For a week, I've been humming The Band's line: "Any day, now, any day now, I shall be released." Well, the day has come and we're driving home today!
This will be my last blog entry until May, when we return to Houston for the first of many followup scans, that over time, will tell the tale as to the success of the trial. Uncertainty will rule the day, and a long time will have to pass before anyone dares to use the R word (remission).
Before we go, I have two important things to say to all of you:
1. A thousand thank-you's (complete with electronic hugs) to all of you who've read my blog, sent cards, visited, kept me in your thoughts, plied me with goodies, fed, drove, or cared for my children, called--and prayed. I would never have dreamed there would be so many of you rooting for little old me.
2. I must tell you a story about why I know this trial was the right thing to do. You skeptics will roll your eyes, but bear with me.
Back in October before I was serious about the trial, the hospital began the insurance paperwork, fully expecting months of haggling over payment for this $150,000 experimental procedure. The approval came through in TWO days. Suddenly a huge decision was upon me.
It just so happened that this coincided with my departure on a retreat into the beautiful Hill Country with women of my church for a weekend of meditation and yoga. I was looking forward to some gloriously quiet hours in my treetop room and had brought along a 400-page, very intellectual book on stem cell science. I was looking forward to a thoughtful weekend to start weighing the pro's and con's in earnest.
To kick off the weekend, my dear friend the Rev. (or rather, the Really Cool Rev.) Cathy Boyd led us in a 15-minute meditation. To keep us focused, Cathy suggested we think of a word to concentrate on, a word summarizing our intention for the weekend. Thinking of my weighty tome and my upcoming brain workout, out of a hat I picked "clarity."
Breathing deeply in and out, I repeated "clarity" over and over. Then suddenly, ALL BY ITSELF, the word changed. I know with absolute certainty that some force outside myself (the Holy Spirit, the universe, an angel in the form of my late stepmother?) changed the word. This was not a simple upwelling from my unconscious. It was like thinking you're alone in a room, minding your own business, and then someone comes up and taps you on the shoulder.
The word "clarity" was wiped away and became "courage." Suddenly I was weeping.
For two weeks I contemplated this message: Did it mean I should take a leap of faith and do the trial? Or, was it telling me to follow the conservative standard of care and face whatever came my way? I finally decided I was being led to bold action.
This thought, that someone or something loves me enough to inform me that I can be brave has taken a while to sink in. I can think of no greater honor.
Since then, say, having a huge needle inserted into my hip, feeling blood run down my shoulder, seeing a lesion impeding on my spinal fluid, I've started to panic then told myself, "Hold on, Somebody thinks you can be brave. You, Sally the Wimp, who white-knuckles every plane takeoff." And we'll see how I do during the inevitable "scan-xiety" whenever it's time for diagnostic imaging to see how things are going.
In my spiritual life, I've always been a searcher, never a witnesser (Episcopalians are just that way), and certainly I'd never felt "called." But now I know that feeling.
Well, skeptics, that's my story and I'm sticking to it. And isn't it entirely fitting that I, the lifelong lover of words, should have my life changed with a word?
Amen. (Photos follow.)
I found this on-campus banner to fit the theme of my own adventure into the unknown. Those who've known me 'forever' know that I actually was a Mustang Sally in college, so it's true that (with a tip of the hat to our country's very first female astronaut, Sally Ride): "All you want to do is ride around Sally. Ride, Sally, ride!"
Words to the wise as I get ready to leave the clinic.