The Sport of Gardening

One of my most favorite things to do is to putz around my yard and garden. I use the term putz around, because I have yet to really claim the title of gardener. To me,  the word 'gardener' means someone who actually knows (and can remember) the name of flowers and various plants. They know cool things like the acidity of soil and the benefits of different fertilizers and pest controls. They have books about gardening on their coffee tables and always have a cute hat and pretty gardening gloves close by. They wear adorable loose fitting clothes that just scream "I am relaxed, I am a gardener", and somehow never seem to get dirty after a morning of toiling.
That is most definitely not me, not whatsoever. My gardening attire consists of one of my husband's or son's beat up t-shirts and a ball cap. I can never find a PAIR of gardening gloves, and if by some miracle I do, they are hard like cement, because of the caked mud. And I get dirty. Really dirty and most times, just outright filthy. Even if I just stop to pull a few weeds, I somehow find myself in need of a shower afterwards. My flowers and plants have learned to grow in spite of me, not because of me.

Even though the actual term 'gardener', might not suit me in the definition I have created, the love that I have for the practice is exactly the same. I find such relaxation when I am in my yard, especially in the early morning. I love the sounds of the birds and the way the early morning sun lights up my backyard. I find it both calming to be outside and yet it also fills me with a sense of purpose and motivation. So when I was told that I was going to have to be operated on and the complexity of the surgery, one of the first things that I was concerned about was my garden. Mainly, what I would be capable of doing in my garden. Would I be able to bend over (and hopefully get back up!) to snip a flower or prune a bush? Heck, would I even be able to walk around my yard?

I have such fond memories of times that I spent playing outside, while my mom "putzed" around our yard. She loved to swap cuttings of plants with neighbors and especially with my grandmother who lived in Florida. There were many trips in the car to visit Grandma that on the return trip would include a trunk full of plants and cuttings that she would then place lovingly in our yard. My son, Torrie remarked to me not so long ago, how much he used to enjoy walking around our yard with me in the early spring when he was young, looking at all of our plants that were pushing their little heads up through the soil. He once pointed out to me that the hosta looked just like asparagus, as it was starting to come up.

It has taken me a long time and a lot of muscle to nurture my yard to the shape it is in now. When we first moved into our house many years ago, the yard was very neglected. It included overgrown, nasty bushes (don't know what kind), scrub trees and out of control ground cover and poison ivy. There was once a compost area that smelled to high heaven and even a homemade fountain that was actually an old sunken tub. Really nasty. All of those things and hundreds more were removed, cleaned out, hauled away and cleared up... by me.  I have learned how to relocate plants, bushes and trees, the way someone rearranges furniture. My garden now contains and consists of mainly plants that I have split or was given clippings of. I actually have not invested very much money at all into my yard.. just muscle and love.

Unfortunately, last spring and early summer I was not able to work in my garden.  The abdominal surgery that  I had in May and the resulting infection prevented any hopes of gardening. Plants weren't trimmed, weeds weren't pulled and mulch was not put down. It is unbelievable how quickly things get can out of control if not regularly checked. Now that's profound, huh?! Understandably, I was full of ideas at the end of last year, to implement into my yard and garden this year. I even kept a small notebook with ideas and tips so that I would not forget them over the long winter.

Spring finally came this year after the winter that would never end, but unfortunately, I was looking at another surgery and I was in a boatload of pain. But I was determined to be out there. I have had to completely rethink and remodel the way I approach working in my yard. Many things are completely off limits and a big no no, such as digging with a shovel, raking, pushing a wheelbarrow, bending and pulling, etc. For a while, it looked as though there was really nothing that I could do. (That's the whiny "oh woe is me' voice in my head). But actually, I found that there is still so much that I am able to do.

I am now the "putzer and picker". I slowly walk the circumference and look and pluck and occasionally pull...shush. I am followed by the "clean up crew" - Ken. He quietly comes behind me and rakes, gathers and bundles. He basically cleans up my mess, and I love it. Himself...not so much I'm sure, but thankfully he doesn't say it. I point out to him what I would like moved or cut back and for the most part, we are in agreement. Basically, my solitary event has become a team sport, and that's just fine with me.

As my surgery date of August 5 approaches, I am in a manic like state of getting everything done in the next five weeks, that which would normally take all summer. So my big event this week is to relocate the three cubic yards of mulch which now occupies half of my driveway, to the backyard. I will show Ken which weeds need to be dug out and where I want the mulch.

