Update- June 21, Cheryl’s reconstructive surgery (phase one).
Yesterday was Cheryl’s last round of chemo! 4 treatments in all over the last few months.
Other than anti-estrogen pills for a few years, we are finished with medical treatment. Even though there is a little nervousness from Cheryl about swimming in the deep end again, we agree that this is good. It’s time to remember our vow that we started with the day we found out she had cancer: we trust you Jesus. We also plan to change the types of food we eat, return to some good old fashioned exercise, and breathe in life together! We all are very excited to begin the next chapter. I created the pictures below in an attempt to participate in the Ecclesiastes statement “a time to mourn and a time to celebrate”. We’ve done a fair share of mourning, but that’s not this post.
Every printed word of celebration is a paralleled prayer for our friends in a cancer battle. We don’t make light of that. While there are no guarantees in life, we choose not to hold onto the word “remission” but rather “healing”. I hope you enjoy these pictures (some you’ll have to look a little harder for the message than others). We’d love to know which one is your favorite. If you want to give feedback, simply click “submit” at the top or comment of Facebook if you linked over…
We would like to say again how much we love and appreciate all of you. Going through this with you all as our support is a blessing. We are so honored to know and love you. We are ready to begin the next chapter with you, whether we know you directly or indirectly. So I’ve rebooted the blog design to allow it to be a little more interactive (the “Ask Me Anything” and “Submit” tab at the top). As always, I am the supporting character in a great story about a beautiful woman and an amazing God.
Disclaimer: Lots of metaphors ahead…
In Greek mythology, a king, Sisyphus, lived by his own rules. He took what he wanted, said what he wanted, acted how he wanted. He was also arrogant and crafty. I’ll cut to the chase: these traits unraveled his privileged life. Busted for his trickery, Persephone sentenced him to an eternity of pushing a large boulder uphill in a sick cycle of frustration. Every time he approached the top, the boulder would roll back down the hill. Sisyphus would then descend, and start the push all over again.
I feel like Sisyphus. I feel I’ve done enough wrong in my life that I probably deserve to push an extremely heavy rock uphill, looped over and over again. If it sounds like I’m moping or feeling sorry for myself, you might be right. Some days I feel like it’s not a big deal, but other times, it doesn’t feel great. There has been depression in this house this week. That’s just honest. The chemo boulder has been pushed uphill 3 times, coming up on 4, this Thursday. And then they are going to take away that boulder. But a new one will replace it: surgery. I thought that one would only have to be pushed uphill once, maybe twice. According to Dr. Tarola, our plastic surgeon, there will be 3 different phases of reconstructive surgery. The third week of June, the first outpatient surgery takes place. Though we won’t stay overnight at the hospital, Cheryl’s surgery will require the expected recovery time, about 2-3 weeks. Dr. Tarola is going to put a tissue expander in her. Late in the fall, after it’s pushed her skin out, phase 2 happens. He’ll take the expander out, and put the implant in. Phase 3 won’t even happen until 2013.
Do you see? Still pushing heavy rocks uphill, maybe even two at at time: multiple surgeries and anti-estrogen therapy. Push, push, push. I didn’t really expect to feel like Sisyphus. I thought the cycle would be broken sooner. Afterall, we were told months ago, after Cheryl’s mastectomy, that the cancer in her breast and lymph nodes was successfully removed and there was no sign of any more. Further tests only revealed better news. Bone scan, PET scan, mutation gene testing. The results were exactly what we wanted. I started to think that we were approaching the end. But this week, we were educated about Plan B plastic surgery, since Cheryl’s original surgery included lymph node removal. So 3 phases of surgery spread out over a year AND 5 years of anti-estrogen therapy is not really what I want. On paper, I see that the rock pushing will still come to an end. It’s not forever though it feels that way now.
But now I’m going to tell you what I hate worse than pushing this boulder. It’s the fact that I’m not the only one pushing and my rock weighs considerably less than my partner’s. Cheryl is pushing hers with her body and with her mind, and it’s very, very heavy. And I can’t push it for her. Chemo never made her vomit like in the movies. Instead, it just broke her spirit. Altered her mind. Depleted her strength. Her brain is a friend one day and an enemy the next. If she teaches, albeit for only a half day, she can hardly walk all the way down to the front office. So we plan our outings accordingly, just one or two things and then home. I was pretty naive about the effect on the brain and the massive drop in energy level.
