In loving memory of Olivia and Steve. In honor of their families.

Music’s pulled me through the two weeks between Africa and Christmas. It’s fitting that the only post I visioned for Christmas is inspired by song.

Michael W. Smith and Amy Grant’s rendition of “Almost There” caught me off guard this week. I’d almost forgotten I’d heard it and loved it before. This time it was fresh, inspired, divinely grand – more than before.

I’ve been thinking about you…and me.

We’re almost there.

You’re almost there.

Christmas.

It’s a promise of love. A promise of light, life and better days ahead. A promise of a Savior, Jesus. A promise of eternal hope that exceeds all earthly hopes. A promise that our pain is temporary, absolutely incomparable to the glory yet to be revealed. A promise that we can surrender and receive the gift of grace, no strings attached.

I could’ve mustered a light-hearted post, a Christmas giveaway post or a “Christmas Wishes for You” post. I could’ve skipped a Christmas post, just forgotten about it this year. I could’ve counted my sister’s words as my Christmas post and left it at that. I could’ve decided or written just about anything, really. But my heart of heart’s telling me a whole lot of people are hurting, hopeless, lonely, overwhelmed, and seeking something more this Christmas.

Sure, not everyone.

But many.

We’re hiding in the woodwork, aren’t we?

Hiding.

Waiting.

For someone to acknowledge. For someone to tell us…you’re almost there. You’ve got this, friend. You’re going to make it.

And your life? It’s brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. You’re here for a reason, a purpose. You’re part of a grand design, an epic story you can’t even begin to wrap your mind around.

Keep pressing on, friend.

You’re almost there.

It’s Christmas.

Your promise.

Your hope.

Your firm foundation.

The place and peace you’ve been waiting for.

You’re almost there, friend. You’re almost there.

To the ones who lost their spouse this year, I see you. Whether your spouse’s death came tragically and senselessly, or you knew it was coming for years and years, it hurts all the same. Who knows WHY, HOW, or NOW? Only God, dear ones. Only God. Surround yourself with loved ones. Rest. Believe. Seek peace. Absolutely, without a doubt, cry when you need to. Know you were and are loved. Deeply. Wholeheartedly. Unconditionally. You are a fighter. You are a lover, a believer. Keep pressing on, friend. Life’s waiting for you. We’re here for you.

To the ones who felt lonely this year, I see you. Life’s demanding. Fast paced. Achievement oriented. Life leaves little time for relationship. Friend, if you’ve been lonely, take heart. Believe you’re worthy of pursuit, friendship and love. Reach out. Let someone know you’re not doing this alone, you can’t do this alone. Let your heart come undone. Be vulnerable. Take a risk. If someone strikes your fancy, make sure they know. “Hey, can we chat?” Or “Hey, you wanna go get coffee?” Let that guard down. Be a little vulnerable next year. Show your colors, friend. Start a friendship and relationship revolution. And when all else fails, turn to God. Tell him you’re lonely, trust Him to fill the void with Himself, with others.

To the ones who lost a child this year, I see you. Why was her life taken so soon, God? Why? We don’t understand. We don’t know why. Why show us the glimmer, the hope of a life filled with promise, then take her sweet soul home well before the timeline we deem satisfactory? To you, oh you, I see you. I don’t even begin to fathom your pain this Christmas, your love and your loss. Nobody will ever fill your sweet baby’s spot at the Christmas table. You don’t ever need to take down that stocking. That special spot, that special place she held in your heart and your life, it’s reserved for her and her alone. You move on, yes. Life goes on, yes. But your precious baby’s spirit lives on, too. Through your living. Through your being brave. Through your fragility, your vulnerability. Through your strength. Through your living example of what it means to trust and believe you’ll meet again, you’ll embrace again, you’ll be together again. And in the meantime, love like your heart’s on fire. Together or separated for now, LOVE.

To the ones sick and in forever limbo this year, I see you. If one thing’s for sure, you’ve been through a lot. While you’ve frequented clinics, hospitals and ERs, the world’s gone on. Sometimes it seems nobody sees, nobody knows the full extent of your pain, your half-living, half-dying life. Nobody knows the steps you’ve taken, the places you’ve limped, the ground you’ve wheeled. Only you, my friend, know what it’s like to live and know this life is truly temporary. I’ve not been sick, my friend, but I see you. I honor you. Lift your head high. Conquer that illness. Live fearlessly. Live each day like it’s your last. Be loved. Love. Trust that better days are ahead. Teach us how to fight the good fight.

