The Uncertain Mundane

Sitting at the infusion center is an interesting world. My kids texted me that they finished all their school and did all the chores and even spent time playing together outside so can they watch a YouTube video please, please, please.

I’m skeptical. It’s 10:47. On a normal day it’s 5 pm and I’m arguing yet again why it is that my brother only has to like barely sweep one room and I have to vacuum every surface and wash all the dishes and scrub all the floors and wash all the windows and repaint the entire house. 

And school? Finished? Right… So, what is actually going on at home? 

But, of course I’ll say yes. Why? It keeps the peace. If they are watching Mr. Beast give out a million dollars to some interesting soul willing to lock themselves in a private jet or abandoned grocery store for a month, then they aren’t fighting with each other. Or starting something on fire. And yes, there are far more valuable things to do with their time and their brain and of course their soul. But somedays, YouTube wins.

Today, Anthony is sleeping in the uncomfortable recliner next to me, with a plastic pillow and a blanket from the warmer because the temperature in oncology is for some reason very similar to the Arctic. Some infusion days he has more energy than others. He’ll work on his laptop and then I’ll beat him at cards. But today it’s all catching up with him.

Chemo effects seems to build incrementally. Every treatment is a bit different. Side effects hit in different waves at different times. Mostly this time around it’s nausea and fatigue (medical term for utter, life-sucking exhaustion) and likely it will only escalate as the treatments progress. 

Treatment is every 2 weeks and includes an infusion of chemo for a couple hours, a slightly different cocktail of drugs than he did the first time around with the hope that this one will work better. Then he heads home with a chemo pump which is small and fits discreetly in this sexy little mini fanny pack and continues to pump poison into him for the next 2 days. 

Then he’ll have miserable side effects that will slowly improve over the next 10 or 11 days. And then he’ll feel decent enough in time to come back and start it all over again.

And we will likely keep doing this until December. 

So, here I am. Anticipating the weariness of the next few days while also feeling grateful for the opportunity to be here with him. The large majority of the other patients surrounding us are solo. Maybe it’s just me but I think that would feel rather lonely. Cancer stinks. Infusion treatments are zero fun. 

So what does life look like now? Well, basically the same as before, except with Anthony feeling not so great a lot of the time. The kids still have sports and practice and youth group and homeschool and friends and birthday parties. And laundry still needs to be done and dinner still has to be made. And questions still have to be answered. (Oh the questions! All the day long!)

Here’s the reality. The cancer journey is a lesson in perseverance. Every time blood test results are posted or we meet with the doctor I want to read into every single detail as some sort of prognostication of what our future holds. Is the chemo working? Is the cancer growing? What does this mean? What are the chances he’ll be cancer free in a year? So much wondering. Researching. Evaluating. I know a lot now about chemo cocktails and ctDNA tests. 

And yet, nothing predicts what cancer is going to do. I leave each appointment with more questions than answers. 

Some people are fine to just be in the moment. Not think about the future. Not wonder what incoming bomb to be preparing my family for. 

I am not some people. 

Anthony is some people. He can turn off his brain and not think about it. I’m thankful for that for him.

Because it’s exhausting being not some people. And he’s exhausted enough. (Also. How can you just NOT think about it? That’s just weird.)

So the Lord is teaching me things. Like perseverance. And grace. And not allowing myself to be overwhelmed with whether or not my 8th grader is learning Latin or the 189 unread texts on my phone (this really stresses some people out in my home. I don’t get it. There are actual things to stress about, like cancer. Who cares about text messages?) (Also, most of these are reminders to pick up my groceries or call and confirm dentist appointments. Look, I barely call the people dearest to me. The dentist does not get to cut to the front of the line here just because he texts me every day.)

My dear friend, Julia, once gave me the analogy that we as moms have a lot of balls to juggle. Some of those balls are plastic and it’s ok if they fall sometimes. Some are glass, and those are the important ones to keep up. And sometimes ones that are glass become plastic because more important glass balls show up in life. And other times, plastic balls rotate back into glass balls for a season. And my glass balls are not the same as someone else’s glass balls and the same is true for them. So we can all just be really gracious with each other and recognize we are all jugglers.

So here I sit, in the uncertain mundane. And if I’m being honest, I’m just really weary. Like perhaps I could lie down and take a nap and maybe wake up around Thanksgiving. But meanwhile, the balls need juggling. And there’s even more of them now while Anthony is in the middle of the fight.

The Lord is leading me in perseverance. And through it I’m trying to live grace. To let myself be interrupted and to focus on tasks I’d rather ignore and to keep wiping down the kitchen counter and filling the calendar with those necessary things I could most definitely do without. To look my kids in the eye. To answer the questions. To stay up late for a movie with my teenager or read another chapter of a book to my 8 year-old.

And I’m reminding myself to rejoice always. That the Lord’s presence has sustained me and carried me. That in him is the fullness of joy. That rejoicing is essential not when everything is great, but when everything is unknown. And weary. And hard. Because rejoicing and thankfulness and prayer bring the peace of God. It’s the perfect equation laid out for me right there in Philippians 4. 

I don’t know what the future holds but I know that the Lord will guard my heart and mind in the waiting. And that he will give me the grace to juggle the glass balls and let the plastic ones fall and the wisdom to know the difference between the two. That he will fill my home with grace when the chores remain undone and give me energy when I just want to curl up in ball right there on my dirty kitchen floor.  

Sometimes rejoicing comes easily, like when the test results are clear and the house is clean. Other times, it’s a choice. Choosing thankfulness, choosing gratitude. It’s a discipline. One I am far from mastering but desperately working on. Rejoicing not because circumstances are good, but because God is. 

And really, that’s all I need.