Finally blogging at our house

Well, here we are.  I have been surprised at how many people over the years have asked in emails or Christmas card letters, "When are you going to start a blog?"  I guess I thought it was one of those things that people just a few years younger than us were into.  I figured when we finally became hip enough to embrace the idea, it would be to chronicle another move, or another baby, or another such happy adventure.  I am beyond bummed that I was finally convinced to begin a blog so that everyone could read about my apparently poor health!

We are playing the waiting game here at our house.    This is exceedingly difficult for me; I am a planner.  I remember when we were finishing up at BYU and Tom was applying to law schools and I couldn't apply for teaching jobs yet because I didn't know what schools would accept him.  Not knowing whether we'd be staying in UT, coming home to CA, or moving all the way out to NY was a huge challenge for me.  I like the security of knowing what is coming so I can map it all out.  A relative in Salt Lake City said that when she heard the news about me last week, her thoughts were, "This is really  going to annoy Mandy; now she can't take her trip to UT."  She knows me all too well.  I was so excited about taking the kids to visit family and snow over the Feb. break and I am quite put out to be having surgery instead.  I've been lining up a year full of magnificent vacations and fun activities, and now I don't know which ones, if any, I'll be able to participate in.  Most of all, pregnancy was not in the plan, therefore nausea was not in the plan!  At least from what I understand chemotherapy is not going to make me feel sick for five to eight months straight, so perhaps in that way it won't be as bad as my pregnancies have been. 

This lack of a complete diagnosis coupled with an intense outpouring of love from family and friends causes so many varied emotions.   I have only cried once, for a good twenty minutes all the way home from the doctor's office the day they told me they thought the X-ray showed a peach-sized mass in my chest cavity.  I was crying at the idea of my husband and children losing me.  I know enough about death that the actual event doesn't scare me (although the process is another story).  I am not a perfect person but I am relatively good and I honestly am not afraid to go, but I am afraid of what that would do to my family.  What a blessing to have a husband who loves me so completely that I am certain I am everything to him.  What a fortunate dilemma to have three beautiful children who give me every reason to want to be here to help their father raise them to the best of our ability.

Tears soon gave way to more of a nervous energy for me and a general sense of exhaustion for Tom.  We both have felt we are in a constant state of anxiety.  It is frequently a feeling of knots in the stomach and a constrictive heaviness in the chest, like when one has been under the water too long and is desperately trying to get to the surface to gasp for breath.  After the CT scan showed that it was actually not a mass but a cluster of many swollen lymph nodes, and that was highly likely to mean lymphoma, I found it nearly impossible to sleep for a couple of nights.  My uncle died of lymphoma, so I'm not fond of the word.  However, a lot of people I've talked to have personal friends who had the curable kind, were treated, and have gone on their merry way to live normal lives.  I like hearing about these people and have great hope that I will be one of them.  Then of course there is always a third alternative somewhere in the middle, and I have heard that my acquaintances know of these people as well--those who have a condition that may never go away, who live with this cancer every day and will be treated for it indefinitely.  Life that continues but is never the same as it was before.  This option frightens me and makes me feel very tired and somewhat gipped.  Everyone knows that if there is a party I want to be there.  In college I couldn't even be in my bedroom if I heard a conversation taking place in the apartment.  I am an extrovert and I thrive on the company of family and friends.  I don't like to be left out of anything!

The most surprising emotion I have felt throughout the last week is pure and absolute joy.  It comes over me in waves and I catch myself dancing and singing out loud.  Whatever the prognosis may be, I have been changed a little bit from the inside out.  I feel amazing love for almost everyone I see, but especially my dear friends and family.  In these moments I feel a renewed zest for life and a passion for everything that makes it worth living.  In many ways I have rediscovered myself; I feel as though I was getting a bit bogged down in the day-to-day tasks that a mother of three can't avoid.  I am realizing that ten years past my carefree college days, I am still an interesting person.   I appreciate my current life more than I did a week ago, and when I am not too overwhelmed with this anxiety, I am taking more time to stop and listen to my children as they explain in great detail about a Lego creation or an encounter with Jabba the  Hutt during imaginary play.  Sometimes I am Jabba the Hutt.  I am becoming fun again. 

I am grateful for longstanding daily routines that are in place at our house--mealtime, song time, scripture reading, family prayer.  These provide us with a warmth and a sense of normalcy and peace that cannot be overestimated.  And I am grateful for our friends!  In the neighborhood, at church, at school, at play group, and all across the nation they give support.  The constant stream of phone calls, emails, hugs and offers to bring ice cream are just what I need, and they know it because they know me.  I could not have better friends.

I am a queasy person, so today's surgery has me feeling nervous.  I am glad they will put me under.  Still, the idea of a gash across my neck makes me feel self-conscious and more than a little ill.  I have passed out on numerous occasions in my life--into the lap of the new boy in school during 6th grade sex ed; over my desk during health class in junior high; straight to the floor from a standing position at church during early-morning seminary in high school; at the theater during a war scene of a movie I should have known not to see; and most recently at my first blood draw when I was expecting Fiona.   I smiled when an uncle told me that compassionate people are prone to queasiness, as they can't stand the thought of anyone being in pain.

I passed out more during the first three years of life, however, than all the others combined.  I had a strong will and tried the patience of my angelic parents.  I would cry and cry until I ran out of breath and fainted, leaving them to pace the floor hoping that I would come to  quickly.  This began well before my first birthday and continued into toddlerhood.  I am hoping that I have not outgrown my strong will.  I won't be screaming until I pass out, but I will have a fiery determination to beat this thing, whatever it may be.   Along with that I will have a determination to figure out what I can learn from it.  Otherwise, what is the point?  I am thankful to know that God watches over us and won't give us trials we can't handle.  

This blog will not always be a serious reflection either.  I am joining the blogging world so I can share and remember through photos and words the cute and funny moments at our house, such as Philip, dressed in his Superman suit for two and a half months running, stalking through the hallway in search of Ventress, the evil villain from Star Wars the Clone Wars, whose presence he senses on a regular basis despite not having seen the movie until last night.   Yes, the Force is strong with that one.

How comforting and fulfilling that I am the mother of a brave and heroic Superman-Jedi, along with a thoughtful budding artist/builder and a sweet baby girl whose only word is "Hi."  It is used very liberally as an all-inclusive greeting, farewell, or even notification of migration between rooms.  I adore my children.