To Penny, With Love...

Thoughts spill, stories swirl, every minute. Right? And there are some stories that won't leave us for awhile, until they've stayed long enough...or until enough time has passed for us to safely look back. We must speak of something then, to get to our next story, and the one beyond what happened before.

But note: If you are knee deep in fear or grief, please read with care, or look away too.

So now this story goes...

...every three months I visit the clinic at the University of Minnesota.

First I go to the chemo floor, where they take my blood, to reassure that all is well. There is piano music and artwork, every effort made for it to be a good place to be. But still, returning to where I was sick is hard, I cannot lie. For it is a day that I want to be doing normal things, like buying detergent at Target, having lunch with a friend, or cranking about snow.

But I am in abundant company, for the waiting room is full of people receiving cancer treatment. Some people have no hair, some people are in wheelchairs, their loved ones around.

Illness is not easy sometimes. Or often.

A room of angels, I think to myself...a holding place, not earth nor heaven, somewhere in between. Removed from the world for an hour or a year. Off to this place, where the veil is thin, a gritty determination for tomorrow etched in one face after another. It is a place I will not forget, not ever.

And I sneak a look at the woman seated on the sofa next to me. She has a kind smile, a chemo cap plopped on her head. I wish badly to talk with her, to have some connection. To pay attention to something other than my own breathing. To not be in a room of strangers.

Think, think, think, Julie...what can you say to draw her into conversation?

And I offer happy small talk, which makes us both exhale. She asks what happened to me, so I tell her. She asks a gorgeous question then. One we might ask each other more often...

...what was that like for you?

Hmmm: I think a bit. Well, it was a big adventure!

And she smiles, my heart lightening, loving our bond. Our Warrior Sister bond.

Then my name is called and I walk through swinging doors. Back to where chemo potions drip. And my memories rush in, like the medical folks dashing and running with big purpose.

A cheerful nurse, doing her best to distract:

Should I count down, Julie?

No, I'm okay. I don't mind needles.

Then I go downstairs, to another waiting room. Waiting, waiting, always waiting. Yes, I have learned to wait, for results and appointments and tests. But since this one isn't the oncology floor, there are less urgent things happening here. Broken bones, pulled muscles, torn tendons...simpler and kinder and gentler stuff. The stuff that gets better, at least most always.

A tech calls my name, and I recognize him. It makes me happy to see someone I have seen before. A place of belonging. We walk down the hallway, more small talk then. And we enter a room with a swirling blue ceiling. He points to the table, quickly giving instructions that I know by heart now. Yes, my heart knows these directions, it never forgets them.

This scan will just take a second, Julie. Hold your breath two times, then it's done! It will be done!

As he speaks, I begin to remember...every scan, too many. Eyes closed, machines roaming for rogue cells. Some panic rises in my throat, my body starts to shake, for it remembers. And I tell him these scans are hard for me. But then like a proud first grader with a gold star sticker, I announce:

...but I am okay with needles, yup.

He stops for a moment, stops with the directions. And kindness in every single word, he tells me that many people are crying when they enter this exam room. The blood draws and pokes and chemo bags have completely and utterly overwhelmed them. And they weep upon entering his room, for all they have left are tears.

My heart skips a beat.

My God, what bravery exists...what beautiful, brave people.

You see...I have come to believe that bravery isn't about not being scared, or conquering fear forever. My health adventure has taken me to terrifying places, jump-out-of-my-pants scary places. I have crawled off exam tables, rendered nearly voiceless and noiseless...except for the cry that escapes somehow.

A small cry, still.

Fear, the biggest, baddest, bad ass monster in the forest. A worthy opponent in any worthwhile adventure. Fear hides and ducks, coming up behind trees and around corners. There can be peace, for awhile, until fear rounds again. So we still our breath, quiet our noisy minds, cry if we must...but we show up.

We show up in exam rooms, in the places we need to be.

For healing is not a passive task, the responsibility for which belongs only to others. Healing asks that we show up, we participate, we pray if we wish to, we say thank you for sure. On the days that fear threatens to defeat us, we rest for a minute or reschedule an appointment...but we rise up again. We might not look tidy and neat when we show up, with glass in our knees, for crawling is hard some days.

But we show up, because we are brave.

This blog post is dedicated to my friend, Penny, who showed up nine thousand times, again and again and again. She is a true angel now. A real one. Shortly before she passed, she sent me this pin...be Brave.

And my last words from her were...

...as the song goes "on the road again". Love you honey, keep praying.

So I show up and I show up again, like Penny and all those people in the waiting rooms...

...because we are brave, even when we cry.

We are brave (and I am healthy, a gift beyond words).