When I knew , I knew

The day my mother died is the day I really knew she loved me. A strange thing to say, I know, but my truth nevertheless.  The understanding of all things from the beginning came with the ending.

I had crawled in bed with her waiting for her last organic breath in a sterile room. My nose irritated by the scents of alcohol and i.v.  Her nose bloody from forcing oxygen. I tried to clean her face.  Lotion even but tears would fall from her left eye.  My strong mother didn’t  cry. She “leaked” as we would call it. I didn’t want to take it away from her.  Truth is, I didn’t  want to lose them myself. If I wiped them, I would never again see the strength of her womanhood again.

She hadn’t spoken for 3 days.  Not since she had given me some rather poetic instructions.  Even now I laugh that she and I could never have a straight conversation.   Always a movie script of some kind.  Meaningful now, drama back then.

When the silence came, her heart monitor spoke for her.  The number of beats would rise and fall as different voices entered the room and addressed her all with the same tone. “Sister?” “Ma’cia?”  “Mama? Mama? MAMA!!”

I knew her 3 day rule. If she didn’t rise in the three days like Jesus did, then she didn’t want to be hooked to nothing that would change that.  She was adamant about not being trapped in weakness. 

But I punked out.  I sang “He’s sweet I know” as if that were going to change her mind.  She waved a few times. I never knew if she was raising her hands in worship or telling me to shut up.

I have always felt I failed my younger sister by allowing her to sign those dreaded papers. I remember the mix of sadness and anger in her eyes as she penned her name and then literally ran from the room. It would be days before I saw her again 

I’m was not quite cognitive of where my older sister was in that moment.  I knew she was there. I suspect she was no longer the Big Sister at that moment but too was again the child with the single pocahontas ponytail praying for Mama not to go. She, like Mama, would try hard to not show it, but vulnerability reveals itself even in stone. 

 I only found out today that they had their private moment at some point  that I must have slipped away. There was a forgiveness time involved and a phone conversation with her best friend. I pray she will tell you all about that someday. 

The youngest was barely a preteen.  Sheltered in the room with the grandchildren.  The “adults ” always feeling the need to protect them from the inevitable. 

I too made that mistake.  I had sent my two youngest kids to school that Monday. Not sure if I was shielding them from death or from seeing me in a child like desperation. Children need to know that their parents are human too.

The treatment of my eldest, I regret the most.  I had him when I was 15. He was her baby. Her son that I birthed. She would laugh and say that I was just the “egg bearer.” 

Through well meaning “it’s going to be okay” I neglected to talk to him about God’s Will and how a person’s will outweighs our tears.  At the moment of her death, he comes flying in with a bouquet of get well balloons, not realizing that her version of getting well meant leaving us behind. 

Let me correct that. She didn’t leave us behind. She left this world behind and we just happened to be still in it.

The room was full though. Sister’s sisters and Sister’s brothers (one on the phone was in New York). There were so many, 10 of them total.  Being on the oldest end, she was a second caregiver to most of them. Missing completely was the youngest brother. He was her original baby boy and had been murdered by a robber a few short years before. Honestly, I believe that was the day she really died.  Her broken heart never quite recovered and affected her body from that point forward.

Her mother, the rock of our family, had been in and out,  wheeled in a chair. But I still  can’t picture her in the room at that moment. I was told later how she drew close to her daughter and gently rubbed her forehead. A silent expression of love that is the hallmark for much of my family. This was the second child she had lost at too young of an age. The baby boy, Ronnie at 33 and my mom not quite 54. Her soul was hurting in ways I cannot and will not try to imagine.

Slowing beeps and tubes being removed, counting each deep draw and release. Five. The number of grace. A number I now have a love / hate relationship with. On Valentine’s Day no less.  A day she has previously disliked and one I still avoid 21 years later.

 I remember my pastor/godmother trying to pull me away and I screamed at her “she brought me in this world, I can go with her out.” I don’t think I ever apologized to Cat for that.  Not sure I should,  that pull almost took my mother’s love from me.

In that moment, holding fiercely to my mother’s arm, I felt her.  Not just a shockingly strange amount of energy that only those who have held on to a transitioning person know.

