In John 21:18 Jesus is talking with His disciple Peter telling him that “others will dress you and take you where you don’t want to go.”

I remember when my youngest was little we had to take him to the doctor. He was scared of the doctor and always had been. For years, prior to going, he would repeatedly ask if he was going to get a “shot” that day. We would never lied to him to try to ease his anxiety out of a fear that doing so would backfire on us so, instead, we would say, as honestly as we could, “I don’t know buddy; you might have to have one this time.”

It was hard having to take him somewhere that he did not want to go; where he was scared to go.

In his sweet childhood, he was quite shy and nervous around new people, places, and unknown experiences. In fact, it was often the fear of the unknown that made him most anxious. He seemed to think ahead wondering or worrying who would be there, what it would look like or feel like.

I often think that he and I share the same brain as that is so similar to how I process things.

There was one particular time at the doctor that was the worst; I think he had a rash or something that needed to be assessed for treatment. As we approached the front door of the office, he hard-stopped walking. Completely stopped and dug his heels into the cement.

Can you envision trying to pull a young elementary age child to go forward? Can you see him with legs locked, heels firmly placed into the cement ground, head down, back arched, with arms stretched forward because his dad and I are trying to coerce him into movement?

He was terrified for some reason and we could not move him an inch no matter that we were reassuring him that we would not leave him; that we would ensure he would be alright because we would be right there with him the whole time.

Crying hard, he conceded and into the office we went.

I remember another time, I do not recall WHY he would have said this, but he asked me about “the oxygen mask that would smell like bubble gum” and if he would have it too.

He was 4 years old when his older brother required a rather major surgery to repair ligaments that were deformed due to being born with a club foot malformity. We took our youngest (maybe it wasn’t a good idea, but we wanted him to feel involved with what was happening with his brother as he seemed rather intuitive and introspective about things instead of being “clueless”) with us to the pre-anesthesia appointment where they showed both boys the oxygen mask smelling of bubble gum that our oldest would see again on his surgery day.

That experience had been years prior to when his inquiring mind paired that event of his brother together with whatever doctor office experience he was about to have: and it brought him anxiety and fear because that was what was known to him.

How often does that happen to us? We allow fear and anxiety (do we really allow it??? I don’t always feel I have the choice when it shows up…) to take over all rational thought because of a previous experience when we are suddenly faced with something new and unknown.

In 2021, my best friend of 20 years forever finished her battle with Colon Cancer.

We were months apart in age. We were both nurses for about the same amount of years and worked in very similar fields. Our mothers and mother in laws were similar in temperament. We were married almost the same amount of years and both married to a “Dan”! We had children the same age. We laughed about the same things. We both analyzed every thought and action said or done by those around us. We both believed that life mattered and what we did with our lives made a difference in this world around us.

Her experience with cancer is the experience that I recall now.

I remember the day she called me to tell me of her diagnosis in 2016. She told me that her husband was not with her for that infamous scheduled colonoscopy because she did not think it was going to be a big deal. I thought it was interesting that she had prearranged for a friend to take her home when it was over so he would not have to take the day off of work.

She had to call him on the phone to tell him a cancerous mass had been found in her colon.

What I do not remember is how that felt to her to make that phone call. I’d asked her so many things about her life and her cancer… but not about that. I did not ask her how she told her children and how that felt… before, during, and after.

At the time, those seemed to be silly questions. I figured I knew the answer: horrible. “It felt horrible, Am.” Of course, Al, of course it felt horrible- I can’t even imagine.

Now I can.

Oh Ali, it is the worst thing ever. I wish I would have asked you about that. How did you do it?? What were your thoughts?? Did you pray first or were you so shell-shocked you felt numb? Were you worried about Dan? Were you broken hearted because you knew you were about to change their worlds and break their hearts?

We aren’t supposed to hurt our children. Ever. Discipline, yes. Hurt? NO. My life as a mother has been one of protection. Of support. Of encouragement.

Have we had hardship that we had to face with them? YES. But we were always shielding them and making a path before them all the way.

Not this time.

And now we have a precious girl brought into our lives…one whose own momma had only recently passed from breast cancer before her battle with it could ever really start.

Oh Ali, I miss you. I cannot even describe in words how I wish I could talk to you about how to do this with my kids.

But first… I have to tell Dan.

On February 4 I was in Muskegon sitting by Lake Michigan while my husband was working in Atlanta. I had texted him to ask him to carve some time out to be alone and undistracted so we could talk before I had my luncheon meeting.

It was beautiful by Lake Michigan. The air was crisp and the sky was even a little blue that day with the sun trying to peek out from behind the puffy clouds. There was not a lot of snow but the ground was frozen.

