Most of high school I weighed 126 pounds.

Most of college I weighed 132 pounds.

When we got married in June 1998, I was down to a new low of 126 pounds. (I lost 5 pounds the week of the wedding due to crazy busyness. That was, no doubt, a one-week low.)

After college, but before babies, I weighed a steady 141 pounds.

After my first two babies, I hovered around 146 pounds.

After my sister’s first baby, I weighed 151 pounds.

After four months of intense personal training right before I got pregnant with our third baby, I was super happy with a new low of 143 pounds. (But let me tell you, that was really hard work and I was watching my diet like a mad woman.)

After our third baby, I got back down to 146 pounds, but it wasn’t easy. With very regular exercise, I still waffled between 146 and 151 pounds.

By the time I stopped working as a speech-language pathologist, I was at a new steady high of 151 pounds with all the stress.

And after two months of poor eating, poor sleep, and tremendous stress due to my husband’s eye cancer diagnosis, treatment and recovery at home, I was up to an all-time non-pregnancy high of 158 pounds.

I felt like junk, to be honest. The pounds were piling on for no reason. I was beginning to get worried, in fact. My body was taking on a life of its own. It seemed like all I had to do was step on the scale and another pound would be there. Permanently. Like it wasn’t going away anytime soon. Like I had no control over how this body of mine was reacting to life. Like I was barely fitting into my pants.

One day in early March, when I was at that all-time high of 158 pounds, I stopped by the personal training desk and spoke with a trainer. I’d been working out 3x/week like normal, but I was convinced that all the stress and life changes had literally blown my metabolism to shreds, that my body needed a major re-boot. I’d heard good things about some new metabolic, hormone, stress & vitality tests my gym had available, and wanted to see how much they cost. I had a conversation with the nicest, most helpful and kind personal trainer in the world. Heck, after we chatted a while, he even brought me up for a meeting with the gym’s nutritionist so we could look closer at those tests I was hoping to run. Needless to say, the tests were out of my financial league. No personal income to speak of and many doctor bills left me realizing I’d have to walk through this weight problem on my own.

The personal trainer offered me a Sunday afternoon friends and family class for $10 a session, but between family events, my son’s basketball tournaments and my daughter’s volleyball practice and tournaments, I haven’t been able to attend. He also said I’d fit nicely in a group personal training session he runs weekly, but to be honest, I don’t have an extra $50 a week to put into group personal training right now.

Since we met briefly in early March, that personal trainer has been the nicest, most supportive guy in the gym. When he sees me he says hi, and asks how I’m doing. He stopped me on the track the other day to let me know the tests are on sale this month. And he reminded me again with all sincerity, “let me know if I can help you with anything.” A couple weeks ago, I shared that I’m down 4 pounds since I talked to him in early March. “Keep up the good work,” he congratulated.

I’m down to 154 pounds. Still an all-time non-pregnancy high. The pounds are still coming off my body like molasses. But hey, I’m 4 pounds lower than that all-time high of 158.

The past four weeks, I’ve begun lifting weights more than I have for several years. When I spoke with the personal trainer, he reminded me I should be lifting at least a couple times a week. And I promptly reminded him that I hate weight training, that I avoid it like the plague. But I knew I had to change something. I knew I had to kick this body into a whole new realm. I knew I had to do something different. So as much as I hate weights, I began integrating lifting into my workout program again. I’ve actually been lifting 3x/week for the past month.

But yesterday when I was lifting, I realized something. I remembered WHY I hate lifting. I remembered why I STOPPED lifting during my sister’s first pregnancy in 2010.

Because life feels weighty enough in itself.

Too often, I bear the weight of the world on my shoulders. I sense deeply. I feel deeply. I live far beneath the surface in my heart. Lifting extra weight adds burden to my already worn and torn body and soul.

I knew that was true back in late 2010 when my personal trainer was pushing me beyond my limits with weights, when I crumbled in tears and she couldn’t understand why. I knew that was true yesterday when the weight of the world just felt too heavy to lift, when I couldn’t even curl two 10-pound dumbbells three sets of 12 reps.

Yes, it’s all becoming crystal clear. This is an unintended consequence of slowing my life to a new pace, an unintended consequence of shifting directions. It’s all crashing down on me, or should I say, it’s all piling up on me?

