Drinking From the Fountain at Sunrise

 Labor Day morning we had a day off from the clinic, and Jonathan found a little easy Nature Trail about 12 minutes away. 

It was across from Mayo Clinic.

I was so weak that morning, I wasn't sure I should go, but as usual, unless I'm too weak to walk, I go walking in the morning. 

We didn't know if this trail would be a good one or one we'd wish we hadn't bothered to drive to.

As it turned out, it was a good one!

We set off early, and the sun was just rising over the distant hill as we walked. 

Jonathan caught this photo as I was getting a drink from a stone fountain. 

That was the highlight of the walk!

Another highlight was the moon way up above us, above this Joshua tree.

There were dozens of plaques giving names of cacti and trees, details about the plants, what parts were edible, and how the plants used to be used years ago by natives. 

This one is an Organpipe cactus.

 That trail was simply fascinating, and well worth the 12 minutes of driving it took to get there on a holiday morning.

I don't know how I keep going here sometimes, but to be honest, these early morning walks are something that get me up in the morning, eagerly looking forward to meeting the day--especially the sunrise.   

(Today we saw two javelinas {wild pigs} crossing the street as we turned the corner of Mary Munde Walk just outside our condo.)

 We have been going to bed around 8:30 or 9 most nights, as the clinic urges us to do, and then we are able to get up around 5:40.

"Get out in the sun without a hat or sunglasses," we are told. "Let the sunshine start up the serotonin in your brain and get your circadian rhythm on time." Our society is so used to electric lights and screens that we don't shut down at dark when we should. 

No wonder we are so exhausted. 

We also take walks at night as often as possible. It's part of the healing regimen here--getting out in nature, and keeping moving so glucose is being used up for energy instead of being sucked up by the greedy cancer cells.  

This is a picture we took in the drizzle one night as we walked down near the big fountain. 

I can't get over the blessing it has been to have this beautiful place to stay during cancer treatments, with so many fountains, so many trails, so much wildlife, and so much beauty. 

This was another night when it wasn't raining, but lightning lit up the clouds in the distance, as Jonathan was amazingly able to capture!

And this is what we can see from our back patio every single day--unless it is windy, when the fountain doesn't spray nearly as high. 

This fountain sprays 200 to 330 feet into the air. There is a whole lake of water feeding it, like a whole Bible ready to pour itself into us,

as much as we can handle. 

But being the human that I am, I am only able to drink a little at a time. A few verses each day, sometimes, in books as rich as 1st, 2nd, and 3rd John, I may only read and meditate on one verse.

Read it, pray it over myself and my loved ones, and then go walking while it is planted in my mind.

Like a drink from a stone fountain at sunrise, refreshing and cheering and just the right amount. 

Enough to keep you going those next steps, however wobbly they may be,

on your journey.

 

When You Have to Give Yourself Grace

Sometimes we have to give grace to other people who are having a hard day.

 

And sometimes that person is me.  

I wrote this really nice blogpost the other day about being thankful for the sense of smell--even--and maybe especially--when I am not allowed to eat the yummy food that I am smelling that other people are eating. I happened to feel thankful that day without even a pity party. So I might have sounded sorta--well, super woman or something, which I am not. That was just a day that was a little bit awesome.

Because then there are days like today when I came slowly walking out of the clinic after a treatment that had been followed by an IV bag of minerals which leaves me a little tired, woozy, and maybe even a little sick. Especially on an empty stomach. 

Because just when I had not had chemo for nearly two weeks and so my appetite had come back by last night, and I was able to eat a nice big supper last night and a nice big breakfast this morning, then suddenly I am on the 24-fast for IPT chemo again. I weighed 89 pounds yesterday, and had gained a whole pound and four-tenths by this morning so I was above 90 pounds again. 

Only to have to fast and have chemo again to knock out my appetite for most of the rest of the week.

For a little bit, I just spouted off how I felt to Jonathan in the car. I was not feeling thankful at all, even if a few days ago I was thankful I was not being treated in the cancer clinic pictured above that we passed on our way somewhere. Or at Mayo Clinic which we pass sometimes.

