I was a gregarious gal.

I really was.

When we first met at my husband’s fraternity house in August 1994, I remember thinking he was the most handsome guy I’d ever met in my life. I’m not kidding. I remember it vividly.

My roommate and I were college freshmen. It was our first week at school. Classes hadn’t started yet and we had nothing to do. So we decided to walk fraternity row. Both small town girls, we browsed the place like it was a candy shop. House after house, delight after delight lined the long campus.

We were just taking a walk.

My husband likes to debate that fact. He claims we were trolling for guys.

I’ve always denied the trolling. But perhaps it was true just a little bit?

After all, our first meeting by the sand volleyball court outside Delta Tau Delta that day marked the beginning of a 2 1/2 year period of the most extreme extroversion I’ve experienced in my entire life.

I studied hard those years. Enough to land a 3.92 GPA in the end.

But I also lived wild and free.

Gregarious.

Extroverted.

Unhindered.

Fun.

Playful.

A par.ti.er.

I drank beer. Lots of it.

I stayed up late. Really late.

I hung with my boyfriend (now husband) and his brothers at the fraternity house ALL THE TIME. So much so that four gregarious girlfriends and I were unofficially coined “Delt Girls.” So much so that I was officially named the fraternity’s “Sweetheart” two years in.

I socialized like a maniac, danced like a mad woman, took plenty of jello shots, dressed in the most ridiculous party costumes, and did things my children don’t ever need to do.

Yes, I was unstoppable.

And that was just the fun, partying, social side of me. I’m pretty sure I was a go-getter all the way around those first 2 1/2 years of college.

I was on my way to a big, bold life. Nobody could stop me. Everything was grand. I was wild and free, smart and vivacious, witty and kind. I was the girl everyone could love. The girl people could laugh at and laugh with. Words flowed free in dorm rooms, cafeterias, classrooms, libraries, fraternity houses, dances, and hockey games. I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t doubtful. I had a handful of really close friends, a lot of good friends and a TON of great acquaintances. Guys and gals liked me, and I’m 99% confident that most people (including myself) would have described me as “fun.”

I liked my new vibrant self. She was good. She was free. She was living more boldly than ever before. She was going places, that’s for sure. Yes, there was never a doubt, never a dull moment. She was going to graduate, go to grad school, get a great job as a speech therapist and live a marvelous life. She was going to be a professional, and a respected one at that. She was going to be a mom, and a good one at that. She was going to be a church-goer, too, and a faithful one at that. She was going to be wife, and an awesome one at that.

Yes, that was me the first 2 1/2 years of college. That was me the first 1 1/2 years I dated my husband. That was me most days leading up to our engagement.

But this story’s about to turn serious.

Nearly 21 years have passed since we first met at my husband’s fraternity house.

More than 20 years have passed since we started dating.

18 1/2 years have passed since we got engaged.

And today marks our 17th wedding anniversary. Congrats, babes. I love you so much. The story God is writing through our marriage is important, noteworthy, blessed and delightful. I am honored to call you husband and do life together, easier days and hard days alike. For better, for worse.

But 17 years into marriage, there’s one fear, one insecurity that’s plagued me this year more than any other.

I fear I’m not the extroverted woman my husband dated.

I fear I’m not the gregarious woman my husband became engaged to.

I fear that the woman my husband chose to propose to is NOT AT ALL the woman he’s married to 17 years later.

And as hard as it is to admit this…

I fear he’d marry “that girl” all over again, but wouldn’t necessarily marry “this girl” all over again.

Sigh…

Exhale.

The truth is, I was the MOST extroverted I’ve ever been in my entire life when we were dating. That extroversion was limited to a short window, a short burst of time. If I look over the course of my life, I know for a fact that my extreme extroversion during our dating years was an anomaly, really. And that fact scares me sometimes.

I am NOT the same woman my husband proposed to 18 1/2 years ago. I am not the same woman my husband married 17 years ago.

I’m back to my fully introverted self now.

I don’t drink beer. At all. In fact, I hate it.

I don’t party with the boys. Ever. (Although I still think men are way more chill than women.)

I don’t dance like a mad woman and I don’t do jello shots except the one time my sweet neighbor forced me to on a hot play day in her front yard. I don’t stay up really late unless I’m blogging, I’m not a social maniac at all, and I’d never use the word “fun” to describe myself anymore.

I’ve chosen to step out of the professional, American dream grind and am staying home when his preference would be for me to work full-time. I’m not nearly as confident in my mothering abilities as I would have guessed myself to be back when we were dating, and I’d much rather go to Haiti or Africa than Las Vegas or Los Angeles.

I’m a wolf. INFJ.

He’s a dolphin. ENFP.

We’re married. 17 years today.

But our personality types are night and day.

Did my husband, a dolphin, know he was marrying a wolf 17 years ago? Or did my extremely extroverted dating behavior lead him to believe he was marrying a dolphin?

Okay. I know this is getting a little out there for some of you. (Yes, real live people have assigned animals to each of the 16 Meyers-Briggs personality types so I’m not making this stuff up.) But hear me out.

