"The river of life runs deep." I couldn't get this sentence out of my head as a I prepared for and received my latest PET scan. I had no idea what it meant but it gave me a great deal of peace.
Fast-forward to yesterday evening after the test. I was worshipping to Hillsong UNITED's Zion Sessions album and, during a spontaneous moment, started singing, "When I pass through the river You will be with me, in it, in it, in it." I felt it resonate deep inside of me. Then, the light flipped off in my spirit and I remembered the beginning portion of Isa. 43.2 (God talking, here): "'When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; And through the rivers, they will not overflow you.'" It all finally made sense. I don't know if this is at all theologically accurate (#SorryHeresyHunters) but I think this is the same "river of life" God put in my head and heart: quotidian, cancer treatment, get the kids to school, vote in an election, life.
I just wanted to hop on here and share. I hope this helps somebody. Whether you be sunbathing in the shallows of this river of life or plunged head-long into the raging middle: "You are with me."
Much love,
Anna Jo
Tuesday, March 17, 2020
Monday, March 16, 2020
Last PET Scan At Portsmouth Naval
Well, today was the end of an era. I had my final PET scan at Portsmouth Naval Hospital (Naval Medical Center Portsmouth). This is a big deal because it's where I had the high-risk operation that removed the cancer from the head of my pancreas and where I received all subsequent, cancer-related care.
The phrase that I haven't been able to get out of my head since last night is, "The river of life runs deep." I don't entirely know what this means but can somewhat connect it to a comment I saw on a facebook post once. A man had just lost his wife to cancer, like hours before, and a wise leader in my life and mutual friend of ours said something to the effect of, "My prayers are with you; you're in the deepest waters life gives right now." That was four years ago and it still sticks with me.
I learned what it means to fight at PN. I learned what it means to grieve and help others through their grief at PN. I learned what it means to give up gracefully at PN. I learned what it means to receive grace gracefully at PN. I befriended countless doctors, nurses and staff at PN. It will always hold a special place in my heart. The river of life runs deep.
The river of life runs deep. Sometimes we're blessed to sunbathe in the shallows but sometimes we are thrust headlong into the raging middle. What I can say is thank you. Thank you to family and friends for holding me up on the darkest nights. Thank you to the medical professionals who save our lives. And finally, after much fighting, I can say thank you to God. For all of it. As my old Young Life leader who also beat cancer always says, "all a gift."
The river of life runs deep.
The phrase that I haven't been able to get out of my head since last night is, "The river of life runs deep." I don't entirely know what this means but can somewhat connect it to a comment I saw on a facebook post once. A man had just lost his wife to cancer, like hours before, and a wise leader in my life and mutual friend of ours said something to the effect of, "My prayers are with you; you're in the deepest waters life gives right now." That was four years ago and it still sticks with me.
I learned what it means to fight at PN. I learned what it means to grieve and help others through their grief at PN. I learned what it means to give up gracefully at PN. I learned what it means to receive grace gracefully at PN. I befriended countless doctors, nurses and staff at PN. It will always hold a special place in my heart. The river of life runs deep.
The river of life runs deep. Sometimes we're blessed to sunbathe in the shallows but sometimes we are thrust headlong into the raging middle. What I can say is thank you. Thank you to family and friends for holding me up on the darkest nights. Thank you to the medical professionals who save our lives. And finally, after much fighting, I can say thank you to God. For all of it. As my old Young Life leader who also beat cancer always says, "all a gift."
The river of life runs deep.
Wednesday, February 19, 2020
E.R.
I went to my primary care for a litany of complaints the other day but chief among them was aches all over like I had just finished a 90 min soccer match (trust me, I know what that feels like lol).
The doctor didn't know what to do so I left with a handful of miscellaneous scripts that I never did fill.
I get home and the pains from worse; I could barely lift my head off the pillow. I was showing many signs of Lithium toxicity. I freaked when I saw that two of the more sever side effects were going into a coma and death.
So I went to the ER at Chesapeake General and the triage nurse gave me priority over others who had been there longer.
I was actually called back with a nurse, a man too weak to walk with a facemark on, and my dad, to keep me company. But what happened next was inexplicable to my arrogant mind: I saw the "rooms" were just curtain-partitions, just like pre-op for the Whipple. I started sobbing immediately and hid behind my dad so no one would noticed. The prim-and-proper Anna immediately composed herself. And, true to form, I asked my dad to snap a picture of me to remember this whole ordeal.
