Category Archives: Cancerversary

10 Years of Remission

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IMG_7533Wow. Well the title is self-explanatory, and honestly, the picture will surprise exactly no one who even remotely knows me. Still, I have Thoughts. So here goes:

10 years of remission is a BIG deal. Sorry to those who hear me talk about remission and cancer or read my writing here on the subject. But also I’m not that sorry because it’s a BIG freaking deal.

I have lots of conversations in my head, mostly due to the fact that I’m highly indecisive and have the curse of seeing things from many perspectives and sides–though I’m starting to see that as a gift at times. Still, the inner critic or naysayer in me thinks, “Come on, Hannah; people don’t want to hear you banging the drum of cancer over and over again.” Or, the naysayer within argues that I shouldn’t celebrate so many dates or year after year, asking, “But Hannah, don’t you think you’re kind of milking this whole ‘cancerversary’ thing??”

Okay, first of all, naysayer within: CANCER. The Big C. The C Word. Maybe I’m holding on to the cancer card still, but I had cancer, and now I don’t. That’s a big freaking deal. And because of that, I feel like I’m allowed to celebrate multiple dates throughout the year and also year after year due to that simple reality.

But secondly (and more meaningfully): altars. All throughout scripture, God instructs His people to build altars as a way of commemorating the great things He has done. I think the concept of “altars” is important both individually and corporately.

I’ve had Psalm 145:4 framed on my wall across 3 states and at least 5 apartments with the phrase, “My Mission” written below it. It says, “One generation will commend Your works to the next; they will tell of Your mighty acts.” Corporately, I believe that our ministry on earth is to commend God’s works to the next generation–to “go and tell” what God has done to those around us and those who follow us. We may be in the 100th retelling of our stories, of what God has done and is doing in our lives, but for many listeners, it will be the first time they’re hearing those stories.

Individually, the idea of building an altar is a practice critical to my survival, a lifeline of sorts. If remembering these dates–my diagnosis date, my remission date, and my freedom from chemo date–and celebrating them is, at its most basic level, a way for me to remind myself of God’s goodness in my own life, then sign me up for that. Who doesn’t need those reminders?!?

I have many melancholic, pity-party days, days where I start to doubt and think, “When’s it my turn, Lord?!?” when I lose sight of all the amazing things He’s already done and focus instead on what I lack. So I will take any and all of the sobering moments of reflecting on God’s pure goodness and faithfulness via concrete examples in my own life that I can get. I need those reminders to get me through the valleys, the moments between revelation and hope, those “dark night of the soul” moments.

Scripture is also full of people who’ve forgotten God’s amazing work in their own lives–cue Israel in the 40 years of desert wandering or the cycle of sin-judgement-repentance in the era of judges or countless other examples. I forget, too, and I hate that I do; I so don’t want to be Israel, moving from mountaintop experience to grumbling all in a snap, so it’s important to remember.

I love everything about Lauren Daigle’s “Look Up Child” album, and the song “Remember” touches on this idea of altars and remembrance so poignantly. She sings:

“In the darkest hour, when I cannot breathe / Fear is on my chest, the weight of the world on me. / Everything is crashing down, everything I had known / When I wonder if I’m all alone /

I remember, I remember / You have always been faithful to me. / I remember, I remember / Even when my own eyes could not see. / You were there, always there /

I will lift my eyes even in the pain / Above all the lies, I know You can make a way. / I have seen giants fall, I have seen mountains move. / I have seen waters part because of You.”

The chorus repeats, as does the line, “I can’t stop thinking about Your goodness,” which crescendos into a strong and powerful anthem.

Those lyrics, along with so many Psalms, capture what 10 years of remission and “cancerversaries” mean to me: moments to remember that God has always been faithful to me–pre-cancer, during cancer, and post-cancer–and that He is good.

I have seen proverbial mountains move and waters part, and therefore, I will tell of His wonders and continue to celebrate the heck out of the good things He’s done–for the sake of the next generation and especially as a reminder to myself in the fearful, lonely, and doubting days. I choose to remember that He has always been good to me, and so today, I celebrate–once again–the gift of life and of the past decade plus the hope for tomorrow in Him.

