It all started with a trip to the attic.  My sweet neighbor babysits pre-school kiddos and needed an extra booster seat for a short car ride.  We’ve saved most of our 8-year old son’s baby items in anticipation of his having one day having a sibling, so I offered to loan her our booster seat.  I found it easily.  It was tucked away along with a beloved t-ball set, high chair, and toddler car seat.  I took the booster seat to my neighbor’s home and then went upstairs to the  nursery – still filled with a white crib, chest, and bookcases long outgrown – echos of my baby boy who is a baby no more.

And then I did what I never should have done.  I went to the guest room and opened the drawers stuffed full of adorable very pink baby clothes.  These, of course, were not Ethan’s; they were to be his little sister’s.  In December of 2009, our adoption agency had made the call every adoptive parent to be hopes to receive.  And when we met the young woman still in her first trimester of pregnancy, we knew God had brought her into our lives.  She was attending the university that had just awarded me an honorary doctorate.  I felt a connection to this school that offers a second chance at an education to so many adult students.  And immediately, I felt an even deeper connection to her.  We talked for hours; she poured out her heart.  And my husband and I knew immediately our family would grow not only by one - the child she carried whom we planned to adopt - but also by four more – this young mother and her three children who would be a part of our lives forever.

Months later we went to her doctor’s appointments and got a DVD of her sonogram that revealed the grainy, glorious image of our little girl, the child my mother and I planned to dress in a plethora of pink - jumpers, dresses, onsies, bonnets.  My child would be born in June, but in April I got another call from the adoption agency – one that so many adoptive parents-to-be have gotten - one for which I should have been prepared.  But I wasn’t.  Our birth mother decided to keep the baby, and I was dumbstruck.  Over the months we had invested thousands of dollars, but more importantly we had made a deep emotional investment in this woman and her unborn child.  And I was unprepared.  I read the birth announcement in the paper in mid-June.  I smiled with the knowledge that the little girl who would never be mine was born healthy and whole.  And I think about that baby’s mother often – how difficult that decision must have been – how heartrendingly painful for that mommy too.

Months later, my tears are at times overwhelming - choking away all available air - coming at the most unexpected moments – tv commercials, songs on the radio, discussions about children, and yes, trips to the attic.  And I constantly ask God what he wants me to learn from that heartbreak.  My prayer rarely changes, “Teach me.  Show me.  Guide me.  I’m lost Father.”

Then on Thursday, November 10th, another call from my adoption counselor – another birth mother, another baby girl.  And this time, the child was due in weeks.  Two days earlier, I had just had the biopsy.  But I wasn’t worried.  The radiologist had told me it looked like a fibroadenoma – a harmless, not uncommon, benign breast tumor.  I was beyond cautiously optimistic; I had already dismissed the possibility of cancer and was making lists of the things needed from Babies R Us.  But as you know, two days later I got a phone call that gave me the news that would change our lives in the way I never expected – breast cancer, virulent, life-threatening.  I was so angry with God I was spitting prayers through clinched teeth.  “What about the baby?!?” I asked him.  ”How could you bless me with this child two days before I learn I have cancer?  That seems so very cruel.  But you’re not cruel.  Explain this to me!  I don’t understand….”

The next day, another email from my adoption counselor.  This mother had also changed her mind.  I was suffocating with emotion -  anger, grief, bewilderment, relief.  I was, in part, relieved that the birth mother had changed her mind. After all, I knew my cancer battle would be grueling, but there is no way I would have been able to say no to the possibility of adopting a little girl.  Imagine how difficult it would have been for my husband to care for a sick wife, run a household, shuttle our third grader to an abundance of after-school activities, and care for a newborn.  Still I grieved for the child that might have been – grieved for the good health I knew I’d lost, and was angry with a Father who seemed to have left me.  I’ve prayed for years for a daughter.  Had He answered my prayer, and that answer is no? 