But I felt her. 

It should have been a peaceful moment. But I was 31 years old  and wasn’t ready for her to go yet. I had questions only she could answer. I screamed. I cried.  I prayed in tongues so strong and loud that Cat asked the  nurse to give me a sedative.. Even now I believe my comical mother got a chuckle out of that. 

But I felt her.

She was free. She was seeing her Savior.  She saw that Ronnie was okay.. Everything that ever burdened her was being released. 

But I felt her.

Though it was only mere minutes it felt like hours. Holding on to her arm,  that ironically had no more strength or warmth, I believe I was selfishly trying to hold on to her.  Hold on to her because  I still needed her. I still wanted her.  

But I felt her. And she was finally fierce. 

Her love was intense. It was given. It was written. It was unspoken. It was taken for granted. It was appreciated.  It was too much and not enough all at once. It hurt her. It hurt others. It healed her and she healed others. 

And in that moment, I felt her. I felt her love and I didn’t cry for her again for one full year.  My mother showed me she loved me when she let me feel her.

November 8, 2021. An excerpt from “My Mama’s Love Is Like …”

#rudeaboutboobs

On this last day of Breast Cancer Awareness Month, I just want to remind you that it is not just about one month but about one life, one family, one community, and one world at a time.

I still believe there is a cure out there but in the meantime there are things you can do to help yourself and your loved ones fight against a disease that robs so many families of the caregivers. Early detection is key. Get them Smash-A-Grams, do your monthly feels, and have honest conversations with your doctor.

Love each other enough to be #rudeaboutboobs .

ESCAPED – February 12, 2021

They call it domestic
But the concept is still foreign to me.
How does someone claim to love you then proceed to love you to death?

To the woman of whom the reporters described as “Henrico , East End, House a bloody crime scene, neighbors called police on a regular ” .

I shall mourn for you and your life cut short. I will not allow you to be victimized or blamed for the sins of an eager lover.

In my mind, you fought back but just were not strong enough. You were a warrior weary on the battle. Backed into a corner, you escaped your bruised soul and murdered body.

If his love is called domestic then your exit can be called an escape.

I regret not knowing you before the stories. I would have shared mine so we could have walked out together.

Heart Hungry

I was out in the Carytown area yesterday. One of the worst places to be when you know that you can’t have solid food for 36 hours before a medical test. But I was looking to pick up my last meal for a few days and wanted something special.

However my husband and I ran across homeless people near the trash cans of so many of these trendy restaurants . I began to weep when I saw them because this is America….the land of excess…and yet so many are living like this. Carytown flows with cash. Most times I can afford nothing there. It was heartbreaking seeing people of all ages and colors hoping for some wasteful person’s scraps.

This situation is only exasperated by Covid closing so many churches and shelter resources. It is also created by a ” I got mine. You get yours” attitude so many financially secure people have.

We don’t have a lot in our house but we are blessed. My husband and pooled what we had and bought as many sandwiches and fries we could handle. Thank you to the Carytown McDonald’s for asking what we were doing and donating a matching amount of bottled water.

I was shook so much by one married couple out on the corner with what seemed to be all of their possessions huddled against the cold. I freaked when I noticed a baby stroller but was relieved to find it was a very old dog wrapped in a blanket. I’m not a pet lover but I had to feed it. The poor thing was so tired looking he barely lifted his head at the smell of food. The young husband was so grateful he started to cry.

In the age of Covid you can’t touch, get too close or even see smiles anymore. But I was struck by all the emotions in his eyes and they spoke the volume of the problems in the human experience. His eyes were a golden brown color that I have never seen before and pierced right through me as a reminder to be grateful in all things. Even under the dirt and behind a make shift mask his face glowed.

I also noticed that they still wore their wedding bands. Tells me that they have not been out there too long. Most folks would have pawned for a room. Also tells me that they are determined to stay a family.

My husband and I made one last pass thru the street to make sure we hadn’t missed anybody we saw. Thought I had gone crazy because the couple and that old dog were suddenly gone. No way they could have moved that fast. We had just circled the block.