I’ve spent a lifetime bearing the weight of the world. I’ve been bearing the unrealistically high expectations I set for myself. I’ve been bearing the unrealistically high expectations I set for others. I’ve been bearing the unrealistically high expectations others have for me. I’ve been bearing the unrealistically high expectation of doing what the world thinks I should do, and being who the world thinks I should be. I’ve been bearing the unrealistically high expectation of thinking I can help, fix, restore, renew and remove everyone’s burdens.

Yes, it’s becoming crystal clear. A lifetime of mental, emotional and spiritual weight bearing has taken a toll on my physical well being. I haven’t known my boundaries. I haven’t honored any boundaries.

158 was an all-time high.

Now I’m at an all-time (lower) high of 154.

What weight do you carry?

What weight do you carry physically?

What weight do you carry mentally, emotionally, spiritually?

Just because we can feel the weight of the world, doesn’t mean we need to bear the weight of the world.

How’s that for a revelation?

Let’s lift the weights we’re meant to lift, and loosen our grip on the weights we’re meant to set free. You and me, friend. Just you and me.

 

 

 

Well, friends! I thought I was on sabbatical from eye cancer posts until late May, but no surprise, the story continues to unfold.

Two nights ago, my husband had his first visit with the optometrist since his surgeries and radiation for choroidal melanoma. The primary purpose of the appointment was a thorough post-op vision exam, but it was also a perfect time to look for new glasses. Seth’s prescription was changing, he needed special polycarbonate lenses, and he hadn’t bought a new pair of glasses for more than five years. If there’s ever a reason to buy new glasses, it’s now.

This whole wearing glasses full-time thing has been quite an adjustment for Seth. He loves contacts and hasn’t worn glasses full-time since junior high. He’s walked through a whole host of emotions, and has finally arrived at a place where he seems to have accepted the fact (for the most part) that he’ll be wearing glasses from here on out. If he has to wear glasses, he’s determined to wear them boldly and make a statement!

With that in mind, Seth really wanted to make sure I was along for the optometrist appointment. He wanted my input and opinion on new glasses. So we decided to bring the whole family. Crazy, I know. Three kids in a quiet optometry waiting room for TWO hours with hundreds of expensive glasses at reach? Yep. Crazy.

But honestly, it worked pretty well. We spent the first hour looking exhaustively at glasses. Seth tried on at least 30 pair, narrowed those to 10, and ultimately narrowed again to six. The kids read, played apps on our phones, and took the opportunity to try on glasses for the first time!

Once Seth had the field narrowed to six, he quickly, but thoroughly evaluated each pair for look and fit. Within minutes, he was down to two pair, a black Jack Spade frame and a tortoise Gucci frame. The technician and I agreed, the Gucci frame was the one. But Seth was clearly drawn to the black Jack Spade frame. After a while of analyzing, overanalyzing, and taking photos to see how he looked in each frame, he finally decided to go up front to ask the office staff for their opinion. Hmmm…surprise! They all agreed the tortoise Gucci frame was “the one!” Our technician asked another technician for her opinion. Tortoise Gucci it was! Out came Seth’s optometrist to get him for the appointment. And her preference? The tortoise Gucci frame as well! At that point, everyone was laughing up a storm. Everyone (except Seth) had independently agreed that the tortoise Gucci frame looked best. Still, Seth wasn’t so sure.

He put both frames on the table for later debate, and went in for his appointment.

To our pleasant surprise, the doctor changed the prescription for his glasses “a bit, but not much.” There was reportedly “even a little improvement in his left eye” (the non-cancerous eye). The doctor indicated that the left eye was likely compensating for the cancerous right eye. When corrected with his new glasses, he’ll see 20/20, even in the right eye.

When Seth returned from the optometry appointment, he was fairly sure he’d had a change of heart. He decided on the tortoise Gucci frame. But he tried both pair a few more times for size and style, and we analyzed more pictures. Because you know, we all want to look good in pictures!

There we were. The decision had been made. Tortoise Gucci it was!

But wait…

Seth just purchased high-end sunglasses last summer, but now that he can’t wear contacts anymore and we need to do everything we can to protect his eyes, we realized we were also going to need to buy a pair of prescription sunglasses. Fortunately, he’d tried on a few sunglasses early in the visit and had his sights on a pair that looked awesome right off the bat. He tried those on again and there wasn’t much to debate. We’d found the sunglasses!

It was 7:00 p.m. We’d been there since 5:00 p.m. and the kids were getting a little antsy. The technician offered to send us a quote via email so we could move forward with the glasses and sunglasses purchases at our leisure.

We thanked everyone for their help and they wished Seth well. Off we went to Dairy Queen to pick up the dilly bars and cones we’d promised the kids for being patient for two hours in the waiting room.

