-26T22:03:30.900-05:00Signs, Signs, Everywhere Signs (Part 4)(<a href="http://helpingmeup.blogspot.com/2016/01/signs-signs-everywhere-signs-part-3.html" target="_blank">Part 3</a>)<br />
<br />
As I shared the entire story with the preacher, he just nodded. I, of course, was still crying. I told him I felt crazy, and I didn't know about the voices and such. Or voices at all. I was used to my mind telling me bad things were going to happen. That I was used to. I was a worrier. <strong><em>That's</em></strong> what I do.<br />
<br />
<em>Kids staying the night with friends? The voice in my head assures me that the friend's house will probably burn down with my child inside.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Kids and Steven all riding together in a car? The voice tells me that there probably will be a wreck that will steal all three from me.</em><br />
<br />
These are the things I am used to the "voice" in my head telling me. Anxiety and fear are common place. They live in my head and have made themselves at home.<br />
<br />
<em>This positive voice is new to the area and I'm trying to figure out where it belongs. This voice that brings good news and peace? I feel sad to say I don't know that voice.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
The preacher was so kind in listening, especially when I am sure that many times most of it sounded incoherent and made very little sense. However, I told him that it didn't escape my notice that he had his mission, I had my voice, and now I had this message...<br />
<br />
And the message? Wow! I mean, now someone else had a voice.<br />
<br />
I'll admit that it got my attention.<br />
<br />
While laughing through the tears, I admitted to the preacher that I still kind of wished there was a billboard. But just as quickly as I stated that, I relented that even then, I would still wonder. It's hard not to leave God a way out. I believe in Him even if Steven isn't healed. What if I went out and blatantly spread my story and then something happened? <br />
<br />
Does it mean that God isn't real? No. This much I do know.<br />
<br />
But what <strong><em>does</em></strong> it mean?<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Fear is so very real. I've seen so much and my mind can paint pictures of some very terrible things. However, I have found that when I purposefully, mindfully take my mind to the place where things go terribly wrong, yet my focus stays on God, I find that I still have purpose and value and the fear is not as powerful. It's still there. Trust me, it never leaves. But if you purposely include God in the picture, even when the picture is of what you fear the most, it is impossible for what you fear to be all encompassing or all consuming. It just impossible.<br /><br /> And I have to remind myself this.<br /><br /> Just the other day I was in the fetal position, in my bed, at three in the afternoon.<br /><br /><em><strong>I do not have it all together.</strong></em><br /><br /> In fact, right now I am in a hospital bed typing this after emailing Steven's BMT oncologist numerous times this morning as I battle the fear I have of his relapse.<br /><br /> Have I mentioned that I have to remind myself of this daily? Hourly? Moment by moment?<br /><br /> *****<br /> That day, sitting in the living room, crying with this unknown preacher, felt oddly freeing. Him stating that he felt he was being prompted by God to tell us that Steven would be cured felt good to hear, but him admitting that he had no way of knowing for sure honestly felt good to hear as well. He was a preacher and he was in the same boat as I was. <br /> </span></div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Preacher or not, we were both human, and he understood where I was coming from. We are ALL human, but he reminded me that we just needed the faith the size of a mustard seed. He shared that he felt that God had called him to start a church, which he had. He had a church, but the location left a lot to be desired. He felt God telling him that this would be changing, but was hesitant to put that out there because, again, what if he was wrong, or misinterpreted. Sometimes a mustard seed can seem so large.</span><br />
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b><i>We talked about not wanting to put God into a corner, and how we seemingly always allowed Him a loophole. </i></b></span><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<em>Not that God needs one.</em><br />
<em></em> </div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">He admitted that coming to our house to speak of his conviction felt really odd to him, yet he felt he had to do it. He was nervous and had never put himself in this position before. He also admitted he knew that there was a distinct possibility that down the road he could have an angry wife that would confront him and say, <span style="font-family: inherit;">"</span></span><em style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But YOU said</span></em><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="font-family: inherit;">!!!"</span> if things didn't go well with her husband, and he wouldn't have an answer. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I told him</span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span><em style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><strong><span style="font-family: inherit;">I </span></strong></em><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">understood that too, and I promised that regardless of what happened, I wouldn't do that to him. <em> I appreciated his leap of faith. (I also appreciated the keychain he sent Steven and I while in St. Louis, with a mustard seed in the center, as a visual reminder of the faith we are called to have.)</em></span></span><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>His gift, and his leap of faith, aren't the only ones we have been privileged to receive.</em><br />
<em></em> </div>
<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">*As I sat in the hospital, two days before Steven's transplant, I could just feel the anxiety in my body like a knot. I desperately needed things to go well. This transplant HAD to work.<br /><br />I again received a message on Facebook. This time it was from a high school friend. One who had never contacted me before.<br /><br />She shared with me that although I might think she was crazy, and had been hesitant about contacting me, she felt nudged by the Holy Spirit to do so. She stated that although she didn't know how the transplant process worked, during her prayer for Steven and our family, she could envision new cells entering Steven's body and as they did, his body was filled with a great light which began to pulse through it, and out of it, like a glow. She could see the healing of his tissues and his health and strength begin to return. She shared that she was afraid to tell me this, for fear of sounding crazy, but after a time, she just felt so compelled to do so.<br /><br />I am SO glad she did.</span><br />
<br />
*I also appreciate the leap of faith by the friend that works in the ER, that held my hand and prayed with me after finding out that Steven had relapsed, and said that deep in her heart she felt a God given peace that Steven would beat this.<br />