To the ones wandering blankly through life, I see you. I saw you in Target yesterday, friend. Your eyes were empty. You barely saw me. You’re empty, friend. Life’s taken it out of you. You’re literally wandering, wondering, lost. I’m not sure if you even know, friend. I’m not sure you’re aware. I want to enter your world, stop you in your tracks. Stop moving, friend. Stop going. Stop trying all the things to fill the void. Stop believing you’re a robot. Friend, you’re so much more than this. So much more. You’re so much more than productivity, accomplishment and achievement. You’re so much more than your actions, your decisions, your duties and daily delights. Stop, friend. See. Be. Live. Connect. Look into someone’s eyes. Feel something, anything. Cry. Release it all. Sit down, friend. You are MORE THAN THIS. Take in the beauty. See the sights. Rest. You are not a machine. Life is better than it’s been. Take heart, friend. Take ahold of your heart. Open your eyes. I want to see your eyes. I want to see your soul. Wipe our eyes, God, so we can see. And be. All you want us to be.

We’re almost there, friends.

You’re almost there.

Christmas.

The promise of Jesus, a Savior.

The promise of love and peace and joy that passes all understanding.

To Mary, I see you. You’re carrying Him, baby Jesus. He who has…“shattered the yoke that burdens them, the bar across their shoulders, the rod of their oppressor. Every warrior’s boot used in battle and every garment rolled in blood will be destined for burning, will be fuel for the fire. For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Of the greatness of his government and peace there will be no end.”  (Isaiah 9:4-7) Thank you for pondering these things in your heart. Thank you.

You’re almost there.

We’re almost there.

To God, our Heavenly Father, I see you. Thank you. For sending Jesus. For creating us. For releasing us from death, sin, loneliness, fear and pain. For giving us hope. For extending grace when we least deserve it and most need it. For living in us so we might see truth and life. For living in us so we can shine and be a light unto the world. For bringing and being beauty amidst our earthly existence. For everything, yes, everything. Thank you.

You’re almost here.

You’re here.

 

At this point, I can’t remember how many times we’ve been to Mayo Clinic since Seth’s initial diagnosis of choroidal melanoma (eye cancer) 11 1/2 months ago. Let’s just say we’ve been to Mayo a lot in 2015, so much so it’s almost like a second home. During our most recent visit in August, we received the good news that the tumor in Seth’s eye had shrunk 12% from its original measurements in January 2014.

Monday, we woke well before the crack of dawn to get ready for another trip to Mayo. Seth had a long day of appointments ahead, eight to be exact.

We found before and after school childcare for our two oldest, but didn’t have care for our youngest, Maisie, so we decided to bring her with us this time. It’s not ideal to bring a near four year old to Mayo for a day of appointments, but if there’s one thing I learned when she accompanied us for 3-4 days of appointments last January, it’s that a preschooler is sure to be a blessing to patients, caregivers and doctors alike. So we brought her.

The first of Seth’s eight appointments was blood work, so we headed straight there. The line was CRAZY long, the longest we’ve seen at Mayo by a landslide. We had to wait a good 20 minutes in line before Seth checked in. Apparently, Christmas and blood work go hand in hand.

The waiting room was loaded with patients. Crazy full.

Lots of waiting going on in the waiting room. No surprises there, I guess.

Maisie broke out some Peppermint Muddy Buddy’s Chex Mix along with the new Disney Clip Princesses she received at her birthday party last weekend, and played until her heart was content. She managed to entertain a few folks behind her, too.

Why not break out the princesses? Why not?

Seth was called in for blood work. At that point, we were already 25 minutes late for his 9:00 a.m. CT scan, but we didn’t bother with asking or calling ahead to let them know we were still coming. Mayo time typically runs late, but everything works itself out by the end of the day.

We waited until Seth was called in for his CT scan, then Maisie and I headed to subway level to hang by the piano in hopes of some music. (If you’ve read ANY of my Mayo posts, you know I’m in LOVE with this piano.)

No pianist had arrived, but we still had hope.