All I can do is wonder if we had been visited and tested. I pray we passed. My own food is still in the fridge. No need for it. My heart filled me.

I LIED

I had a discussion recently with someone about mental health in the church. We need to be okay to not be okay every single day and support each other. Pray. Get Counseling. Then Pray some more. Below is what  poured from my heart:

Forgive Me. I lied to you.  

I lied to you a lot.

A clever, cute, quip..  “blessed and highly flavored.”

Yes. I am blessed. 

But the flavor of the month  is salty.

Salty attitude

Salty sarcasm 

Both to cover  up the flavor of decade.

Salty tears. 

See I am a child of the Most High God. 

Above and Not beneath

Head and Not the tail.

World  Class Devil Stomping Overcomer

Remember??

You ain’t supposed  to know that my weeping endured for more than just a night. 

Tell me, is it joy in the morning?

Or joy in the mourning?

Or joy for the mourning while I am mourning in the morning.?

Am I a sinner because my mourning don’t  feel blessed?

Or right now  cause  I ain’t comforted ?

Or  I don’t wanna be a peacemaker this time?

Am I a sinner because I am still trying to forgive but can’t ever forget ?

Hands in places they should not be

Eyes on things  they should not see

Tattooing my flesh & heart worthless but powerful words that should not be.

That won’t let me be

My poor in spirit just feels broke. 

 Even with all I have……worked for and given,

Isn’t it strange that I miss the home without the indoor  plumbing where we were all together….living.

I was only meek because I was taught to be.  Choked first by the annotate to never let them see me sweat.

Another time by a well armed versed.

 And then again by my own brown skin.

I tried … even crowned my way thru it. 

But chemo was persecution 

Radiation  was an insult  

Diagnosis was an assault  on my character .

I try to  rejoice and be glad…..or at least appear  that way.   

Honestly  I do know that there is greater in the Kingdom. My pure in heart is seeing God .

Just can’t understand why so many took the trip 

In one year

One season  

One month.

In one day.

I still hungry Lord.  I am still  thirsty. 

(Pandemics. Politics.)

Here’s  my cup Lord .

(Evictions. Convictions. )

It’s  all full up Lord.

(Riots and Racism)

Feed me 

(Say Their Names)

Cause I want no more of  this Lord 

Full and starving

Empty and overflowing 

Sister-super-sanctified 

Dying and want nobody knowing

Hush children. Hush children

Don’t let nobody be calling my name.

Is there a balm in Gilead? Do I rub it on? Do I smoke it? Does it come in sugar free gummy form?

Me who never wanted to be touched, now misses the laying on of hands.

Holy Hands

Grease my forehead and make it stop hands.

Speak a word to me.

Just don’t  kill me softly. 

I’m healed!

Just still hurting.

Walking by faith and not by sight. You run into stuff.

You stub a toe waiting for light

Soothe my silent screaming. With your truth!

You been testi-lying too?

Right?

Why Me

I suppose I will answer in fuller detail later. But I was asked earlier about my “why me?” moments. My answer was this: of course I have them. But I try simply to avoid them because then I find my spiritual self asking my carnal self “why not me? ” to which both sides have lofty answers. And then the fight ends with the question to which no pure soul can answer with a holy heart “Who would I rather God had picked instead?”

Cancer sucked. Surgery sucked. Chemo really sucked. And I suppose my upcoming radiation will too. But no where do I believe I have a target on my back. My name is not Job or Job-ette. We live in a world where stuff happens even to those who love God and are loved by God. The magnificent difference is I am never alone. I would have lost my mind without His ever presence.

Would I have chosen this path? A resounding NOPE. But nor would I choose to hand it off to someone else. There is none else worthy to walk in my shoes nor is none else deserving to have the pain I bear walking in my shoes.
I fight on believing that purpose and goodness shall come out of this. That nothing I have experienced, bad or good, is in vain.

I shall not waste time wondering “why” on many days. I would rather spend the many days wondering how to powerfully live.

The Hair Taxi

Star date, January 24, 2019.

