Shine On

In my family, December has always meant lights in the windows. 

Velvety thick red ribbon twisting up the staircase.  

Sending cards to friends and family, near and far.

And racing to the mailbox every evening.

And sitting at the top of the stairs with my brother, counting the seconds until we could go clamoring down to the tree.

December meant lighting Hanukkah lights with my Dad and reading our vast collection of Christmas books with my Mom.

December meant singing along to “John Denver and the Muppets” as we drove down to Baltimore. 

December meant giving. And cheer. And magic.

It’s no secret that I love December. 

(Minus the cold part. That goes without saying.)

But this year, December hasn't been exactly what I expected. 

And I know, I should be quite used to rolling with the unexpected. 

But this time, December played a harsh game of dodgeball, and the unexpected reached a new level. 

My dad had bilateral knee surgery, that was supposed to be easy…or as “easy” as repeat bilateral knee surgery can be. 

Goes without saying, it wasn't easy. 

And the recovery is slow, and painful, and frustrating.

Relying on others for rides and medicine for pain, is isolating and scary and majorly lacking in holiday cheer. 

Then out of left field, my mom was diagnosed with Endometrial Cancer, and is now prepping for a hysterectomy in early January. 

Boom. 

Nothing says “Happy Holidays" quite like a big ol' cancer diagnosis, yes?

And just for kicks and holiday giggles, my liver is inflamed.

And I’ve been benched from treatment. Again.

As much as I’d like to tell you otherwise, my family spent a good deal of December sitting in stunned shock.

We spent much of December in disbelief that our hopes for a 2014 free of surgeries and recoveries and drug protocols have gone swiftly down the drain, long before the ball has dropped on New Year’s Eve. 

I can honestly tell you that I ache for the days when my biggest stressor was sitting in traffic. Or getting a cold. Or the fear of sleeping through my alarm.

(Which, for the record, I have never, ever done.)

I didn’t really know how we were going to dig ourselves out of this slump of shocked, and really quite angry, disbelief. I felt helpless.

Where was our magic? Where was the spirit of the holidays? Where were our lights and cookie swaps and merriment?

And for the record, haven’t we already done this medical journey??

I mean, people, let’s be real here. I bought myself a tri-sectioned pill box as a holiday gift. Yes, they all begin with a P but this pill box is no puppy, nor is it a pony.

(Although in defense of my pill box, it is multi-colored! And has easy-open tabs for “elderly hands!”)

But ya know, I have to admit that when I stop and think about it, the true spirit of the holidays has never been more alive and magical.

Magic doesn’t always have to come in the form of boxes, and puppies, and bows.

The spirit of the holidays is about love, and giving, and holding close those we hold dear.

And in my family, we are blessed with those gifts in abundance.

The true magic of this December is the realization that without even trying, my family has become a well-oiled machine of leaning, and supporting, and loving. 

Magic is realizing that we aren’t doing this alone, and being filled with unending gratitude for our family and friends.

We are strong and we struggle, there are moments of ease and moments of frustration, but a strand of lights only illuminates a home when they all make the choice together to rise up, stand tall, and shine on. 

So this holiday season, we choose to reach out our hands and invite you to join us. And no matter what you may believe or what obstacle you are facing, I hope you will join us in the spirit of joy, and peace, and magic.

Rise up

Stand Tall

Shine on.

Merry Christmas.

Plot Twist

Friends!

I know, I know...I did it again.

That thing where I finally get back into blogging and it feels so wonderful to be writing and communicating again and then POOF.

Radio Silence.

Crickets.

White noise.

And all of a sudden it's December 7th and I haven't blogged in a month.

I want to apologize. 

And those who know me well, know that I am REALLY fighting back a very sincere "I'm sorry."

(Senior superlative in high school? Most Apologetic. Yep. That's right. Can't wait to brag about that one to my grandkids...)

So in my wise old age of thirty years, I'd like to cancel the "I'm sorry" oozing from my pores, and instead share my new motto:

Ahem.

(Clears throat. Prepares vocal chords. Drinks water.)

All together now...

PLOT TWIST!

Right. So remember my last blog post where I confided to the world that I was struggling a bit in the land in between? And how for the first time in my life I felt truly "ill?"

Turns out that wasn't exactly just an emotional feeling. Turns out my white cell count was ridiculously low and my liver was so inflamed that it was leaking liver enzymes all over my body.

Ya know, like if the washing machine chucked fistfuls of Tide everywhere EXCEPT the inside of the machine with all of the dirty laundry.

Oh and that subtle yellowish-pinkish glow in certain lights? 

Right. 

Not a glow.

Although based on the number of compliments I received on my skin tone, I'm thinking "Pre-Jaundice" is going to be THE most coveted blush color of the season.

In any event, I was benched from any and all treatment for a month. 

Yep, A MONTH. 

Initially I was less than pleased to be a month behind in treatment, but then I secretly (or maybe not so secretly to my darling husband) became a wee bit excited to feel semi human for four entire weeks!

We've reviewed how my tick friends have invaded my brain stem, yes?

Good, because maybe then you'll judge me a little bit less for having ridiculous moments of false optimism that I would feel super fantastic without a functioning liver and/or an adequate supply of white blood cells. 

[Insert yellowish-pink sheepish face here]

So I slept a lot. I'm talking 12 hour nights with 2 hour naps kind of a lot. I'm talking days when going up and down the stairs twice warranted a fist pump and a gold star. I juiced my veggies, took fistfuls of liver supplements, and if it wouldn't have taken me ten minutes to get up afterwards, I probably would have been down on my knees literally begging for this liver situation to be temporary. 

Luckily, after a month of rest and a visit to my friendly neighborhood phlebotomist, my liver earned a good report and my body returned to normal, err...its usual alien self. 

So I did the completely logical thing and celebrated by restarting the treatment that caused the liver problems in the first place. 

Right. 

Because that makes sense?

My doctor and I decided this was the best move. It wasn't an easy decision, but for better or for worse, the drug cocktail was working (remember the herxing? sick = working) and that's not something to be taken lightly. So I'll take a deep breath and try again. I'll throw all of my cards back in and see what we get, albeit a little bit more cautiously this time. Instead of doing two weeks of treatment followed by one week of rest, now I'll do two weeks of rest and hope that gives my body enough time to recover. 

It's a leap of faith. 

A scary, pull-the-rug-out-from-under-you, leap of faith.

I'm a health coach. I teach people to listen to their bodies as a profession. 

And yet, I'm completely ignoring mine?

I almost feel like a fraud.

But the more I've thought about it (and if you refer to my last post, you know I spend a LOT of time stuck in my brain), isn't EVERYTHING a leap of faith? Isn't everything in life about throwing all of your eggs in a basket with a splash of glitter and a whole lot of hope?

We think we can control so much. We plan and prepare and line things up and follow directions...but it's all just in the hopes that things will work out exactly as we expect them to. 

And so often they don't.

Despite our very best intentions and preparation, we get thrown off the cliff on an adventure that does not match the luggage we packed.

Bathing suit and flippers in Antarctica? Um, brr.

It's jarring.

And scary.

And sometimes it takes a while to find our sea legs, but we always do.

Because in the end, it's really just a plot twist, and you might as well hang on and make it a best seller.