Hopefully, he will not 'accidentally' knock my sweet self out with the shovel!

Things My Father Taught Me

I just came across one of the most profound sentences a few moments ago:

     "The way we initially think about God has much to do with how we were parented - especially by our Father...".

How have I missed that all of these years?

Is that why I kept searching for that 'something' that everyone seemed to have besides me, in regards to their relationship with God?

I'll tell you what... I have just had a true epiphany.

After my mom died, my father's dance with alcohol became a full blown fight. Meeting for 'Happy Hour' was not a special event, but a daily necessity. Happy hour often began around 3 in the afternoon and last until closing. My sisters and I were not something to come home for, but to come home to - reluctantly.

I became afraid of my father. I would fear his rages after coming home from drinking and finding the house not in perfect order, or heaven forbid, us watching television or in our rooms. Lazy, of no help, ungrateful on and on... we were 13, 11 and 8.

I saw my friend's fathers and I took keen notice as the way they were with their kids. Rides home from school and events, family cookouts and dinners, a car parked in the driveway after work - for the entire night. Countless nights that I laid in my bed well into the late hours on a school night, waiting for my father to come home safely after hours in a bar. I knew that he loved me...
I knew he was supposed to love me...
does he love me...?
what can I do to make you love me?...daddy where are you? Don't leave me dad!

And then he was dead.
I saw him on his bedroom floor.
He left me. Love was not enough.

Is this why I have dug so furiously to find God?
I knew that His love was supposed to be there. Did I have to earn it? Did I have to be perfect? Was I worthy? If I wasn't good enough would He leave me, too?

I can now see how and why I have been so desperate and so confused. It makes 'perfect' sense.

As I continue with ACA, I am learning that my father did the best he could with what he knew. He, too, was raised by dysfunctional parents. Don't most of us come from some sort of dysfunction? It doesn't even have to involve alcohol.

I have learned that my father was a very sick and suffering man. I have learned that the alcohol took hold of him in ways that it would never take hold of another because he was an alcoholic. I have learned that my father's pride and dysfunctional upbringing prevented him from asking for the help that would have surely saved his life. I have learned a lot about my father. I have forgiven my father. I feel great sadness for my father. I hope that I am finally making him proud.

I am learning to let go of the grip that my past has had on me for so long. I am learning to embrace that frightened child inside of me and praise her strength and courage. I am learning to forgive myself for choices I have made.

And most importantly, I now know that I have a loving, nurturing wonderful relationship with God... the Father.

www.adultchildren.org

Daytona Beach, Florida

Orlando, Florida

I Know What I Know Because I Know...I think.

In the past 24 hours, in three different settings, I have come across the topic of one's belief in God and voicing that belief to others. I noticed it in a conversation I had with a friend, in a meeting I attended and then again in something I read. I have come to learn, when I notice things more than once or twice to stop, pause and think.

Over the past several months, I have noticed that when I am introduced to a person, or when someone asks what do I do, when I respond that I am a Pastoral Counselor, that person gives a hesitant nod sometimes accompanied by an "ahh", that would imply understanding.  But in fact, they have no idea what I am talking about and often have a slight look of fear about them, as though I might be contagious. I came across this phenomena consistently while I was at a conference last week. More than once, I felt like I stated that I was a door to door salesman that was going to hammer them with religion or something. (By the way, as a Pastoral Counselor, I enjoy working with women helping them to heal after some type of trauma or unhappiness, with a faith based or spiritual approach - just to clear things up.) So it is very interesting to me today, that this topic of voicing aloud one's belief in God, has presented itself to me again.

I have become very comfortable about stating my belief in a loving God because of the abundance of 'there's no explanation other than' experiences in my life. That's all, just concrete evidence, to me, at least. I didn't always fell that way, though. When I was first diagnosed with cancer back in 1998, I was in the habit of attending Mass, albeit sporadically. I always felt like I was an outsider, kind of looking in, when it came to my religion. I sat through the services, but I really didn't connect with them. When we moved to West Hartford in 2000, I made a concerted effort to really immerse myself in our new parish and hopefully begin to feel more comfortable in the pews.