Another day, another dollar, and two new pair of glasses.

Yes, we’re grateful for sight.

The journey continues.

Until next time, friends. Signing off ’til May.

 

 

 

Dear You, oh Addicted One:

I see you brother. I see you sister.

Who are you? Where are you? What are you doing, dear one? What makes you flee from the beauty that is you? What binds you, traps you, chains you to the drug? Why lie, steal, rob and cheat yourself of life that was meant to be yours? Why, oh why? Why, oh why?

I see you brother. I see you sister.

You’re handsome, a hunk. You’re beautiful, beaming. I wonder why such beauty doubts its worth. Don’t you see God made you for a better story? He created you, dreamed up your days, every one. But dear, you’re wasting your days away. Don’t waste any longer. He says, you can be free in me. Trust, I’ve made you for a purpose. Trust, I’ve got your back. Your beauty’s longing to break free. Your beauty’s waiting to speak life, hope and truth to a broken, desperate world. Why are you wasting your days away? Why, oh why? Why, oh why?

Look in the mirror, dear one. See who you really are. See the body God’s given you. See what you’re wasting away. See that He’s ready to shine through you. Look and see. He’s waiting. He’s waiting for you to say. I’m done with these drugs. I’m done with this life. I’ve had it. I’m beautiful and I’m breaking free from this pain, breaking free from those days of old. I’m breaking free. For I am redeemed.

I see you brother. I see you sister.

You’re brilliant. Heck, you’re genius as far as God’s concerned. He gave you a brain, man. Why let it waste away? Why, oh why let a day go by without putting it to use? He’s given you an assignment. Your time on earth is limited. So head to work, dear you. Head to work. It’s no accident you’re beautiful and brilliant. It’s no accident you’ve come this far. It’s no accident you’ve made it through. But you’re stuck, dear one. You’re stuck. Climb up. Go. Climb. Climb. Climb. You need to keep moving through, up, onward. So go dear one, keep going. Don’t let your brain trick you. You’re worth more than this. He made you for brilliance, for beauty. Your thoughts are powerful. You’re trapped in a cycle that’s nearly impossible to break, but your brain can be restored, friend. Renew yourself in God’s word. Renew yourself in truth. Find a way out. Drug’s power has a hold on you. But there’s a much better choice. You know it. You know it. Use that brain, friend. Use that brain. Use it for good. Use it for beauty. It’s filled to the brim. It’s worth more than this. It’s waiting, wringing its neurons, desperate to break every bind. The years aren’t on your side, friend, but God. God can do anything. He can transform, He can restore, He can redeem, He can heal those hurts and fears and all the pain that’s ever washed over you.

I see you brother. I see you sister.

You need to know. We are here for you. We see you. We acknowledge your humanity. You need not be perfect. You need not be anyone but yourself. But we need you. Whole you. All of you. The YOU God created. We need that you.

Let the earthly, fleshly, ugly desires of the drug wash away from you, pour out of you, disappear into nothingness, pure oblivion black hole.

We need your story. The world needs your story.

Come on, you.

TURN. IT. AROUND.

Let the drugs control you. Or let God control you. It’s your decision now. Yours and yours alone.

We’re waiting. We’re waiting for you. The world is waiting for you, the real you.

Surrender that old man’s story. Surrender that old woman’s story. It’s tried and true, but it’s old now. It’s ugly. And it’s painful. We’ve tired of that old story. It’s time for new.

So surrender, friend. Wake up.

Surrender this story of addiction. Give it up.

Release the beast. Release the prisoner inside.

Break the chains. Break free.

You must. You must, friend.

Because this is your life. This. is. your life.

Be beautiful. Be brilliant. Be you, real you.

Free the drugs to go, to be, to flee. Forever.

Let us hear your story.

It’s waiting, you know. We see it.

God wants to perform a miracle in you.

He’s waiting on you to decide.

Will it be the drugs? Or will it be me…God…Christ living in you every day?

Come on, you. I see the story all played out. It’s beautiful and brilliant and He wants to work through you to restore thousands. But it requires you to break free first. Once and for all.

So come on you. Come on. Let’s get this show on the road.

We want to see the real you.

