And now for the real news . . .

Thursday morning in the doctor's office, we were learning about CHOP and R-CHOP, viewing the PET/CT scan on the doctor's computer screen (Cool! Wow! Look at that!).  Four of us crammed into a small examining room and one on the cell phone, listening closely and carefully for every note of this Eucharistic prayer.  Yes, Eucharistic - thanksgiving.  There is hope and relief.  Resurrection from this disease is possible.  Survival is not only a possibility, it is on the horizon.  We can see glimpses of the dawning star that promises another day.


O Lord, holy Father, giver of health and salvation: We give thanks for the news of hope and resurrection, as your holy apostles anointed many who were sick and healed them, so we beseech our Lord Jesus Christ to sustain Mother with his presence, to drive away all sickness of body and spirit, and to give her that victory of life and peace.  Amen.

Getting the news.

Whenever the word cancer is finally said out loud, everything stands still for just a moment. Then there's a jerk of the soul. Time to pay attention to what the doctor is saying. Set aside the emotion,  the fears,  the soul-wrenching terror of losing a loved one.

Focus on the words. Lymphoma. Quality of Life. Treatable. There's hope. Really there is. What does that all really mean?  Does Mother have to go through that pain all over again,  but this time for herself and her own traitorous body?  Treatable but not curable. Are we anticipating years,  months or weeks? 

Questions run through the mind. They rest for a nano second and then flutter away. Sometimes they race and swirl around faster and faster. Dizziness. Grab on to the chair arm to stabilize and find composure. And then when the inevitable question about questions comes,  the mind is blank. Paralysis sets in. The only words that come out are, "I don't know." I have to think. Absorb. 

My very being is screaming "NO!"  While I compose myself for the tasks and conversations ahead,  my heart underneath breaks. My soul grieves and cries.  "No fair. This is not what I wanted for my mother. No way. No how."

Lord Jesus,  be with us in our hour of need.  Strengthen us to drink from this bitter cup. Amen. 

Felix the Cat

Our cat, Felix, joined our family on September 16, 1993.  He died on September 15, 2011.

He was my daughter's kitty and then he became mine.  I miss him dearly.  I find myself still tearing and feeling deep sadness when I think about him.  Our veterinarian clinic sent a sympathy card with a lovely clay heart with his paw imprint on it.  Tears well up every time I think about this very caring gift.  Tears when I look at it.  Tear when I talk about it.