We got great seats, chairs two and three down from the piano bench. Charlie got one of the best two seats in the house, right next to the bench. Then there was the lady on the other side. Charlie and the other lady, they were regulars here. Much more regular than us. Charlie’s been battling cancer all over his body for two years straight. He’s lived in a local hotel since May. He’d clearly become friends with the woman on the other side of the bench. I never learned her story, but she’s been at Mayo quite a while, too. She leaves her camper here, in fact. At $60 for 2 months in spring and summer, it’s way cheaper than a hotel.

I got to know Charlie.

Maisie got to know Charlie.

“I like to be up here,” said Charlie.

I like to be down here.

Perhaps Charlie and I were a bit kindred.

“You think Jane’s coming soon?” said Charlie.

“Yep, that’s what we’re hoping for,“ I replied without a second’s delay.

Jane’s the lead pianist here at Mayo Clinic. I’ve written about her before. I’ve seen her perform here more than once. There’s something special about that woman, and since Seth gave us permission to wander during his long CT appointment, I wanted every second to catch a chance at seeing Jane again.

Before long, Jane arrived. Ahhh, yes. Jane and her beautiful, delightful, one-of-a-kind, patient and caregiver ministering, piano-playing gift.

“How Great Thou Art” was first. Jane on piano. Then a male singer arrived and they performed it all over again for an even larger crowd.

“That was incredible. Totally worth being here for that,” proclaimed Charlie. I agreed. Totally agreed.

A bunch of Christmas tunes.

Happy Birthday and The Itsy Bitsy Spider for Maisie.

Marine Hymn for a veteran on the other side.

Over the Rainbow with an impromptu solo from the elderly woman on second floor.

Wow. Just wow.

And then there was Jane, always Jane and her wandering eyes. Scanning patients, caregivers, doctors and passers by to intuit their mood, the tunes that would best lift their spirits and meet their needs today…now.

I watched Jane watch them. I watched them. Then I watched Jane watch them again. What can I learn from this great, wise woman? This is the most amazing gift I’ve had the pleasure to witness again and again and again. To minister to a “revolving audience” so profoundly? Wow. Just wow. This is a gift worth cultivating. I get this, admire this, and could totally nurture this kind of art.

After a long while of listening, Seth texted he was done and appeared at subway level. I invited him to sit, listen. We had more than two hours before his afternoon of six appointments.

Maisie made friends with Stephen, another Mayo pianist who sat on my other side. Pretty princesses broke the ice between Stephen and Maisie. By the time daddy arrived, Maisie had made herself comfortable on the ground and invited daddy to join in play.

They played.

We listened to Jane.

Daddy grew weary of princesses just in time for a little patient with sparkly, red shoes to approach and show interest. Her mama prompted her with the words to say, the actions to take. The red-shoed girl wasn’t sure about these princesses, but she knew one thing. They were worth a stop to play.

A woman arrived to sing. Stephen joined for a duet. Jane played on.

Before long, it was time for the little girl to go.

An elderly couple was our cue to go. They needed seats. We needed lunch.

Cafeteria food sufficed before a walk to the other side of Mayo for more waiting.

A concert! Who knew? We were looking for quiet, but instead found a crowd, cameras and Christmas carols.

We listened. And Maisie made fast friends with “grandma and grandpa” to my left. Wouldn’t you know, those princesses came in mighty handy. “Grandma” invited Maisie closer, wishing to see Cinderella, Rapunzel and Ariel. I do have to admit, however, that when “grandma and grandpa” left, the man down the way wasn’t so interested in princess play.

Finally, back up to 7th floor for an afternoon of six, back-to-back appointments.

We decided there was no use for me to join Seth for appointments since we had Maisie, so he went in and we continued to wait in the main waiting room.

The receptionist noticed us waiting and brought Maisie a Santa coloring page, stickers and crayons. Maisie colored her page and the receptionist hung it high on the wall behind check in.

Seth returned. There was a LOT more waiting for his next appointment. He was called in at 2:50 for his 1:50 appointment.

Maisie broke out the princesses. She lined them on the ground, made castles out of leftover sticker backs, had them hop over pop bottles and jump on sticker-back lily pads, then lined them on chairs and tables. Those princesses did just about everything. Rest assured, they entertained more than just Maisie. A patient’s wife, an elderly couple and an amputee all smiled and enjoyed the afternoon entertainment.

We waited and waited and waited some more.

Maisie played and played princesses until her heart was content.

YouTube videos presented an opportunity for a blanket break.

3:26. I’d lost my sense of purpose, but Maisie still claimed hers. She was back up, bringing smiles and joy to the receptionist, patients and caregivers.