I cried for hours Friday morning – hours.  And yes, it was the ugly cry – loud, gut-wrenching, unrelenting.  I paced around my empty house as Tipper, my collie, followed, her doggy demeanor reflecting complete and utter bewilderment.  But I had to pull myself together.  I had chemo that afternoon.  And with a great deal of effort, I put on comfortable clothes and drove to the cancer center.   Oncology nurses are extraordinarily observant.  Everyone noticed the change in me, attributing it all to my disturbingly low red blood count.  My red counts are so low, I’ll have to go back to the hospital later today for a blood transfusion.  But that wasn’t the only reason the concealer - poorly named as it were - failed to conceal the dark circles under my eyes on Friday.  And I didn’t elaborate. After all, my red counts have been low.  I could feel it.  Work took incredible effort this week.

Because white cell boosting shots have kept those counts high, I was able to have chemotherapy.  And during the hours I sat in that chair, my mood lifted.  My nurses are so amazing; it takes absolutely extraordinary human beings to do that job.  And by the end of my treatment, I was laughing and sharing funny stories from my childhood.

On my trip home, my mind shifted to Latasha, the 13-year old with osteosarcoma I met in the lobby on my first visit to my oncologist.  You’ll remember I wrote about her on December 23rd.  I texted her foster mother and learned cancer metastasis to her lymph nodes is worse than we feared; she’s in the hospital and understandably devastated.  “When can I call her?” I wrote.  ”Could you wait until morning?” she answered.  ”We’re all trying to calm her down.”  I spent the evening praying for this beautiful little girl I’d encountered in a chance meeting about three months ago – a child who has already lost her arm and shoulder to cancer, a child facing the disease at a time when no one should have to contemplate matters of mortality.  I was preoccupied with thinking about the days ahead – wondering when I could make a trip to Fort Wayne to see her - when I slipped off to sleep.

And then at 2:00 o’clock in the morning God woke me – again.  He showed me the many girls who have come into my life, allowing me to mentor, teach and yes, in some ways parent.  There is of course, Latasha.  And then there’s a college student who shadowed me at work years ago.  On the way to cover a news story, she told me about her years spent in foster care during her mother’s lengthy illness, and finally that horrible day in high school when she was  forced – as the closest living relative – to make the decision to remove her only parent from life support.  Since that day four years ago, this student has become my pseudo adopted child, calling my husband and me mom and dad, enjoying dinners and trips to Starbucks with us, exchanging gifts at Christmas and birthdays, making our lives richer with her presence.  And then there’s the college student who called me for help with a class assignment last month who came to chemo treatment with me.  What a wonderful girl.  And I’ll always adore the high school girl who I judged in a scholarship competition years ago.  I was so impressed with this bright young woman I invited her to shadow me at the TV station, spoke at her Kokomo High school, and have watched her blossom into this extraordinary college leader who now serves as president of her journalism organization at IU. 

I serve on the board of a non-profit organization called A Girl’s Gift that provides an intensive 10-week series of sessions on everything from math and science exploration, to self image improvement, to finding the artist within.   On Saturday, the other women on the board will meet me at the hospital as I get my blood transfusion so we can finish plans for our upcoming session series.  And I so look forward to the program this year because it has special meaning for me.  As I wrote in a recent publication, “We will emphasize bullying and tapping the resources within.  Tapping the resources within is a skill refined during a cancer battle, and I hope to teach our young women through word and deed – showing them their worth is borne not of the length of their hair, nor the shape of their bodies, but the depth of their souls, the strength of their character, the courage of their convictions, and the firmness of their faith.  I hope that if they can see the value in a bald mentor who soon will be without breasts, they will realize their own worth can never be measured by the image in a mirror.”

I can’t wait to meet our youngtsers in A Girl’s Gift, ages 10-14, little girls standing on the cusp of womanhood, who hopefully will be guided to a more full, more complete sense of self.  And as I lay in bed this morning – it hit me.  Perhaps God’s answer to my prayer for a daughter has been yes – again and again and again.  Every child, every high school kid, every college student he’s brought into my life has given me the privilege to love, mentor, and yes, in some small ways, parent.  Perhaps he has given me a wealth of daughters – none of whom could fill the baby clothes in my guest room – but all of whom have filled my heart with love and gratitude.  Is that your answer to my prayer, Father?

