So, what’s the latest?

First, I want to say I feel amazing, and if I didn’t have these scars on my abdomen, I wouldn’t know anything unusual had happened earlier this summer.

Truly there’s not much to tell, and there probably won’t be for a while. As I have said over and over, this is a marathon, not a 100 yard dash.

Back in March when I started writing this blog, I was facing laparoscopic surgery, then chemo, so I was anticipating a rough summer.

Obviously those plans changed drastically in April when I switched practitioners and went with open abdominal surgery and no chemo.

In May I went into surgery with the knowledge I could come out with an ostomy. Thankfully that wasn’t the case. I was also told to expect weeks of recovery from surgery. That was also not really the case as I felt like I was “up and running” by the 2nd week.

In June I had my post-op appointment where Dr. Rossi and I talked about the benefits and the drawbacks of going on Letrozole.

And now in July I’ve been dealing with some of the new normal that’s come with that, though, once again, reality has been so much better than the projected scenario. None of the side effects I’m experiencing on a daily basis are of any great consequence at this point (mild, sporatic neuropathy, insomnia, fatigue, mild joint pain). If I weren’t on a medication and I was experiencing these symptoms I would just think, “Well, this is what getting older feels like!”

I am in the process of establishing secondary healthcare with a functional medicine practitioner, and my next appointment with Dr. Rossi will be September 25. Though that is a few weeks later than she had requested, trying to line her schedule up with my schedule wasn’t easy.

Getting established with a functional medicine practitioner looks like this - extensive lab work. I gave all of these samples this morning.

So September 25 it is. And I was able to get an appointment at Dr. Rossi’s Raleigh office versus at Duke, so that’s something to be thankful for, as well, as it will save quite a bit of time.

I have enjoyed my summer of This Time, Not Next Time immensely, and I am so glad I decided to take the time to do my daily morning walks at Wrightsville Beach when I am home and not traveling.

Thanks for following along here, for sending texts, for forwarding words of encouragement.

The summer is not over yet, and there are still some fun things to do in the weeks ahead. I am especially looking forward to this weekend. More on that later!

So how did I end up jumping off a bridge in Oregon?

There’s really not much to tell. I had said this was The Summer of This Time, not Next Time, and on Sunday as Rick and I were driving back to Portland, we passed PS Ogden State Park where we’d stopped on the way into Redmond on Friday.

Rick noted that people were bungee jumping off of one of the bridges. We had already driven past when he asked, “Do you want to go bungee jump?” At first, I felt indecisive - not from fear of heights, but more of “What if I get up there and can’t make myself jump off?” We were still driving down the highway when I said, “Yes! Let’s do it!” so Rick did a u-turn, and we went back.

We had to wait for a few people to do their jumps in front of us, including one lady who has jumped many times and one girl who just couldn’t bring herself to jump so she gave the guys permission to push her off. That was comforting to me because I knew that if I couldn’t mentally get myself to jump, the guys working would “help” me.

But as you can see from the video, I had no issue whatsoever walking out, stepping on the X, and jumping after the 1 - 2 -3 countdown.

It was an amazing sensation, and something I would definitely like to do again.

After the fact, we found out this is the tallest commercial bungee jump in North America, so I am thinking we might need to start chasing down some bungee jumping on other continents. Just an idea . . .

The gift of unexpected friendship

My new friend, Jeffrey Ritter, shared the following on social media recently. I couldn’t have said it better myself. My life is richer because of people like him I have met on this journey.

So, in the hospital, I was diligently walking laps, but kept finding someone's marker on the lap-board creeping ahead each day. Damn, who was beating my butt?

Well, we met, compared surgical scars (think of the scene in Jaws) and, despite wearing backless surgical gowns, became instant forever friends. Both survivors that will not stop being alive!

There is such strength when we fight together!

The gift of my Haitian family

Recently the staff of Haiti Awake shared the following:

Sè Becky,

Your family from your second home, Haiti, want you to know how much we love you and pray for you. You are a gift to us from God.

Knowing you is a privilege. For the past eleven years, we have learned so much from you. Your love for Haiti, especially for Haiti Awake, is obvious.