Have you ever walked on frozen sand? I highly recommend doing it.

As I sat on the bluff overlooking the beach and lake, I could see the open water of Lake Michigan crashing into the ice shelf that had formed up to the shoreline.

It was beautiful…quiet…peaceful.

Matthew 6:26

“Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?”

The old hymn His Eye Is On the Sparrow kept echoing through my head:

“Why should I feel discouraged? Why should the shadows come? Why should my heart be lonely and long for heav’n and home when Jesus is my portion? My constant Friend is He; His eye is on the sparrow and I know He watches me” (Civilla D. Martin 1905).

Dan calls while I sit in the serenity of that moment. I am able to calmly explain to him that I had felt a lump in my breast the evening before which caused me to remember I had been told upon scheduling that this upcoming 2nd mammogram was NOT because of breast density. I confessed that I had suddenly recalled it was to directly screen my left breast only.

I calmly told him the verse from Isaiah 43:1-3 that had been revealed to me by the Lord the previous night~

Do not be afraid…When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze. For I am the Lord your God…your Savior.

We both cried.

Atlanta felt very far away in that moment and he would not be home until later that week which would be the day after the 2nd mammogram.

We encouraged each other with hope that I could very well be wrong in my prediction…although we both knew I was right. We decided together to keep these thoughts and concerns to ourselves until we knew with certainty what was going on.

When we saw how deeply the possibility of having cancer was affecting us, we did not wish to put these worries onto anyone else until we had to.

Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own (Matthew 6:34).

I apologized to Dan for hurting him. I know in our vows it says, “in good times and in bad, sickness and in health”… and we’ve been through so much of that already and now… there is even more hurt to come. My physical body is hurting him and I cannot stop it from happening. I hate it.

The rest of the day and week somehow manages to pass and Thursday has finally arrived.

The check in for this 3D Mammogram is the same as before… put clothes into a locker, put the white gown on that opens to the front, and step into the exam room. When I walked in my previous mammogram image was up on the computer screen for the technician to know what she was looking specifically for in this current one.

In all irony, my job as an RN has given me some experience at looking at x-ray’s and ultrasounds. I have seen what “normal” looks like, how cysts look different from a solid mass, and what lymph nodes are visually. As I look at the screen, I can see as plain as day the dark “paint splatter” that rests inside my left breast.

I state aloud, “well, there it is I guess.”

The technician asked me if I had palpated anything on my breast before so I, as I began to cry, pointed to a specific area. THE specific area. She marks it with a pen so she can tell on the imaging if this is the same “spot”.

“X” now marks the spot.

The mammogram is completed quickly and I am escorted to a waiting room while the radiologist looks at my films to determine if a “next step” is required. In my heart I KNOW one is. The certainty of what is happening is heavy on me.

She comes back and confirms that an official ultrasound is now necessary. I must wait for a technician to be available for me to have one so I text Dan to tell him what is happening. He is still in Atlanta sitting on pins and needles of helplessness.

In not too long of time, a young woman asks me to follow her to the next exam room. I laid down on a table to, once again, expose myself to a stranger. Trust me, that particular aspect of exposure does not get any easier within this process.

She begins the ultrasound and I can very easily see what she is doing… what she is measuring… what she is labeling. I tell her that I am an RN who assists with Ultrasound Guided Fine Needle Aspirations and Biopsies and that although I know she cannot technically tell me anything, I can clearly see something IS there.

Her non-verbal communication and eye contact confirms my suspicions.

She tells me that a radiologist is going to come into the room next to talk with me. I laid there alone in the silence of the room for a few moments with my heart beginning to pound faster.

He comes in with her and sits down. I don’t think that is ever a good thing to have happen.

I ask him if I should call my husband to put him on speaker phone to be a part of whatever is about to be said to me and he tells me to wait because he would like to do another ultrasound with the technician before speaking his mind to my husband. I’m encouraged to text him to be ready for a phone call.

The second ultrasound is completed as I watch the screen with them.

The doctor comes back to his chair to have me call Dan. With Dan on the phone, he begins to say words like “biopsy needed”, “we need to see what these suspicious spots are”, and potential “treatment plan” ideas.

Both the doctor and technician are extremely apologetic for having me wait until the next day to get a biopsy done; both wishing they could fit me into today’s schedule. But, it is scheduled for Friday and they leave the room with Dan still on the phone.

What else is there to say to each other at this point?

I love you. It’s going to be alright. I wish I was there. I wish you were here. I’ll see you tomorrow when it is done.

Oh Ali, how did you do this??

I’m supposed to work the next day when the biopsy has been scheduled so I decide it is time to rally my co-workers around me while I see how I can adjust my work-day to accommodate this new “crisis”.