I’m crying again.  I’ve been doing a lot of that lately.  My tears are tears of grief and gratitude – grief for the baby I may never know, and gratitude for the many girls – other women’s children – who I’ve had the privilege of parenting in some small, but hopefully significant way.

And so it is.  I pray Father for a spirit of acceptance, standing peacefully in the knowlege of the truth of Romans 8:28.  ”All things work together for good for those who love God and work according to His purposes…”  I pray that when the answer to our prayers is yes – we can accept Your yes in all its glorious forms, knowing that You are always working for our good.  You are my God, my Father, my Peace, my Joy.  Amen.

For information about A Girl’s Gift, visit www.agirlsgift.org or call 317-863-1330.

I had chemo yesterday, and I went to the hospital with a smile.  Not only was I able to have chemo this week, but also my counts were higher than they’ve been for the seven weeks I’ve been in treatment – in some cases three times the number it was last week.   I have no doubt it’s because of the prayers of so many of you.  You’ve all taught me an amazing lesson this week  - find joy in the journey. 

You’ll remember last week I wrote that the road to recovery is littered with twists, turns, hills, valleys and the occasional roadside bomb.  Well, this week I’ve learned that lengthy labyrinth is also often lined with multicolored wildflowers, richly layered sunsets, and sometimes you’ll go round a bend and a beautiful lavish landscape will fill your windshield – a view so amazing you’ll stop in the hopes of holding it in your mind’s eye always…

Childhood taught me that no road trip is so long that you shouldn’t stop for a scenic overlook – those paved, fenced areas on the side of the road where wise highway planners knew travellers would want to stop and take a picture.  My favorite road trips were from Texas to Colorado.  I was an avid reader, but got car sick when I tried to read.  So on road trips I talked – a lot.  That’s an understatement.  I talked incessantly, and the endless prattling only stopped when I was soaking in the beauty of the Colorado landscape.  “Scenic overlook!  Stop Daddy!  Stop!” I’d yell from the backseat.  And my parents, both of whom have the patience of Job, would pull over every time.  Quite frankly, I now think it’s because it’s the only time they’d get to enjoy blessed silence.  I’d fish my Vivitar out of my backpack, and stand in awe in the presence of the evidence of God’s majesty.  For a child who grew up in the flat plains of the Texas panhandle, Colorado’s snow peaked mountains that touched the heavens and air so clean I felt I could drink it, were so beautiful it left me in awe-soaked silence - a gift to my kid-weary parents.

That’s what my friends have been for me this week, wildflowers, sunsets, and glorious God-touched landscapes filling my view with nothing but His grace.   It started with a gift from a friend – tickets to the Colts playoff game on Saturday.   And these weren’t good seats – they were amazing sideline seats – those seats I’ve only seen through my binoculars as I sit in the nosebleed section.  As you can see in the picture, I wore a blue wig (I figured heckfire, I’m wearin a wig anyway.  Might as well get in the spirit.)  And even though we lost, I had so much fun with my husband and son, I couldn’t stop smiling.

Then I opened packages from viewers.  They sent me caps – wonderful, hand knitted caps in every color and shade you can imagine.  I’m wearing one now and ABSOLUTELY love them.  The cards and well wishes made me cry.  Thank you.

Then Thursday, a group with whom I’ve done volunteer work for years brought me money to send me to a spa.  I haven’t been to a spa in years.  My approach to life has always been work – an approach adopted from my grandparents who were sharecroppers.  They believed in the moral, spiritual, and physical value of work.  And I’ve always found satisfaction in work.  It’s also the way I’ve approached beating Fred.  Just work harder.  But God gives us permission to rest; He in fact encourages us to rest.  In Matthew 11:28 it reads, “Come to me all ye who are weary and heavy laden and I will give you rest.”  I so love that verse.  Just rest in Him.  No worries.  No work.  Just rest.

When you have cancer, it’s best to wear a seat belt and helmet – and if you’re smart - level III-A Kevlar bullet and stab resistant trauma plated body armor.  That’s because the proverbial road to recovery is littered with twists, turns, hills, plummeting valleys, detours, and the occasional improvised explosive device.