Thank you for walking with us in every trial that we have known in Haiti, even in the midst of your own trials. Now we can walk with you.

You are in our hearts and prayers.

We love you very much.

Get healed soon!

Your family at Haiti Awake

I’ve Still Got Alot of Fight Left in Me

Initial diagnosis - May 2019

Recurrence diagnosed - February 2023

Debulking surgery - May 2, 2023

Today’s 6 mile run-walk on Kiawah Island - May 28, 2023

There is much to conquer in the days ahead, and I'm not done yet.

Like Rachel Platten sings, "‘Cause I've still got a lot of fight left in me."

Moments

Two weeks ago I took my first tentative steps post-op after being immobile for more than 24 hours. I was eager to get back to it, but moments into that first walk I was overcome by nausea and had to take a seat for a bit before trying again.

This morning I drove down to Wrightsville Beach and walked nearly 6 miles. It felt so good. I don’t share this to boast or so that someone will say, “You’re amazing.” I share this to encourage others.

Put in the time now, before you’re facing a crisis, so when the hard times come, you’ll have endurance, you’ll have strength, you’ll be able to carry on. You’ll see the moments for what they are.

No, these last two weeks haven’t been perfect or easy in every moment. There have been some hard moments, especially on those days when nausea was more than I thought I could handle and abdominal pain was intense.

For the record, abdominal surgery is no joke.

But looking back, those were moments that passed.

There will surely be hard moments on the road ahead, but I want to keep that in perspective. They are moments. And just like all moments in life they are fleeting.

I am encouraged by the words of David in Psalm 39:

“LORD, remind me how brief my time on earth will be. Remind me that my days are numbered— how fleeting my life is.”

— verse 4

Fix your eyes

I distinctly remember the first time someone shared 2 Corinthians 4:16-18 with me. I was 14 years old and doing my first real interview with a college basketball player at UNC, Steve Hale. Steve had experienced an injury that was affecting his ability to play, and he told me this passage helped him put things in perspective. Ever since that time, when I hear or read this verse, I think of Steve.

As a 14 year old, I understood the verse in a certain way, but it was a limited perspective. At 14, I did not see myself wasting away outwardly - or truly being renewed inwardly day after day.

Before my recent surgery, my dad also sent this same passage to me. And I thought about these verses in a completely different light. I am keenly aware that this body of mine is wasting away day by day, but I am just as aware that my heart continues to grow ever more fond of the Maker who designed it. And I truly believe there is an eternal weight of glory ahead.

It’s interesting indeed how the truths of Scripture hit differently at different times in life, in different circumstances, but their relevance remains the same.

People have repeatedly asked me if I am “really” okay, how I am “really” doing, and “how is your heart”? I am sure there are struggles ahead, but until this point, I can truly say, “It is well” - not because everything is good, not because I am denying the realities I am facing, not because I have any assurance that this path will end in healing, but because God, in His mercy, is enabling me to fix my eyes on more than today, to fix my eyes on the purpose in the pain.

Yesterday a sweet friend came to me before the 9 a.m. gathering at The Bridge and expressed that this blog has encouraged her. It is in moments like this that I can see the Lord is designing a purpose in this suffering for His glory, that He is writing a story beyond what I have the ability to write on my own, that He is helping me fix my eyes on the things I cannot see. I can have confidence I will see these things of eternal value as I continue to gaze in the right direction.

I am reminded of the words of the old hymn:

“Turn your eyes upon Jesus
Look full in His wonderful face
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim
In the light of His glory and grace.”

— Helen H. Lemmel

Back to the routine

It’s hard to believe that two weeks ago I took my Sunday morning walk, believing it would be the last neighborhood walk for quite a while.

And yet here I am today able to do my usual route once again and praising God for a recovery that has been easier than anticipated.

This journey is far from over, but I am thankful for moments like this when I can see the goodness of God.

Now I will build an altar
And stack it stone by stone
'Cause every Ebenezer says I've never been alone
My faith will surely falter
But that don't change what You've done
'Cause every Ebenezer points to where my help comes from
Oh, every Ebenezer points to where my help comes from.