 

 

 

Notice to my readers: This post is written in honor of an individual who’s battled YEARS of VERY SIGNIFICANT drug addiction. I originally drafted it on December 11, 2014, after a time of prayer, seeking what to write and publish next. These words were on my heart, but the post felt too dark, so I chose to publish something more reader friendly. The words were timely then, and unfortunately, they’re just as timely today. This post is highly UNEDITED. I ask you to give me grace in regards to grammar, flow and sense. I wrote what flowed from my heart, what flowed from my head, what flowed from God as I typed. Therefore, these words will remain unedited. Thank you for your grace.

This morning, we made our way to Mayo Clinic for round three. It was time for Seth’s one month post-surgical eye cancer appointment with Dr. G. So we woke at 4:15 a.m., got ready and headed down the road for his 7:30 a.m. appointment.

We arrived 25 minutes early. Seth grabbed some coffee across the street at Starbucks, and I went straight downstairs to the piano, my favorite hanging spot at Mayo by a landslide.

I sat down next to an elderly woman who’d just placed a sign on top of the piano. I thought for a minute she might be performing. But she was a patient, and a regular at that. For 10 years, she’s been coming to Mayo for treatment. Heck, Mayo’s like a second home to her. The woman was feisty, brilliant, beautiful, insightful and with it. Whatever 10 years of health problems ailed her had absolutely NOTHING to do with her brain and her psyche. She was amazing. Yes, she was a glimpse of who I’d like to be at 80-something.

We chatted briskly, like time was short, like we just needed to get down to the business of this piano we loved so dearly. She told me about the elderly woman who comes to play every Monday and Thursday from 10 a.m. to noon. She plays by heart, by ear. She doesn’t get paid a penny; she does it because she loves it. She watches doctors, nurses, patients and caregivers pass in front of her, above her, all around on each side. She lets the music flow out of her fingers based on what she sees. If peoples’ tone is somber, she plays accordingly. If peoples’ tone is hopeful, she plays accordingly. She’s witnessed, too many times to count, peoples’ moods shift completely as they pass. Hopelessness turns to hope in the form of familiar words and tunes.

There’s a small group of people who don’t care for the piano music. They want to ban it. Get rid of it. Take that piano out of here. It’s distracting us from our work. It’s distracting for our patients. The sound travels too far. Move it somewhere else.

But people love it. It’s healing. It’s holy. There’s no better place for it.

Move it over here.

Move it over there.

Forget it, man. The acoustics have been tested. The acoustics have been measured. THIS is the place for the piano.

The elderly woman and I ponder the WHY of it all. WHY this place? WHY here? WHY not here? WHY is this so perfect? The three-leveled open atrium? The curved walls? The walls mixed with open spaces for sound to travel and dissipate wherever it may? Who knows WHY, but God? This holy anointed piano is here because God wants it to be. Because He wants to heal HERE. That’s WHY.

A princess donated the piano to Mayo, had it shipped after she’d been a patient. It’s worth $150,000 said the elderly woman as we gazed at its grandeur. “Oh, I imagine,” I said. It’s priceless.

We chatted some more, that elderly woman and I. I loved her dear. Such a treasure. Such strength. I’m sure I could’ve sat there all day, but duty called. After all, I wasn’t there to chat with an elderly woman, nor was I there to chat about a piano! Seth had arrived with his coffee and was gently prompting me from behind. “It’s time to go, we have to go.” “Good bye,” I said to the elderly woman. “I hope we see you again, I hope we see you later.”

As we walked to the elevators up to ophthalmology, I told Seth “Twenty minutes in Mayo, and I already found an amazing story. I love this place.” “That kind of thing doesn’t float my boat,” he said. “Oh, it totally floats mine,” I responded.

We arrived upstairs and were called in within minutes.

Over the course of the next two hours, we saw a nurse, a doctor, and Dr. G.

As of this one-month postoperative eye cancer follow-up, Seth had this to report to the doctors:

• He’s continuing to see mild strobing lights in 3/4 of the periphery of his right eye (prior to surgery, the strobing was in 1/4 of the periphery).
• His vision is “not as good as it used to be, but is acceptable.”
• The vision in his right eye seems to have worsened as compared to before the surgeries, but when he has both eyes open and they’re working together, it’s just fine.
• He still needs Tylenol for headaches.
• He’s using wetting drops for his eyes.
• No double vision.
• On the extreme periphery, his vision is not as “trustworthy” as before, but it doesn’t seem to be a major problem.

The doctors checked his pupils to see if they’re working together. They checked the pressure of Seth’s eyes with some fancy device made by Medtronic. They did a quick examination of his sight. They asked a lot of questions and did a lot of “look up, look down, look right, look left.”