Suffice it to say, yesterday’s chemo treatment did not go well – actually it didn’t go at all.  And I’m frustrated.  I should have had six of my 12 scheduled chemotherapy sessions.  I’ve only had four.  That’s because my bone marrow isn’t recovering from its weekly battering as quickly as we’d like.  By doctor’s orders, I started giving myself bone marrow boosting shots.  But this week, my white count still wasn’t high enough for chemo.  And so we wait.  And that makes me crazy.

Fred, the tumor, is aggressive – a 9, the highest grade pathologists give cancer tumors.  So I want to fight him equally aggressively.  That’s an understatement.  I want to kill, slaughter, and annihalate him.  Here’s my thoughts on the matter.  If I’m feeling well enough to take it, then bring it on.  My doctor doesn’t agree.  Another chemo treatment could send my white count down to dangerous levels - putting me at risk for a life-threatening infection.  So we’re giving my bone marrow a week to recover, and lowering the doses of two of my chemo drugs to a level believed better tolerated by my limping, wimpy bone marrow.

My oncologist – who by the way is brilliant – made me feel better.  She explains that the chemo dose I was getting was based on the “average” dose for someone of my size, and average is too much for me.  But chemo has a broad range of efficacy, so a lower dose will likely do the job just as well. 

Still, it’s scary.  So this morning, as is always the case when I’m scared, I sought solace in scripture.  My favorite scripture about fear and anxiety is Phillipians 4:6.  “Be anxious for nothing but in everything by prayer and supplication and thanksgiving let your requests be known unto God.”

I like that verse so much, I put it on our Christmas cards one year.  It’s deep, ain’t it?  It tells me not to sweat the bad stuff, but instead take it humbly and thankfully to God and He’s got my back.  And I love that it says bring your requests with thanksgiving.  Ain’t that good?!  We can be thankful, because it’s already done.

My problem has always been that I’ll pray about it, then fret about it, then pray some more.  All the while, God is saying – “Hey kiddo, didn’t I tell you to be anxious for nothing?  Didn’t I say you can bring “everything” to Me?  Girl, are you just hardheaded?”

So this week I ask that you not only continue to pray for my healing, but also pray for my heart.  Pray that God give me the unbending faith to stand strong in the knowledge that my healing is already here.  We asked it.  God did it.  Done.

And so it is. God is Good – calming our fears, soothing our sorrows, healing our minds, bodies, and souls.  He says we only have to ask.  And that’s reason to give fear and Fred the boot.

Kunta Kinte made me late to work yesterday.  It was 8:45 a.m.  I was walking out the door to take Ethan to school, and I stopped in my tracks as the memory Kinte’s plight and my reaction to it as a fourth grader came flooding back like a sudden southern rainstorm in April.  I knew Ethan was going to be late to school, and I late to work because we weren’t going anywhere until we had a talk.  I told him to put down his backpack and take off his coat.  

It was 1977 when the Roots miniseries gripped the country.  Its Nielson Ratings were unprecedented, and I along with the rest of the country was mesmerized by Kinte’s plight.  I was a sensitive kid, and at times found the brutality suffered really hard to absorb.  So when Kunta Kinte ran away from slaveholders again, having suffered extraordinarily brutal whippings after past attempts, my mother sensed the next night’s episode would be especially difficult.  She wouldn’t let me see it, hoping to shield me from the heartbreaking beating she knew Kinte would suffer.

But the miniseries was all the talk at school.  I was at recess with a group of friends when talk turned to the episode the night before.  “Can you believe they cut off his foot?” a friend asked me.  I was heartsick.  I walked away and sat alone on a playground bench, trying to make sense of it.

We returned to class minutes later, and that’s when it happened.  I put my head on my desk, succumbing to racking, shoulder-shaking sobs.  The whole of it was just too big.  Although the series depicted the middle passage – lives stolen from their homeland in the 1700′s, I felt such a connection.  Kinte, Kizzy, Fiddler had become family – and the horrific injustice, the painful inhumanity was too much for my fourth grade sensibilities to bear.  I was inconsolable, unable to even voice why I was crying.  A classmate helpfully volunteered, “I think she’s crying cuz Kunta Kinte got his foot cut off last night.”  My poor teacher was at a loss, and finally sent me to the nurse to let me cry it out on a cot. 