Forever deemed the day of the “Great Fall Out”.

In the grand scheme of things, there was nothing nuclear about it. The world has not ended. But it certainly felt like I had been hit by a bomb.

I was prepared and unready all at the same time. My infusion nurse had warned me. My oncologist had warned me. Every book and every fellow survivor had warned me.

It had even warned me. In the three days prior, and without further description, everything below my neck had made a steady march toward the shower drain. Adding insult to injury by forcing me to repeatedly clean the “shower shroom” I had purchased in case of such of an event.

I even had a beautician and a back-up beautician on stand by. I was going to take control of this. I was not going to let it beat me. I was going to be brave and rid myself of the trauma. Was even going to go live on social media with it. I was going to declare that “Pink Warriors” rule. A group of us girls were going to fight back.

But this was not to be the case. Whether this was bad luck or whether it was divine providence, I don’t know. Every single lady involved but me was busy that Friday night. My power moment was quickly becoming a whimper.

I was desperate. I was edgy, but I was sure I could make it to Saturday morning. “Just go to bed”, I told myself, “It will be okay”.

Taxotere aka “The Hair Taxi” said ” Yeah, Right!”

Ever had a sunburn on your head? That’s what it felt like when the “glow bugs” came to fight. Woke me up at 3 a.m. with a jolt. Instantly, my hand rises for my head. Ascends empty and descends full of what used to be.

My face was wet with mourning before I even picked up the comb and started to loosening the plaits I had been wearing to lessen impact. But nothing could save me from the pain in my scalp nor the pain in my spirit as they began to fall on their own. For each one I pulled, another came with it.

Exhausted from trying to keep up, I woke my husband up at 4 a.m . I sat between his knees on the floor to let him finish the job. Towel around my shoulders and bag in hand to protect the carpet.

We turned on the comedy channel, though neither of us really felt like laughing. I was attempting to drown out the screaming that was going on in and on my head.

After nearly two straight hours of digging, pulling and stopping to cool my scalp with a towel, I was left with a gallon sized freezer bag of what used to be black (and grey) natural curls and braids.

My “Whoopie Goldberg” pigtails use to extend just about my shoulders. Very few in my professional life had seen them. I kept them neatly tucked under a curly wig of about the same length during daylight hours. They were my little secret that got exposed the minute I hit my door frame each night and all weekend long. Only my closest family and friends had seen them. Oh, and occasionally, the mail man who I felt no need to be fake with.

My “Whoopies” were my guilty little pleasures. My real me. My freedom. And now I was carefully gathering them for a funeral procession in a zip lock bag coffin. A sobbing march to the super can outside so I would not be tempted to keep them.

SIDE NOTE: It is just hair. I know that. But it was mine. The next person with a full head of hair who has not experienced chemo or alopecia…. and says that I should just get over it….. best believe they should stand at least my arm span away for a week or more.

In rotation, for 50 years. Together, thru a gazillion style and color changes. Fads and bad hair cuts. Extensions and protective wigs. Personality, definition, style! Alter ego! It was mine and I need at least 24 hours to pout and eat some of the crap I have been avoiding. I will smile again Sunday.

As I ran my hand again through the remnant still attached to me, the physical pain was very much there. I would spend most of the morning with cold towels on my head trying to minimize the burn. I tried to talk to God to do the same for my soul. I have come to the conclusion that I was not allowed to beat this part of the race because He needed me to “feel” this for somebody else. Testimonies are never for ourselves, but for those in ear shot or in the reading.

I will be real with you. This day, though horrible for a few hours, was truly never really about hair. It was about the feeling of breast cancer robbing me of something else.

Please, don’t read pity …. read mad as spit.

I know what millions of men and women feel as surgery changes your body. Scars criss-cross in vain places. Things taken off and things inserted in. Skin texture changes and color changes. Ruined taste buds. Weight gain and weight loss. Steroid hots and steroids cold. Steroid cries and steroids mean. Just this week, I met a lady who lost her hearing to chemo. Another of whom it caused heart problems.