I bought books with titles like "Catholicism for Dummies". I joined the Mother's group for some fellowship. I attended Mass regularly and began teaching the little ones CCD. I joined several committees, including Parish Council. But I still had that 'feeling'. The feeling that everyone else had a deep relationship with God, something that I did not have. I attended bible studies and seminars. I attended Catholic Biblical College. I became an Eucharistic Minister and a Lay Minister. And, for a couple of years, I attended Mass almost daily. During that time of course, my 'knowledge' of God increased tremendously and I had great comfort in that. The mounting eveidence of His love for me and my family was very apparent as I battled my way with cancer. I actually had guilt though, as though I was being untruthful, because I could talk and even teach about God - I just felt so empty inside and I didn't know how to fix that.

But thankfully, several years ago, that changed for me.

The challenge of fighting cancer, after my second metastisis, was beginning to take an emotional toll on me. I began to suffer from bouts of depression and severe anxiety. Acts of going to the cancer center for a blood draw or treatment became nearly impossible for me to do sometimes. Often, I found it difficult to leave the house, and I began to isolate myself. I was getting tired - tired of the fight. I wanted it to stop. All of it. No more pokes and prods and sticks. No more tests and scans and procedures. No more treatments, no more pain.

I was done... I was giving up the fight.

I remember crying out to God to please hear me, to help me, "just let me FEEL you"! And then a thought came to me... "The Lord himself will fight for you; you have only to keep still".
It was a bible passage. Actually, it was Exodus 14:14. This was a miracle to me. You see, I cannot remember bible passages, at all. I have never been able to and it is something that frustrates me to no end. But there it was, clear as day to me. Finally, God had spoken to me, and I had heard.

I think it was my sheer desperation. My total surrender to trying to run my life. I gave it away... to God. And God has carried me since.

It was not easy then, and it still challenges me to this day, but I now totally understand my part in having a relationship with God and having a meaningful, deep spiritual life. It is very much like any loving relationship, you have to give your heart away and walk in the faith of that love. So back to the original question that I came across a few times this week:  Am I willing to say any place, to anyone, that I believe in God and and that I am willing to put His world first? You betcha! Am I going to go knocking on doors to do so? Um, no.

I am a firm believer in the idea of 'attraction not promotion'. All of the time people ask me, how do you keep fighting?

My answer:

"I don't, I have only to remain still. He's fighting for me."

Silence IS Golden

As my fabulous MBSR course begins to wind down, all of the participants were expected to take part in a day-long retreat today at Copper Beech Institute. This day was highly anticipated by me, as I was ready to top off a long week of study in Massachusetts, preceded by the highly stressful week of being in the hospital with infection. Finally a day of rest, relaxation and getting to know my fellow MBSRers over Chi tea and a light dinner. Not. 

Somehow, I lost in translation somewhere, that this was to be a SILENT retreat...oops.

I was a bit off-kilter even leading up to the retreat today. I made the mistake of opening up my calendar for next week while having coffee this morning and quickly watched the empty spaces of each day get filled in with different colors representing different obligations. "Maybe I should just stay home and get caught up on things" and similar thoughts started floating around in my head. "I'll go for a while and leave at dinner" was the idea I was going with as Ken dropped me off.

Up until this time, I still didn't realize it was a silent retreat. To be fair to myself, I was unable to attend the class leading up to the retreat due to being out of town, where I am sure it was discussed in detail. So I was chatting away to (not with, now I get it!) the person next to me while everyone filed in and sat quietly awaiting our instructor, Kate. Needless to say, I was quite surprised when Kate reminded the group that there would be no talking. At all. All day. Even dinner!

During our initial sitting meditation my mind was all over the place. My mind usually is all over the place during sitting meditation, but today even more so. I kept thinking to myself that I basically just came off of a five day silent retreat while I was away at my conference. For the first two days, I barely spoke to anyone except for common courtesies. I had my own dorm room, sat alone at meals, walked to and from classes alone, until I thought I would pop! I finally chummed up with a gal from my floor and at least had meals with someone. So today, I really wasn't too excited about being quiet again...so I thought.

While still in the seated meditation, I tried to concentrate on my breathing and clearing my mind. After several minutes, I was still mentally bouncing around so I took another route - I prayed.

I prayed for acceptance of where I was at that moment. I prayed that I would be able to accept this gift of self-love for myself that the day afforded. Most of all, I prayed for God to help keep my mouth shut for the next 7.5 hours, so as not to mess up the other participant's silence! As they always do, my prayers worked.