And it’s that memory that came flooding back like a spring rain as I was walking out the door with my son.  He didn’t see the news Monday night when I talked about my mortality and removed my wig before our television audience.  And because he hadn’t seen it, I didn’t talk to him about it.  But my own history teaches that just because my kiddo missed it, doesn’t mean his classmates did.  And my child needed to see the story before going to school, and I needed to prepare him for any questions he might face.

I told him to put down his backpack and the two of us watched the story on WISH TV’s web site.  I studied his face as he watched the story.  “Does the story scare you, Ethan?” I asked.  “Nope,” he said. “You’re getting medicine that will make you better.”  “That’s right kiddo,” I answered.  “But cancer is a scary disease. What will you say if someone asks you, Ethan, is your mom gonna die?’  And what if someone says, ‘Hey Ethan, I saw your mom on TV, and she looks funny with no hair.’” 

He and I talked at length about what his response would be, and I told him that if ANYTHING I ever say on TV makes him unconfortable, he can tell me.  I told him I love him, and his needs come before any news story.  He looked me straight in the eye and said, “Yeah, I know mom.” 

It made me smile.  He’s so confident in his knowledge that he’s loved.  Still, I worry.  Like so many boys, he’s often reluctant to share his feelings.  I need to know how my illness, and my sharing my illness with a broad audience, is affecting him so hopefully we can talk it out, and I can make changes accordingly.

And so it is.  We can’t shield our children from all hurt, injustice, sickness and sorrow.  The most we can do is build in them the character and courage to face it, preparing them to one day live with only our lessons as their guide.  And so my husband and I are raising our child on our knees – praying and teaching, praying and teaching – hoping that some of the time, we get it right.

Joy.  Unbridled, unmitigated, unquenchable joy.  That’s what I’m feeling this morning.  I woke up at 3:00.  It’s becoming a pattern.  But it seems God speaks with such clarity in the wee hours of the morning.  Here’s the thing.  God speaks with clarity all day.  It’s only in the the stillness of night, with nothing more than my hubby’s snoring as a distraction, can I clear my mind enough to listen to His voice.  Wouldn’t it be great if we could still the day’s disquiet and hear the Father’s blessed assurance in the middle of the afternoon?  I’m not there yet.  But at night I hear Him so beautifully – so clearly - calmly answering the questions of my heart.  And it brings me joy.

My overriding question has been, “Father what do you want me to learn from this?  What do you want me to do with what I learn?  Show me.  Teach me.  Guide me.  I’m feeling lost today.”  Well, actually I’m feeling lost most days – literally.  I have chemo brain and I forget everything – keys, shoes, my hair.

Yep, I’ve forgotten my hair.  I take off my wig at work while I’m writing because it’s itchy and distracting.  I work in TV; I have to work fast – very fast.  The deadline is king – no mercy.  I anchor the 5:00 news, and Thursday at 4:54 I ran to the audio booth to read my story into a microphone for my photographer to edit beneath the pictures.  The open for the show rolls at 4:58:45.  I had less than 4 minutes to track my story and run to the set – in heels.  As I ran, my co-anchor yelled across the newsroom, “Hey D, don’t forget your wig.”  I knew I wouldn’t have time to go back to my desk, so I yelled back, “Hey sweetie, take it to the set for me.”  The look of bewilderment on his sweet face was priceless.  “OK,” he said picking up my hair with his fingertips.  Yep, chemo brain is a bear.

Anyway, I digress.  I woke up this morning thinking about a 13-year old girl I met in the lobby of my oncologist’s office a month ago on a Tuesday afternoon.  I was really lost that day.  I’d just gotten the diagnosis on Friday.  The nurse who called me at the end of my work day could answer questions about neither my diagnosis nor the treatment options available.  The weekend had been agonizing, and I’d spent all day Monday putting together a healthcare team from recommendations I’d gotten from the cancer care community with whom I’ve volunteered for years.

