Tag / Community

by lesliedanielle87

Waiting Room

During the weeks before mom’s official diagnosis when she was in an out of the hospital, I remember having a conversation with my cousin Isaac in which I asked him a question that I was afraid to know the answer to, but needed to know the answer to. Isaac knew what it was to experience your mom being diagnosed and what life after that diagnosis was like. While I was aware that every diagnosis and every person/family is different, my mind that has a strong need to just “figure things out” needed to know his story. With fear I asked him, “what happens if its cancer?” He went on to give me some practical insight into the conversations regarding treatment options and things like that, but knowing the depths of what I was really asking, it was his next response that stayed with me and has shaped so many moments for me in the months that followed. He told me to imagine myself in a waiting room where there’s different doors that lead to different rooms. Maybe one says its cancer, another one says it’s not, maybe there are doors that you can’t even make out the signs on, but the thing is, you’re in the waiting room. You don’t know which door you’re going to have to walk through, so don’t walk through doors you aren’t being asked to walk through. It’s hard, but you’re in the waiting room, so you have to wait. [Isaac is one of the smartest people I know…wouldn’t you agree? He’s one of my dearest friends and life editors AND he just happens to be my cousin too! Score!]

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Yesterday’s Waiting Room

Since that conversation, I have spent more times in [literal and metaphorical] waiting rooms than I can count; waiting rooms at the doctor’s office, radiology waiting rooms, surgical waiting rooms, and of course the seemingly permanent “what if” waiting room in my mind. Can I be honest with you about something? Even after 3 years and waiting rooms becoming a frequent and normal occurrence, I still suck at the waiting. I spent a large portion of the day yesterday in the surgical waiting room and from the moment we checked mom in, they handed me a pager. I realize that [in their minds at least] it is an efficient way to keep track of the families while their loved one is in surgery and maybe provide some peace of mind and I can appreciate that sentiment, but I also kind of hate the pagers. I think I hate them because they tend to be a constant reminder of the waiting that I’m stuck doing. I can never decide if I want it to go off because these pagers are terrifying when they go off. Ask anyone that has been with me on a surgery day, I jump every time one of them goes off and it’s not even mine! You see, much like the waiting itself, when one of these pagers goes off, you have zero indication as to whether it’s good news or bad news and those moments between it going off and you walking up to the desk are the absolute worst. The truth is, this tangent about the pagers isn’t really relevant to where I’m going with this, but I just needed it to be known, I have a love/hate relationship with the pagers that is mostly hate until it buzzes with the end result of good news, at which point I love it.

Every time I find myself in one of the particularly difficult waiting rooms, I always reflect back on Isaac’s words from the very beginning of this journey. It takes a lot of mental discipline for me to refrain from walking through doors before I’ve been called to and I don’t always possess that kind of discipline. More often than I’d care to admit, I pace the waiting room (both literally and metaphorically) and I just walk up to the various “doors” just to get a glimpse of what they might possibly be if I have to walk through them. Yesterday, as I waited for the God-awful [but also glorious] pager to go off and let me know mom was okay and that I could see her, I had a new experience that added to the depths of this waiting room business. I have always been so blessed that I have never been alone in a surgical waiting room. There are always some of our people there and I can’t tell you how much “easier” the waiting can be when you have your people with you. In addition to that we have such a large network of people that walk with us in spirit and carry us in love in prayer. But yesterday I had a new experience…in the area we chose to sit in to do our waiting, there was a couple sitting there as well. It wasn’t simply because they were sitting near us, there was something else that just made my heart both ache and feel drawn to them at the same time. Throughout the day we learned that they were waiting for their 12-year-old daughter to get out of a 6-hour brain surgery. You guys, I can’t even begin to imagine their poor momma and daddy hearts, but I could see the weight in their eyes as well as the indescribable depths of love they have for their sweet girl. Through conversation I learned that the surgeon that was working on their daughter, was the only one in the country that could perform the complicated surgery that she needed. So, they traveled here from Kansas and will be spending the next 15 days post-op here in a nearby hotel. We swapped stories about how we were all too familiar with hospitals and doctors. We shared relief as they found out that their daughter made it through surgery and then tried to pass the time until they would be able to see her. We talked about the weather in Kansas versus the weather here [unrelated: I’m so glad I live in California] and what fun touristy things they had done so far. We shared the same relief when I came out of the conference room after talking with my mom’s doctor and learning that she too had made it through safely. Later in the day we ran into each and shared the most recent updates on our people and I will probably never see them again, but for those hours spent in the waiting room we became each other’s people. Because there is something that happens when you’re not only in the waiting room, but when you know the agony and pain found in that waiting. I don’t wish that on anyone because the truth is, it’s awful, but if you bear the scars of knowing what that experience is like, you have a unique opportunity to be present with someone else going through it.