<br />
*I appreciate the friend to Steven who said in complete earnestness that he just "knows things" and that despite the fact that we were (at the time) heading in for transplant, he knew that Steven was to be healed.<br />
<br />
*I appreciate the friend who prayed for me in the middle of her work parking lot and recently stated that when praying for Steven she felt like God was almost saying, "enough already. It's been done."<br />
<br />
I realize that there is no way to know whether or not "it's been done." We will not know that for years. <br />
<br />
But last week, before our latest readmission to the hospital, it hit me. I shouldn't wait to share all this. Regardless of what happens with Steven, these people, and their experiences and what they have shared with me, have been great, wonderful gifts. I have drawn on their words so many times and it has given me hope when I had nothing else to stand on.<br />
<br />
They could have all decided not to share because they didn't know "for sure" that what they had seen, been told, or felt was real. I would understand their hesitation. It was the same hesitation that kept me from sharing my story as well.<br />
<br />
However, I have drawn from their words, and their experiences, so many times. To think of what the last six months would have been like without them would paint a much different reality. They changed me and my days. I have no doubt they changed Steven's too. In that way, they did change our future. Did it change what happened/will happen with his diagnosis? Maybe not. Did they actually give us a glimpse of the healing that is to come? Maybe. I certainly hope and pray so. <br />
<br />
But they without a doubt did heal us in the moment.<br />
<br />
By the way, the preacher? He did get his church building. And the voice? Well, sometimes I still "hear" it, and although I still don't know <strong><em>for sure</em></strong> exactly where or who it comes from, the message is <em>almost</em> the same.<br />
<br />
Instead of saying "<em>he will be healed</em>" instead it now simply says he is.<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
I would love to neatly wrap up this up and say that I have complete faith and no worries and have 100% certainty that God has told me that Steven has beat this horrible disease.<br />
<br />
That would be lying and I have tried to be nothing if not completely honest. <br />
<br />
I struggle each and every day. I worry and I wonder and I doubt and I struggle to find the rhyme and reason. I have days I feel strong, and days I feel weak, and days I think I am the worst mother ever.<br />
<br />
I have days that I think God wouldn't have went to so much trouble if Steven wasn't to be healed, but then I remember what happened the last time that I thought that I had figured out the way God had worked out His plan.<br />
<br />
I don't have a clue. None. Zip. Remember, I'm the one that can't even keep up with the thoughts bouncing around in my head.<br />
<br />
But I do know that I would have not made it this far without so many of you. Even those of you that I have never even met. People who have reached out to me, yet have never even seen my face. Those who have made a point to send me kind words, and big prayers.<br />
<br />
I also want to add that if I live to 100 I will never be able to thank everyone for their generosity. So much has been done for my family during the past 17 months. I can't even list the ways in which people have helped us for fear of missing something/someone. It's unbelievable and amazing. The goodness in this world is amazing and my eyes are forever opened to it. We don't have to look for the bad, the news will willingly show it to you. But trust me, you really don't have to look too hard for the good either. It's everywhere. <br />
<br />
Please, please, please keep praying.</div>
Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10909390837115961404noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22101142.post-71447907036557411342016-01-26T20:16:00.003-05:002016-01-26T20:57:25.014-05:00Signs, Signs, Everywhere Signs (Part 3)(<a href="http://helpingmeup.blogspot.com/2016/01/signs-signs-everywhere-signs-part-2.html" target="_blank">Part 2</a>)<br />
<br />
After I found out the news regarding Steven's biopsy, I needed some air. I took a walk out to the mailbox and had a good long cry, and another pleading talk with Jesus. I wrote about that here: <a href="http://helpingmeup.blogspot.com/2015/07/the-middle-pages.html">http://helpingmeup.blogspot.com/2015/07/the-middle-pages.html</a>. <br />
<br />
As I got back to the house that night and tried to come to terms with what our future would hold, I received a phone call from a friend. She told me she had a story she wanted to share with me. Without going into too much detail about it, (because the story isn't mine to tell) I will say that I heard about some horrific events that had happened the weekend before and about someone she had gotten to "know" in a round about way. This person had heard the voice of God tell them to "hang on" in the very literal sense of the word. They didn't recognize the voice either, but there was no other explanation. And hang on they did. This act alone, when the person wanted to let go in every aspect of their lives, and in everything they were clinging to, saved them.<br />
<br />
Saved them, and their life. <br />
<br />
I am not being dramatic in my usage of my words. Know that when I say this, I am meaning it as it reads. This man was saved. Completely. All that should have been left was a body, if even it would have ever been found.<br />
<br />
The "coincidences" of the story are unbelievable. <br />
<br />
However, it was the fact that this person didn't believe that God would take His time to choose him to save that made me think about my reasoning that I didn't believe that God would take His time to choose to speak to me. <br />
<br />
I had no doubts that God spoke to and saved that man. I still don't. I don't believe that God picks and chooses based on worthiness, yet, somehow, I guess when it came to the likelihood that he would speak to me, <em><strong>or even hear me</strong></em>, I did apply some sort of merit based system. And I wasn't worthy.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
*****<br />
<br />
That night I climbed into bed. My body was physically exhausted and my mind numb. I couldn't even really piece together a prayer. The words seemed repetitious and without real meaning. Every prayer was the same. The same basic theme: "<em>Heal my husband. Watch over my kids. Keep them safe</em>." Nothing felt like it had life or meaning. I couldn't even summon up energy or emotion. <br />
<br />
I knew God must be disappointed. I was disappointed. And I was tired. Very, very tired.<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
The next day, apparently glutton for punishment, I went in to have my wisdom teeth removed. They had been erupting and receding for years and for over a month they had stayed up. This had caused swelling and for other issues to start arising in my mouth. I felt certain when I took the kids to the St. Louis Cardinals game back in June, when Steven was in the hospital, that if the TV camera panned our way in the crowd it would, without a doubt, catch me with my tweezers and mini cotton ball applying lidocaine onto my cheek to numb the pain. (<em>I did this in approximately 10 minute intervals</em>.) <br />