I remember wearing my friend's red clay earrings that day for "good luck" (plus they're super cute; I'll put a like to her Etsy shop at the bottom of the page). The red clay reminded me of Georgia where I spent all my summers.
I told my dad to go get something to eat and that I'd be fine there while they ran a battery of tests.
Besides the aforementioned crying, I typically do really well as a patient (minus all my blow-out veins). I didn't realize how much cancer had traumatized me until I saw the curtain-partitioned "rooms," in which (at a dif hospital) I had been horrendously anesthetized.
I am a good patient (well, a little rebellious, really) but I would let them take my blood at 4am, nonetheless.
If I ever got coronation name, I would want it to be Anna the Brave, perhaps calling into existence what is not so. I remember during the time of surgery and recovery I would wax eloquent about the benevolence of God. But when push came to shove, I was just as scared and in pain as anybody else would have been. I remember my worst fear and rebellion towards God came when they would make me breathe into a tube violently to determine if I was developing pneumonia. I refused, but surgeons aren't the type of people to let themselves be refused, especially by an angsty teenager. So I did it with full resentment in my heart towards God.
I'm writing this post because, seven years later, I was scared of the cancer, the pain, the inadequacy of a nerve-block to do it's job (ahem, Portsmouth Naval).
But this is also an update. I'm to see my psychiatrist on Friday so pray for wisdom on his part, he is a fiery christian, so I know Holy Spirit will work through him, I'm in a lot of pain both physically and mentally, so prayer for fortitude would be great.
Love y'all,
Anna Jo
Below are three books about what it's like to live (and die) from cancer:
When Breath Becomes Air -Paul Kalanithi
Worth the Suffering -Jenna Henderson
The Bright Hour -Nina Riggs
Sorry this post was scattered and a tad disorienting.. I guess it's just a reflection of my life (and messy room) right now.
P.S. most of my labs (and there were a lot of them) came back fine so praise the Lord for that.
I'll leave you with a quote from Shauna Niequist:
"There's nothing small or inconsequential about our stories. There is, in fact, nothing bigger. And when we tell the truth about our lives - the broken parts, the secret parts, the beautiful parts - then the gospel comes to life, an actual story about redemption, instead of abstraction and theory and things you learn in Sunday School."
Thanks for reading about my story
The doctor didn't know what to do so I left with a handful of miscellaneous scripts that I never did fill.
I get home and the pains from worse; I could barely lift my head off the pillow. I was showing many signs of Lithium toxicity. I freaked when I saw that two of the more sever side effects were going into a coma and death.
So I went to the ER at Chesapeake General and the triage nurse gave me priority over others who had been there longer.
I was actually called back with a nurse, a man too weak to walk with a facemark on, and my dad, to keep me company. But what happened next was inexplicable to my arrogant mind: I saw the "rooms" were just curtain-partitions, just like pre-op for the Whipple. I started sobbing immediately and hid behind my dad so no one would noticed. The prim-and-proper Anna immediately composed herself. And, true to form, I asked my dad to snap a picture of me to remember this whole ordeal.
I remember wearing my friend's red clay earrings that day for "good luck" (plus they're super cute; I'll put a like to her Etsy shop at the bottom of the page). The red clay reminded me of Georgia where I spent all my summers.
I told my dad to go get something to eat and that I'd be fine there while they ran a battery of tests.
Besides the aforementioned crying, I typically do really well as a patient (minus all my blow-out veins). I didn't realize how much cancer had traumatized me until I saw the curtain-partitioned "rooms," in which (at a dif hospital) I had been horrendously anesthetized.
I am a good patient (well, a little rebellious, really) but I would let them take my blood at 4am, nonetheless.
If I ever got coronation name, I would want it to be Anna the Brave, perhaps calling into existence what is not so. I remember during the time of surgery and recovery I would wax eloquent about the benevolence of God. But when push came to shove, I was just as scared and in pain as anybody else would have been. I remember my worst fear and rebellion towards God came when they would make me breathe into a tube violently to determine if I was developing pneumonia. I refused, but surgeons aren't the type of people to let themselves be refused, especially by an angsty teenager. So I did it with full resentment in my heart towards God.
