Thursday, June 30, 2011

Usually, I'm at my most tired state about 7-10 days after chemo. It's called the nadir, or point at which your blood counts are at their lowest.

I don't think ICE is any different, but I feel like I've been run over by a truck. The world has a terrifying edge to it. I don't feel strong, don't feel much hope, seriously doubt my ability to deal effectively with all of this.

I pour out my heart and fears to my Father in prayer, but no tangible relief comes. Not sure what to do next, but it's time to head to work.

I'm in a fog. I'm aiming for survival only today. Just get through the day. "This will test even your strongest coping skills" plays over and over in the background corners of my mind. Will you please just shut up and go away?

Make it until it's time to catch the bus home. I don't feel strong enough or stable enough to even walk the 2.5 blocks to the bus stop. My brother-in-law, Mike, is gracious enough to agree to a short break from his work to drive me. Oh thank you!

Made it on the bus. Just have to keep it together for about an hour, when Dale picks me up from the bus stop. Whatever.

I would never take my own life. I trust Heavenly Father's plan way too much for that. I know the goals I'm working towards. I have, however, asked, repeatedly over the last few weeks, to bring me home if it's possible. I feel terrible even voicing that request, but he knows it's in my heart anyway.

Last time, I felt so safely tucked away into a pocket of faith and love from everyone around me--family, neighbors, ward, work. I remembered the blessing I had as a 7 year-old from my bishop and our home teacher and the promise of perfect health, that I would overcome. And I knew, with the perfect faith of a child, that I would. The promise felt as strong then as the day it was given.

Suddenly, I'm not so sure. Work is not prepared to deal with something like this. My manager is seeking comfort and support from me, not the other way around. Can those I love really be called again to face this test with me? Didn't I wear them out last time? Cancer can be pretty intimidating.

Does that blessing really apply to a third occurrence? It applied to radiation and chemo, of course. But a bone marrow transplant? In my doubting mind, it doesn't seem to cover that. "Even your strongest coping skills." Yeah, not that.

I feel like I'm just going through the motions of life without really participating in them. There's a black fog kind of hanging over me and everything around me.

Dale, did you have any impressions during the blessing that you're not telling me? Any dangers or traps ahead that I can't handle? No, he seems perfectly assured that we'll conquer this together also.

The fog continues on our ride back home.

I walk through our back door, and my heart literally stops for a few beats. What is this? There's a glimmer of hope. The fog disapates slightly.

There, on the table, is a beautiful vase of fresh flowers. Purple flowers. Purple mini mums or carnations, I think. Tied with a gorgeous green ribbon bow. What? There is still beauty in the world and it comes in such an exquisite purple color.

Where did the flowers come from? Jordan says they were dropped off by Natalie just before we got home. She's someone I visit teach. I should be doing this for her. Does she know how heartwarming and hopeful this seemingly small guesture is--today of all days? Thank you, Heavenly Father, for sending a small ray of hope back into my world. Thank you for reminding me that light and love and friendship still exist too. Oh, thank you.

I sleep very well that night.