I don’t want this anymore for Cheryl. As I said earlier, if I compared myself to the story of Sisyphus, I at least feel like I can relate to the fact that I deserve this on some level. Cheryl does not. But it’s just a stupid story. Our story is still being written. Though this entry seems gloomy, we know that we are intended for more. Cheryl won’t just be a cancer survivor, or me just the spouse of one, or our kids just the children of that. Maybe it’s not over yet because God knows we would have run back to creature comforts too soon for our own good. We’d forget the cycle of pushing. Maybe. I really don’t know. No theology here just speculation. I know this: I don’t want to forget this, not ever. And I sure want it to count. I love Cheryl even more than I hate cancer. But I’m okay with her learning a hard lesson if it means her story is going to be made great as a result. I won’t be surprised by whatever results in her, she’s so amazing. Lives are being touched but it won’t compare. I can’t wait to see where we go from here.
White Page. This is the new music video from my friend, Tanya Godsey, from her album Telling Time. Cheryl and I believe it is no accident that I was asked to be the editor for the video. I was asked only a couple of weeks before we learned about Cheryl’s breast cancer. Cheryl had been asking, “What story will I tell with my life?” The song explores various redemptive stories penned by God. Every day for the Wilkinsons right now is a new opportunity, a white page. What will you write on yours?
Our friend Emily created a playlist for Cheryl. I called it “While We Wait”. One of the songs by Christy Nockels, Healing Is In Your Hands, inspired this allegory short I just finished. The lyrics to the song are also posted below the story. I hope you enjoy it.
The crowd had grown so large that counting bodies would be like counting the stars. It was no longer pitch black. The sky was lighter now, and the people seemed excited by this. They were all standing again, shuffling around, talking to one another, eagerly expecting. The loud voices echoed off the canyon walls. The husband wondered for a moment where they had all come from. He’d already met a couple from Nags Head in the Outer Banks, an elderly gentleman from Manchester, England and a family from Auckland, New Zealand. He quickly looked again to the East, directly toward the mouth of the canyon, the only opening. He thought for a moment about how much easier it would be for a cowboy in this place to retrieve a wild horse. He turned to look to the back of the crowd to see if he could spot his wife. She must be sitting now, maybe even lying down. She had become so weak. Though he was certain she was being taken care of, he would need to check on her in a moment. Suddenly, lightning struck the center of the sky accompanied by thunder. Some rock loosened and fell from the massive formations. Had the ground shaken as well? The husband’s mind began racing as he began pushing through the crowd toward his wife. The sea of people felt never ending. As he progressed he recalled a recent conversation with his father. “I don’t know how long we’ve been here”, he had said to his dad. “Have you ever thought about leaving?” His father smiled. “This is no ordinary box canyon,” he said. “It’s special, son. People enter, and time stands still for them. Some call it the Waiting Room. They all come for the same reason. They want to know if the legend is true. When people enter, they join others in the dark to begin their journeys of hope for light. They wait to see it shine through the opening of this canyon, because it’s the only place still untouched by the sun. But some eventually leave. They’re afraid they’ve wasted years in this place. Back to their lives. Back to their own version of time and hope and light. Your mother and I have been here a very long time. We’re glad you’re here too.” The husband’s pace quickened. He was no longer polite as he was almost shoving his way toward the back of the crowd. He had to get to his wife. He was sure that the lightning and thunder were just the prelude. Next came a deafening sound, unlike anything he’d ever heard. It was an alert. People covered their ears and buckled just enough that he could move even faster to the back. He could see her now. She was being helped up by her sister and friends. It was a beautiful thing to see all of them together, the parents, the siblings and their families, their close friends, and every extended family member, all standing by her. As the crowds began to shout with joy, he finally felt warmth on his back. He stopped and turned again to the eastern wall opening. The rising sun had burst into the canyon with a magical orange. The temperature shot up at least 10 degrees. The husband fixed his eyes on the middle of the sunrise. It was hard to make out at first, but through the dancing and shouting crowd, he began to see a very striking image. A silhouette of a man walking before the sun. As he became more visible, it was obvious he was not alone. Following him was what seemed to be an army of angels. The deafening sound returned, this time like the largest brass section of a symphony ever assembled. Deep, rich tones turned to music, an anthem. An old woman next to him began rubbing her wrinkled hands and said, “they don’t hurt anymore. It’s him!” The husband looked at the man, still very far off, enter through the mouth of the box canyon. The anthem was suddenly matched by the celebratory shouts of the people. It was like a party, no, a homecoming. The husband ran to his wife. When he reached her, she told him she would have to wait awhile to see him. She was so beautiful. More than ever. She was completely bald now, her body overrun by all the medicine. With tears in his eyes, he scooped her up into his arms. “No more waiting.” He began to run with her in his arms as she cradled her head deep into his neck