<br />
<em>We <strong>are</strong> that family.</em><br />
<br />
A friend of mine from high school took pity on me and twisted the arm of her husband, who was able to get me in for an appointment quickly to have them removed.<br />
<br />
Steven had a friend that had stayed with him while I was gone. My sister and Lakyn took me to the appointment and made sure I made it back home. Once home, while getting settled back in, Sarah brought me my phone and told me, "<em>you have a message..."</em><br />
<em></em><br />
I wasn't as prone to the anesthetic as those you may have seen on YouTube (<em>unfortunately)</em> and kept my wits about me the entire time. When I saw the message was from someone that I knew, but had never met in person, <em>and had never received a Facebook message from before</em>, I wondered what was going on. Our relationship was work related and although when we spoke, it was friendly, and pleasant, we hadn't ever communicated outside of work.<br />
<br />
The words she had typed made me stop in my tracks and made me wonder if I <strong><em>was</em></strong> seeing things.<br />
<br />
"<em>Kim, I was awakened at 4 am to a voice telling me a healing was happening. I was also told to tell you that God is answering our prayers. I know you are a believer and I had to share this with you."</em><br />
<br />
(<a href="http://helpingmeup.blogspot.com/2016/01/signs-signs-everywhere-signs-part-4.html" target="_blank">To be continued</a>)<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10909390837115961404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22101142.post-62537368935074662142016-01-26T20:16:00.002-05:002016-01-26T22:03:44.426-05:00Signs, Signs, Everywhere Signs (Part 2)<a href="http://helpingmeup.blogspot.com/2016/01/signs-signs-everywhere-signs-part-1.html" target="_blank">(Part 1)</a><br />
<br />
I laughed through my tears and explained that one night, in the midst of one of the few times that I actually let the tears freely flow...the night before we knew that the salvage chemo had not worked...the night before we knew that a second transplant was definitely in our future...the night before I was knocked to my knees once again...<strong><em>that night</em></strong> when I prayed, I felt like someone, specifically God, was telling me that Steven would be healed. This is not a normal occurrence for me.<br />
<br />
I "heard" a "voice" saying, "<em>he will be healed</em>".<br />
<br />
First off, this startled me. And the voice repeated itself. Again. And then again.<br />
<br />
So, I wondered if this voice was just my subconscious wanting the results of the biopsy to reveal that the chemo had worked, that a second transplant would not be needed and that Steven would be healed. But the "voices" in my head generally aren't positive<em>.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
As I laid there in bed I tried some mental thought scrambling trying to block out anything but thoughts that were intentional...or thoughts I felt God really meant me to hear.<br />
<br />
All I determined is that it is really easy to get lost inside my head. I decided that distraction was my best option so I turned to Pinterest. (I know, <em>right</em>?) I can't honestly say what <em>exactly </em>I typed into my phone but I believe it was something along the lines of "religious inspirational quotes". What it immediately brought up on my screen, on Pinterest, was "<em>How to Know if God is Speaking to You</em>".<br />
<br />
<strong>Yes</strong>.<br />
<br />
Could have been a coincidence. Possibly was. <br />
<br />
But the five bullet points that it outlined that needed to be met...had been. Every. Single. One.<br />
<br />
But, in my mind, I could easily say that it was subjective and that the criteria could easily be manipulated to meet my own desires. And maybe it could. And maybe it had.<br />
<br />
Because, seriously, this theory of God speaking to me had ALL sorts of flaws. First off, I wasn't sure that God would actually "talk" to ME. I mean, ME? Really?<br />
<br />
I remember praying, "God, <em><strong>if </strong>(and that was -and still is- a HUGE if)<strong> </strong>you are speaking to me, I need a sign. And God, you know me, even if it is a billboard that says, "Kim, it's me, God, and I <strong>am</strong> speaking to you", I would still find a way to doubt. I'm crazy! You made me. You know this! I am scared. I am worried. You could wrap peace up in a neat package and I would probably give it back. Still...I am asking for a sign, even though I probably won't believe it."</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>*****</em><br />
<br />
When I talk about voices, I think it is important to point out that I don't actually hear anything. It's more of an imprint. I imagine we all have these imprints. It's the same dialogue we have we have when we rerun conversations in our heads. Or think. We don't <em>hear</em> thoughts, and we don't <em>see</em> them, yet somehow we are able to process them. <br />
<br />
So when a thought seems foreign, and not of your own mind, it becomes your job to figure out where it came from. <em>Who</em> put it there? Our subconscious? God? I don't really talk much about the devil, but it's just as possible that he is guiding our thoughts too.<br />
<br />
These are the voices, the "imprints", that make up who we are, what we do, and the decisions we make.<br />
<br />
What voices are you listening to?<br />
<br />
*****<br />
<br />
The next day we received the call from the nurse in St. Louis regarding the biopsy taken on Steven's bone marrow. The first biopsy they had taken after the salvage chemo he received post transplant had been of poor quality and they had asked us to repeat it. The results of the second one was in. We had been told that if the chemo had put Steven back into remission, that there was a 30-40% chance that the chemo, along with the boost of donor cells, would keep him in remission, and another transplant would not be needed. This news was what our family had hoped and prayed for, and just what we needed.<br />
<br />
However, when the nurse began to speak, the sickness in my stomach began to overtake me. Even though my husband, sitting in front of me at 113.6 lbs, had endured harsh chemo, the cancer had survived and was still in his marrow. <br />
<br />
We would be returning for another transplant.<br />
<br />
I couldn't imagine how Steven's body would be able to physically endure going through the process again. He was skin over a skeleton and he couldn't afford to lose more weight. I again looked at him and what this disease had done to his body.<br />
<br />
I couldn't imagine how I could survive another transplant. I knew what the last one did to me mentally, and what the separation from my kids, and the sights and sound of the hospital had done to my soul. I was irreversibly changed, and in my mind, weakened...how would I ever survive repeating the process?<br />
<br />