I finally began to relax and my breathing settled into a steady in and out. My mind quieted so that I could finally hear what I had been apprehensive about: silence. Just quiet... and peace.

My day was filled with seated meditation and lying down meditation. We silently perused the campus during our walking meditation. We scurried like little mice into the dining room and ate in silence, then quietly scattered around the grounds for personal meditation. At one point, we filed out of the building and down the wooded path to the Labyrinth. We were so quiet that I think that we actually startled some of the wildlife by sneaking up on them. Around the labyrinth we silently stepped, ever mindful of our feet on the earth. I noticed someone watching our group and then writing in his notebook. We must have looked like zombies from the movies, as we slowly made our way through the maze.

As our day began coming to a close, Kate informed us that we would be gently breaking our silence by breaking up into pairs for quite reflection. She shared that often people that are engaged in a silent retreat don't want to break their silence quite yet. She asked that if that applied to any of us to raise our hand and we could remain silent. Unbelievably, my hand went up!

Somehow, during the course of the day, my imposed silence became my desired silence. The wired up chatter that was in my head at the beginning of the day, had been replaced with a calm inner voice that I actually began to like hearing. I was calm, I was confident and I had achieved a big dose of inner peace.

I am home at my computer and the dogs are barking, the Cavs are playing on TV, and my phone is ringing.  All the normal sounds of home which now seem just a tad too loud. A five day silent retreat for me? I'm not sure...but I think for now I'll just sneak upstairs and seek out my quiet space.

Front Row Seat

As continuing education of my Pastoral Counseling certification, I am attending a conference at the New England Institute of Addiction Studies.....

I love to do new things. Whether it be a new book, or a new project, or a new class, or job, or hobby, or cause, or friendship, or house or.. see the pattern? I just love the feeling that the beginning of something new gives you. The feeling of freshness, excitement, unlimited potential and of strength and passion. The beginning of something new is like having a fresh page in life, beautifully blemish free and just waiting for me to write upon it. I have enthusiasm for doing things, but it often comes with a cost.

My enthusiasm for doing things and doing things well, has served me nicely in life. In the past, I have been told that I have a 'great work ethic' or that I have natural ability to succeed. In some cases, with what was perceived as very little effort, I have become a top achiever, or most efficient, or fastest, tallest, strongest - whatever 'est' applied to that particular endeavor. The problem lies within the statement 'with what was perceived as very little effort', because this perception was not my reality.

For as long as I can remember, I have had very little self-confidence. Yet, deep down inside, I always knew I could or would complete my objective. I have never lacked in determination. In school, I always sat in the very front (still do to this day), not because I thought of myself as a smarty pants or teacher's pet, but the complete opposite; I sat there so that perhaps the teacher might call on a student that was seemingly not paying as close as attention as I was. Sometimes, it worked. Even though I was always more than prepared for my lessons, I always had a nagging doubt that I was not as prepared as everyone else, or as smart as everyone else. My records showed that I was an exceptional student, I just never felt like I was one.

This feeling of just not quite measuring up to everyone else has plagued me my entire life. Because of this feeling, I have put tremendous pressure on myself to plan for, prepare for and be the best that I could be at just about everything I have applied myself to. This is probably an acceptable formula for success in certain careers in life such as a professional athlete or something; just not for the typical stay at home mom!

I have done a lot of self-examination to discover the true roots of my wanting to people please, of being a 'yes' person and one who cringes at the thought of hurting someone's else feelings. I have wondered so many times why do I take on more responsibilities than I need to, why do I always push to the front of the pack instead of finding peace just cruising in the middle? Who are these 'invisible judges' that I am always trying to satisfy?

Of course, the answers lie deep in my childhood, the environment that I was raised in. I am living the life of a breast cancer survivor now, and I lived the life of a survivor then. After my mother passed away of cancer when I was just 12, my younger sisters and I were raised by an absentee, alcoholic father. He tried the best he could with what he knew how to do. The result for me was that I was mature beyond my years and learned to fake it until I made it. I did not learn how to do things, I was forced to do things. My skills in life came from life itself.

In the past two years, through a terrific Women's Adult Children of Alcoholics Group, I have learned the answers to why I have responded to situations the way I do and think the way that I think.
Due to being raised in a dysfunctional household I have an overdeveloped sense of responsibility and I often have guilt feelings when I stand up for myself instead of giving into others. I judge myself often quite harshly and I tend to be an approval seeker and try to keep peace in situations that are sometimes out of my control. Are these particularly bad traits to have? Not always... I tend to think that they help me to also be a kind person, willing to help another, and  person that you can count on. One thing I do know for sure... things (quirks) about myself sure make a lot more sense to me now!