I'm writing this post because, seven years later, I was scared of the cancer, the pain, the inadequacy of a nerve-block to do it's job (ahem, Portsmouth Naval).
But this is also an update. I'm to see my psychiatrist on Friday so pray for wisdom on his part, he is a fiery christian, so I know Holy Spirit will work through him, I'm in a lot of pain both physically and mentally, so prayer for fortitude would be great.
Love y'all,
Anna Jo
Below are three books about what it's like to live (and die) from cancer:
When Breath Becomes Air -Paul Kalanithi
Worth the Suffering -Jenna Henderson
The Bright Hour -Nina Riggs
Sorry this post was scattered and a tad disorienting.. I guess it's just a reflection of my life (and messy room) right now.
P.S. most of my labs (and there were a lot of them) came back fine so praise the Lord for that.
I'll leave you with a quote from Shauna Niequist:
"There's nothing small or inconsequential about our stories. There is, in fact, nothing bigger. And when we tell the truth about our lives - the broken parts, the secret parts, the beautiful parts - then the gospel comes to life, an actual story about redemption, instead of abstraction and theory and things you learn in Sunday School."
Thanks for reading about my story
Friday, February 14, 2020
Arrival: Life In The Negative Space
I cried in the car today.
If you read my last post you know some of the symptoms I was experiencing as a result of my new panacea medicine.
This got worse this morning, my scar hurt like it did when I was in recovery. I had aches all over my body and the chills. I could barely lift my head from my pillow from within the prison of my bed-ridden existence.
The reason I cried is because of the negative space, the unknown.
My psychiatrist wrote off my side-effects as not being caused by this medicine. (he also wouldn't let me get a picc line and I have horrible veins but my mom was driving me so I didn't want to cry).
But today, after more blood draws at my primary care, the doctor said he thinks that it's all due to the new medicines I'm on and he's also sending out my lithium levels so we'll see there.
Negative space: in art, the part that isn't the actual picture but sort gives the positive space room to land on. Great artists are just as meticulous about the space they use and the space they don't use because negative space can tell the observer just as ,much as positive space.
Have you ever seen or read Arrival? if you haven't stop reading here and go watch it. Towards the end, when things are getting down to the wire, the differing creatures (I refuse to call them aliens because cultural relativism, people!). So the differing creatures sent one last encrypted, highly intelligent message. The linguist and the physicist couldn't figure out the cypher. Then, with gallantry, the physicist figures out that the message was hidden in the negative space of the 3-D message: time, it was about time. but that's beside the point. Here's the real point: you can communicate life-saving messages through negative space.
So when I feel I like death is winning the fight because, at least in this case, no one can tell me what's wrong and no survivor of a rare cancer wants to hear that, I remember the negative space.
God doesn't always respond right away or at all the way you want him to, but he always answers. Often times in the negative spaces of your life, your community.
As I turned-on the ignition my care in front of patient first and started crying. And soon I felt another person in the car. He was crying too. It was Jesus.
In between the positive spaces of two highly trained doctors into whom I have vested all my hope, two doctors who couldn't tell me exactly what's wrong or if the cancer's back, in the negative space, I encountered the God Who Sees Me (shout out, Hagar!).
Knowing that you have a God the suffered for you 2 millennia before you were born and makes petitions for us in heaven, and, yes, suffers with us now, doesn't take the pain away or mitigate the reality of a fractured existence on this long sojourn home. But it makes us look back at the pristine Garden and forward to the Heavenly Jerusalem. And I think what he wants us to know is that he is just so very with us. In the positive, useful stages, and in the negative, useful spaces. Emmanuel, God with us, our very present help.
Don't miss him in the fallow seasons of your life. He may not visit us with the angel of the lord like Hagar in her negative spaces (literal deserts), but he will be there.
I can hear the words of Lily Potter, saying to her bereaved son, "we never left."
God's not afraid of my (and your) circumstances or everybody's seeming ignorance as to what's wrong with me, be assured: he's never left.