It seemed that in a logical way of thinking, how could I <em>NOT</em> see <strong>this</strong> as a sign? Things were not going well. That much was obvious. Steven was NOT doing well. How foolish of me to think that God, the <em>same God that created the Heaven and Earth</em>, would speak to me, as I prayed while I laid in my bed (yeah...of all times<em><strong> not</strong></em> to be on my knees) and tell me that my husband would be healed. It was almost laughable. <br />
<br />
God, the same God that rose from the dead, healed the blind man, and the same God that watched as crowds that had days before celebrated his entrance into the city had turned on him and demanded his execution, would turn his eyes on me and whisper into my clouded and anxious mind that my husband would be healed...<br />
<br />
<em><strong>A mind that didn't even know if it was Him that was whispering</strong></em>.<br />
<br />
As I looked at my husband and my kids, and in the mirror at my tear streaked face, all I knew is what a sad state our house was in. A sad and pitiful state. My kids had neither their mother or father...at least, not the ones they had known prior to Steven's cancer. Those were gone. In their places were shells. <br />
<br />
One a physical shell and the other a mental.<br />
<br />
(<a href="http://helpingmeup.blogspot.com/2016/01/signs-signs-everywhere-signs-part-3.html" target="_blank">To be continued</a>.)Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10909390837115961404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22101142.post-90244514077732730322016-01-26T14:58:00.001-05:002016-06-29T21:52:34.563-04:00Signs, Signs, Everywhere Signs (Part 1)I looked at the message, and although I didn't recognize the sender, I wasn't all that shocked at the content. It felt...almost oddly expected.<br>
<br>
I glanced over at Steven and told him that a preacher was going to be coming to visit us. It was August and our world was starting to spin faster and faster the closer we found ourselves to September 6th, the date Steven would be returning to St. Louis for his second transplant. Steven asked if we knew him and I said that we didn't, and even that didn't faze us. It was welcomed and not intrusive. <br>
<br>
<em>We would take anything anyone had to offer: words of wisdom, words of prayer...words of encouragement.</em><br>
<br>
I'm not sure if we were looking for hope. Maybe we were. Maybe <em>Steven</em> was. But me? Well, I had been knocked down time and time again as I had felt hope handed to me and then taken away too many times. I really wasn't sure that hope was for me anyway. It felt better to expect the worst. Then, at best, you would be pleasantly surprised. <br>
<br>
Hope is sneaky, you know...it always seems to find its way in, but if left to my own devices, I would just stay on my knees. <em>After all</em>, it made for a much shorter fall.<br>
<br>
*****<br>
<br>
As I saw the car coming up the drive, I let Steven know that our visitor had arrived. The kids were at school and we had to be leaving to get them in a little over an hour. I was a little nervous and more than a little anxious to hear what this unknown preacher had to say to people he had never met. One of which who was (gasp!) catholic!<br>
<br>
I met him at the door and neither one of us was struck by lightening which I took as a good sign. I immediately was taken in by his unassuming, calm demeanor, and we all began talking as if among friends. He shared that he had heard of Steven and his plight when he was first diagnosed in September and admitted that he had just kind of let the whole situation slip off his radar. However, when he was approached again after Steven had relapsed his heart had been convicted in a different way. He said he felt that he was supposed to come to us and let us know that Steven <em>would</em> be healed. This conviction alone brought him his own set of unsettled feelings.<br>
<br>
He admitted to us that he felt odd about reaching out to people he did not know to tell them something that he could not prove. What <em>if</em> he was wrong? He confessed that he had pushed aside contacting us in hopes that the conviction would pass. It didn't. <br>
<br>
So he obeyed what he felt God was asking him to do and he found himself inside of the living room of two people he had never laid eyes on and was telling them that he felt that the leukemia that was threatening to take the life of one would not succeed.<br>
<br>
<em>Sounds crazy, doesn't it?</em><br>
<em></em><br>
I started to cry and I said, "<em>you aren't going to believe this but this isn't the first thing like this that has happened..."</em><br>
<br>
(<a href="http://helpingmeup.blogspot.com/2016/01/signs-signs-everywhere-signs-part-2.html" target="_blank">To be continued</a>)<br>
<em></em><br>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10909390837115961404noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22101142.post-44670597223854085752015-11-25T18:30:00.001-05:002015-11-25T20:38:51.892-05:00Impossibly preparedToday Steven and I are "celebrating" our 15th wedding anniversary. (Of course, it took me eight years to get him to the altar.) Our celebrating looks a lot like a normal, lazy day at home, which for us, these days, is anything but normal.<div><br></div><div>The morning started the same. Steven and I were both awake and yet dreading the climb out of bed. I looked over at him and said, "Happy Anniversary". He repeated the same to me. He then said, <i>"I am so glad I married you.</i>.." We then talked about the years that had long passed us by and all the ups and downs we had experienced. He stated that he knew no marriage was perfect but that he felt ours was pretty good. </div><div><br></div><div>That's always good to hear, because, well, life and marriage isn't always easy.</div><div><br></div><div>We talked about all the growing up we had done together (I was 16 when we started dating and he was 19), and how much we had aged. I laughed and told him if he left me now, after all we had been through, for some younger woman, I wasn't going to be too happy.</div><div><br></div><div>It felt good to laugh.</div><div><br></div><div>I haven't been doing much of that lately.</div><div><br></div><div>I'm a planner and I like to feel like I know what is ahead of me. The past 14 months has shown me that I will never know exactly what lies ahead. In a way, almost as a defense mechanism, I'm setting myself up, mentally, for the transplant to fail. I think about all the implications if the cancer comes back. I try to work out a plan as to how I will manage and, somehow, survive. Not surprisingly, I am desperately sad most of the time. </div><div><br></div><div>I know this isn't who God has called me to be. He has given us hope in the bleakest of circumstances. He has provided for us in ways we could never forsee. He has gotten us this far.</div><div><br></div><div>I owe Him more than spending my days waiting for the ball to drop. I'm finding myself in the mental fetal position much like I was last time I updated my blog over a month ago. Maybe that's why I haven't written. I have failed to take my own advice to find a way to look outside myself and my situation...</div><div><br></div><div>*****</div><div><br></div><div>I have a rosary app that I listen to frequently. When reflecting on one of the mysteries of the rosary the narrator mentions Mary's encounter with Simeon in the temple when Jesus was brought to be presented.