The First Decade: Reflections on the last 10 years I only lived because of God’s grace + modern medicine, Part 3

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So today is the 10 year mark from the calendar date when I was diagnosed with cancer. What a day that was then, and what a day it is today, ten years later, when one of my closest friends called to tell me she was diagnosed with cancer. Even 10 years later, I can still remember how I felt and what I thought, and talking with this dear friend today broke my heart as I thought about what she’s feeling and facing. Let the record show that I hate cancer for so many reasons.

I ran across an Instagram post this year where a cancer survivor celebrated her birthday as a “bonus birthday.” I loved that idea and have thought about it often in reflecting on the past decade. Since seeing that post, I’ve started to think of all the time since my diagnosis as “bonus time,” or time I wasn’t guaranteed. If we want to go theologically deep, we could talk about how, given that God is sovereign, I don’t think these “bonus years” were a surprise or unplanned. If we want to go medically deep, we could talk about how my lymphoma was much more treatable than other types of cancer (though, if left untreated, I wouldn’t be here today). Still, the feeling that I’ve been given bonus time and lived a decade of that bonus time persists.

Life is not how I planned. I for sure never imagined I’d live in California. (I am a Texan, after all.) My North Dallas roots trained me to think that, by now, I’d be married with multiple kids and a stay-at-home-mom. We don’t even have to talk about how much that’s not my life today. There are definitely times when I grieve the life I thought I’d have, times when I’m tired and lonely and wondering, in the spirit of a certain animated character, “When will my life begin?”

But I had a moment this fall when I realized that, while my life is not what I thought it would be, I’m alive, and that wasn’t a guarantee (nor is it guaranteed on a daily basis, if we’re being real). Instead of thinking of all the things that haven’t happened in my life to this point, I started thinking of all the amazing things that have happened, and especially in the last decade since the “bonus time clock” started. This seeing-the-bright-side-of-things is big for me—others can play Pollyanna’s “Glad Game” much more naturally than my cynical, melancholic self.

So in honor of my decade of bonus time, I started chronicling a list of some of the things I would never have known or done without the gift of this past decade, a decade marked by more risk than the previous 21 years combined. Some of these things are small, and some are much more significant, but all remind me to think of all the things this time God has given me has allowed versus all the things that haven’t come to fruition.

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, here goes my list of things this decade has entailed, a partial and incomplete list at best.

Without this decade of bonus time, I never would have:

–lived in Hawaii
–found my favorite place on earth, Lanikai Beach
–eaten a Teddy’s burger
–climbed Stairway to Heaven
–met Tariya Enos or watched her become Tariya Mukai and then Mama Mukai
–known any of my HBA or Hawaii ohana
–owned 2 surfboards (neither of which is currently in my possession…?)
–gotten my Master’s Degree
–been to England, Germany, Italy, Austria, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, France, Turkey, Brazil, Israel, or Greece
–studied in the Holy Lands
–met Ellie, Emily, Lauren, Sarah, and all of the others on WIHL
–met Grace and Kevin Nielsen and their growing family
–grown to know Jesus more deeply as a result of grad school
–written a book
–started a non-profit
–met all those in the cancer community I’ve gotten to know
–met Aubrea, Krystal, Heather, Tonya, and other friends in San Diego
–met any of my Boosterthon Team/family
–stood by Melissa as she got married or watched her create multiple havens of hospitality while setting up a life in Atlanta
–discovered I actually love running (I thought I hated it)
–been a proud Disneyland Annual Passholder
–seen many of my friends marry and start families
–seen my extended family grow to the next generation
–seen my parents [break my heart first by leaving my childhood home and then] move to Hawaii
–met Patrick and gained a brother
–stood by my little sister as she married the love of her life
–watched my immediate family grow through trials to become even more amazing people of God
–understood God’s grace in a real way
–known the faithfulness of God in all seasons

These are just a start—there’s been so much that’s happened in the past decade that I can’t begin to capture everything. These things represent so many events and people that I never would have known if treatment and God’s provision hadn’t healed me. And when I think about that, I’m immensely grateful because what a loss it would be to have missed out on these friendships and events.