So why am I sharing this now?

 Because I am sitting in the front row of a classroom, waiting for class to begin (I am early, of course) and some of those nagging feelings of inferiority are beginning to rise. Fortunately, I now have the tools to reroute my thinking. It is ironic that the topic of this course is "Effects of Parental Alcoholism on Adolescents". Despite not having many letters after my last name representing various degrees, I will probably be at the top of my class!


For more information go to www.adultchildren.org

Roadblocks, Potholes and Detours

Komen Race For the Cure 2015

I was honored to speak at the Race For The Cure in Bushnell Park on Saturday!


Hi Everyone and welcome to the 2015 Komen CT Race For the Cure! What an amazing, beautiful day that we have for this incredible event. Each year I am so amazed at the selfless time and energy all of you give of yourselves to help find a cure for breast cancer.. I personally thank you!

Yesterday, I celebrated 17 years of being a present cancer survivor! For 15 of those 17 years, I have been fighting Stg. 4 metastatic cancer. It is truly a miracle and I am so blessed and grateful to be here today.

When Anne Morris of Komen asked me to speak at this years' Race, I was thrilled! But believe it or not, I was almost not able to be here today. I just got out of the hospital a few days ago; I had been there for five days. I had an infection in my abdomen related to my treatments and I was really, really sick. It was a big roadblock that almost prevented me from being here today.

Looking back on the unpredictability of this past week, I began to think about all of the roadblocks and detours that I have come up against while fighting cancer. The biggest roadblock came with the words "Kimberly, you have breast cancer." Life, as I knew it, stopped right there. It didn't matter that I was 34 and had a husband and a newborn and a toddler. The path that my life had been following, and that I thought I had a lot of control over, hit a major roadblock and I now had to take a different direction. And what a direction it has been!

It has been a road filled with over 40 surgeries, or, my 'potholes' as I like to call them. My road has had major detours such as open heart surgery and repeated life threatening infections. And my husband and I have certainly paid the tolls at the toll booths on my cancer journey - enormous amouts of money for my healthcare. I used to believe that my breast cancer was a roadblock to living a full and happy life. Not anymore!

Instead, having cancer has made me the recipient of an untold number of blessings. Breast cancer has led me on an exciting journey to develop a spiritual life that has tremendous depth and meaning to me. Having breast cancer has also taught me the valuable lessons of courage, perseverance, compassion, grace and peace. And the road named cancer has led me to countless new acquaintances and deep friendships.

What type of person would I have turned out to be if I wasn't diagnosed with cancer 17 years ago? I'm not sure... But after spending so much time with my friends in pink, I have come to realize that there is 'something'... 'something' very special about these courage women, that I now have, too. I know that I am a better person because of cancer.

My breast cancer journey has taken me on a new and exciting career path, too! It led me back to school and earlier this year, I completed my certification as a Pastoral Counselor. I am now living my passion by being able to help other women overcome their challenges in life, by implementing the lessons that I have learned. Hopefully, I can make their journey down the highway of life, a little less bumpy!

So that roadblock that jumped in my path earlier this week?... well I blew right though it!

And now all of our seperate roads have led us here, to the Race For the Cure! Have a great day today and make sure that when you run or walk later, that you do it in the "pink fast lane"!!

Seventeen and Counting!

I had to change the title of my blog today. Had to change it from Sixteen Years Of Pink to Seventeen Years of Pink. Any guess how come? You betcha, one more pink ribbon has been added to my Survivor cap! 

Seventeen years... that's crazy, right? I have been fighting breast cancer for one third of my life.
Wowza!

Coincidentally, I am giving a speech tomorrow at the opening ceremonies for the Komen CT Race For the Cure. The Race is always held the first weekend in June, so I have enjoyed being in the company of thousands of people celebrating breast cancer survivors and raising money to help find a cure, on the anniversary of my survivorshop. A big, pink party just for me! Well, not really..

I remember my first Race for the Cure. At that time, it was held in another town and in May. At the Race, each survivor receives a pink hat and a pink ribbon is placed on the brim of the cap to represent how many years of survivorship she has.  I received just a cap; no pink ribbons for me...yet.