</div><div><br></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Simeon tells Mary, <i>“This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many may be revealed – and a sword will pierce your own soul, too.” (Luke 2:34-35) </i></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Lately I have found myself wondering about Mary and the weight she must have carried in her heart. I am no Bible scholar, so I can not claim with any certainty to know how much, or how little, Mary knew about her child's future. I can't recall ever hearing that Mary knew the fate that Jesus had ahead, although she most likely knew His road would be filled with bumps. However, hearing that "<i>a sword would pierce her own sou</i>l" probably left her with a less than peaceful feeling about the future and what it held.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Still Mary nurtured and loved her son. She supported Him and suffered with Him. She didn't mentally distance herself from Him in an effort to lessen the blow when it came... </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">I am sure she knew that there was NO humanly possible way to lessen the blow.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">No one has told me that my future is filled with pain and trying to mentally prepare myself for one that is would be futile. There is no preparing for the worst IF it is to come. No amount of worrying will change the situation. But PRAYER can change the situation and change me. I am asking for your prayers. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">I need to be changed. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">*****</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Steven feels much better than he has in months. He has an appetite, and the 80 mg of prednisone he takes a day is no doubt helping with that. His liver enzymes are decreasing and his levels are all coming down - which is good. We should be able to start tapering the prednisone as soon as Friday.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">I am continuing to give him IV infusions at home and that seems to be going well. The home health nurse comes and draws labs when we aren't going to St Louis or Springfield for them.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Steven's platelets have been decreasing for almost two weeks. I looked back on Facebook to see what was going on at this point after his first transplant. (That alone can be a slippery slope.) At around this point last time he also had a drop in his platelet numbers. There are many things that can cause this, and relapse is one, however the list of other possibilities is long and includes one of the medications he is on-linezolid. His last dose of this medication was yesterday so I am hoping the platelets start climbing. Pray for this too. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">The nurse also stated that the platelets can sometimes drop as your body starts making its own stem cells, which produce your blood and it's components, </span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">instead of running off of the cells that were given during transplant. He had a type and screen ran on Monday which identified his cells as B+, but the plasma and such were still not registering...so once again, he has no blood type. As crazy as this seems, this is progress. A couple of weeks ago he was blood type AB+, a mixture of both his and donor cells. His own A+ red blood cells are now dying out and being replaced with the donor type, which is why it has changed once again. This also supports the idea that the stem cells are now kicking in on their own.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I am having to consciencely try not to hold everything to the same standard as the last transplant because, as the Nurse Practitioner reminded me, this is a different transplant, with different cells. The similarities and differences can have different causes and different outcomes.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">(<i>I am attributing these new cells with the fact that my husband actually ate his first Oriental Inn cashew chicken this week. This has NEVER happened before.)</i></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">As I stated earlier, please pray that I can find peace. Also pray that the +100 day </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">biopsy that will be done in a week and a half shows that we have made it past another hurdle. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Last time we made it to day +156 before it fell apart on us. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Pray for me, pray for us, and pray that we continue to mark off milestones...and are able to have many more anniversaries spent together.</span></div>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10909390837115961404noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22101142.post-55817091284243916982015-10-19T14:42:00.000-04:002015-10-19T19:29:40.407-04:00The BEatitudes "<em>This is Kim. We've become friends. She always has a smile on her face</em>."<br>
<br>
I had to keep myself from dramatically looking over my shoulder in search of someone else named Kim. Someone else that she could be speaking of. Someone else that she was introducing to her daughter. <br>
<br>
It couldn't be me.<br>
<br>
"......<em>she always has a smile on her face</em>." <br>
<br>
That couldn't be me. Didn't she know the constant anxiety and sickness that I felt standing in those hallways? Didn't she know that as Steven and I walked I would mentally recite The Lord's Prayer? Didn't she know that there were times I thought that I would go crazy if I spent another night in a hospital room?<br>
<br>
Didn't she know...<em>me</em>?<br>
<br>
*****<br>
<br>
As I think about the days spent in the hospital, and the time that she and I had spent talking and getting to know, and lean on, each other, I had to admit that the worry did seem a little bit further behind me. At least in those moments. Comforting and supporting her gave ME peace.<br>
<br>
The anxiety also seemed a little more distant when I would take advantage of the "happy hour" down at the cafeteria and bring drinks to the nurses.<br>
<br>
When I had the inevitable conversation with other families, and patients, about the diagnoses that brought us all to this place, I also found that I was extremely optimistic about the road that they had ahead of them, despite the road that we ourselves had traveled.<br>
<br>
<em>How was this presentation of myself so different than the me I knew so well?</em><br>
<br>
It seemed that the public side of me was in stark contrast to the side I saw in the mirror. The one, that, if taken by surprise, others got to see as well. I tried to keep this part of me private, so not to mar the surroundings and add to the despair that so many walking this earth are experiencing themselves. <br>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
However, I wasn't always successful at hiding that part of me. Once, when huddled on my cot next to Steven's bed, I couldn't shake the anxiety that had me in its hold. In fact, just speaking aloud would cause me to break down in tears. I avoided conversation with Steven, I didn't answer my phone, and I stayed out of the hallways.</div>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
