In which I am just plain sad

No clever subtitle

Twice now I have drafted a half-humorous update and failed to finish it. (What’s worse than lukewarm laughter?)¹

Because the truth is that things are just plain hard right now. And I didn’t start this lovely lil’ Substack to churn out stand-up comedy from my sick bed, but to tell the truth about what’s happening and invite you to grow in care and compassion alongside me.²

Infusion #3 was a doozy. It came on the heels of a lovely family reunion, in which my whole fam gathered in Minnesota and we baptized our newest member³ and devoured delicious takeout so no one had to cook and my sister and niece stayed to help us.⁴ But right after everyone left, I got terribly sick, way worse than the previous infusions. Home IVs of fluids and meds helped when I couldn’t keep anything down for days, but honestly nothing⁵ is lessening the nausea or fatigue.

On top of that, the daunting reality is looming that if infusion #4 doesn’t bring a pathological complete response (translation: full and total demise of my cancer; 0% of tumor left), then I can’t go to surgery directly and have to pivot quick to 12 straight weeks of chemo. My heart and stomach churn at this prospect. What’s worse, my oncologist reminded me of this by sharing that the last patient she had on a similar track to me (who hit 60% tumor reduction after 3 weeks) ended up with 2% of her cancer left at the end and thus had to go to chemo anyway.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME.

On top of this, my dear friend Rachael died this weekend, the one I’d asked you to pray for. She had a sudden decline at the end, and it was devastating. Rachael had been such a source of support and comfort through my diagnosis and treatment, one of only a handful of people in my life who truly get it and would answer any crazy question at any hour. She was a woman of incredible faith, a loving mother and spouse, and I swear a living saint (I do not toss around such terms lightly). Please keep praying for all who love her, especially as she is buried at Notre Dame this week.

I am mightily pissed off at cancer.

Did I mentioned my hair loss got so bad that my husband had to buzz off what remained this weekend, and we both cried, and it looks terrible.⁶

So the truth is I’m daunted, sad, and sick. The world is full of abundant beauty and goodness: my beloved children, blackberries filling their bowls each afternoon, summer glory in the garden, sunsets like spilled watercolors, the paradoxical power and vulnerability of married love. But my God, this here-below is a crucible and a cross.

All I can do is ask for your prayers and offer my own. Please, please pray that this round of treatment kills the cancer completely and I can go straight to surgery. Please pray for the last infusion’s side effects to be gentler on my body. Please pray for everyone going through serious illness alone. Please pray for all who mourn.

I’ll leave the final word to Rachael, from what she wrote to me on Easter Sunday while I was awaiting my final diagnosis the next day:

“Friend, the grief you have already born in your life. I have spent my weekend weeping and begging and yelling at God on your behalf. I’ve yelled that He asks too much of you. More than anyone could bear. Knowing at the same time beyond doubt that He’s weeping with you. He doesn’t want or need your pain. He hates it more than even we do.

It’s right to lose your footing in the face of this. It’s holy to grieve something so outside of His love for you. And it is absolutely just to beg and demand a miracle. I believe it will happen too.”

Thanks for standing with me while I lose my footing. Thanks for begging for a miracle for me, too.

Much love,

L

1. Cancer, for one.

2. Also I did love the idea of Compassion Brigade patches. Anyone got a line on those? Could we sell cookies?

3. My brother asked our pastor if they could have their baby baptized at our parish so that my husband and I wouldn’t have to travel as the godparents. The answer was a resounding yes, and I need to go on public record thanking both these upstanding men of faith for making possible this mini-miracle, which we will never forget and isn’t that exactly what a sacrament is supposed to be?

4. Another public record of thanks: my sister drove me to/from my infusion and sat there for hours while I slept. Her presence was so comforting even through the awful. This doubled down my belief that often the holiest thing we can do for each other is sit together when we can say or do nothing to fix anything. [Cf: the best part of the Book of Job (2:13), when his friends show up and sit with him for a week and say nada, “for they saw how great was his suffering.” Once they open their big mouths with lofty speeches, everything sinks south.]

5. YES, I HAVE TRIED THAT, TOO.

6. Not his fault. I gave him very little to work with in the hair department.