Let’s not forget people talking to your chest like your tumor will glow and reveal itself or your missing boob will reappear before their eyes. Or the dumb things that are said like “my 3rd cousin didn’t make it”, “where’s your faith” or “it’s just hair”.

I got myself together Saturday morning. Since the beauticians were still not available, I grabbed my daughter and headed straight to the neighborhood barbershop where I take my boys to. I knew “Pop Trim” as he is affectionately called would be opened early. I needed to get this over with quickly. I called ahead and was greeted with a ” I got you girl”.

The shop is normally full of noise and a lot of trash talking guys. I am one of only a few ladies that can hang in such a place…. well trained by my large family of uncles and male cousins. But today I was first in the door and it was almost silent.

Pop, a veteran of the Armed Forces and a retired firefighter with strong hands, handled me like he was cradling a newborn baby. His quiet demeanor was almost unsettling as I had never seen it before… and probably never will again.

Scissors and clippers flying around my head, he took breaks in between when the sobs came. He never acknowledge them. Didn’t hand me a tissue. He just let me have my tears. I thought I wanted an army of women with me to cheer me on. But the healing touch of this stately rescuer who knew how to properly war was more than enough.

My eyes flowed upward toward the ceiling seeking my true Rescuer. I know He is with me and will never leave me comfortless.

And then into the eyes of my daughter who was filming my buzz cut. I pray for the day that breast cancer goes playing in traffic. I want my girly girl to never know what this feel like.

Yes. It is just hair……I know……. But it was mine.

With Bald Love,

Michelle

Invasion of the Body Snatcher

I am too smart for my own britches.   Have always been. Probably will always be.   A blessing and a curse, I read my diagnosis in my hospital’s electronic MyChart five or so days before my surgeon had a chance to bring me in to talk about my biopsy results.   Big bold letters, Invasive Metastatic Breast Cancer = Stage 2 to Stage 3…. and a bunch of mumble jumble about hormone receptors and on and on.

Panic stricken, I did would any good patient would do…. I didn’t call my doctor…. I went straight to the internet.

Wasn’t showing too much brain on that one was I?

While the internet is full of great information, ( but only if you stick to national sites dedicated to cancer research and helps) I found myself drawn to my version of the “dark web.”  I found every scientific thing on the planet that spelled doom and gloom.  Horror stories and every memorial available. If that were not enough, the commercials on TV … (you know the ones…. “side effects include” every list of death imaginable) kept screaming at me “metastatic is relentless.”

By the time I got to Dr. Misti’s office (she is the greatest by the way), I had already planned my funeral (more about that another day).   I brought my husband, my mother-in-love (she is too great to be an in-law)  and my “always there” auntie with me, so  Dr. Misti could verbalize the extent of my bad news without me having to do it.

“Oh, I am pretty sure we can fix this!”

Her casualness and chipper demeanor took me aback.  This surely was not the drama filled meeting I had been rehearsing in my head for days.   I saw my family smile and draw sighs of relief.    My mother-in-love promised Doc a big pan of cinnamon rolls if she kept her word.

I on the other hand was totally confused and started off my list of but, but, buts.

Firstly, Dr. Misti was furious that my results had been released to me before she could sign off on them. We both agreed that was a tool of satan to mess my head up.  He won that round.  Had me dead without dying.

Secondly, she explained that while my treatment plan would not be easy, that I would be facing surgery, chemo, radiation and years of hormone therapies, however,  INVASIVE metastatic did not mean that I had been INVADED.   That a staging of 2 to 3, while more to deal with than a 1, did not necessarily mean death before God’s timing was on the horizon.  And finally, the hormone stuff that I did not quite understand…. she said the hormone/biological gene patterns I had, while though they  made me a target for breast cancer in the first place, they were also the kind to have.  Basically, I was made to beat this.

If you have not figured it out yet, Catholic hospital with a soft hearted Christian surgeon. She prayed with our family before we left that day.  My auntie blessed her hands. My mother-in-love was already working on the frostings in her mind. My husband tried to hide the fact that he “was leaking” as men who do not cry call it.