When the nutritionist that had followed us, and advised Steven since his last transplant, poked her head into the room, I was caught.</div>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
When she looked at me I knew she knew where I was, mentally.</div>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
"<i>How are you</i>?"</div>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
Not trusting myself to speak I simply shook my head.</div>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
She came closer.</div>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
I knew I wasn't going to be able to avoid conversation, and I warned her, as tears started flowing, that I was going to cry.</div>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
She sat down.</div>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
We talked for quite awhile and I explained that I had no real reason to be in this state. My mind, in its finest form (insert sarcasm), had analyzed and over-analyzed every blood count and fever spike, and relived the last year of Steven's patient history.</div>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
I drew comparisons where there weren't comparisons to be drawn. I saw differences where I didn't want to and similarities in the same place.</div>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
I had mentally made myself sick...all because I couldn't predict the future.</div>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
<i>And she understood</i>.</div>
<div>
<br></div>
<div>
Although she didn't face the challenges that I faced, she, <i>like the rest of the population, </i>faced her own<em>. </em>Over thinking, over analyzing, and wanting control in an out of control world...were just a few of the challenges we shared.</div>
<div>
<i><br></i>As we laughed and joked about our personalities, and the angst it caused our husbands, I found that once again, the worry and anxiety, seemed a little further away. I was, after all, no longer curled up on the cot.</div>
<div>
<br>
What began as her comforting me, ended as me voicing my understanding of her, and, I believe, the two gave both of us some solace. </div><div><br></div><div><em>Isn't it nice knowing that you aren't alone?</em> Physically and mentally.<br>
</div>
<div>
When she left the room I got up and washed my face, put on my make up and a smile, and, once again, looked forward to <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">"happy hour" in the cafeteria so I could surprise our nurse with tall glass of caffeine to help get her through her shift.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">*****</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">When I think about the different "sides" of me and the transformation I make when going between the two, I really shouldn't be surprised. I think we all have a choice over which side we spend more time with/in.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I don't believe God intended us to stay in the fetal position, alone, dwelling on what might, or might not, be in our future. We are supposed to continue forward, living our lives, following Him and being an example of His love in the lives of others.</span></div>
<div>
<br>
Jesus is an example of this. He was human, and had human experiences. Before his crucifixion he was in so much anguish that he sweat blood in the Garden of Gesthemane. It has been speculated that it wasn't the knowledge of the horrible death that he was about to endure, but rather the weight of all the sins he would bear - on our behalf , that caused him such agony. The separation from God that those sins caused was no doubt a form of "hell itself". <br>
<br>
However, the humanness in Jesus could have led him to be consumed with anxiety over what was to come. He could have spent years paralyzed with fear. He could have worried and stayed consumed by despair his entire life. He could have chose to stay in the fetal position. He could have hid from all those who needed his mercy and comfort, and rather than console and heal, he could have wallowed in his own self-pity. He could have offered up comparisons..."<em>you think you have it bad? Well, listen to what I have to do..."</em> </div><div><br></div><div>But he didn't. Instead, Jesus filled his time with being of service to others. <br>
<br>
And, really, aren't we called to be like him? Should it be of any surprise to me that my anxiety was lessened by helping, or supporting, others? Isn't it hard to be sad when you are giving others joy? <br>
<br>
Aren't we all supposed to show Christ's love to others? And that love, thankfully, doesn't mean turning away from those in need and allowing ourselves to be consumed by our own fear of the future.</div>
<div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">God has shown us that through His son, Jesus.<br>
<br>
If, in the midst of his persecution, he could place the needs of others first, can't we, at the very least, strive to do the same?<br>
<br>
<em>"A life not lived for others is not really a life</em>." - Mother Teresa<br>
<br>
A life spent in the fetal position worrying about "<em>what ifs</em>" isn't really a life either. I am challenging you all, and myself, to get out and live. Live by helping others. Live by smiling at the cashier. Live by doing something small. Live by doing something large. Live by sharing "happy hour". Live by taking the focus off of "me" and turning the focus onto others. Live by taking the focus off of "<em>what if</em>" and turn it towards "<em>what is</em>".<br>
<br>
I believe, after looking deeply at my "two sides", that living for others really is the only way to actually "live".<br>
<br>
There will always be "<em>what ifs</em>" in this life I am living. I know all too well that things don't always work out the way that we hope and pray they will. <br>
<br>
<em><strong>But sometimes they do</strong></em>.<br>
<br>
In the meantime, strive to be the answer to someone else's prayer. <em>Or someone else's thirst...</em><br>
<br>
<span class="woj">Blessed <i>are</i> the poor in spirit,</span><br><span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Matt-5-3"><span class="woj">For theirs is the kingdom of heaven.</span></span></span><br><span class="text Matt-5-4" id="en-NKJV-23239"><span class="woj">Blessed <i>are</i> those who mourn,</span></span><br><span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Matt-5-4"><span class="woj">For they shall be comforted.</span></span></span><br>
<span class="text Matt-5-5" id="en-NKJV-23240"><span class="woj">Blessed <i>are</i> the meek,</span></span><br><span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Matt-5-5"><span class="woj">For they shall inherit the earth.</span></span></span><br><span class="text Matt-5-6" id="en-NKJV-23241"><span class="woj">Blessed <i>are</i> those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,</span></span><br><span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Matt-5-6"><span class="woj">For they shall be filled.</span></span></span><br><span class="text Matt-5-7" id="en-NKJV-23242"><span class="woj">Blessed <i>are</i> the merciful,</span></span><br><span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Matt-5-7"><span class="woj">For they shall obtain mercy.</span></span></span><br><span class="text Matt-5-8" id="en-NKJV-23243"><span class="woj">Blessed <i>are</i> the pure in heart,</span></span><br><span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Matt-5-8"><span class="woj">For they shall see God.</span></span></span><br><span class="text Matt-5-9" id="en-NKJV-23244"><span class="woj">Blessed <i>are</i> the peacemakers,</span></span><br><span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Matt-5-9"><span class="woj">For they shall be called sons of God.</span></span></span><br><span class="text Matt-5-10" id="en-NKJV-23245"><span class="woj">Blessed <i>are</i> those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake,</span></span><br><span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Matt-5-10"><span class="woj">For theirs is the kingdom of heaven.</span></span></span><br>