I walk over to Endoscopy and find my support co-worker and ask her to quickly get the other one I lean on. She immediately can tell I’m starting to get visibly upset as the shaking inside of me started to escape my weakening control over it.

In the “privacy” of a storage room it explodes out of me to verbalize what is happening. As I do the panic within surges over top of me.

My friends quickly surround me and offer the comfort only a nurse can give; optimistic yet realistic at the same time. They arrange my schedule and assignment for the next day before sending me home after lots of hugs.

Home.

Dan is not there for safety.

I am alone with a secret I must continue to keep for just a little while longer.

My insides are churning. The acid in my stomach is boiling. The ache in my head is pounding.

I push it down and focus on other people’s needs to get through the evening.

Friday morning I wake up and head to work as if it were just any other day. My co-workers now know so I have a sense of security to feel my feelings of anxiety as I attempt to function in my assignment for the morning until my biopsy at 11 am.

Dan is due to fly home around that same time.

I was put into yet another exam room where the ultrasound technician was going to assist the radiologist with this ultrasound guided biopsy. He walks in and says, very honestly, that these are “concerning” spots but could still be scar tissue so don’t lose hope.

I do not tell him that I have been prepared by the Lord that I WILL be going through this fire…I have a certainty about it.

I watch the biopsy as it is happening: the nurse in me is too curious to not pay attention. I see the needle go directly into the “paint splatter” as well into a 2nd area they wanted to test.

It is over quickly and I am informed that the result, because it is a weekend, will not probably be available until the upcoming Tuesday. As a healthcare professional, I assure them that I am aware of that reality.

They tell me a “nurse navigator” will be calling me as soon as the results are available to speak to me about more “next steps.”

I get dressed to leave for home and wait for my first hug with Dan.

I’ll leave that moment private to myself.

We now have a weekend to endure in silence so plans go into motion of how to fill time without it appearing that is what we are doing. It is interesting how one can compartmentalize something in order to function, don’t you think? We even choose to talk to our son stationed in Washington while serving in the Navy-like nothing out of the ordinary was going on.

We had not talked with him in a little while and I did not want the first time we reconnected on the phone to be because I needed to tell him something BIG. I wanted to talk to him just to talk to him and have him talk to us casually for the same reason.

I quickly ended the call though, because all of the sudden I envisioned what we needed to soon tell him and I became overcome with emotion over the mere thought of it.

My love for my son is unmeasurable. The distance between us in mileage feels like too many. The time constraint on travel for a leave is too narrow when someone is in the Navy. A hug of reassurance is a long way off and my arms are aching for him.

On Sunday I determined to start praying that those results would be available on Monday instead of Tuesday. The waiting was HARD. The silence of secrecy was HEAVY. I told the Lord that I did not want to be at work when that “call” came through.

I busied myself on Monday with odd errands. We have a shopping center in Lansing called “Frandor.” I found myself wandering around there until just choosing to sit in my car in its parking lot.

Praise the Lord! My Chart app suddenly alerted me that there was a “new result.”

I called Dan and said that the result was in: would he like me to open it so we could read it together? Was he in a place at work where he could listen and respond as he may need to?

He made himself ready and I opened the app.

Invasive Ductal Carcinoma.

What is that, we both wondered?

A quick Google search gave me the confirmation I knew in my heart to be true: cancer.

Oh my God, my God… I have breast cancer.

Lord, help me… I have breast cancer.

Oh Ali, I KNEW it. How can it be that I can’t talk to you about this??? How can you tell us the way to tell our children???

WHAT DO WE DO NOW became the next thought. We HAVE to be together and home was not an option just yet as our precious girl was there: we were NOT ready to tell her or anyone else just yet. We needed to think. We also knew that the nurse navigator was supposed to be calling soon so we chose to do what a normal American would do: we decided to meet at Costco.

As I drove there a wave of numbness came over me in place of the panic that had been held at bay for the weekend. Pulling into the parking lot, a call came in from the hospital. Answering it, I was introduced to this “navigator.”

In a matter of minutes, Dan arrived and climbed into my car as she talked to us about what those results meant and what we can expect to happen in the next few days to weeks. A doctor’s appointment was made with a “team” of specialists to help us determine our staging and what the best course of action will be for me for a week from Thursday.

She says terms like “single mastectomy”, “double mastectomy”, “lumpectomy with radiation.”

We get off the phone with her and sit there quietly together in the parking lot of Costco. The world is bustling around us while ours feels to have slipped off its axis.

I’m deep breathing with my heart pounding.

I say, “this is really happening.”

We hold onto each other as we cry.

It’s time to let our world know.

Others will dress you and take you where you don’t want to go.

We are being led where we do not want to go.