— Just as Good, Chris Renzema (featuring Ellie Holcomb)

Not what we were expecting

I had two CT scans and a PET scan prior to last week’s surgery, so we were fairly confident about the extent of the cancer’s spread and what was needed in order to remove that. As you know from previous posts, surgery went really well, and my recovery has been far easier than expected.

This week I received the pathology report. Overall, sections A - D of the report were positive - either noting absence of malignancy in the sample taken or noting successful excision.

However, the report did note two additional GCT tumors that were not defined by scans, and, unfortunately, it also included the following information regarding the left anterior abdominal wall resection:

This information is concerning and will likely result in difficult decisions in the near future.

Dr. Rossi has asked that my case be presented at a Monday morning conference. Once the team talks about my surgery and pathology, they will contact me regarding recommendations for a plan to go forward.

This morning my thoughts are set on Psalm 90:12, and I ask that you pray that we may have wisdom in deciding how to approach this new hurdle.

“So teach us to number our days, that we may present to You a heart of wisdom.”

— Psalm 90:12

Thank you for showing up

It would be impossible to enumerate all of the acts of kindness and love you have expressed in recent days. I am incredibly grateful and overwhelmed.

I have seen many of you living out the truth of I Corinthians 12:28.

“And in the church God has appointed first of all apostles, second prophets, third teachers, then workers of miracles, and those with gifts of healing, helping, administration, and various tongues.”

Thank you for using your various gifts to invest in my life. I feel so loved.

It’s Friday, and we're home

I said goodbye to Room 6309 at the Duke University Hospital around 3 pm yesterday and transitioned to our Airbnb.

It was good to have a night to rest before making the drive back to Wilmington this morning.

My belly is really sore today, and nausea has been my constant companion since last night. But we’re back in Wilmington and looking forward to some R & R this weekend.

Some flowers from The Bridge were waiting when we arrived, as well as packages and cards from friends!

This afternoon I plan to take it easy here at home and enjoy my latest obsession - a Detox Island Green from Tropical Smoothie.

Thanks for praying, Friends!

A quick Thursday update

Wednesday went by quickly as I had several visitors and different teams were checking in on me every couple of hours.

I was able to get up and walk laps around my floor. There’s a board where we’re to keep track of our laps. I ended up at 3 miles at the end of the day. I’m room 6309. (Yes, I am bragging.)

Ethan has been a great help to me, even staying overnight. It’s been good having him here and seeing him put his professional skills into action on a personal level (and he really likes this blanket Elizabeth gave me).

Yesterday afternoon, however, we noticed I was experiencing some sort of allergic reaction (probably due to the epidural), so that was suspended, and I’ve only had Tylenol and Motrin since then.

My battle scars are substantial, but I am proud of them because they mean Dr. Rossi was able to do what she needed to do, and I came out on the other side.

I am hoping to be discharged later today (or at the latest, tomorrow), and I look forward to a clear plan going forward that includes healing and health.

I truly appreciate all of care and support that has come from so many of you. Thank you for being on my team during this unusual season.

The last 24 hours

To those of you who have called, texted, and showed compassion in so many different ways, thank you.

I’ve spent today walking and following the dreaded clear liquid diet - which hasn’t been nearly as bad as I anticipated.

Surgery is scheduled for tomorrow at 7:10 a.m.

Looking forward to sharing positive news as I feel able!

Sunrise on a Sunday morning

I love my early morning walks here in our neighborhood. This is the last one for a while as we leave for Durham later today in order to prepare for my surgery at Duke on Tuesday.

This morning was quite ordinary - listening to Russell Moore’s podcast, then worship music.

The future is so uncertain, but I will heed this solid advice I've received:

Don't look left. Don't look right. Look straight ahead, and follow Jesus.

Amen.

What's helpful … and what's not

A few friends have asked me “what’s helpful and what’s not?” right now. I want to start out by saying everyone is different and responds differently to things, but after speaking with a number of other ladies, here are a few things that are helpful - and a few that are not - to us.

1. Surprises without expectations. Gifts are not usually something that speak to my heart, but recently unexpected surprises in the mail and on the front porch have been encouraging. Opening the door and finding something on the doorstep - something that was left without the doorbell ever ringing - those surprises truly mean something to me because there have been a few days I don’t know if I would have opened the door had the bell rang.