3:46. Still waiting. The receptionist left. Maisie was hot and bored. We changed her into short sleeve. “Where’s dad?” she asked.

3:48. Received a text from Seth. He was done with eye photography and waiting for ultrasound examinations. The waiting room had cleared notably at this point.

4:13. Still waiting. In 3-year-old boredom, we’d moved to the other side of the waiting room for a change of pace. Standing now.

4:20. Still waiting. I caught Maisie jumping off a waiting room chair, so we’re wandering the halls now.

4:30. Still waiting. Camped in the hallway. No word from Seth since 3:48.

4:33. Text from Seth. He was back in the small waiting area and invited us to join him since it was quiet back there. We decided to take a chance at me and Maisie joining him for his last and most important appointment with “Dr. G.”

4:43. Finally in “Dr. G’s” exam room.

This was the first time we’d ever brought a child into a visit with Dr. G. We weren’t sure how it’d go, but it went swimmingly well.

Dr. G arrived. He got straight to business. “You’re doing very well,” he exclaimed. “The CT scan is clear, the tumor is shrinking.” He gave Seth a hug and joked “So what are you doing here?!”

Dr. G met Maisie and noticed her bag of Princesses promptly. To my surprise, he even gave Princess Ariel a whirl, picking her up, gliding her on the floor, and bringing her outside the exam room to show a colleague in the hallway.

He returned in a flash, gave Maisie her princess, and got back to work. (As the mom, I was delighted and relieved to know our daughter wasn’t a burden in this typically very serious examination room.)

Dr. G took a second look through the eye photography, and a first look through the ultrasounds.

Tumor was initially measured at 4.8 mm in January 2015.

Down to 4.1 – 4.3 mm in August 2015.

Tumor measuring 3.8 – 4.0 mm today, December 14, 2015.

A 20% REDUCTION in tumor size since initial diagnosis nearly 11 months ago.

Dr. G was pleased. The tumor continues to shrink. He’ll see us again in EIGHT months. EIGHT MONTHS. Wow. If that’s not a sign of good news, I don’t know what is.

Thanks, y’all, for following our journey through my husband’s eye cancer. I won’t be writing with updates again until our next appointment in August 2016.

So long, farewell. May health and peace be with you in 2016.

 

 

I felt the weight of the day rush over me as we drove into the Damon parking lot for our 5th trip to Mayo Clinic in eight months. It’s surprisingly easy to become accustomed to illness, to disease, to the crazy and hard things of life, but then there are moments that wake you to the reality at hand.

This is not ordinary. Not. Ordinary.

We drove past our “normal” parking spot in Damon. Full today. All the way up to 9th floor for one open spot. We exited the vehicle quickly and made our way to the closest elevator.

As we turned the corner to wait for the elevator, I noticed a young amputee waiting with crutches. He was shaking a bit and holding some sort of therapeutic device I didn’t recognize. All I could keep thinking was how handsome he was, and why in the world do bad things happen to good people? When we stepped in the elevator, I noticed the amputee’s wedding ring. Thank God. He’s been blessed. He moved to the side, gesturing kindly and graciously to others who entered. Hardship humbles a soul.

An older woman entered in front of me, then adjusted to my side. She breathed deeply, loudly, audibly, wore a cardiac necklace and leaned into her walker. “Ay ay,” she whispered in-between audible breaths out loud. She breathed that way all the way down nine floors. I wanted to put my hand on her shoulder, ask her if she was okay and if she needed help from this place to the next. I should have. But I didn’t. We were running late for my husband’s 3-month check for eye cancer. Our day was pre-filled with five appointments, and I didn’t want to start our day later than we already were.

We made our way down the hall, past the metal sculpture I admired and the information desk I needed our first days here eight months ago, past the insightful, delightful piano player accompanied by two singers and a full house of patients and caregivers. I wanted to stop so desperately, to hear and see this holy glory, but we were late. So we pressed onward to the elevators.

All the rushing for nothing.

