peonies

Peonies don't really grow in Texas but they became my favorite flower a few years ago when I spent the afternoon with a friend on a hillside in Germany where they grew beautiful and semi-wild. The conversation that day was about our marriages and our children, friendship and life, duty and joy. It was a holy place for me then and now in my memory. 

These days when I've needed a little bit of a quiet and holy spot I've gravitated to a funky florist shop in Austin, converted from a gas station, where there's a walk-in cooler full of flowers. Almost always there are peonies. I feel sure the guys who work behind the counter roll their eyes and think, "there she is AGAIN" when I slip in the front door. But they don't bother me while I stand in the cooler. This florist is near a large hospital so I doubt I am the only one who comes in and weeps among the blooms.

The cooler and the glider beside my pool in the backyard, the week-day empty hallways of my church and the inflatable bed where I am sleeping are my private holy places. The more public ones are just as precious. Holding hands with friends over a meal. The sink in our master bathroom.  The grocery aisles, the waiting rooms. The park where I watch the child of a friend. The kitchen counter full of medicine bottles. The car where Emily and I talk as we drive. My office, the yogurt shop, the drug store.  

All these places are somehow holy as we navigate this season of healing. The only sure thing in the ebb and flow of these painful days is that grace meets us in each place, public and private. 

Terry is improving in many ways, still has a way to go in others. He has an amazing attitude and sense of humor, is patient and positive, full of courage and hope while I can often be found heading for the peony cooler. I was thankful for my husband that day on the German hillside, I am even more so now. Is it just that our hearts are so tender, just that we are so grateful? If so, I want to stay aware of these holy spaces and hours, not to forget.

God is good and faithful. I am pretty sure He made peonies. 

10 days post treatment

Terry's beverage of choice these days, well, really his meal of choice -Promised Land Midnight Chocolate Milk. If you've never indulged you should splurge and give it a try. One cup = 240 calories via the 'divine bovines' in Floresville, Texas.

We're thinking about food a lot at our house, though no eating is yet taking place. Terry watched cooking shows all afternoon on Sunday instead of the Olympics. It encouraged me no end. Some day we will cook and eat again at our house.

Today makes 10 days post treatment. Last week was very, very difficult  - Terry was unable to drink much of anything. We took him to the infusion lab Wednesday and Friday to tank up on a couple of liters of fluids and anti-nausea meds. We stayed very low and quiet. One of us cried some, one of us was brave. We believe he has 'turned the corner' towards recovery. Today he just needed one liter of fluid and is looking and feeling some better. Big thanks to those divine bovines.

The radiation burns on his neck and face are healing - they are itchy and feel like a really harsh sunburn. His throat is at about a pain level of 7 most of the time, the nausea is about a 5 with medication. He is consistently loosing weight for the first time since treatment began, so of course is feeling weak. His hair is mostly gone, but bald is cool. Other assorted side effects are slowly waning. Those are about all the details I am allowed to share. 

Know we are feeling loved and cared for by all your sweet messages in texts and emails, thoughtful packages and silly gifts. Know we are finding solid ground under our feet each day. Know we are following the example of many of you who have gone before us and shared your stories of suffering and healing. Know we are finding joy each day in small and unexpected ways. Know we are winning most of those skirmishes which happen between our ears. Know we are hearing the Voice we most long to hear daily. 

That's me with the royal We again. But I am right. Terry is amazing. Be impressed with him. And thankful with us for chocolate milk.

God is good and faithful.    

just a crack or two...

Sometimes I read Leonard Cohen's poems from a beat up paperback I picked up from the $1 bin at Half Price Books. I won't pretend to understand them, but I like to think about them. 'Anthem' is one of my favorite meditations because it has these lines -  'there is a crack, a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in.'


We're feeling pretty broken and cracked. They said these would be the hardest days, and they have been. Terry's body is taking the last beating chemo and radiation have for him. He, again, has responded with courage and faith. I am so proud of him. As much as I hate watching him suffer I am trusting that every cancer cell is being decimated. I am trusting that every minute of treatment and each day of pain will have been productive and that in a few months the PET scan report will be completely clean and he will be cancer free.


In June last year I wrote a post called 'my ideal woman' about a friend called Julie M and her husband. I had no idea. In the year since they have fought the fight valiantly, loved one another well, trusted and prayed, talked and listened, lived lives of example and sacrifice before their daughters and friends, and they've become even more broken. 



In my cracked-ness a few weeks ago I texted her, "Julie, how do you do it?" and her answer was, "Trudy. I pray like crazy. All the time." 


I believe her in a whole new way. I am living in the the light shining from her life.



As the hero at our house has suffered mightily this week the hero at their house has been moved to ICU. And barring a miracle their battle will be over sooner than anyone wants. 
                                                                                                            
The light is in their broken pots and is illuminating a path for us. Terry and me ... and you.