From a friend on her own journey with cancer:

“Offer to take your friend to chemo, or go with her to a doctor's appointment.

Have a girls’ day out where you go to the beach /lake together or go out to eat. Send a care package.

One of my best friends sent me a blanket, ginger chews, and a salt lamp. It was so caring and thoughtful.”

2. Words of encouragement. April sent this message to me recently, and it’s one I’ve saved and will go back to repeatedly.

Sometimes when our physical strength wains, all we have is our mental strength. Know that, whatever comes your way, you have the mental strength and the tenacity to keep going.

The three simple yet profound words my family keep saying to me as I was battling cancer was, “You got this!”

Becky, I know you got this! Keep putting one foot in front of the other. Do the next thing that you have to do and think of only that, until it’s time to do what comes after that.

I will keep you in my thoughts and prayers. 🙏

3. Companionship. Lunch dates and walks around the park are wonderful distractions as I wait for my surgery date.

4. Suggestions of what you want to do to help versus “let me know if I can help sometime” are helpful. For example, Joyce said:

I would love for someone to say, “Is it okay if I bring you dinner on Friday night?” instead of saying, “Let me know if I can bring you dinner one day.” I might never take you up on a general offer, but when you ask me about a specific date, that helps me focus and decide on a time that works.

5. Listening is always appreciated. Unsolicited advice and suggestions … not so much. Questions can feel overwhelming at times, but thoughtful questions are encouraging. Please be satisfied with what I am willing to share with you instead of pressing me for more information. From a friend:

“Listening and humor. These are two things that really help me.”

Lilli said:

“I need someone to talk to who understands some basic information about the type of cancer I have, who cares about what I am going through, and will listen to the fears I can’t share with my family.”

6. Understanding that each cancer and each person's experience are different. In one of the groups where I am a member, Hannah shared:

“I wish people would Google GCT and understand its uniqueness instead of comparing my illness to someone else’s. I’m not your mom or your aunt, and my situation is different.”

7. Assume that I have done my research, lived a healthy lifestyle, and made smart choices instead of asking if I have 1) taken this or that supplement, 2) used this essential oil, or 3) eaten this particular diet. From another patient:

“I didn’t do anything to bring this one myself. I didn’t miss doing anything, either. According to my doctor, this is genetic, it’s luck of the draw. It hurts when friends ask me if I did or didn’t do something in the past . . . or tell me by taking a certain vitamin I can be healthy in the future. It’s not that simple. Can you change the color of your eyes by rubbing an essential oil on your eyelids?”

8. Texts that aren’t trite or overly spiritualized are encouraging.

One of my favorite texts from a friend:

“Had you on my mind this morning. No verses or scriptures. Just wanted you to know I was thinking and praying about you in my quiet time.”

9. Finally, don’t let the above make you afraid to reach out. According to Anna,

”Just check in. Say hi. Text. Call. Write. Whatever you can do. I found some people were scared they didn’t know what to say or how to say it, and so they didn’t say anything. Some just disappeared from my life during my cancer treatments at the time I needed support most, and that was sad to me.”

I agree with Anna.

Friends, more than anything it doesn’t matter what you do or say when it comes from a heart of love. What matters is that you show up, that you care, that you understand that you truly can’t understand, but, please, don’t let that stop you from trying.

A recent lunch date with friends encouraged me greatly.

This is actually happening

My appointment at the Duke Cancer Center yesterday went as well as I could have possibly expected. I walked away with a firm plan, as well as confidence in the surgeon who will operate on me May 2.

I consented to a much larger surgery than originally anticipated, but the surgeon’s reasoning lines up with my goals for the future. I am at peace with the following:

• Exploratory laparotomy

• Total abdominal hysterectomy

• Left-salpingo-oophorectomy

• Debulking (removal of visible tumors)

• Abdominal wall resection

• Possible bowel resection

• Possible ostomy

Actual surgery time will be set the day before the procedure. Expected hospitalization ranges from two days to one week.