We checked in and proceeded to wait a half hour for the appointment for which we were late. Waiting gave us time to breathe again, to reflect on the day ahead. Seth sent a text to his parents. I kept thinking about the piano and how I needed to get down there with the healing and the holy. Then I half-woke to reality of a husband with eye cancer and broke out Amber Haines’ Wild in the Hollow, the book I’ve been trying to finish for two weeks. “Will you pray for me before I go in?” asked my husband unexpectedly. “Sure,” I said, continuing to sit and stare forward, blankly like an idiot. “Right now?” he asked. “Sure,” I said, “right here in the waiting room?” as if BEFORE the appointment was some other time than NOW. So I prayed out loud right there in the waiting room. That we’d receive news that the tumor was shrinking this time.

Finally, he was called in for his first appointment. It was brief, 10 or 15 minutes tops.

We were directed to another waiting room where we waited some more.

Part way through the waiting, a couple in their late 40s was escorted into the waiting room. I was trying to figure out which one was the patient, and nearly commented to Seth how handsome the couple was when her phone rang. “I don’t feel like talking right now,” she said. I intentionally stopped listening in on her conversation, but couldn’t stop observing her body language. She was clearly distraught. Distressed. Very upset. And so was her husband. When she got off the phone, a Mayo employee came and told them they’d have to wait longer for their next appointment, that they needed to get some lunch, that they should check back in at a certain time. He sighed, head down. She was about to lose it. I nearly cried for the two of them across the room. Seth told me he’d heard more of the conversation. This was their first appointment. She’d just received the same diagnosis as Seth, choroidal melanoma. They were clearly still in shock.

By the time Seth got into his second appointment, we were 55 minutes behind schedule. But we made up for any time lost with another quick appointment.

When Seth got out, he was worried. The photographs he saw of the medium-sized tumor in his eye didn’t look different than any other visit. The tumor didn’t look smaller. I reminded him he wasn’t a technician. I reminded him he wasn’t a doctor. I reminded him there’s no need to worry. The prognosis is good. I reminded him that I’m hopeful and there’s no reason to believe anything but good.

It was time for lunch. Two hours until his next appointment. So we made our way back to the atrium, back to the piano, my favorite, most holy place in all of Mayo. Jane and the singers had just finished performing. There they were, chatting and hugging, readying for parting. Seth ran up to 9th floor to grab his prescription sunglasses out of the vehicle; his eyes were dilated and uncomfortable. I stayed with hopes Jane would sit for one more tune at that piano. But no such luck. I waited for Seth’s return.

We ate at a pizza place, the first quick serve restaurant we happened upon. Two pieces each. And a soda. We talked about our son who’s about to get braces, who he was and who he’s becoming. We talked about plans and dreams, things that may or may not happen in upcoming months. Life’s a constant surrendering and releasing of what was, what is, and what’s to come.

He wanted Dairy Queen for dessert. I wanted piano. So we stopped at Dairy Queen on the way back to the atrium.

We had another hour to wait. Funny, we were worried about not having enough time in-between appointments for lunch. Now we had more than enough.

The piano was still empty. So we walked through the glass door to open air seating. The temperature was perfect. The garden was gorgeous. I took a seat and a few pictures of Seth to mark the moment. He seemed worried. Sad. Or maybe he was tired. He kept mentioning how he wished he could nap.

We rested. We read, although I more, as Seth’s eyes were still fully dilated making reading uncomfortable. And we recounted the remainder of the day’s schedule.

It was 2:00. Time to head up for back-to-back ultrasound appointments. Seth checked in. I broke out Wild in the Hollow and read a couple paragraphs. Seth was called in for his appointment, so I immersed myself deeper in reading, then writing. Before I knew it, Seth was back in the waiting room. It was time for our long-awaited appointment with Dr. G, the world-renowned doctor who’s been leading Seth’s case since the beginning.

We were called into the examination room at 2:50 p.m. Hallelujah! 10 minutes early.

One of Dr. G’s fellows arrived promptly at 3:00. He clicked open all the records from the day. Clicked open all the records from our last appointment in May. Looked at a bunch of images. Scratched the back of his head. And made a few notes in the records.

“So it looks like it’s shrinking,” he uttered calmly and confidently.

The fellow continued with an exam of Seth’s right eye, the eye with the cancerous tumor. “Look left. Look right. Up and left.” Etcetera. He double checked the left eye too, the eye that required laser eye surgery in late June. “The laser looks good,” he said. “There are no other breaks or tears in the retina.” After making a few additional notes in the records, he bid us farewell and let us know Dr. G would be in shortly.

15 minutes later, Dr. G whisked in and out with med student, Ine, from Belgium. They were going to look through the eye photography and would be back soon.