As of this one-month postoperative eye cancer follow-up, Dr. G had this to report to Seth:

• Seth is on the upswing now in regards to his vision. His vision will continue getting better, probably for the next year and a half, then it typically gets worse after that.
• He has “perfect mobility!” (Dr. G was VERY happy about this.)
• Dr. G was fairly certain Seth would have double vision given the size of the melanoma, so he was delighted to hear Seth hasn’t had any issues with double vision!
• A few little stitches remained in the eye.
• Seth can do “anything [he] wants” in regards to exercise and lifting weights from here on out.
• Seth is free to see the optometrist for a new prescription, but will need shatter-resistant lenses in his new glasses.
• No eye ointment is needed after today.
• He should use “systane drops” for his eyes for dryness and irritation.
• Dr. G recommends prescription goggles for swimming.
• He should wear glasses all the time to protect the eyes, especially the good eye, even when getting ready in the morning. (Dr. G was most adamant about Seth wearing glasses. Yes, this has been a bit of a struggle as Seth indicated in his guest post, but is something he’ll be working through.)

As Dr. G removed the stitches in Seth’s eyes with a tiny tweezers, I noticed faint classical music coming from the computer. I hadn’t heard it before. Dr. G must have turned it on when he entered the room. The artist was busy with his craft. The art of eyes. The art of helping human beings SEE. The art of restoring VISION.

Dr. G called into an automated phone system and dictated a report in a flash. Amazing. Incredible. Brilliant.

Dr. G shook our hands and smiled.

“One-month check up? GOOD!” he said as we walked out of the room.

Before we left, we made our next set of appointments for May 21st and 22nd when they’ll look exhaustively at the tumor to see if it’s begun shrinking. They’ll draw blood, do a MRI, take an ultrasound and photographs of the eye, and Seth will see Dr. G again.

At lunch, Seth joked about how we’ll make an overnight date of it. How we’ll leave the kids at home with one of our parents. How we’ll go out for a nice dinner just the two of us that first day back at Mayo, round four. How we’ll stay in a quiet hotel and head back for more testing in the morning. Yes, that’s my Seth. An eternal optimist. Always looking at the bright side of life. Even in the midst of eye cancer.

Signing off for now, friends. I won’t be writing about our journey through eye cancer until May when we’re back at Mayo. In the meantime, I’ll keep writing…right here. So join me, will you? Good stuff’s coming between now and then!

 

 

 

 

I’ve been blogging about our journey through eye cancer for several weeks now. It’s been a ride, for sure. The writing has been therapeutic for me, and informative and insightful for those of you who have followed along. But I’ll be honest. Something has been missing. I’m keenly aware that my perspective as wife and caregiver is much different than my husband’s perspective as husband and patient. So early last week, I invited my husband to share a guest post on the blog. I wanted to give him a place to process and express his experience in narrative form – more than a clever Facebook update. I also wanted you to hear, first hand, what this “adventure” has been like for him. Without further ado, I introduce you to my husband, Seth. Please extend a warm welcome. It’s his first time guest posting on my blog, and I am oh so proud of the way he’s handled it all.

Today is my first day back to work. Today is my first chance to get back into a normal routine. Today is the start of a new phase in my eye cancer journey, but today is not the day for a full-on celebration.

Sometime later this year, we’ll hear Dr. G pronounce the medium-sized tumor in my right eye shrinking. And a few months later, he’ll confirm it again. Perhaps a year or two from now, he’ll tell me that we’re home free.

That day will be the real triumph. We’ll take the day off, have a great dinner, and probably gorge on Dairy Queen. (Better yet, we’ll take the day off from touring the sights of Jamaica, have a great dinner on the cruise ship, and probably gorge on Dairy Queen later in my new Ford F-150 Raptor.)

Today is not that day, but it is a milestone, and a damn positive one at that.

---

The year has not gone as planned. 2015 started well enough, but my January 8^th annual optometry exam ended with an emergency appointment to fix a supposed detached retina the next day. And that appointment ended with a somber ophthalmologist telling me that I have a choroidal melanoma. His staff was already on the phone with the best doctor in the world for this type of cancer. A doctor who happens to be at the nearby Mayo Clinic.

I remember sitting in one of those awkward ophthalmology chairs and wondering how I was supposed to react to this news. The doctor had said “you have a rare form of eye cancer” like a mechanic would say “you’ve blown a head gasket” and an intonation reading “this is pretty serious, but we’ll fix it.”