I spouted off how grumpy I was about fasting and being tortured with chemo and all sorts of other things. And then I thought it would be healthier to tell Jonathan about my various conversations with other patients or staff or nurses today. That helped, and I quit being quite so grumpy. I came home and curled up under a quilt and asked Jonathan to put on some music. Which he helpfully did.

Until one of the songs was being sung about someone's own funeral and how people were going to bring flowers and "not miss me when I'm gone."

And I came raring up out from under my quilt and said something kinda loud about that awful song.  By then the song was done, and Jonathan switched to some different kind of music. And I went to the kitchen and remembered that I must not nibble one bite. But I was thirsty, and I got a glass for water, and then I remembered.

 Yes, I could be thankful for water. So many people in the world don't have clean water. I drank a nice glass of water and washed my hair in nice clean water, too. 

It helped to remember to be thankful for what I did have, for what I was allowed, and to stop moping about the supper I could not have. 

(Another patient had been drinking only green juice for literally three weeks straight. She is a pastor's wife and said she is used to fasting a lot over the last five years. She isn't afraid of fasting, but just when she could break her fast of three weeks on green juice and eat a couple small meals, then she is on her own 24-hour water fast before IPT chemo, too. But not a word of complaint. She was rejoicing over the pretty red breakfast drink she had been given at breakfast time and was now allowed to have. "Apple pie juice" she called it, as she delighted over that delicious drink, which I, by the way, had to save until tomorrow.

 And then after washing my hair and cutting up some veges for tomorrow evening soup when I come home from chemo and a dental appointment, I still had to put together two different injections I do at home. I had to draw up and mix peptides and inject a half-inch needle of them into my tummy. And then I had to draw up and inject mistletoe, which stimulates immune response, which in turn fights cancer. There was quite a significant lump of fluid under my skin when I was done pushing the syringe. And it stung. But oh well, it's just for a bit. I did it myself this evening because when I ask Jonathan to do it so I won't have to poke myself, he sits there holding the needle for a bit while I imagine the pain ahead of time and then he pokes a lot faster than I do. So tonight I did it myself. 

I'm not sure which is better, or worse, but at least it helps to keep busy instead of being grumpy. 

And I blog. It helps.

Last night I ironed. Which reminds me that I need to go out and pull the clothes out of the dryer in the garage now. Even if it's dark. 

But that means it's cooler and it's time to go up and check the mail. Last night there were two cards. 

Having people care helps. 

And forgiving myself helps a lot. Not to mope because I moped, or go into a pit of despair because I ranted a little bit about cancer miseries to my husband in the car. 

Just to remember that I am chosen by God, loved, and forgiven. 

That's pretty special. 

The Scary Flutter in the Dark--When You Feel Trapped

One evening last week, after dark, it had cooled off just enough that Jonathan and I slipped up to the deserted pool and mailbox building to check our mail and dip our feet into the pool.

I went into the open ladies room only to hear a strange noise.

I gave a little screech and before you could say, "What is the matter?" I was back outside, shaking in my boots--well, in my sandals,

although, come to think of it, I may have been barefoot at that point.  

And strange noises are especially scary when you are barefoot. 

My dear, brave husband (since no one was around) fearlessly entered the ladies room, turning on the light.

And that's when we discovered a bird, probably a baby one, fluttering from one rafter to the others, unable to find a way out of the building.

I wondered how long it had been in there. 

Poor thing!

It landed near the sink, and did not seem to be afraid as Jonathan slowly reached out and caught it, gently setting it on his arm. 

There it sat, tired and wondering, like we feel sometimes, caught in the dark of circumstances that we don't understand and situations that we cannot control.  

There it sat, as we do sometimes, having fruitlessly beaten our wings against every imaginable wall and window and rafter--only to remain trapped.

Slowly and gently, Jonathan crept toward the door. 

Please, little bird, just stay perched on his arm!

Just stay there! Don't keep beating your wings and fighting the rafters. Hang tight! Liberty is about to come if you will only be still and trust the hand that caught you!

It sat still.

Silent and wondering, the little bird sat there, and then it saw the outside. It beat its wings--and flew into the rafters of the patio!

Oh, no! Little bird--the sky is just around the corner. 

Can't you see it? 