</span>*****<br>
<div>
<br>
Steven is doing really well, and looks good too. It does my heart good to see him this way. He has been walking around the block by the duplex, and is trying to eat more each day. <br>
<br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNpMsC1A1OKSkH6INwDXBnfcXmAJJDs7ORHiIaVCl_ctL3yimbK33KGupu8zQHi_gEgFHFMJi7H6t1PKAFGjusBmYmej2izOSHg9Odpu4CKmKwJXZvFRs1BKhikW-UIb6hKENW/s640/blogger-image-752889490.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNpMsC1A1OKSkH6INwDXBnfcXmAJJDs7ORHiIaVCl_ctL3yimbK33KGupu8zQHi_gEgFHFMJi7H6t1PKAFGjusBmYmej2izOSHg9Odpu4CKmKwJXZvFRs1BKhikW-UIb6hKENW/s640/blogger-image-752889490.jpg"></a></div><br>
We have yet to see his doctor, Dr. Jacoby, but we saw a nurse practitioner last week. Steven had what looked like the Graft Vs Host rash that I prayed so diligently for last time. Although it is still considered a good sign, a sign of a working immune system, I know that this time, I can't put my faith in signs. Signs are great, but they aren't without exceptions. My faith has to be in God and His will for my husband, and my family.<br>
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Steven's counts have continued to rise, which is good. We are expecting his red blood cells to take a little longer, since he had a mismatched blood type donor. <br>
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I am sure that tomorrow, when Steven sees his doctor, he will start pushing to be released to go home. We will see what her plans are and what she would like to see from him before giving us the "ok". He has been taking prednisone for the rash, and we have started tapering off. I will be anxious to see if the fever returns after he is off of the steroids, as it can sometimes mask it.<br>
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The 30 day bone marrow biopsy results showed no cancer and the genetic mutation wasn't present. We spent all day waiting for results and I spent much of the day sick to my stomach. Again, we know this is no guarantee of the future. None of us have that. However, we at least have made it over the first of many hurdles. <br>
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We are waiting to see the engraftment percentage, but I'm less fearful of its outcome. However, prayers are still wanted and welcome.<br>
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Now...get out there and live! (And if you happen to see me, returning to the fetal position, remind me to do the same.)<br>
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Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10909390837115961404noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22101142.post-1936684448497218462015-09-09T18:11:00.000-04:002015-09-30T11:44:18.670-04:00Black clouds and rainbowsOnce again I find myself sitting in a hospital room looking out the window. The view is different this time, thanks in part to some kind nurses who took pity on a family who had experienced the same view for over four of the last 11 months. <br>
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<strong><em>Yeah.</em></strong><br>
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Eleven months. <em>Twelve actually</em>.<br>
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Eleven months since our first stay in St. Louis and one year (and four days to be exact) since Steven was diagnosed.<br>
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<strong>A year.</strong><br>
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<em>(Typing that made me cry.)</em><br>
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Although my heart keeps beating and my lungs keep breathing, there are times that I feel as if I haven't been alive for just over a year now. Instead, Steven's diagnosis has, at times, kept me in a purgatory of sorts. Not alive, but not dead.<br>
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<em>Actually, that isn't true. Steven's diagnosis hasn't done that.</em> <br>
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<strong>I have.</strong><br>
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There are people who have faced, and continually face, uncertainty and adversity. They still find joy, and pass joy on to others. Or, at least, it seems they do. I know I laugh with friends, make jokes about some of the craziness life has thrown my way, and had moments where, if you were on the outside looking in, you would think that I AM joyful. <br>
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<em>And, maybe, in those moments, I actually am.</em> <br>
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There are moments that despite the black cloud I feel I have looming overhead, it is impossible not to see the joy that life truly does have to offer. Sometimes rain bursts forth from the cloud and it blurs and makes the lighter, brighter side of life, hard,<em> if not impossible</em>, to see. However, the Son always shows up, dries up the rain, and reveals a rainbow of hope in so many shapes, sizes and forms.<br>
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The truth is, I do have SO much to be joyful about. So very, very much. <br>
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<em>Even when the rain makes it (really, really) hard to see</em>.<br>
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Living a life unable to recognize all the good and all the blessings that have been put in it? Living a life with blinders to the daily miracles alive in our own lives? Living a life that is dull, gray with hues of only black and white, because you are too far down in your own despair to see the rainbows of hope, love and joy that God purposefully places in YOUR life? <br>
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Well, that would truly be failing to live.<br>
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So, maybe although there are times that I feel that I haven't really "lived" this past year, I realize that this is only true if I use the definition of "living" that I had prior to Steven's leukemia. Truth be told, in some ways I have been more alive than I have ever been before. <br>
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I won't lie. Living doesn't look the same as it did a year ago. Joy doesn't either. And although there are times I would jump at the chance to return to that life, there are other times that I wouldn't dare give up the "view" from here.<br>