So I responded accordingly, with optimism. I smiled, asked a few questions, and thanked him for his help. When the office manager, not a regular staff member, took care of me afterwards, bending over backwards to ensure I didn’t leave there without an appointment at the Mayo on the books, I sensed the seriousness of the situation, but also the confidence of the plan moving forward.

So that’s the tone I took for my own. When I called my wife, Amy, on the way out of the doctor’s office, I gave her the news and a prognosis filled with positivity. Not only was that how the doctor gave it to me, but that is also how I live my life. Never is anything so bad that we can’t trust God to deliver blessings in our life.

But people are different, and not everyone responds to bad news in the same way. Some people freaked out a bit, understandably. I’m sure Amy was knocked down by my call. And I know other folks were too. I hadn’t posted anything on Facebook, but word spread fast across our extended family and within hours I was getting calls and texts. Within days we had received a trunk full of meals from Amy’s aunts and uncles to get us through the next week, when Amy would be traveling to the Dominican Republic with Compassion International.

In fact, the support was staggering. Once we decided to be public with the news and capture every step on Amy’s blog, the response from our family, friends, and colleagues was amazing. You know how good it feels to have a birthday on Facebook? Brighten the glow a hundred fold.

Over the course of the next few weeks, we received an overwhelming amount of love, prayer, and food from everyone dear in our lives. And when I was in the hospital, hearing that support was my favorite part of the day.

I never felt ill. I never had any symptoms beyond the very faint strobe lights in the lower right corner of my vision that triggered a mention to my doctor. And there were no drugs, no exercises, or no preventative measures to take between my first appointment in January and my surgery in February. So once I got used to having a cancer diagnosis – and getting used to it was surprisingly easy considering the positive prognosis – it was easy to settle into my life for a few weeks and forget about the whole thing.

My pre-surgery visit to the Mayo threatened that calm. Three days of tests that included hours of taking pictures into my eyes using the equivalent of the sun to illuminate each shot was not fun. The official confirmation of my diagnosis in my right eye and the news that I even have a “weak spot” in my left was not a high point. But it was the doctor’s aside – “oh yeah, and you can’t wear contacts again” – that caught me off-guard. Yes, I have eye cancer, but at least I had planned to look good while conquering it.

I’m still coming to grips with and planning my negotiation terms in the contact lens debate, but that’s not what threatened all my positive energy at the Mayo. It was the realization that I was a young 41-year-old sitting in the waiting room near a stranger in much worse shape than me. A young dad staying the same hotel as a woman who would be staying there for six weeks during her chemotherapy. A man who made eye contact with an old married couple, the husband wheeling around his bandaged wife. For the first time, I recognized my mortality.

It was the positivity of every single medical professional at the Mayo, however, that ultimately kept my optimism strong. I met with dozens of grad students, nurses, fellows, and doctors in those three days, and not one of them looked at me with pity, not one of them gave off the end-of-life vibe, even while discussing the procedure for sewing a golden bottle cap filled with radioactive seeds onto my eyeball, the prospect for losing some vision, and the risk of spread. They counseled me in the friendly, urgent way a DisneyWorld attendant helps a parent find a lost child in the It’s a Small World ride: “This is serious, but we’re going to fix it.”

Two weeks later, I was in the hospital for two surgeries – one to sew on the bottle cap and one to take it off – and two uncomfortable sessions of coming-out-of-anesthesia nausea. There were plenty of reasons to be negative. My eyes scratched like gravel and we didn’t hit on the right cocktail pain meds for many hours. The food was terrible and I couldn’t even watch TV because it was too bright. Nurses woke me up every four hours all night. And my wife and parents had to leave every evening at 8:00 pm when visiting hours ended.

But it’s much easier to be positive. I had full days of rich conversation with my wife and parents, who drove up from their snowbird vacation in Florida. I enjoyed the quiet at night without kids because my mother-in-law graciously stepped in to manage the household. I connected with family members and friends on the phone and online that I hadn’t talked to in ages. I took every nap I wanted in a surprisingly cozy bed and my favorite blanket from home. I sat up with a large, black coffee and listened with my eyes comfortably closed while my mom and my wife read to me the new well wishes as they were posted online.

Today, my eyes are nearly back to normal and get better every day. My early recovery was three weeks of eye patches, sunglasses in the house, and nearly full days of sleeping. But lately, my recovery has been cautious outings, working from home, and taking it easy.

Today is my first day back to work. Today is my first chance to get back into a normal routine. Today is the start of a new phase in my eye cancer journey, but today is just another day of tackling it with optimism.

Seth