Then the little bird flew down from the rafters and away it went, out from under the patio roof and into the starry sky--as soar our spirits when we realize that nothing can separate us from the love of Christ.
No wall, no rafter, no glass window, no broken wing, no pain, no grief, no chains.

Liberty had come at last.

The little bird had trusted the hand that held it; it had seen the starry sky, and it had taken wing.

Be Still--So Butterflies of Promise Can Alight Gently on Your Shoulder

Yesterday (Saturday) I wasn't sure I was up to going anywhere or not. Thursday my blood sugar and blood pressure both were so low that my IPT chemo treatment had been cancelled. The good thing about that was that I could face an extra long holiday weekend without quite as much queasiness as usual, though herceptin that I got Wednesday made me queasy, too. I was very happy about this turn of events!

If I could eat enough to get my blood pressure back up, maybe I'd be able to go with Jonathan to the Butterfly Pavilion which is half hour from us, an extension of our anniversary. Jonathan's dad and another friend had sent us anniversary gifts that we decided to use.  

As it turned out, I was able to go, though I kept wondering if I was going to fall over! I was glad for places to sit down often, like this spot!

We heard this is a world famous butterfly pavilion, but I thought I'd be just as happy to go sit in a Pennsylvania meadow somewhere, or in someone's butterfly garden! Still, it was a fun and relaxing experience, watching butterflies of many different colors wafting around and lighting on leaves, branches, flowers, and a girl's pink top. 

We wished a butterfly would land on us. 

This is about the closest we came to a butterfly landing on us.  That brilliant blue butterfly was our favorite one there. There were four of them that we saw. 

We knew that for a butterfly to land on you, you might need to wear a colorful top, and you definitely would need to be quiet and still. 

Butterflies don't tend to light on a shoulder or a hand that is bouncing around.

While we were there at the butterfly pavilion, I thought about our evening at the quiet pool a night or two earlier. After dark, when no one is around, Jonathan and I sometimes walk up and sit at the pool's edge and dabble in it, just sitting quietly, enjoying the quiet Arizona palms silouetted against the evening sky. 

I'd been sitting there thinking about how at the clinic, right along with their education about a cancer-discouraging diet, cancer-killing treatments, detox, and more, they also have a strong emphasis on being still. Relaxing. Meditating. Just focusing on breathing so your mind will turn off the negative things that often stress and bother you.  

So you can heal.

Friday while I was in the next room getting a blood oxygenation treatment, I got to listen in while the counselor had an hour of time with most of the rest of the patients and caregivers.

She had brought along a set of musical bowls--something I'd possibly never heard of. And she sat down on a pillow on the floor, and just softly played those bowls, 

circling her soft-headed mallet around the edges. She just played one mellow frequency after the other, talking quietly, or just being silent and playing mellow tones that bounced off the walls. 

I sat in the next room, with a tube attached to a catheter in my arm vein drawing blood from my arm through the oxygenation/ozone machine and then sending it back through another tube into my port. I watched the dark red blood going out of my body, and the brighter red, oxygenated blood going back in, thinking how much better the blood looked after it had been treated with oxygen and ozone. 

And I listened to the tones and the stillness in the adjoining room. 

The counselor was okay with often just sitting there playing tones on her bowls. 

Just being quiet.

Here at the clinic, time is taken to just be totally quiet.

 To focus only on our breathing. 

Deeply in, deeply out. 

To relax stiff muscles and tight jaws, to simply accept where we are right now instead of fighting cancer.

To not think.

To simply be still.

I sat with the tubes positioned outside my arm and chest thinking about how little I am really still.

I am busy.

Hurried.

Flurried.

Worried.

Scurried.

Busy doing... 

 --good things, I hope, like doing things for my family (some of whom visited Grand Canyon a couple weeks ago on their way back to South Dakota).

 Like blogging when I'm too weak to be doing anything else.

But just busy and moving and involved.

(This clinic emphasizes moving a lot, too, to keep your lymph system draining and your muscles built up so they can store good mitochondria that fight cancer. )

But being still? That's about as hard for me as lifting an 80-lb bag of quikrete in our garage.  

It's harder than spending a 12-hour day making applesauce

or spending an hour singing for a dying friend.

This time in Arizona has been a time for me to learn to be still.  