Fight valiantly your fight, whatever it is. Love well. Trust with every fiber. Be cracked. Welcome light. Give it back.

Thank you a million times for your sustaining kindness and prayers for Terry and me, for Stephen and Emily. 


Would you pray too, even if you don't know them, for Scott and Julie, Madison and Ashley? 


God is good and faithful. 

One last time...

It was a slow and quiet day in the chemo lounge. Here's the sweet faced angel who looked down on Terry all day - the others walked around in scrubs.  Here's the last bag of cisplatin (please God) to ever drip into his vein. 


Many prayers were answered. His blood work was great, his weight was stable. The day was quiet and uneventful. Terry slept on and off for several hours. We were finished by 4:30, Terry wanted, and ate half, a bowl of miso tofu soup on the way home.


There were new drugs. A patch for nausea and another for pain, plus a liquid pain med so he won't have to swallow pills while it hurts so much. 


Both the radiology and medical oncologists expressed their amazement at how well he is doing, how thankful they are he hasn't had many of the side effects which are possible, how pleased they are with treatment so far...and they then give warnings. This last treatment week and then the next 7-10 days will be the most difficult - the pain won't be over on Friday, we won't know the outcome of treatment for weeks and even months. The radiation burns on his neck won't heal for several weeks, the ones in his throat for 4-6 weeks, he won't taste or have salivary gland function for months, his hearing may continue to be affected, lack of energy is expected, his immune system is still fragile...


We listen, then smile and turn the volume down of their words in our heads. We know. It is still going to be hard for a while. Smoothies are going to be the main course for several weeks. We're gonna need drugs and the alternative therapies we've chosen to help out for a while. There are still going to be moments when things are very difficult. I'm still going to cry, he's still going to suffer and be brave and strong, weak and dependent all at the same time. We know.


Every day has had sufficient grace. Every minute we've felt Beloved and loved. Not once have we felt alone or abandoned. Exhausted and terrified a few times, but not alone. We are fighting, and being fought for. There is nothing to do but to live fully in this season, to learn to be loved and known here. It's the paradox of 'this is so terrible' and 'how can I be anywhere else?'.


Your prayers are our strength, friends. Thank you. 


God is good and faithful.

"We must believe....

...that what makes us vulnerable makes us beautiful to God and dangerous to the enemy." I've been wrestling with this sentence since I read it.

Vulnerable. Beautiful. Dangerous. 

We are so vulnerable. Terry's immune system. Our hearts toward one another and to the words and deeds of others. Our ears to the very still, quiet Voice. 

There is much beauty. Terry's determination to finish treatment well, his will to serve others each day, his patience in significant pain. Our kids and their quiet attention. Our friends and their varicolored care. Our families and the ways their love is expressed. I think I am seeing glimpses of what God sees in people. The fellowship of suffering is beautiful. 

Terry's weakness is dangerous - I see it in his eyes, I watch it come alive in his actions. I wouldn't mess with him if I had a motive less than pure these days. Not that he would hurt you, but looking closely at who he is will stop you in your tracks. I try not to be, but I am a little dangerous in much less effective ways. I implore strangers in smoking areas to stop. I resolutely ask socially awkward questions. I beg friends to not abuse substances or themselves. I find myself pressing those I love toward wholeness - hard. 

But words are regularly more illusive. I don't really have any for the girl with the multi-pierced face and the multi-sliced arms in the yogurt shop. None for the guy in the time slot before Terry at radiation who comes out looking more not-real than real. Zero for the car repair guy who tells me about his wife's breast cancer. Nothing when a friend cries over his daughter's anorexia. All my words seem under the enforced and captive teaching of this season - instead I find myself hugging and patting. And in ever-present empathetic tears.  

You can laugh, if you know me well. Me without words IS funny. But you had better be careful as well - because I am also less afraid and more dangerous to that which is not true. It's possible I might hug you or I might say to you what I haven't before because I now see you more clearly in your vulnerability and in your beauty. You and your story are powerful and too needed to not be acknowledged. You are even more precious and I love you even more. 

One more chemo - Monday. Five more radiation days - Monday through Friday. Friday is Terry's birthday. The light at the end of the tunnel is growing larger. Please continue to pray for Terry in these last treatment days.


God is good and faithful. 

tech support

A year or so ago Terry spent some very frustrating hours trying to fix a computer problem. He finally called tech support. The helpful guy on the other end of the phone spent another long while with him and - success - whatever didn't work now worked. Terry affirmed the techy guy, told him how much he appreciated the listening ear and the care he'd taken with our problem, he'd done a great job, thanks a bunch. Bye. 


The techy guy responded,"Your words today, they have made me truly joyful." 


You know no American ever said that. It was great. 