I overheard Dr. G explain from a room down the long hallway. “This is the top.” His voice was muffled, so I stopped listening. But later in his explanation to the med student, his tone was as jovial as a world-renowned doctor could be.

As he walked down the hallway towards our room, he gestured “shrinking” with his hands. Perfect timing for his arrival in the examination room when he announced “It’s shrinking! You’re just a slow shrinking kind of guy. It’s shrinking. It’s just shrinking slowly.”

In January 2015, the tumor was 4.6 mm.

In May 2015, the tumor was 4.6 mm.

Today, the tumor is 4.03 mm.

A 12% reduction in the height of the tumor. “We’re going in the right direction,” said Dr. G!

Dr. G examined Seth’s eye closer, just like he’s done every other visit. “Yep, you can see it’s falling backwards, which is the direction we want.” Then, in an unexpected turn of events, Dr. G called the fellow back into the room. Dr. G pulled up one photograph of Seth’s eye from May, noted some things for the fellow, asked him to take a second look at Seth’s eye, and wanted him to answer the question – “How has this part of the eye changed since May?” Dr. G pointed out this blood vessel. Then that vessel. And another one or two. Dr. G reminded the fellow not to be deceived or distracted by that vessel there, to focus in on this one, right HERE. How were they angled? How were they positioned? The fellow examined Seth’s eye even closer and responded, “Yes, I see.”

“One sees what one knows,” said Dr. G to the fellow.

It was brilliant.

I loved it.

So much wisdom in that little room.

So much wisdom for now.

And the future.

One sees what one knows.

Yes, Dr. G.

Yes.

Seth shook Dr. G’s hand. Or maybe it was a high five.

I shook Dr. G’s hand firmly. “Thank you very much.” And the med student’s hand, too. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

The nurse who’s been in attendance at the end of every appointment we’ve ever had with Dr. G bid me farewell, “Have a great weekend, sweetie.” I’ve noticed she’s noticed me and appreciated the caregiver gesture.

The day was done.

Before we left the floor, we stopped to make our next set of appointments for mid-late December, but they weren’t booking that far out yet.

Seth made a work call he’d needed to make all day. And I took a moment to release, to breathe, to photograph what was below and above.

Downstairs, we walked freer towards our car, freer past that piano where a young woman played softly. Waiting on shrinking. Healing was beginning.

 

This is a guest post written by my younger sister, Tiffany, who has a diagnosis of schizoaffective disorder, bipolar type. Once a month, Tiffany documents a single day in her life. The purpose of these posts is to raise awareness of what it’s like to live with mental illness. I’m also hoping the posts will help readers recognize that we all have hopes, dreams, challenges and mountains to climb regardless of our mental health status. If you’d like to read the posts I’ve written about Tiffany’s journey and all the guest posts she’s shared on this blog, check out the mental health page. Without further ado, here’s Tiffany.

Two weeks ago, I traveled to a bigger city to have intense neuropsychological testing done. I had the same testing done nine years ago when I spent seven weeks in the state hospital after a prescription drug overdose. Doctors are going to compare past and present test results to see how my brain is functioning. This testing helps nail down my mental illness diagnosis and to get additional help in other areas if needed.

A neuropsychological evaluation is a comprehensive assessment of cognitive and behavioral functions using a set of standardized tests and procedures. A variety of mental functions are systematically tested. A neuropsychological evaluation is critical for understanding which brain functions are impaired and which remain intact.

My dad drove me to my appointment. He asked me if I was nervous about the testing, and I told him that I was more nervous about leaving the kids behind for the day. My dad and I talked about music and his time in the service. We seemed to have a very relaxing drive.

We arrived to the testing early. There was a Perkins nearby, so I decided to eat breakfast and drink some needed coffee. After that, my dad dropped me off at the testing site. I was early, so I went for a walk outside and enjoyed the beautiful weather. I felt free in that moment. I was in a bigger and new city. I went back in to prepare for the testing. I skimmed through a bit of a gossip magazine and waited for the doctor to call me back. My dad was eating at Red Lobster during this time.

The doctor called me back to his office and told me to make myself comfortable. I sat in a chair directly across from him. He asked me a series of questions. I was being analyzed. I asked him in the middle of the session if I could take a couple pictures for the blog post I was going to write. He told me no, these tests are confidential. If people were to see pictures, they may try to duplicate the testing or figure out answers prior to taking the test. He asked me a few questions and sent me out to the waiting area. I asked him how I did, with a smile, before leaving his office. I don’t remember his response? Being questioned made me kinda nervous.