Granted, I wouldn’t have known loss in the way I do today because I wouldn’t have watched loved ones pass away from cancer or slowly realize long term friendships have run their course. Life is complex, and I know that today in a way 21-year-old-me never could have explained.

Life still has many unmet expectations and I know I will continue to be surprised by life in the future, but wow—what a gift these past 10 years of bonus time have been. When I think of all that I wouldn’t have witnessed, I’m humbled and also okay with all of the unmet expectations, all the things that haven’t happened in light of all of the great things God has done and blessed me with in this decade of bonus time.

The First Decade: Reflections on the last 10 years I only lived because of God’s grace + modern medicine, Part 2

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Well, 10 years ago today, I was standing inside Delias at NorthPark Center, a mall in Dallas, when a doctor called to tell me I had cancer.

It was surreal enough to hear the words, “You have cancer,” but the setting made it even more bizarre.

deliasnorthpark

There’s a song by Jordin Sparks from around that time titled, “No Parade,” and the chorus says, “There was no parade, no lights flashing, no song to sing along the way.” She’s talking about the end of a relationship, but I’ve thought of those lyrics many times in the last decade when I think about hearing the news of cancer and of the day I started treatment.

I’m not saying I wanted a parade; the point is I think we imagine that kind of news having some sort of ceremony attached, something monumental where sirens sound or time stands still. There was nothing like that–people walked past me Christmas shopping, talking on the phone, making plans for Thanksgiving the next day, and more.

Looking back, it feels even more surreal–like, “Did that actually happen?” And though it feels so long ago and far away, my life in the past decade has been marked enough by cancer in terms of my passions, my personal and spiritual growth, and my ministry that I can’t deny the experience and its ongoing impact.

I wrote in my last post that I’d found my prayer journal from 2008-2009, and wow, was it interesting to read through. In rereading my book and my journal from that time, I’ve had some time to reflect, and though I don’t have anything profound to say, I have a couple thoughts I’d love to share.

 

The night before I got my official diagnosis at the mall, I knew things didn’t look good. No one schedules a biospy if they’re unconcerned, and they for sure don’t say it looks “suspicious of lymphoma” nonchalantly. So there was a sense of impending doom as I waited for the official word and prayed for a miracle (or in my case, a medical mistake).

When I found my journal last month, I started flipping through it, wondering what I would find. I hadn’t read through it in years; in fact, it had been in boxes in Texas since I moved to California in 2015 until my parents drove some stuff out here in January, and before that, it was in my orange bedroom in Dallas (R.I.P.) while I lived in Hawaii and went to grad school. As I flipped through it, I found an entry dated 11/25/2008, that night before I was officially branded with cancer.

Here’s what I found: I was really afraid. I prayed that, actually; the entry started, “Lord, I am scared.” I remember feeling vaguely scared, but we tend to gloss over memories as time goes by, so I didn’t remember actually verbalizing that fear. As I kept reading the entry, I was brought to tears as I read, “I don’t think I’ve used my time up to this point well—and I don’t want to ‘bargain’ with You [God], but it scares me to think of all the time wasted…if this is the end.”

Is it weird for me to shed tears for the terrified 21-year-old who wrote that, when it was literally me writing that, and things have turned out okay? I don’t want to overdramatize things, but I was trying hard to hold things together, and I read that now and take a big sigh, letting out the anxiety rooted deep in that girl’s soul, tearful today over the utter unknown she stood face to face with then.

Later, I wrote, “I’m scared more for the fact that my life to this point has not amounted to much other than my self-interest…” I’d like to think I could say something different today, and I hope in some ways I can. I’m still selfish and full of self-interest, but cancer launched me out into living a life with more risk and less safety, so in some ways, I can look back at the past 10 years and trace a life of greater impact than my timid 21-year-old self knew.