Tuesday, February 11, 2020
Today was rough
I woke up at 4:45am and tried to walk down the stairs to go the restroom. But I couldn't keep my balance so I sat there in silence for fifteen minutes til my dad came out of his room to cook himself breakfast. I wanted to ask him to make so eggs and toast for me since I couldn't currently do it by myself. But the voice I heard come out of me sounded like Rocky when he beat Apollo: slurred, delayed, unintelligible.
Hunger is another side effect of this med so I came down because I thought I could make myself seconds... I couldn't stand up straight; it was like my inner-gyroscope was off. I left the egg half scrambled in the pan next to two pieces of toast not buttered. Then, sleep.
I woke up and tried to text people how the med had worked but my fingers seemingly lost all potent dexterity. I couldn't type a word, let alone a sentence.
The only other off thing that I noticed was that my ability to swallow was impeded and I felt like I was choking multiple times throughout the day.
Also, I was pretty sedate. My affect was pretty flat.
I haven't lost hope... Please keep your prayers coming; I cherish them... oh yeah, please pray that they would allow me to get semi-permanent port to draw blood from, my poor hands have taken a beating.
"The effectual, fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much" (James 5:16).
Love always,
Anna Jo
Tuesday, February 4, 2020
Casimir Pulaski Day + Jenna
You know what's funny? I listened to Sufjan Stevens's "Casimir Pulaski Day", and it was by far my favorite song in high school before I internalized what it was saying about cancer. Two short years later, I would have people laying their hands on me for healing. Little did I know the quest that lay before me. When I watch the coronation scene of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, I always imagine my new name would be Anna the Brave. I was not the nicest or the sweetest, but I had guts.
That moxy faded quickly after the Whipple surgery. I was angry at God, even though I didn't dare verbalize it because I tried so hard to fit the mold of a good YL girl who was the leaders's favorite. But why was I vomiting with a nine inch scar severing my abdominal nerves and blood seeping out of my feeding and drainage tubes at 18 years old? I still don't know, but I screamed at the pain, even though I had friends over who could hear everything from the downstairs bathroom I was in. My dad wisely suggested they abandon their Infuse-Anna-With-Optimism shifts early that day.
But what I'm really writing to say is that I just finished an incredible book called Worth the Suffering by Jenna Henderson. It's a collection of her blogposts, prayers, and her friends's memories of her before she passed away in 2016.
I noticed a HUGE difference in the way we both blogged about our experiences. I am convicted. Buy the book. Read it. I'm sure you'll be challenged. I want my complaining to turn into thanksgiving and I want a fierce love of Jesus like it appears Jenna had in her 30 short years of life.
Thank you, Jenna, for the legacy you left us for when we suffer. I hope to be as valiant as you one day.
With love,
Anna Jo
You can buy the book here: https://www.worththesuffering.com
That moxy faded quickly after the Whipple surgery. I was angry at God, even though I didn't dare verbalize it because I tried so hard to fit the mold of a good YL girl who was the leaders's favorite. But why was I vomiting with a nine inch scar severing my abdominal nerves and blood seeping out of my feeding and drainage tubes at 18 years old? I still don't know, but I screamed at the pain, even though I had friends over who could hear everything from the downstairs bathroom I was in. My dad wisely suggested they abandon their Infuse-Anna-With-Optimism shifts early that day.
But what I'm really writing to say is that I just finished an incredible book called Worth the Suffering by Jenna Henderson. It's a collection of her blogposts, prayers, and her friends's memories of her before she passed away in 2016.
I noticed a HUGE difference in the way we both blogged about our experiences. I am convicted. Buy the book. Read it. I'm sure you'll be challenged. I want my complaining to turn into thanksgiving and I want a fierce love of Jesus like it appears Jenna had in her 30 short years of life.
Thank you, Jenna, for the legacy you left us for when we suffer. I hope to be as valiant as you one day.
With love,
Anna Jo
You can buy the book here: https://www.worththesuffering.com
Tuesday, January 28, 2020
How Do You Pronounce Clozapine?
Relieve
Etymology: Late 14c., "alleviate (pain, etc.), mitigate; afford comfort; allow respite; diminish the pressure of," also "give alms to, provide for;" also figuratively, "take heart, cheer up;" from Old French relever"to raise, relieve" (11c.) and directly from Latin relevare "to raise, alleviate, lift up, free from a burden," from re-, intensive prefix (see re-), + levare "to lift up, lighten," from levis "not heavy" (from PIE root *legwh- "not heavy, having little weight")
The notion is "to raise (someone) out of trouble." From c. 1400 as "advance to the rescue in battle;" also "return from battle; recall (troops)." Meaning "release from duty" is from early 15c.