A few minutes later, I was called back for more testing. I know that I excelled in certain areas because I felt as though I was playing a fun game. Other parts of the testing were very difficult. I felt frustrated and kind of sad.

After over an hour of testing, I needed a break. I told the lady who was testing me that I needed a five minute break. I may have taken longer? I went into the waiting area and was happy to see my dad sitting there. I told him how difficult the testing was. I was thinking of posting a status update on Facebook, but I did not feel the time was right. Why would people care anyways? So I proceeded to step outside, took a few deep breaths, closed my eyes and lifted my hands to the sky. I probably said a little prayer too. I raced back in because I told her five minutes, not fifteen. I was kinda excited to return to the testing because every new test was a surprise.

When I went back inside, testing continued for a couple hours. I am going to tell you vaguely about the testing without giving away details. The tester started by asking me general questions. Then I had to say words backwards and subtract backwards. She told me a list of words, and I was haunted by the list throughout the procedure. She kept telling me to say the words I remembered; I just heard a list of monotone sounds that I was not interested in, names of people who had no faces. Maybe if she would have let me look at the list, I would have done better remembering? I realized my short term memory lacks. We played a fun game where small keys fit into holes on a pegboard. I felt I mastered that, along with repeating visual images. Then came math. Even if I had a calculator, I would not have done well with that part. Sometimes I would just say, “Sorry, I’m done. I give up on that. I just cannot complete that part.” We ended the session with computer testing, which was around 350 questions.

The results from the testing should be back soon. I look forward to seeing the results. I am having the report sent to my psychiatrist who recommended the testing. I am also having a copy sent to me. My sister, who is a speech pathologist, is going to help me analyze the results. No matter what the results say about me, I am going to continue to live life and take care of business. Having a mental illness and possible cognitive impairments are just a part of me. They do not define who I am as a person.

Tiffany

The day started like any other. Or maybe not so much.

Like any other day, we woke up early and got the two oldest ready for school.

Unlike any other day, they took a few pictures with daddy before getting on the bus.

Like any other day, Seth spent a bit of time on his phone, then a bit of time doing “a little” work.

Unlike any other day, I flew around the house, maintaining strict attention to what remained on the morning’s to-do list.

Clean powder room. Check.

Spot clean disgusting blotches of food and gunk off the main level floors. Check.

Clean main level floors. Check.

Clean windows and glass in whole house. Check.

Put clean sheets on Cooper’s bed (a.k.a. guest bed). Check.

Finish cleaning the kids’ always disgusting bathroom. Check.

Like any other day, I didn’t feel adequate for this housekeeping job. I wasn’t sure it’d meet any Good Housekeeper’s stamp of approval. By the time we got to finish cleaning the kids’ always disgusting bathroom, I was exhausted and had to call for Seth’s help. He changed the lightbulb over the kids’ shower, set 3-year-old Maisie up with supplies and assigned her to clean the toilet. She did a decent job, but I pointed out the fact that she didn’t get the base, that this would still be disgusting for any guest. “Ahhhh,” he said. “Big deal,” as he walked out of the room. Considering we were soon headed out for two days of follow-up appointments at Mayo Clinic for eye cancer, I had to agree. But I cleaned the toilet base anyway.

Unlike any other day, grandpa and grandma arrived promptly at 10:30 a.m. We showed them around, detailed the next two days of kids’ events, and left the house by 11:10 a.m.

Like any other day, we stopped to get some gas.

Unlike any other day, Seth bought a bottle of Propel water for lunch. Clear liquids only for four hours prior to his MRI. 20 minutes later, we stopped for Jimmy John’s. Real lunch to go, for me only.

Like any other day, we chatted the whole way there. Mostly about work. A little this and that.

Unlike any other day, we knew our way to Damon Parking Ramp, Mayo Clinic. No directions needed for this fourth trip in five months. We arrived perfectly on time for his MRI. One minute early, in fact. Seth went straight in. I sat, breathed, listened to a webcast on Iraq, and hand-drafted a blog post inspired by the lady across the way on a Mayo note pad.