Then Tuesday, I spent all day at the IU Cancer center – tests, surgeon visit, and finally the oncologist.  I had a two hour wait for the oncologist and called my mother to explain all I’d learned about Fred the tumor.  The 13-year old’s foster mother overheard part of my conversation and had questions.  She was wondering if I had information about osteosarcoma, the childhood cancer that was attacking her foster daughter with such virulence, the child’s arm and shoulder had to be amputated, leaving the remaining clavical so severely misshapen she can’t be fitted with a prosthesis.  The mother, who I’ll call Carol, cried as she talked to me about this sweet little girl in her care who is so traumatized by the experience she wakes up screaming at night and refuses to be left alone.

And then I met her.  She emerged from the bathroom, head down, a hood covering her bald head, the left arm of her jacket hanging loosely from what was left of the absent shoulder.  She never made eye contact, but what I could see beneath her hood made my heart hurt.  Her face was the picture of pain – emotional, heart-wrenching pain a child should never know.  Her dark eyes brimmed with tears that spilled down her round cheeks the color of a Hershey bar.

I told her that I had been 8 years older than she when I was first diagnosed with cancer.  I told her how lonely it is to fight cancer when you’re young.  Your friends are preoccupied with clothes, school and boys as you fight for your life.  The isolation is suffocating.  And that’s when she finally looked up at me.  I saw in those eyes a shared understanding, that feeling that makes the hairs on the nape of your neck stand up when someone who doesn’t know you – knows you.

I’ll call her Latasha.  She told me about her birth family – Mom, cousins, aunts, uncles – all of whom live in her town but don’t come to visit.  She told me she didn’t know what she’d do if she didn’t have her foster mom, but she is so lonely, sad, and angry.  I held her tight, and told her she had a friend in the fight, that together we’d both beat cancer and live to testify about the goodness of God.  I gave her mother a number of resources in the cancer patient support community; we exchanged numbers, and promised to stay in touch.

Then I took her story to Jack and Jill, a group to which I belong.  They’re all mothers, and the story of another mother caring for four grandchildren and two foster children, one of whom has a disfiguring cancer touched them.  They bought bags and bags of gifts for the children, from a computer to clothes – toys to tech tools.  And yesterday the president of our chapter delivered those gifts to the family while I had chemo.  A mother called me later to tell me about the hugs and tears shared and it made me cry.

This morning God placed Latasha on my heart.  I thought about how angry, scared and lost I’d been that day in my oncologist’s lobby before meeting Latasha.  But looking in the face of this child – my self-pity melted away like the fog at sunrise.  It was clear this beautiful little girl and her wonderful mother needed me, and in that moment nothing else mattered.  I would never have met this family if I didn’t have cancer – if I hadn’t been in that lobby, in that chair, at that time.  And being in that place and space presented the beautiful opportunity to bless a family.

It’s then that God reminded me of an email I got three days ago.  It was from an elementary school friend – right out of the blue.  She poured out her heart, in part to thank me and to apologize.  I grew up in Lubbock – a city very slow to desegregate.  I was the only black child in my class throughout the entirety of elementary school.  It wasn’t easy.  Most children were curious and the questions were endless.  “Why are your hands brown on one side and white on the other?”  “Can you walk like kid dyn-o-mite on Good Times?”  “Ooh neat!  Your hair feels like carpet.  How come it feels like that?”  Most of the time, I answered the questions patiently.  “God made me that way.”  Nope, I just walk like me.”  “God made me that way.  How come your hair feels like a kitty cat?”

But sometimes kids were cruel, their parents more so.  Many children were friends during the day, but wouldn’t talk to me as they waited to be picked up after school for fear their mothers would scold them.  In the third grade, this classmate who I’ll call Kim was one of those children.  Her email was beautiful.  She thanked me for being her friend – for teaching her to spell encyclopedia and dictionary when others lost patience, for loving her unconditionally.  She then apologized for the slumber parties at her house to which I hadn’t been invited.  She explained that her mother wouldn’t let her invite me, but had a dramatic change of heart over the years as she witnessed the young woman I became.  I sat at my desk, reading the email, my face disintegrating into the ugly cry.  I so wish I could cry cute – like a soap opera star when her husband disappears after driving his Mercedes over a cliff, only to reappear twelve episodes later having lost his memory, but still looking buff as a pool boy on a hot summer day.  But alas, I don’t cry cute.  My eyes, nose and lips squeeze into a wrinkled prune; my face reddens, and the snot is relentless.  It ain’t pretty.  My co-workers had to have noticed, but they sweetly gave me my privacy.