The bruises are healing and the swelling is going down. I don't have good veins in my arms, so, the past two times I've gotten my blood drawn in the last three days, they've used my hands.
But boy, when I feel hope rustling in the wind, I'd endure anything to realize it.
I hate cliche christian things, but the Lord undeniably gave me the word "relief" for the year 2020. And man was I glad to hear it. After seven years of slow-boiling torture (read: cancer + mood disorder + high motivation + low productivity), I might have a shot at becoming a translator, moving abroad, financially supporting and living by myself. All because I'm going on a cousin drug of Zyprexa. The only reason I can't stay on the solid gold that is Zyprexa is because it makes me gain weight "like a racehorse" as my psychiatrist so quaintly put it. But this new drug is "the most effective drug made" and the weight gain is less. So I have to get my blood drawn every week. The bruises and swelling may continue, but I plan on blasting forward. I feel hope for the first time in years. Real, genuine, down-in-your-bones hope.
The seven years started with my cancer diagnosis and treatment at age 18. I find it interesting that I'm starting my 7th year since then because, in ancient times, the Hebrews were called to a Sabbatic year every seven years. Debts were forgiven, slaves released, and, here's the biggie, NO cultivation of the land. This would fundamentally change the fabric of an agricultural society. And for the first time, after many times studying this concept, I realized the radical trust in the Word of God, Jehovah-Jireh, that it would cost the pre-exilic Israelites.
Though it was sad that they didn't listen, I hope to learn from their mistake. So, just as much as this is a year of divine relief, it is also to be a year of trust in God for radical provision.
I plan to update this blog more often and would be honored if you joined me on my journey towards healing and increased agency... and fun :)
Much love,
Anna Jo
Etymology: Late 14c., "alleviate (pain, etc.), mitigate; afford comfort; allow respite; diminish the pressure of," also "give alms to, provide for;" also figuratively, "take heart, cheer up;" from Old French relever"to raise, relieve" (11c.) and directly from Latin relevare "to raise, alleviate, lift up, free from a burden," from re-, intensive prefix (see re-), + levare "to lift up, lighten," from levis "not heavy" (from PIE root *legwh- "not heavy, having little weight")
The notion is "to raise (someone) out of trouble." From c. 1400 as "advance to the rescue in battle;" also "return from battle; recall (troops)." Meaning "release from duty" is from early 15c.
The bruises are healing and the swelling is going down. I don't have good veins in my arms, so, the past two times I've gotten my blood drawn in the last three days, they've used my hands.
But boy, when I feel hope rustling in the wind, I'd endure anything to realize it.
I hate cliche christian things, but the Lord undeniably gave me the word "relief" for the year 2020. And man was I glad to hear it. After seven years of slow-boiling torture (read: cancer + mood disorder + high motivation + low productivity), I might have a shot at becoming a translator, moving abroad, financially supporting and living by myself. All because I'm going on a cousin drug of Zyprexa. The only reason I can't stay on the solid gold that is Zyprexa is because it makes me gain weight "like a racehorse" as my psychiatrist so quaintly put it. But this new drug is "the most effective drug made" and the weight gain is less. So I have to get my blood drawn every week. The bruises and swelling may continue, but I plan on blasting forward. I feel hope for the first time in years. Real, genuine, down-in-your-bones hope.
The seven years started with my cancer diagnosis and treatment at age 18. I find it interesting that I'm starting my 7th year since then because, in ancient times, the Hebrews were called to a Sabbatic year every seven years. Debts were forgiven, slaves released, and, here's the biggie, NO cultivation of the land. This would fundamentally change the fabric of an agricultural society. And for the first time, after many times studying this concept, I realized the radical trust in the Word of God, Jehovah-Jireh, that it would cost the pre-exilic Israelites.
Though it was sad that they didn't listen, I hope to learn from their mistake. So, just as much as this is a year of divine relief, it is also to be a year of trust in God for radical provision.
I plan to update this blog more often and would be honored if you joined me on my journey towards healing and increased agency... and fun :)
Much love,
Anna Jo
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