10 years on, it’s easy to feel a bit removed from the experience—though it has shaped my life and will always feel present in some ways. But I think about the girl who wrote this, the “younger me” of 21 years of age, and my heart goes out to her. On this side of things, I know what’s in store for her, and I believe one of God’s many mercies is that most of the time, He doesn’t tell us what’s in store.

“If this is the end….” Wow. Well, it wasn’t, but that was no guarantee. And though every day is a gift and no one ever knows when he or she will meet the end, having to stare down the question of, “Is this it?” was terrifying then and heartrending to read today.

Often it can feel like I’m pouring myself out—into the things I think God has called me to, into relationships, and into whatever is set before me—and not getting the same return or just ending up exhausted. Well, the “you can’t have your cake and eat it, too” lesson of this story for present-day-me is that I can’t get bitter over my exhaustion from pouring myself out or into the people and passions in my life. The alternative is 21-year-old-me coming face to face with the possibility that this might truly be the end and feeling like my life had made no impact, that I had only pursued self-interest.

The alternative to pouring myself out is filling myself up and knowing, when faced with my mortality, that I’ve squandered my life. It’s a good reality check for me: Would I rather feel like that younger me, terrified of having wasted the gift of life that God had given me, or like I do from time to time, exhausted from trying to walk faithfully and follow God’s calling, whatever that entails?

That reads as if I think I’m a martyr or saint—trust me; I don’t. I’m the actual worst, and I have daily evidence of that (especially while driving in California traffic). But on days when I let the pity party start, thinking that my life isn’t comfortable or how I expected, it’s a great reality check to think of the alternative, a sobering thought to confront 10 years ago and to remember today.

If there’s “a moral to this story,” it’s mostly to reflect but also to encourage myself–and maybe you–to make the most of the time we’re given. That’s actually the most pithy saying I could offer, except if you know me and if you had stood outside of Delias hearing you had cancer on the day before Thanksgiving like I did, hopefully you would understand there’s a lot of import to that seemingly trite saying. It’s been sobering to reread my fears and concerns about “if this is the end,” and it’s a great reminder to me today, 10 years later, to give myself to the larger narrative God has rather than to my own selfish and small pursuits.

Tonight, there’s so much I’m thankful for. I started making a list over the last month or so detailing many of the things that would never have happened if that call had truly signaled the end 10 years ago. I’d love to share that list over the next few days in the spirit of Thanksgiving, but for now, I’m profoundly thankful to be sitting here, writing, and living a life that isn’t what I expected but is genuinely a gift.

The First Decade*: Reflections on the last 10 years I only lived because of God’s grace + modern medicine, Part 1.

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(*Michael W. Smith reference intentional)

I’m coming up on the 10 year anniversary of my cancer diagnosis this week. That reality has been present in the back of my mind for months, and I’ve been trying to think of how to honor this anniversary, or as we say in the cancer world, this “cancerversary.”

I’ve also been trying to figure out when to honor that since I got the call on the day before Thanksgiving, but that actual calendar date is the Monday after Thanksgiving this year. Plus, my mom wonders why I would even celebrate the anniversary of the day I got the news since that’s not exactly something worth celebrating. Should I celebrate on February 4th, the day I found out I was in remission? In some ways, that date seems fitting because it’s also World Cancer Day, and yet, I still had 4 more months of treatment, so though remission was an incredible victory, I was still in the trenches and feeling terrible. Should I celebrate May 14th, the day of my last chemo treatment when I knew I would finally start to feel better?

One of the reasons I’ve marked the day before Thanksgiving each year is because it’s such a meaningful time—yes, it was the day my world felt like it came to a halt as I looked “terminal illness” in the face, but it’s also a time to be grateful for all I have and all God has done in my life. In the years since November 2008, Thanksgiving has been that much more poignant for me as a time to celebrate the gift this life truly is. I might have flippantly said that in my previous 21 years—“Oh, life’s a gift!”—but I know that to be true in a profoundly real way now.

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