In the months, that have followed, I have repeated over and over, ” it aint easy, but it’s worth it.”   Something I adopted after my son received his long awaited kidney transplant exactly 9 birthing months before I received the cancer diagnosis.

I have since had the tumor that I never felt removed.  It was the size of the average ping pong ball.  It was clean and tight, which was very much in my favor.  I didn’t do any kind of reconstruction because the concave in my breast is not horribly huge and at my age and weight, I don’t wear bikinis anyway.  ( You can laugh, I want you to. )

The invasive metastatic part is that it spread to my lymph nodes.

Invasive- meaning moving.

Metastatic – meaning attached elsewhere.

Lots of weird and sometimes scary testing proved that breast cancer (which does not travel by blood but by lymph fluid) had not appeared anywhere else in my body.   All of my lymph nodes under my left arm have now been removed.    Only two of the 7 tested showed cancer.  One fully and one in early staging.   Consequently, a huge scar where my armpit used to be.   I now have to use deodorant in the form of a crystal ….. it actually works, I don’t stink.. My range of motion is not fully back yet, had some nerve damage in complication,  and I have only driven twice in the past few months.  Still hurts sometimes and getting used to  an altered  body sometimes has me walking in to door frames where I never had before.  ( You can laugh here too.  I want you to).

I won’t lie. Chemo sucks.   I will detail that more another day.  It is an aint easy but worth it moment.

Long story short, the only thing that was invaded last September, was my mind.   I allowed a trick of the enemy to “steal, kill and destroy” all my hopes, dreams and plans for the future for a few short days.   Just enough so that if I had not had God in me, I probably would have jumped from a bridge in fear.

You see, the enemy uses his taunts to make a lot of us lose the game before it’s played.  The children of Israel had lost the battle with Goliath  in their mind long before a spear was even thrown.  He taunted them day and night with words and they caved in.  It wasn’t until David came armed with the Word of God and a belief that the Host of the Armies  was with him, that Goliath went down like a rock because of a rock. (1st Samuel Chapter 17)

I wish I could say I felt like David every day.  The enemy really loves to whisper when the pain sets in or when I have been unable to eat for 3 or 4 days.  Body snatched is what we call it.  However, I am a lot more careful to make sure my mind does not get snatched with it.

Dr. Misti’s reassurances armed me with three especially smooth stones:

1. Guard Your Heart And Mind with the right information.    The Word of God rightly divided and the word of experts rightly interpreted.

2. God has a plan for me as long as I focus.  The enemy can only taunt me if I choose to believe.  I can always fight back with the truth.

3. After two procedures and two pans of cinnamon rolls, Dr. Misti is addicted to my mother-in-love’s promises.   She will always work hard to keep her “fixing” reward!  LOL.

Until next time,  LIVE, LIVE LIVE ON PURPOSE.

Michelle

 

 

 

 

Dress Code?

I have never been a very vain girl.  Even the day of my wedding I would have preferred a T-Shirt and Jeans over the big foo foo dress and sparkly make-up.   But I knew, I had a role to play and in doing so, you dress the part. You have to be able to tell the bride from the bridesmaids, right…. or at least from the groom.  LOL.

Just six days after my 50th birthday  and on the morning of one of the toughest days of my life, I woke up with the weirdest thought…. what does a girl wear?  What does a girl wear to chemotherapy?

As of that date and 5 months into my diagnosis, I had become accustom to baby  pink and “fight like a girl” shirts.  All kinds of inspirational buttons and “you gonna make it” paraphernalia.    And while I fully believed all the cups, the bags, and the jewelry have helped to develop a mostly healthy attitude about all of this, I wasn’t feeling any of it that day.

I only wore mostly all black, not to be morbid, but because it was convenient.  It would not show blood in case there was any. My tank top had a very lose neckline so that the nurse could access the port line that had been inserted in my chest just under my skin.  From it shoots a “line” that extends into the veins in my neck.  Hate that necessary evil. It protrudes from my neck like the veins of a body builder ready to “pump you up!”