At this point my medical team and I are in agreement that I will not have chemotherapy after the procedure, but if biopsies of different tumors reveal anything other than GCT, there is still the possibility that chemo could be warranted.

So, yes, there are still many questions about the future, but I do feel that I have finally found a firm plan with the expertise needed for my unusual situation.

A quick update

1. I had more bloodwork today - a new test. It’s a good thing I have good veins. I’m giving blood frequently these days.

2. The conversation with Dr. J in Australia was encouraging and productive. Because of that phone call, it is the current “new plan” to forego chemotherapy because there's no real evidence it actually has any measurable benefit in preventing recurrence of GCT.

3. I’ll have a mammogram, ultrasound, and biopsy tomorrow.

4. I have canceled surgery for April 14 here in Wilmington because…

5. I have an appointment at Duke on Monday, and I hope to schedule surgery at Duke in the near future.

6. All of this just moves me one step closer to resolution and a firm new plan.

It’s time to go public

March 20, 2023

Haitians know how to grieve.  And they know how to laugh.  And they know how to suffer.  And they know how to hold onto hope in the face of impossible odds.

And they are my people.  So what better place to spend the last few days than in this country of contrasts, of joy and of sorrow, as I prepare to fight the toughest battle I’ve yet to face in my 52 years. 

As I shared with the church yesterday, I will fight this with everything I am.  I will fight this because of the boys at CERMICOL, I will fight this for the children of CCS, I will fight this for the community we have built at Haiti Awake, but most importantly, I will fight this for the six boys who have become the sons of my heart, if not the sons of my flesh.

It’s hard to look into the faces of those you love and break their hearts with the news you bear.  It’s hard to say, “I have every intention of coming back, but I cannot say for certain I will.”   But as I told the boys on Saturday night, “I have always told you the truth, and I always will.” 

We talked about the fact that I will lose my hair, that I won’t look the same.   Wesly and I broke the tension of it when I told them not to call me “Tèt Kale” when they see me, and Wesly told me he has plenty of caps I can borrow.  Goodness.  I love being able to laugh when it seems we should cry.

As you can see from these photos Hudson, Steeve, and I took, we laughed - so much, we cried - a little, we hugged, we hoped, and we faced reality - together.

In the days ahead I pray I can continue to step forward with the same courage, determination, hope and strength I have learned from these beautiful people who have become my extended family.

There was a song we sang at church when I was a child, and in recent days these lyrics have played in my head:

“I know God makes no mistakes.  He leads in every path I take along the way that’s leading me to Home.  Though at times my heart would break, there’s a purpose in every change He makes.  That others would see my life and know that God makes no mistakes.”

Glwa pou Bondye.

Sunday morning in Haiti

March 19, 2023

My time here in Haiti is running short, and I feel it this morning.   I am struggling to breathe, to calm my heart, to fight out the anxiety threatening to engulf me.

The last few days have been pure joy.  Pure joy.  Heart-filling, life-giving joy.  But reality is coming.

At moments I feel I am ready to tackle the challenges ahead.   At other moments I feel like I am drowning.

I want to cry, but I can’t.  I’m afraid the tears will come at the most inconvenient moment today.

I believe I will see the goodness of the Lord.

The boys

March 23, 2023

The letters.

When I left Haiti each of the boys gave me a letter.  I held them and didn’t try to read them as they felt like sacred writings in my hand, something to be saved for a time when they could be read with great care and given the attention they deserve.

When I read them, my heart was overwhelmed by the words of teenage boys - boys I know do not share their emotions freely.  I was most amazed to read what Stanley wrote:

“It is the grace of God with you who removed me from under the hand of Fedrick.”

The hand of Fedrick.  Sometimes I forget the hand of Fedrick.  Sometimes I forget the children’s stories as they have a new life.

But the children?  The children will never forget.  They lived that nightmare.  And it will, in some way, always be with them - that darkness - no matter how much light floods their lives these days.

When did these six go from being kids we were caring for to kids that I knew were my own? When did they become my sons? As I told them on Monday morning, “We do not have papers, but we all know the truth. You are adopted.” And they are.

And they are loved. So deeply. I do not want to be another loss in their lives.