I wish I didn’t know what it was like, but I do and because I do, I was able to sit in a sacred space with strangers from another state [that I never even exchanged names with, social awkwardness for the win!] and help carry their burden and they helped carry mine. And when I reflect back on the day yesterday, and the last three years, I woke up this morning completely overwhelmed by gratitude. I am grateful for my waiting room friends. I am grateful that both of our people made it safely through surgery. I am grateful for every, single, painful moment that I have experienced that allowed me to lock eyes with those sweet parents and share a “me too” moment. Friends, I’m grateful for the waiting room because even though I hate it, it has become the place in which I am always met by the unending love, sweet compassion, and all sufficient grace of The One that holds me in the waiting and knows what lies beyond the waiting.

If you find yourself in one of life’s waiting rooms today and you’re hating it, just know that you are actually being equipped to one day come alongside someone in a way that no one else can because of the waiting you are going through now. And if you’re feeling a little lonely in your waiting today, let me come alongside you and hold space for you in that waiting. You’re not alone friend.

*If you think of my waiting room friends from Kansas, would you say a prayer for them? Pray for their sweet girl and speedy recovery so they can get back home to all their people*

Thanks for always walking with us in the waiting,

Leslie Danielle

by lesliedanielle87

World Cancer Day

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It’s strange, though not surprising, that today is World Cancer Day and I happened to have standing plans to drive my grandma and great grandma to a doctor’s appointment. Out of all the doctors’ offices in Anaheim, my great grandma’s doctor’s office happens to be at Anaheim Regional Medical Center.  I sat in the parking lot and stared at the building where mom’s cancer journey began; it feels like lifetimes ago. I was having flashbacks to those first moments: “Your scan showed a large mass on your ovary that could indicate cancer.” I remember the deafening silence that followed. I remember writing these words during that hospital stay at Anaheim Regional:

Faith is so much easier to have when you don’t really need it. Sounds silly, I know. But you see, it’s the middle of the night and I’m sitting in a chair at my mom’s bedside in the hospital. I’ve always been unnerved in hospitals, but never like this. More than the eeriness of walking the hallways, or the awareness of all of the sickness here, or the strange noises coming from a patient down the hall, or the smell…you know what the most unnerving thing is? Sitting here in a dark room that is filled to the brim with questions, but completely void of answers. I like to think I have a pretty good head on my shoulders, but these are the kinds of questions that I can’t answer.

 

“Will my mom be okay?”

“Is it cancer?”

“If it is cancer, will she be okay?”

“If it is cancer, will we all be okay?”

“9 months after losing my dad, why is this happening?”

 Like I said, it feels like lifetimes ago. I got answers to most of those questions, except that last one. Nearly two years later we are all okay. This time two years ago we were in our last weeks of life as we knew it; life before cancer. During those first days and weeks when you’re still in shock upon receiving a diagnosis, it’s easy to feel like a victim of this disease. I mean, it is attacking you, but there’s this shift that happens as the shock begins to wear off. Most of us go through life thinking that cancer is something that happens to other people, and other families, it will never happen to you…and then it does. All of a sudden it was my mom who had cancer. And cancer goes from being a powerless word of something that happens to other people, to this dark, powerful enemy, that is attacking you or someone you love from the inside out.