Unlike any other day, we made our way to our hotel, checked in, and left within 15 minutes. We hadn’t gone on a date in more than FIVE. MONTHS. Did we need a date night, or what? After sharing a piece of bunny cake and peanut butter cheesecake at Canadian Honker, we walked a half block down and spent the next hour and a half working and blogging in peace at a coffee shop. That was followed by dinner, a trip to wander the aisles of Aldi (okay, not so romantic, but neither of us have been there before), and a movie of Seth’s choosing, Mad Max.

Like any other day, I wasn’t excited about a violent, non-stop action movie. But I’d left most of the day’s decisions to him. After all, he’s the one with eye cancer, not me.

Unlike any other day, we scored two 3D movie tickets for $17.00!

Like any other day, Seth LOVED the violent, non-stop action movie. I didn’t love it so much, but did appreciate its artistic value, especially the drum and guitar playing dudes battling in the desert.

Unlike any other day, we went back to the hotel.

Like any other day, he went to bed before me.

Unlike any other day, we woke up in the morning, got ready, checked out of the hotel and headed over for another round of adventures at Mayo.

Like any other day, Seth picked up some coffee. I didn’t.

Unlike any other day, Seth had several back-to-back appointments. Blood work. An eye examination. Eye photography. And an eye ultrasound.

Like any other day, I worked on my blog when Seth was in each of his first four appointments. A twinge of guilt ran through me each time I broke out the computer, like I should be giving my husband 100% of my undivided attention. But those appointments were really just for him anyway. And he reassured me, “go ahead and work on your blog, stay here, there’s no reason you need to come in with me.”

Unlike any other date, we ended this fourth trip to Mayo with another visit to Seth’s specialist, Dr. G. He popped his head in the room to say “The systemic testing (MRI) came back okay.” Then he left for further analysis of the morning’s testing. We waited. Waited. And waited some more.

Unlike any other day, Dr. G had the news we’d been waiting for since Seth was diagnosed with eye cancer in January, the news we’d been waiting for since Seth went through week-long radiation and hospitalization in February, the news we’d been waiting for since he took a whole month off work recovering and recouping. Is the tumor shrinking? Or is it NOT?

Unlike any other day, Dr. G told us he sees “very little change in the SIZE of the tumor, but the internal reflectivity has increased substantially,” which means that next time he sees us, it’s likely things will look better in regards to the tumor size, even great. Dr. G showed us a bunch of graphs of this “internal reflectivity” and how it’s changed since original testing back in January. Sure, the size of the tumor had changed very little. But it was hard to deny the difference in those graphs, the difference in the internal matters and workings of the tumor itself. Dr. G showed us another picture of the front part of the tumor. “It looks like it’s retracting, that’s better, too,” he said. Had the tumor shrunk, we would have returned to Mayo in six months. Based on this visit’s results, Dr. G recommended we return in three months. And he urged Seth to get the laser surgery he needs on his left eye.

Unlike any other day, we made our way down to Mayo’s subway level. A lovely woman was playing “On Eagle’s Wings” on the piano. “I sang that song at my cousin Doug’s funeral,” Seth noted quietly. I leaned against a column and teared up. The news we’d just received was neutral at worst, from all indications trending positive, it seemed. I wasn’t sad at all. Just filled with emotion, if that makes sense. In the comings and goings of wheelchairs and significantly sick people, children and caregivers, the woman played on. On and on, she played. She played with her head up. She observed keenly, with every ounce of her heart and soul, as people passed. She let intuition and the Spirit run straight from her heart all the way through to her fingertips. Yes, I knew it! Pure grace. Divine favor. This was the pianist the elderly woman told me about last time we were here! The woman who plays every Thursday. The woman who plays by heart, by ear. The woman who doesn’t get paid a penny, who plays according to the shifting tones of the room, who turns hopelessness to hope with simple, beautiful tunes.

Like any other day, I cried when I took it all in.

Like any other day, Seth asked why I was crying.

Like any other day, I said “I just really love this.” Yes, 24 hours have since passed. I know why I was crying. The work that pianist does at Mayo is EXACTLY the kind of work I want to do with my writing. She exemplifies my greatest life’s dream. To bring pure beauty in the midst of significant pain.

Unlike any other day, we went back up to the Damon Parking Ramp, got in our car, and drove down and out of this fourth trip to Mayo.

Like any other day, we got another lunch to go, talked, drove, and hugged Seth’s parents and our kids when we pulled in the driveway.

Like any other day. Unlike any other day.