and shoulders. It should have been difficult to pass through the crowd but the husband never felt a single elbow from another person. Starting to perspire, he wondered how long until he could get a good look at the man who had returned. He wondered only for a moment. He had been running so fast, he almost ran directly into him. Only then did he realize that the man must have run to him as well. The canyon was full lit now. The husband helped his wife to stand but before he could say a word, the man reached for her and pulled her into his chest. As he embraced the wife, she disappeared into illumination. The warm light pierced the high canyon walls as they crumbled to the ground in an instant. Shouts of exclamation were heard though the blinding light revealed no evidence of the people. As the canyon dust started to settle, so did the light exposure and the husband saw the man release her. The husband felt the hands of his children join his. His two sons and daughter had joined him now. Their eyes filled with tears because they could see that their mother was no longer bald, she was fully restored as mother and wife. She stood on her own now. As she reached for her husband’s hand, he noticed something strange. Though the man who had returned stood before them, no matter where the husband looked around him, he could see this man standing also with every other man, woman, and child. A blind woman saw her husband for the first time. An invalid child was hopping with other children. A sad, lonely old man was laughing with a friend. And they were all with this man in this moment. The husband looked at the man. “You brought the sun with you,” he said. The man put his hands on the husband’s shoulders and looked deep into his tear filled eyes. He began to touch the tears with his finger. Each tear he touched was a memory shared between the husband, the wife, the children, and this gentleman. The memory of the husband’s 40th birthday when she said the mammogram didn’t go well. The memory of the painful biopsy. The memory of the longest day of their lives when the surgery didn’t go as planned. The moments of benevolence from family and friends. The first chemo treatment. The day the boys shaved their heads. The day she lost hers under the razor. The days where she couldn’t even walk because of the bone pain. The good news of shorter treatment and the hope of full recovery. Each tear connected to a visceral memory and was fully shared with this gentleman. He kissed the children and they began to laugh with him. The husband and wife knew that, in this place, sadness was gone. Cancer and sickness were gone. And they didn’t know if this was happening in heaven or on earth. But they knew the waiting was over.
The music that inspired me to write “The Box Canyon” allegory short.
We recently had a visit from our friend Tim. He was in town for work but came in early last weekend to catch up with us and see Cheryl. While here, we all spent an evening with another old friend from Colorado, Kyle, who’d come to Nashville for a conference. It was a great reunion for all of us.
Tim’s mother Sue made a prayer quilt and she had Cheryl’s good friend Melissa, Tim’s wife, prayer over it and send it on to us. When Tim arrived, we wanted to take a picture to remember the special time.
It was a toss up regarding who had more fun, Tim or the kids. They were often laptop buddies.
And the week ended with fantastic news. After Cheryl had blood drawn to test whether or not she had the “mutation gene”, we received the results back that she did not. The fear of cancer ever coming back was significantly lessened.
We continue to be grateful, blessed, receive and give love.
When I began this blog, I simply wanted to update a mass amount of family and friends because there was so much information coming in. It was difficult to communicate well otherwise. Then it became therapeutic, for me specifically. I had an opportunity to shine a light on my wife and point out her quiet acts of beauty as well as purge the thoughts in my head. Now, it is my intent to spread hope to those who grieve the loss of something. Jay and I have had several conversations when we go backpacking about grief. I cannot speak of grief in hard terms of loss. Loss that is severe. Loss that is swift. Freak accidents. Unexpected tragedy. Inside of my house or the house I grew up in, life was pretty stable. So if you’ve lost someone close and dear to you, I have no insight into that kind of grief, but bless you.
The grief that I’ve come to know jumps back and forth between the different stages. Cheryl is obviously still with me. But there has been a loss. We’ve together as a family grieved the loss of mobility, spontaneity, physical attributes, and other things. Cheryl has grieved the loss of being able to daily take care of her 3 children more than the loss of breast or hair. So some days life is good. Some days it’s bad. Those different experiences make the grief jump around from anger to sadness to depression, etc. We have friends who’ve gone through so many more rounds of chemo and yet after only two, Cheryl’s over it and so am I. When I sit next to my wife and look at her laying on the couch, sometimes invalid, what comes to my mind is, “there’s just nothing I can do for her.” Grief is unstable as I’ve experienced it. It doesn’t stay the same. It revisits at odd times. It kills momentum. It gets in your head. I actually thought that I’d experience grief in separate stages, one time each, and be done with it. Through this experience I’ve learned it’s not that way. That triggered another thought. What else have I learned that I can share? Here’s a few thoughts for whatever it is worth to you:
Those are my thoughts for now. Cheryl says “I love you and thank you.” Jesus claimed the victory over everything including Cheryl’s cancer on the cross. Death then has no sting. Blessings to you and yours and Happy Easter.