That evening after the musical bowls and the blood treatment and the last IV push of vitamin and heparin to keep blood from clotting over the weekend, I thought about being still--especially when the card our dear friends Olive and Elverne Asbury sent us came in the mail. 

Don't tell me!

Another reminder to be still.

But not just to be still and empty and ignorant.

The clinic emphasizes emptying your mind for a bit each day--simply not thinking.

But God wants us to be still and know.  

We do need to be still and empty for a bit, so that we can be still and fill up.

When I learned to stop thinking and be still and empty my mind and not think, I discovered beautiful thoughts filling it.

I was filled with thoughts of truth and beauty and love.

We can fill up with knowing.

Knowing God.

Remembering His promises.

Like the one that dropped into my heart the day I was getting a local hyperthermia treatment over one of my cancerous lesions, and I was dreading a treatment coming up the next day.  

It was the promise, "When you pass through the fire you shall not be burned."

And I was able to pass through that long and intense treatment with peace. 

Because while I had been still, a promise had lit gently on my mind, like the butterfly on the philodendron leaf.

I was filled up with knowing.

Filled up with knowing God.

Not just with the sounds of tones on musical bowls or the tones of sweet chimes from a nearby church,

but the tones of truth from God's Word.

Yesterday at the butterfly pavilion, we were still for a few moments at a time, sitting on stone benches and watching the butterflies wafting by--like promises and beautiful thoughts from God just waiting to land in the minds and hearts of those intentional enough to be still.

When You Can't Finish Your Food--You Can Still Be Thankful for Smell

This morning, I went ahead and ate a piece of toast with my eggs and olives and sprouts. 

At least I tried to eat it. 

It was Ezekiel bread, made from sprouted grain, and I thought I could eat toast when I am still queasy from cancer drugs and can hardly stomach the raw foods I'm supposed to eat.

As you can see, I didn't finish my breakfast.  

And it was perfectly delicious, too. I really do like Ezekiel bread. 

But my appetite has kind of gone down into the pits of the amethyst mine that we read is up near here in the boon docks of Four Peaks, which we can see from our window.

I did manage to eat the four olives, because the doctor says I should eat ten olives a day as they will help keep my cancer from building a resistance to the herceptin drug I'm getting weekly. So I divide that up between three meals--three or four olives a meal.

If I can eat four at breakfast, that leaves only three each I have to eat at lunch and supper. (Yeah, I'm shrewd that way.) 

And this morning, when I remembered that Jonathan had bought me some homeopathic nausea med, I went ahead and chewed one. 

It helped. 

 When I was first making the drastic diet changes that this clinic recommends, I was having a hard time eating raw salads, lentil sprouts, fermented cabbage, and walnut/mushroom patties the clinic served while people around me were eating ordinary, yummy food. 

Jonathan has been amazing about trying to eat some of the clinic food that I can't eat, and not eating nice stuff in front of me too much, but sometimes it just can't be helped that I get stuck with chia porridge or avocado and egg or celery and almond butter for breakfast while the children who were here eat toast or cereal, and Jonathan drinks coffee and occasionally eats toast--or the coffee cake that our neighbor here brought over. 

Someone had given her this luscious box of apple cinnamon coffee cake triangles, blueberry coffee cake, and cherry coffee cake.

She had no idea about the dietary restriction of the clinic.  She was just being sweet and sharing.

Jonathan was driving us to the clinic that morning, and I opened the box. 

Ohhh, I can't begin to describe how good those triangles of coffee cake looked and smelled!

And I realized something all over again.

I realized I could still enjoy smelling that wonderful, generous coffee cake. 

I smelled and smelled. 

I oohed and I ahhed.

I gasped and chortled about the kind neighbor and smelled and looked again.

I asked Jonathan which piece he wanted and helped him get one and refused to have a pity party for myself.

 It is so miserable to have a pity party. 

It is so much happier to be thankful for my sense of smell.

Thank You, Lord! I get to smell popcorn, and coffee cake, and cinnamon raisin toast, and coffee with cream. 

I even get to eat some popcorn, too, (because I made a decision on my own that it was okay).

I get to smell the flowers Jonathan bought me, and the flowering bushes along the way.

I get to smell so many good things.

I get to be thankful instead of pitiful.

Thank You!