Over that and black leggings, comfy socks and shoes, I wore my favorite big blue jean shirt. My modesty point so that I wouldn’t be giving out peep shows.  Chemo and infusion wards have no real privacy.  Soft, worn, out and comfortable! Familiar and feeling like me.  Tough for the wear but easy to the touch. Needed my old friend ….very old but not stained friend,….with me like the blankie I bought with me.

And speaking of blankie, that was my one pink deviation. A good friend had given it to me. It was covered with inspirational words… each of which I needed ….none of which I actually read that day  as I watched 3 bags of what I call “glow bugs” seeping into my veins.  Nor could I concentrate on the best seller I bought with me by Michelle Obama… nor my YouTube Videos.   The only thing in my well packed “field trip” bag that got attention was my massive stash of ginger snaps (for nervous tummies) and 2 liter bottle of water (glow bugs are very dehydrating.)

For the next 4 to 5 hours, I watched a drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.  At this point in my treatment plan, my ping pong ball sized breast tumor (which I didn’t feel by the way) has been cut out… along with all the lymph nodes (two cancerous) under my left arm.    The march of drips is designed to go throughout my body on a seek and destroy mission looking for any remnants.    Best explained as looking for any rapid producing “clumps” of redundant cells  (which cancer basically is) to kill.   I wondered why it doesn’t take out fat.  I must remember to ask my doctor that next time.

From time to time a nurse would check on me.

“Anything hurt?”   –  Nope.

“Hot or cold?”  – No Maam

“Need a pee break?”  – No thank you

“Need a snack?”    –    What ya got?

“You are so funny!” she says.   “Your positive attitude will serve you well thru this”

And that is when i realized what I really wore to chemo that day.  The funny girl had worn her fraud face.

I told my husband, I wanted to do this first one alone.   Told my aunties, I got this… go live your life. My kids didn’t even ask because they know their mama.    I bravely noted I didn’t need nobody but Jesus.   And while He is thoroughly all I ever need “my outfit” had started to crumble just about the 5th hour.

I have always used laughter to cover my fears.   I use my faith as my own personal super hero cape.  Taking care of others is how I am able to fly.  My pride made me smile through the need to vomit just so the mother of the girl in the chair next to me would not be afraid.    I even commented to another that I hope my face looked as pretty as hers when my hair starts to leave me.   I joked about wanting to be a “Wakanda General” rather than a wig wearer.

In reality, I wanted to suck my thumb, something I have never done.   I wanted to stuff my face with fiery Cheetos, something I have always done.    For once I wanted to lose control and scream …. ” I hate this!, Cancer sucks! The Attack on Boobies Is Evil.” Something I will probably never do.

My personal kryptonite would not let me. I caught the one tear before it dropped.

Just then I knew I heard  My Comforter, who was still with me even when i was being fraudulent, wooing me to sleep with  the “its going to be okay” that I would not receive from any human  that day.    At some point I nodded it off, feeling my well created facade wrinkling as much as the chambray shirt I was wearing.   Soft, comfortable, tough for the wear, able to cover a multitude of flaws.  In the midst of my dreaming ( and some snoring) I felt in my spirit, “crying is okay, even for tough little clowns”

 

-Michelle

 

My Team Of Incredibles

Incredibles2-759x500Anyone who knows me well, knows that I have always been fiercely independent and never wanted to lean9 on anybody….but yet would do and be for others whenever possible. Hey, it took years for me to let go without having a back-up plan written out for God.
Now that I am in a season of finding strength in weakness and finally allowing “folks in”, I am finding peace and joy in the presence of others that I never quite knew before.

It is not quite easy and it is never going to be 100% comfortable but in this hour God is using my team of “The Incredibles” to show me the love in the leaning.

I won’t start naming names because you have become numerous. You know who you are: family, friends, “used to be” strangers, in-laws and outlaws, survivors, fighters, care professionals, prayer partners, Bible Buddies, and my amazing team at Virginia Breast Center.

I just want to thank you all for “wearing me down” with acts of kindness, words of encouragement, prophetic utterances and hugs that I used to hate but suddenly welcome.

Again I love my “Incredibles”!! You are my strength, my stretching, my fire, my speed and you cover me in the invisible realms!!

Until next time, Michelle