17 years in, I’m starting to believe that real life CHANGE is quite possibly the greatest threat to marriage.

What happens when our spouse changes?

What happens when we change?

What happens when we barely resemble the people who stood on the altar and said “I do?”

What then?

Do we give up on marriage?

Do we trash it?

Ditch it?

Give up?

Give in?

Say forget about this, I’m out, this isn’t working anymore, let’s get a divorce?

How do we respond to change in marriage?

What happens when your spouse gains 20 pounds, 30 pounds, 40 pounds, 150 pounds?

What happens when your spouse loses 30 pounds, is suddenly obsessed with their weight and you aren’t so much at all?

What happens when kids rock your world?

What happens when you can’t get pregnant like you thought you could?

What happens when the adoption falls through? Or when she wants to do foster care and you don’t?

What happens when your spouse starts working long, late nights to get that promotion and you’re home alone with the kids day after day after day?

What happens when you have an empty nest?

What happens when one of you goes back to school?

What happens when you have significant financial setbacks?

What happens when your spouse makes a major career change?

What happens when one of you wants to lounge around in retirement and the other wants to volunteer, travel, work, and be with the grandkids all the time?

What happens when your spouse grows lots of nose hairs and chin hairs?

What happens when your spouse goes bald?

What happens when your spouse lies in bed all day depressed and withdrawn?

What happens when your kids go off the rails?

What happens when one of your children has a disability?

What happens when one of your children passes away?

What happens when your spouse’s faith is solid and yours has fizzled?

What happens when your spouse receives a cancer diagnosis?

What happens when your spouse is debilitated by dementia, Alzheimers, Parkinsons?

What happens when your spouse is confined to a wheelchair?

What happens when your spouse requires oxygen tanks to survive?

What happens when your spouse needs help going to the bathroom?

How will you respond? How will we respond?

Change in marriage is inevitable.

What makes or breaks our marriages is how we respond to change.

If you’re married long enough, there will come a time when you’ll realize you are NOT the same person you were when you got married. We are humans. We change. We evolve. We grow and develop over time. We become more of who we really are.

As I’ve been working through this fear, this fear that I’m not the same woman my husband married 17 years ago, this fear that he’d marry “that girl” but not “this girl,” I’ve decided that marriage requires an equal parts accepting, surrendering, fighting, trusting and believing.

Accept that you have changed.

Accept that your spouse has changed.

Surrender to your current reality.

Surrender to the ebb and flow.

Fight for your marriage. Fight to the ends of the earth. Until you can fight no more.

Trust it’s the right thing to do.

Believe you are worthy.

Believe your spouse is worthy.

Believe God brought you together for a reason.

Believe God has a plan for your marriage.

Believe you can make it.

Believe marriage is worth it.

Believe he’d marry you all over again.

Believe she’d marry you all over again.

Believe that “this girl” is just as lovely and beautiful, treasured and true as “that girl.”

Believe that “this guy” is just as handsome and witty, sporty and smart as “that guy.”

Believe you can do this.

Believe you are loved.

Believe that change is not only real, but okay.

Believe that long-lasting love is forged through change, challenges and the hardest stuff life has to offer.

Believe in 40th, 50th, and 60th wedding anniversaries.

Believe in wrinkly hand holding.

In the car ride on the way home from church, he played her “Good Stuff,” his favorite B52s song from days gone by. Days prior, she’d played him “Through All of It,” her favorite new song on Christian radio, the song she can’t stop listening to, the song that resonates with her soul most right now.

A dolphin song. A wolf song.

Somewhere along the way, they met in the middle with a frog and pig song. The Rainbow Connection resonated with both.

Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy. A frog and a pig.

Seth and Amy. A dolphin and a wolf.

Who knew.

They live. They laugh. They fight. They change. They come together, still. They come together, again. Time and time again. For love. Sweet love. 

 

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.

 

When life is overwhelming…

When you can’t get out of your funk….

When all you can think of is heavy, deep and real…

When you’ve been disappointed…

When your dreams have been dashed…

When everyone seems happier and more peaceful than you…

When you can’t remember the last time you laughed hard…

When adults act like kids…

When kids act like babies…

When people are just annoying…

When you’re tired of drama…

When you have no clue how to answer the problems of the day…

When winter lingers longer than it should…

When you’re tired of seeing brown…

When you need sunshine, blue skies and a gentle, warm breeze…

When the to-do list never ends…

When the house looks like you never lifted a finger…

When there’s junk all over the kitchen floor and you just vacuumed it yesterday…

When you need some time alone…

When you need some time away…

When you need community too…

When you need someone to sit with you for hours and know it all…

When you want to fly away, zone out, drift off to a place where everyone just gets it…

When you need more time to do what you love…

When you wonder if you’re on the right path…

When life feels like a big question mark…

When all else fails…blow bubbles.

 

 

“And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another advocate to help you and be with you forever — the Spirit of truth. The world cannot accept him, because it neither sees him nor knows him. But you know him, for he lives with you and will be in you. I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you. Before long, the world will not see me anymore, but you will see me. Because I live, you also will live. On that day you will realize that I am in my Father, and you are in me, and I am in you.”  John 14:16-20

“All this I have spoken while still with you. But the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you all things and will remind you of everything I have said to you. Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.”  John 14:25-27

Let’s just say I was convicted. Right there in Walmart. First in the Easter aisle, then later in the toy aisle.