Mom, Daniel, and I the morning of mom's surgery before heading to the hospital 08/23/14

Mom, Daniel, and I the morning of mom’s surgery before heading to the hospital 08/23/14

Shortly after this happens you are faced with a choice and it is possibly one of the most important choices you will ever make. You have to choose between being a victim of cancer or to be a fighter and survivor of cancer. I thank God everyday that he gave my mom the resolve and determination to fight like hell. It might seem like an easy choice, who wouldn’t want to live? But it isn’t as simple as choosing life because what you’re really choosing is life with cancer. And life with cancer means hospitalizations, surgeries, treatment, side effects etc. It takes a strong person to choose life with cancer. It is not an easy life. It’s a life filled with countless doctor visits, pain, fear, isolation, long treatments, and a lot of days where you feel lousy.

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I think as a culture we tend to give a sympathetic head tilt to someone battling cancer and maybe there is a time where that is helpful. But after walking alongside my mom through two cancer battles I think a more appropriate response to someone living with cancer might be applause, standing ovations, and endless high fives. What I’ve learned watching my mom and others throughout the course of her treatment is that they are the brave and courageous ones among us.

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Everyday they are faced with the reality of their own mortality, battling a disease that could take their lives, but they get up, face the truth, and still, they choose to fight. The truth is, we each face the same mortality, but most of us choose to live life as though it isn’t so. Even after remission, a cancer survivor never goes back to life before cancer. Sure, on the outside it may seem that way, but on the inside nothing is the same. They continue “fighting” cancer long after it’s left their bodies. After a cancer diagnosis, a headache is never just a headache again. There’s that fear and nagging question “Is the cancer back?” I experienced this with my mom just last month when we found out she had fractured her leg. For someone who hasn’t ever been diagnosed with cancer a fracture would be simple enough to diagnose and soon you’d be on your way. For my mom, there was the slight suspicion that her fracture could have been a result of cancer spread. She was hospitalized for a couple of days and during that time she had a bone scan to rule out cancer. Thankfully there was no sign of it and it actually is just a fracture. A cancer survivor isn’t someone who “survived” cancer, it is someone who is surviving and living even beyond cancer. It is someone who chooses to embody what it means to be a survivor rather than a victim of cancer. The temptation is always there to live under the dark cloud of fear and what ifs, but continuing to choose life is what makes them true survivors.

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Cancer patients are the gems among us that, truth be told, we look away from when we see because we don’t want to face our own mortality. I saw this so clearly during my mom’s cancer treatment, people in her life that I thought for sure would walk beside her were nowhere to be found. When the reality is, we should be taking notes; because I think when we’re honest we all want to live brave and courageous lives. We can start by being brave and courageous enough to not look the other way, but instead walk alongside those battling cancer.

Mom joining UCI and #TheAntiCancer movement

Mom joining UCI and #TheAntiCancer movement

Mom rockin' her freshly shaved head

Mom rockin’ her freshly shaved head

If I could go back and somehow spare my mom of her cancer diagnosis, most of the time I think I would…but when I ask her if she would trade it her answer is always no. Because of her bravery and courage, she can see the value in the journey. Relationships that were formed, lessons that were learned, a fire in her heart to live that might have stayed only just a flicker. The list can go on and on. Everyday she chooses life, joy, and gratitude. And I’m amazed by her all the time, but today as we raise awareness, share our stories, pause and remember those who were taken too soon by this disease, I want to take a moment to honor the choice she made to fight, even when she wanted to give up. She is my inspiration and my hero. Momma, consider this your virtual applause and standing ovation.

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I hope that in my lifetime I get to see a definitive cure for all forms of this disease and I am grateful for the men and women who dedicate their lives to research and science to make this hope a reality. I am especially grateful for the amazing doctors that joined mom’s dream team and continue to care for and support her.

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None of us know what tomorrow will bring, tell the ones you love that you love them and tonight hold them just a little tighter and just a few seconds longer.

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by lesliedanielle87

Grieving Through The Holidays

Shortly after my dad passed away, we attended a grief support group called Grief Share, where we learned several tools and truths that have helped us navigate the ever changing journey of grief. There are many things I took away from that group, but one of the things that is always a great help me is this: grief comes in waves and when the waves come, its best to lean into them instead of resisting them. Most of the time these waves are unpredictable; they come when you least expect it. You never really know how long it will last or how much time you have before another one hits.