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Amazing things have been revealed to me this past year. The love, friendships, community, support and faith I have been witness to are what life, and living, is truly made of.<br>
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Moments when life looks gray, and dreary, I force myself to find the Son. He's always there. And time and time again, just when I think the rain will never stop, there is a rainbow that reminds me of a promise that the rain won't last forever.<br>
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******<br>
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Tomorrow is Steven's transplant. We don't know the particulars on the time yet. Apparently two flights are scheduled. If the donor is done with the process by the early flight time, then the transplant will, most likely, be around 3 or 4:00 pm. If not, the cells will arrive on a later flight and the transplant will be around 8-9:00 pm.<br>
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As I had stated before, the transplant in itself is a rather anti-climactic time. It is a bag of cells that are gravity fed into Steven's body. <br>
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It is what is happening in Steven's body that is climactic. Very much so. <br>
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The dreaded "hard time" is predicted to be days +6 to +12. Tomorrow is day 0, with each following day being day +1, +2, and so on. This hard time is due to the delayed effects of chemo and radiation, as well as being the time when his counts will bottom out. It is also during this time that his new cells should start engraftment. <br>
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There are so many things that have to happen to make this transplant a success. Please pray that the cells engraph, that the GVHD is minimal and manageable, and, of course, that the donor cells scare the leukemia so bad that they decide to never return.<br>
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Also, it goes without saying to pray for my kids.<br>
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There have been some amazing things that have been shared with me by people who have been praying for my husband. These things have given us so much hope and encouragement and someday, I hope to share with you how God revealed Himself to so many of us during this most difficult time.<br>
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Please keep praying.<br>
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Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10909390837115961404noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22101142.post-48281538604097755802015-08-19T20:41:00.001-04:002015-08-19T20:48:22.597-04:00UmbrellaIt hit me out of nowhere.<div><br></div><div>After days of having the most inner calm that I've had since I can really even remember, the hands of anxiety came and firmly gripped me...and squeezed. </div><div><br></div><div>I was standing in the line at Dollar General, doing the ordinary task of picking up toothpaste and trash bags, when I felt like someone had hit me in the stomach. There sandwiched in line between customers waiting to check out, I thought I was going to be sick. Thankfully, I was able to pay for my items without leaving anything behind for the cashier.</div><div><br></div><div>When I got home I saw that Dr. Jacoby's nurse had called and the feeling intensified. I had been corresponding with Dr. Jacoby by email and I didn't realize how much anxiety that the 314 area code caused me.</div><div><br></div><div>Athough the call wasn't accompanied by any bad news, I hung up and was in tears.</div><div><br></div><div>What I DID find out is that the transplant WILL be September 9th. We will return to St. Louis on Sunday, September 6th for Steven to start chemo.</div><div><br></div><div>This coming Tuesday, we will go to St. Louis for a previously scheduled doctor's appointment. While there, Steven will have to retake a pulmonary function test, as well as have another echocardiogram, to verify he is healthy enough to go to transplant. (He had the same tests in May, but the tests had to be within a 90 day period of transplant, and we will be outside of that.)</div><div><br></div><div><i>He will also have another bone marrow biopsy.</i></div><div><br></div><div>Steven and I both marveled that he had to repeat the biopsy. I am sure there are reasons, but from our vantage point we know he has leukemia. The plan of action has been set. There has been no talk of changing that, regardless of the status of the disease... So, truthfully, we aren't sure the reason for it, other than to possibly gauge the progress/regression.</div><div><br></div><div>Right now, all we know about the donor is that it is a 22 year old male and his blood type is B+. This means that Steven's blood type will change. Although for some the process goes quickly, the nurse said it was more common for the change in blood type to take several months. She also said that for a time, Steven could be without a type. </div><div><br></div><div><b><i>What does that even mean? How is that possible?</i></b></div><div><b><i><br></i></b></div><div>This change, and the time it takes to complete it, can cause Steven to be anemic until the process is completed. Having to have regular transfusions is not uncommon but the nurse assured me that the white blood cells could still very much be doing their job-<b><i>eliminating the cancer.</i></b></div><div><br></div><div>Hearing about the long road ahead of us just fed my emotions that were already bubbling over. The news wasn't new, but somehow, some way, I hadn't let the weight of it settle on me.</div><div><br></div><div>Until today.</div><div><br></div><div>*****</div><div><br></div><div>As I sat in my closet floor sorting clothes after completing a manic cleaning session, Lakyn told me that someone had came to see Daddy and was currently praying with him in the living room...</div><div><br></div><div>I looked at my clean closet, and saw Steven's shirts and jeans, and I wondered how I would ever survive if I had to live without the man who wore them. I knew then that, in these past few weeks, I had been lured into a false sense of security by all the normalcy surrounding me: back to school shopping, school forms, packing lunches, cleaning, mowing, taking the kids to school, and even working from home some for the funeral home. It became easier than it had been to push the gravity of the situation a little further back in my mind.</div><div><br></div><div>Now, trust me, the reality of the situation never leaves. It wakes me at 2 am with a prayer on my lips for God to spare my husband. And then again at 4 am. I send up prayers all day long. But, lately, I had been able to navigate around it, instead of being stuck in it.</div><div><br></div><div><i>I'm afraid I am stuck again.</i></div><div><br></div><div>I have to trust God that these moments were not an oversight of worry on my part, but rather a blessing to my kids. A calm in the storm.</div><div><br></div><div>But, sadly, the storm isn't over...</div><div><br></div><div>Your prayers serve as the umbrella that protects us from that storm. Please keep them coming.</div><div><br></div>Kimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10909390837115961404noreply@blogger.com7