I remember looking around the park and taking a mental inventory of the number of pink ribbons on the caps. Lots of brand new survivors, with one or two ribbons and large numbers of women with three to ten ribbons. It then began to get a bit harder to find the women with lots of ribbons, the women with fifteen and greater years of survival. But they were there, just not as many as I would have liked to have seen. Occassionally, I would see the remarkable woman whose brim was overflowing with ribbons and my heart would swell. "Oh God, please let me be one of those women"!

That first race for me, in 1999, I was just an observer of the 5k race. In January, 2000, after all of my chemo had been completed, I underwent a bilateral mastectomy. In March of that same year, I decided that I wanted to run in the Race For the Cure instead of just watching. One small thing stood in the way of me crossing the finish line: I wasn't a runner.

I grabbed my sneakers (used for gardening) and began running. Very slow. I ran while Tessa was at preschool, pushing a jog stroller that I borrowed from a friend, with Torrie bucled in. There was no magic formula with my running, I basically just ran farther than I did the day before. I found out what the actual course layout was and would haul Torrie, the jog stroller and myself out to the streets and run. Very slow. Two days prior to the Race, I still had not run 3.1 miles. I was praying that adrenaline would kick in on race day and help me cross the finish line. Unbelieveably, my strategy worked. And more unbelievably, I finished in less than 30 minutes; a lofty goal for someone post surgery that had only been running for 8 weeks!

I was just tickled pink with myself - tee hee! But what happened next was really going to shake up my life. At the Survivor Breakfast, there were several gifts that were to be given away via raffle.
Among them, was an all-expense paid, 4 day trip to Washington, DC to participate in the National Race For the Cure, and attend a party at Vice President Gore's home. Bet you can't guess who won?!
Um hmm. So what turned out to be a one-time running event, became two. The next month, I was running down the Mall.. and my time was 26:30.

So with three months of running under my belt, I made big decision: I was going to run a Marathon. The Walt Disney Marathon. In January. Six and a half months away. Stop laughing.

So I kept my fool proof training formula the same, just run farther and farther. Seriously, I did do some research and came up with a good plan to achieve a solid base, and alternate short and long run days. I had a blast training. I had such a sense of accomplishment each week, because I was getting stronger, running faster and running farther. In January, 2001, I completed my first marathon.
And my last.

Since that first Race For The Cure in 2000, I have always

been involved with Komen. I chaired the Survivor breakfast in 2004 and chaired the entire Race in 2005. I also participated in the Komen 3Day, 60 mile walk in D.C. with my two younger sisters.

In short, I have had a ball being a breast cancer survivor and being associated with Komen.

And tomorrow morning...

the brim of my cap will be filled pink ribbons!

The Best Way Is The Hardest Way

It is so good to be home after my four day stay at the spa, oops I mean, hospital. My mental "gratefulness list" has been growing all day.  Among some of the items on the list: my own nightgown that covers me appropriately, a large cup of freshly brewed coffee, soft toilet paper, wash cloths and towels, views from my windows, BRAVO T.V., uninterrupted sleep, my family, and of course, my mini-doxies Bella and Brutus. Sometimes being yanked from your ordinary life makes you really grateful for what you have each day.

I was asked a couple of different times today by friends calling to check up on me, "what keeps your faith so strong when things like this happen?". As I was sharing my answer, I realized that this question has been asked of me many times and for many different reasons. Looking back over my 50 years, I have had my share of really difficult times, yet I still consider myself a 'glass is half-full' kind of gal. It has not always been easy and the ability to remain relatively optimistic during life's challenges is certainly something I have cultivated and nurtured in myself and still continue to do so.

Even as a young girl after my mother's death (she died of cancer at age 37, I was 12) and several years later after my father's suicide, in all of the grief and sadness, I had a survivor type mentality. I also had a firm belief in God even though I was not raised in a religious household. My desire to know God has been in my heart for as far back as I can remember. However, it has only been in the past few years that I have learned to be accepting of and follow, God's Will, not mine.

When I arrived at the hospital Friday evening and realized that I had a bad infection that was causing even more pain, fever, etc. of course my first reaction was: Are you kidding, God?!
(I have a really neat relationship with Him, so I can talk to Him that way!) There was definitely fear, hand wringing, exasperation and disbelief.
For a while.
Then I prayed.