It was Saturday, March 7th. Our two oldest were busy with out-of-the-house activities. Our youngest had just gone down for nap. My husband decided to nap as well. He was exhausted from his first full week back at work. That left me with a rare opportunity to get out of the house by myself.

I thought a trip to Walmart might be a good idea. (Okay, Walmart’s never a great idea. But I remember thinking at some point in the past that they had the most options for Easter candy, so I figured I’d give it a whirl.)

There I was. In Walmart. Shopping nearly a month early for Easter basket stuffers. Yes, these are the fun and crazy things I do when I get out of the house by myself.

I went down the Easter candy aisle first. I picked up three York peppermint bunnies, three Hershey’s chocolate crosses, and jelly beans for our kids. For the most part, it was a benign experience.

As I crossed the store to check out the rest of the Easter merchandise, I received a Facebook message. I’d conversed with two people on Facebook messages earlier that afternoon, but wouldn’t have guessed the conversation would resume so soon.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. The conversation was important. God was in the middle of performing a miracle, and for some reason, He was letting me in on it, as it was unfolding. I had a sneaking suspicion awesome things were going to happen that day, and I assumed all of it was going to happen without my direct involvement. But as I responded to the messages, I realized God created space for me, a quiet role for me. My job? To use my words, at that very specific moment in time, to encourage one person to do what they needed to do. One person revealed their basic, but significant need to me. One person revealed their doubt that the need could be met. All I needed to do was provide encouragement to GO, and assurance that YES, God would provide. (God did meet the need, by the way, and a whole lot more.) 

The gravity of the moment washed over me.

The Spirit of truth moved in my soul – right there in the Walmart Easter aisle.

I was paralyzed.

Literally paralyzed.

In another world.

The rest of Walmart was moving faster than me.

In-between the sending and receiving of Facebook messages, I stood still, leaned carefully against my nearly empty cart, and stared blankly at stuffed chicks, bunny plates and big bottles of bubbles.

In those moments of paralysis, I had a revelation as clear as day.

Easter has nothing to do with chicks, bunnies and bubbles. Absolutely nothing. Sure, they’re cute and fun and lovely for the kids and Easter baskets. But they have nothing to do with the true meaning of Easter.

Easter is about a great big God who loves us much and knows us so intimately that He sent His Son, Jesus, to earth. As a babe. So He could step in skin and live a human existence. So He could know our pain, our burdens, our every need. So He could share His wisdom, demonstrate His power, and reveal pure hope found only through Him. Then this fully-God fully-man, Jesus, died. His death was brutal. On the cross. For us. With us. Because of us. He promised, “It is finished.” In three days, He rose. So we might be saved. So we might live. So our ugly sins would be forgiven. So His power could be revealed through us. And then, yes then, He sent this Advocate, this Holy Spirit, this Spirit of truth. Because He wanted a way to teach us all the things, a way to remind us of all the things. God wanted a way to work through us, in us, and for us. As we live, work and breathe here…on earth.

It sounds crazy, I know. It really does sound crazy.

But here’s what I want you to know…

Over the course of the past 10-15 years, event after event has taught me to believe that this God story, this Jesus story, this Holy Spirit story? It has to be true. It must be true. I believe it’s true.

I’m not good at history. I’m not great at theology. I’m not good at “proving” anything beyond a doubt. But I am good at telling real-life experiences. I can tell you, without a doubt, that I’ve had enough real-life experiences to convince me that this Christianity MUST be true. It makes complete sense within the context of so many things that have happened in my life. It has proved itself time and time again.

So what about that miraculous, paralyzing event that happened in the Walmart Easter aisle one month ago? I know you don’t know the details of that story, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s more proof of God’s existence. Proof He wants to work for us, in us, and through us. Proof He’ll go to any lengths He chooses to demonstrate His power and love for us. But in order to experience the fullness of life He desires for us, we must be receptive to His prompting, His calling, His leading. Every. single. day.

I could have turned off my phone that afternoon.

I could have ignored the ding when the Facebook message came in.

I could have thought “Forget it. I’m busy. I’m shopping right now. I really need this time alone to focus and get this job done.” And left it at that.

I could have responded with a quick “Hey, I’m busy right now. Can we chat later?”

I could have shut down the conversation days prior. Then there wouldn’t have been any of that crazy talk in the first place.

I could have attributed any part of the conversation to random circumstance.

I could have responded any which way. And it would have been just fine, had I not believed.

But I wouldn’t have experienced God’s power. I wouldn’t have experienced the strong presence of His Spirit working in me and through me. I wouldn’t have understood what a miracle looks like and sounds like – on the ground – in real time. I wouldn’t have been there to provide encouragement when it was needed. I wouldn’t have recognized the great lengths to which God is willing to pursue us, love us, and develop intimacy with us. So we’ll believe, trust, love and hope. In Him.

 

 

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.

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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