God showed me how the situations with Latasha and Kim were so similar - reminding me of  the truth of Romans 8:28.  For we know that all things work together for good for those who love God and work for his purposes.”  ALL things.  ALL – cancer, racisim, hurt, pain, loss, fear.  ALL things.  At 8 years old I met Kim.  And that relationship gave God the opportunity to help change two hearts.  Perhaps Kim would have shared her mother’s misguided views had we not met.  Perhaps her mother would never have changed.  But instead, God worked that situation for our good, and then in his mercy, inspired Kim to contact me just when I needed most to hear from her.  The same is true of Latasha.  God could have let me wallow in self-pity and fear.  He didn’t.  He gave me this relationship with this child, showing me what He wanted me to do with the situation life presented.

Wow. wow. wow.  Ain’t God good?  I’m crying that ugly cry again.  But I’m so filled with joy.  I know the fight with Fred is for my good.  And God is here - giving blessed, beautiful guidance even when I’m completely unaware of His presence.

And so it is.  It’s ALL good.  In ALL things, God is working for our good.  And that’s reason to give joy - this Christmas season and always.

I’m a journalist, and I’m not gonna bury the lead.  God is working through the chemo.  The evidence is clear.  As you can see, I’m bald as Mr. Clean.  We’ll get to that in a moment.

But first, the clinical trial requires periodic biopsies.  So on Wednesday, we made a trip to see my surgeon and his tool that looks like a cordless drill.  First, I had to lie flat on my back as he examined my breast.  And the look of awe on his face was priceless.  I’ll treasure the moment as long as God allows me space on this planet.  “I can’t feel the tumor,” he said grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.  “I’ll have to do this biopsy by guided ultrasound.  This is good, kiddo!”

He left the room to get the ultrasound machine and my husband looked at me teary-eyed as we gave each other high fives.  My tumor has shrunk – a lot.  The ultrasound revealed how much.  It’s almost half it’s original size after just two treatments.  It was two centimeters before we started.  It’s now 1.2 centimeters.  Remember, I found the tumor myself because I do breast self exam monthly.  Now, I can no longer feel it.  God is so completely, exceedingly, abundantly, beautifully amazing.  I’m awed, humbled, and so very grateful.

Now the hair loss.  The official line by most oncologists is that hair loss begins sometime between 14 – 21 days after the first chemo treatment.  But my oncologist says the thinking among those in her office is that it seems to occur on day 17.  My first chemo treatment was November 30th.  Yesterday was December 16th.  And when I woke up yesterday morning, my scalp was tender – very tender.  For my sisters of color reading this journal, it felt just like it does after your stylist leaves your relaxer on your head just a bit too long.  You know how you wince when she combs your hair afterward – then adds insult to injury by dousing that tender scalp with hairspray?  That’s what my scalp felt like.  And I knew this was the day.

Our evening anchor, Eric Halvorson and I shared the make-up room before the 5:00 news.  As he and I chatted, I combed out huge balls of hair.  My hair was coming out fast, and I decided to stop combing, style it carefully and spray down the hair I had left so I could get through the newscast.  He and I chatted about his sister’s hair loss when she battled cancer, and I was so grateful that my journey isn’t something I have to hide.  It’s made moments like this so much easier.  Imagine how difficult it would have been to explain those fist fulls of hair if I’d not already been honest with co-workers?