I prayed for many things, like great doctors, solid diagnosis, pain relief, but most importantly, I prayed for acceptance; acceptance of God's Will for me. God's Will for me was not to suffer or be sick, I am sure. But, I have cancer (not caused by God either) and because of that, I have many related health problems resulting from having cancer for 16 years (Blessing! Not dead!). These health problems are going to surface unannounced and when I am least expecting them. God gives me the strength and grace to handle my problems - when I turn to Him. I also pray that I will be made aware of the lessons that I am to learn while enduring my problems. And each time I have a huge challenge, my belief in God and the belief that He is caring for me and protecting me goes to a much deeper level. Much spirituallity as a whole, is taken to new depths.

To expect God to answer my prayers, I first had to convince myself of my need for Him. I had to give up control (of everything). Living by God's Will requires humility. I cannot have my plans all laid out and barrel straight forward, and at the same time be fully following God's plan for my life. This does not mean I just lay around waiting for things to happen, following God's Will requires discipline and commitment.  Sometimes remaining in my current situation (insert hospitalization, relationships, big decisions, etc) is really uncomfortable, but it doesn't mean that I disengage and allow things to fall apart around me. I must be patient. Sometimes, really patient. I also have to be brave and have courage, especially when I am being pressured to act a certain way. I have to be careful and not stop listening to God and start following others' advice instead.

This brings me to Faith. Truly believing that God has a purpose and a plan for my life means that I also accept that His timing is perfect and that sometimes my prayers are not answered "yes" or "no", but "not now". That is where the true waiting comes in. When I am facing a difficult situation like the past 4 days, I take great peace in the fact that God is strengthening me while I lean on Him. Since I have been home, I have come to the realization that many GOOD things came to me at the expense of being sick:
     1. I know I now have a pretty severe reaction to morphine. It was given to me in the ER and I had quite the reaction. So glad to have found this out now, because it was planned for me to be hooked to a morphine pump after my upcoming surgery. Yikes!
     2. Both of my surgeons were able to come together with me and discuss in detail with each other and me, my upcoming surgery. We are all on the same page. Trying to orchestrate that type of meeting in their offices would have been impossible.
     3. I stayed on the same floor that I will be recupperating on and got to meet the nurses that will be taking care of me. I am now walking into a familiar place and that helps my fears of the onknown a lot.
     4. I found out the room numbers to request, that have the best ocean view!

Following God's Will, in theory, seems like it would be the easiest thing to do, "You're the boss, I'll listen and do what you say".

But for me and my Type A, 'my way or the highway' personality, it is one of the hardest.

Coinkydinks? I think not...

After four days of great fun at Yale Hospital, it is time for me to pack up and head home. Actually, I'm scooting out of here as quickly as I can so that these docs of mine don't change their minds and keep me any longer!

What a crazy series of events! I went in for a procedure called a cystoscopy last Wednesday afternoon. It was explained to me that the invasive procedure probably stirred up my "hornets nest" of chronic infection where my mesh and pain is. By Thursday night, I had more tenderness in my belly than normal, but only gave it a fleeting nod. On Friday morning however, I was much more uncomfortable and started getting a bit concerned. I kept questioning myself was I really feeling something different, had I done anything different to cause more pain? I began to think I should call my doctor. The back and forth banter began inside my head: "It's nothing, you're just imagining things", "You don't want to drive all the way down to Yale ER, on a FRIDAY night, and have it be nothing", blah, blah, blah. Suddenly, I had a sense of purpose and calmness come over me and I knew I had to call my doctor and was instructed to go to the hospital.

Being the professional hospital goer that I am, I did the most important before heading to Yale: I took a good long shower, shaved my leggies, washed my hair, etc. You never know how long it will be until your next shower in the hospital. I also packed my toothbrush, extra undies, hairbrush and phone charger; all of the necessities.

In the 45 minutes that it took us to drive to New Haven, I got worse. Really worse. My abdomen started swelling and the pain spread across my belly and around to my back. I also started running a fever. I was sick, it was infection.

I've been told by several people that I got here just in time. Back to that feeling of purpose and calmness... I have had this experience more than a few times in the past several months. I have come to recognize it and respect it. I also now listen to it with little hesitation. These are my God Moments.

I used to describe myself as having really keen intuition. I now describe myself as a spiritually fit person. I pray for guidance and strength and I receive them. I then act upon the answers I receive.

 That is called having faith.

I have Faith.

Amen.