We say that to one another at our house now. On very specially thankful occasions. Terry wrote it in a text to me today ...


Terry: On my way to see Puff. (the Dragon = radiation)


Me: Ok babe, praying, you can do it!


.....30 minutes....


Terry: Got 'er done. On my way back to work. 


Me: Wonderful! Now two days off. Just 10 more to go...almost single digits! 


Terry: Your words, they are making me truly joyful.


Ten more treatment days. Terry is just able to eat/drink soup and smoothies these days. A liquid diet is somewhat a relief - no worries about trying to find something that tastes good when nothing tastes good. Just some lukewarm broth and several calorie-packed smoothies per day and we're done.


Terry works his usual half day tomorrow and then goes to bed for the remainder of the weekend - rest and recovery so he can make it through another work week. He is amazing, none of the doctors can believe he is still able to work. He is strong and brave...and really, really tired. 


Thanks so much, friends. Your prayers and good wishes, your thoughtful gifts, kind words and great smoothie recipes all this interminable week have been so sweet, they've buoyed and encouraged us immensely.


Your words, they've made us truly joyful.

the countdown

July, though it just started, seems to stretch out beyond the summer horizon. There are some hot and heavy days ahead. 


Terry has 15 more days of actual treatment over the next three weeks. Weekends he gets off for recuperation. 


Radiation is:
Monday though Friday the 9th - 13th, 
                                   16th - 20th, and the 
                                   23rd - 27th...which is his birthday. 


The last chemo is on Monday the 23rd. The nausea and other side effects I've mentioned are worse the 5-6 days after chemo and then they seem to lessen. They don't go away, but they get better. 


Radiation, which I haven't said much about, is very, very difficult. It's 13 minutes each day when Terry is strapped on his back, unable to move, with a tongue-depressor-like thing as far down his throat as he can get it without gagging and a 'shield' as big as a deck of cards in his mouth. (You don't want to envision this for very long.) Every day it is a challenge to enter 'the dragon'.


The side effects from radiation - very sore throat, 'sunburned' skin on his neck and face, no ability to taste or smell, dry mouth, inability to swallow, enormous difficulty eating, digestive troubles, pain -  are cumulative....that means the possibility of all these side effects getting even worst over the next 15 days is great.


Pause. Deep breath. Whatever our present circumstances we know ...


God is good and faithful. We. Know. 


These are our specific requests so you can pray:

• That Terry would know and experience the supernatural presence of the Lord each day - especially in the afternoons. (Radiation treatments are somewhere between 2:30 and 3:30PM.) 

• That the courage and strength he cries out for each day would be real and abundant. It's Terry's intention to finish treatment well. (The actual statistics of those who finish this particular treatment are abysmal. Unfinished treatment means an almost certain recurrence rather than a cure. We're DONE with cancer.)

• That every sacrificial moment of the chemo and radiation would be effective - that the growth and multiplication of cancer cells would be stopped and that every cancer cell would die.

• That the side effects would not worsen, but instead - ease. 

• That Terry's calorie intake each day would be stable and that weight loss would be minimal. (Avoiding a stomach/feeding tube.)

• That Terry would be encouraged instead of discouraged as he looks at the calendar. Those 15 days seem like forever at this point. 

To address the first 5 with us - just keep Terry in your thoughts and prayers. It matters, we feel the love and strength. 


To address the last one - we are making him a calendar with encouragement, jokes, promises, scripture.... just courage - for each of these last 15 treatment days. 


Would you like to take a day - and send encouragement for Terry? Send me what you would want me to write on his calendar for a specific, or just any day - and I'll make sure those are the words he hears and sees. It'll be on the mirror, in his pocket on a note card, in his journal, on a sticky note inside the dragon's belly...and on his heart by the end of the day I am sure.


Last week friends sent Terry a John Wayne mug - when you tip it up to drink you are able to read, "Courage is being scared to death - but saddling up anyway." He LOVES it, so don't feel like you've got to be serious!


Jokes, kind words, homemade soup, encouraging words, texts, emails. Prayers and scripture. A blanket made by strangers and sent from afar. A recording on our phone answering machine of the HITC staff singing. The Hargrave children praying for Mr. Terry from the other side of the planet. Our nieces and nephews, cousins, brothers and sisters, parents, friends old and new sending love, whacky advice, weird recipes, and even a wig - there's plenty we love about each day. 


All these things and many more help fill our hearts with good things even while they are so effectively emptied, daily, with the ugliness of cancer. 


Don't worry - we're planning on winning. Terry's life, my life, the life of our family will be a trophy, in the end, of the goodness of the Lord. 


Send something if it is on your heart. He'll be blessed. 


"I would have lost heart, unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait on the Lord; be of good courage, and He will strengthen your heart; wait on the Lord." Ps 27 - now there's a good one, somebody send me that one.