There are some waves that tend to come at the same time every year. One of those times is the holidays. This time of year is so emotionally charged and filled with memories and flashbacks, and I have yet to find a way to escape it. Whether your loved one has been gone for decades, a few years, or this is the first holiday with an empty seat at the table…the holidays are hard. Bittersweet is probably the best word I can use to describe it. You feel so many things, most of which are complete opposites, but you experience them all at the same time. The combination of happy memories and the reality that the one you love is no longer here to make new memories inflicts a kind of pain that can’t really be described. But if you’ve lost a loved one, you probably know the exact feeling.

The holidays are supposed to be a happy time and you’re probably wondering why I’m writing all of this now. This is our third Christmas without my dad, and while I’m no expert, I’ve learned some things along this difficult journey that I would like to share with you as we all prepare for our various celebrations. And also, because I know too many people that will be having their first Christmas with the indescribable void of people they never imagined their lives without. And the truth is, grief makes most of us uncomfortable. We don’t really know how to process it and if you haven’t experienced it, there is so much about it that you don’t understand. A lot of us want to do or say something that can bring some relief and comfort to those we love, and sometimes from the best places in our hearts, we can say or do things that might cause more harm than good. This isn’t the same for everyone, but after talking amongst my family, we came up with some things that have been the most comfort and support for us and wanted to share those with you.

  • Be a safe place. Grief has many expressions and you never really know if something will make you laugh or cry. This kind of unpredictability is scary if you aren’t in a safe place, in addition to the pain you feel, the last thing you’re looking for is to be judged. I remember during our first Christmas without my dad, we were at a family gathering and a song came on that had a lot of memories attached and took us by surprise. It was a cross between not being able to breathe and tears coming so fast there wasn’t time to keep up. One of us rushed to skip the song, in an effort to make it hurt less, and someone that didn’t really understand what was going on, made a hurtful remark: “It’s just a song, what’s the big deal?” While I don’t believe it was malicious, it was hurtful. The big deal was that it was a song my dad and brother used to play/sing together every year. It wouldn’t be a big deal to anyone else, but to us it was huge. There are going to be things that you won’t understand, and that’s okay, as long as you create a safe space for those you love that are grieving to express whatever they are feeling. Because, like I mentioned earlier, it’s a wave and the thing about waves is…they pass. Ride the wave with us.
  • We might be a mess, join us in the mess. Sometimes we laugh, sometimes we cry, both are okay. My dad was hilarious, and as a result there are many of our memories of him that still make us laugh. And there are some things that we miss so much it brings tears. Both expressions are sacred. Grief is messy, especially during the holidays, but if you can be gracious and present with us, let us laugh, cry, and remember without judgment or ridicule, you will enter into a space in our hearts so special you will be one of a select few that aren’t afraid to get a little messy.
  • If you don’t know what to say, just sit down with us, its okay. Odds are, the silence might be a welcome change. We spend a lot of time talking about our loved ones and that’s important, and we appreciate that you let us, even if you’ve heard the story a thousand times. But often times, people feel like they need to give us some kind of wisdom or advice…sometimes that makes things worse. We aren’t looking for answers; we’re looking for a friend. If you don’t know what to say to us, its okay, you don’t have to say anything. Your presence with us in the silence will speak volumes.
  • Don’t be afraid of us. We’re mostly the same people, we’ve just been marked by something that changes a piece of us forever. When we feel like people are avoiding us because grief makes them uncomfortable, it hurts. We didn’t choose this path, and we still want our friends and family. From the very first day, my grandpa has probably been one of the people that has best been able to really be there for me. He has never tiptoed around my grief. When he feels the time is right, he will ask me questions, like what I miss most about my dad. He always remembers my dad at family gatherings. He tells me his stories about my dad. And sometimes he sits in silence with me. I have never felt him hesitate to be near me or my grief. It takes a special person. Be that person.
  • Love. However you express that best, just love us.

I’m not an expert, and will never claim to be one, but in the last few years I have experienced some of the best and worst of these things that I’ve mentioned. I’ve learned who the true friends in my life are and have been so richly blessed with people who don’t mind the mess. The holidays are hard, and there’s no way around it. But with the wonderful people in my life who love me well, they make a difficult season, a little less difficult.  Be those people.

Merry Christmas.

To those with an empty seat at the table this Christmas, you are in our thoughts and prayers.

Christmas 2011 Our Last Christmas With Dad

Christmas 2011
Our Last Christmas With Dad