Today, I’ll be wearing a wig on air.  I called a wig shop days ago and told the owner about my situation.  Her mother is battling cancer, and she was tender, sweet, and extremely helpful.  She watched the 5:00 news that night, then went online and studied pictures of me.  The next day she had pulled several wigs that were all very close to my current style.  It made choosing a wig incredibly easy.  I picked one in less than half an hour, gave her a hug, and promised to pray for her mother.  It’s amazing.  It seems everyone I know has in some way been touched by cancer.  I’ve been so blessed in so many unexpected ways by those who understand the journey – have traveled the labyrinth of hope and heartache and stand with outstretched hand to help me along the way.

And so it is.  My God is in the healing business.  By His stripes, by His grace, by His love, I am already healed.

This is a good morning.  I went to bed at 8:00 last night.. yes 8:00.  Pitiful, I know.  But the sleep was wonderful, restorative, and exactly what I needed.  I have a college friend who sent me a list of scriptures about healing.  And I meditated on Jeremiah 17:14 this morning, “Heal me oh Lord and I shall be healed.  Save me and I shall be saved.  You are my praise.”  Ain’t that good stuff?!  It’s a simple statement of fact.  It’s such a blessing that we have the comfort of knowing that we can rest on that statement of fact.  God said it. Done.  And so that will be my comfort today.  I’ve asked it. God said it. Done.

I have nothing but praise reports this morning.  If you read my last post, you know that Tuesday was stressful.  And I worried – incessantly – that my sweet little boy had been a victim of my misdirected anger.  I had yelled at him on the morning of a math test for which we’d been preparing for more than a week.  Over the weekend we’d studied for hours using a dry erase board.  I had done a praise dance in the living room when he finally mastered difficult concepts. (My dancing ability is clear and convincing evidence of the fact that all black folks do not have rhythm.)

But then Tuesday I feared that Ethan would bomb the test because he and I had had such a horrible morning.  I prayed with him before he went to school.  Then I cried and worried all day.  Yesterday, Ethan nonchalantly showed me his test – a 93.  He made an A.  And I realized how silly and unproductive my worry had been.  We had prepared for the test, prayed about the test, so let God do the rest.  What good was worrying?  It had accomplished nothing and made me less than what God wanted me to be that day.  This presented a wonderful lesson about the larger issues we’re facing right now.  Worrying about the cancer is unhealthy and wholly counterproductive.  Today I will make the choice to rest on that simple statement of fact in Jeremiah – Heal me oh Lord and I am healed.  God said it.  Done.

Another amazing comfort today.  Tipper doesn’t have cancer!  Yay!  If you’ve not read an earlier post, I mentioned that our wonderful collie, Tipper, has two large lumps that are definitely abnormal growths.  My vet, Dr Paul, did needle aspirations and sent cell samples to a pathologist.  Wednesday Dr. Paul called me with the news and stayed on the phone with me for a half hour to answer all my questions.  In short, Tipper’s tumors are uncontrolled growths of fat.  They’re not uncommon in large breed dogs.  Unlike cancer growths, these cells don’t invade other tissue and organs.  But the tumors do continue to grow until they eventually began to make the dog uncomfortable, so at some point we’ll have to get them surgically removed.

And more good news.  Chemo went really well Wednesday.  My central IV line worked like a charm!  Another prayer answered.  We have no idea why it didn’t work last time.  We have no idea why it works so well now.  We’re just grateful that it’s working.  And boy does it make chemo easier.  One stick to access the port and they’re done.  With the exception of the experimental drug which comes in pill form, all the other chemo agents are delivered in a painfully slow IV drip.  But I was so tired I slept through it.  Ya’ll, that’s the way to do chemo – a comfy blankie, a pillow, your hubby, and drift off to blissful lala land.  When I woke up, it was over.

Another praise report – Ethan’s school program was glorious.  Absolutely the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. (And no, my bias has nothing to do with the fact I’m his mother.) You’ll remember in my last post, I mentioned at the end of my horrible day, I stopped at school to help decorate for the program.  That’s when I learned just how hard his music teacher had been working to pull this thing off.  Wow.  It was awesome.  I drifted off to sleep last night smiling at the memory of those beautiful children in their colorful costumes entertaining a gymnasium full of proud mamas, papas, grandmas, and grandpas.

And so it is.  God is good all the time – bringing blessings in spite of our worry, our failings, our humanness.  He loves us just the same.