And Then There Was One…

On Monday, I will have my final cancer treatment.  I will ring the bell.  I will be declared “cancer free” and named a “survivor”.  I am writing these words, and I just can’t believe that they are true.  It seems impossible that I have completed 2 major surgeries and 32 rounds of radiation.  I haven’t fully accepted having cancer – let alone treating it.

Maybe you have been through something that seems completely foreign to you.  This entire experience has been a bit like traveling in a world that I did not ask to visit.

I thought that the greatest shock to the system I would ever experience was moving from California to Georgia.

One thing that I know for sure – when it comes to shocking events – of which I am becoming a bit of an expert – the experience is meant to be SHARED.  At first, you want to hear the story of every person who might shine hope like a beacon onto your new vista.  Quickly, you are happy for pin light stories that poke any hole in the scary dark.  As you traverse your new surroundings, the journey will be unique to you – but you will be so, SO grateful to know that others walked the streets of this alternate universe.

So here I am, at the onset of a brand new page of my story.  Survivor.  Before Monday comes and I ring that bell (and do the wicked ugly cry – which I know is coming), I want to thank everyone who has been a part of my journey.  From total strangers who shared their stories and their light. To my husband who made me an egg sandwich every morning for weeks and changed bandages…and washed sheets and remade beds…and made me feel that I am still 100% who he married…he is my hero – no lie.  To my children, who gave me everything I needed and loved me like I love them (which is beyond…beyond).  To my friends who loved me as only true friends can.

My heart is spilling over like a fire hydrant on a hot summer day.  I feel us all playing in there like beautiful children.

Thank you.

The best is yet to come.






I was passing through the school library when I heard a small voice.

“Are you Mrs. Heidi Jones?”


“Did you used to have cancer?”

I had to think for a minute on how to answer that.  Did I USED TO HAVE cancer?  Do I still technically have cancer?  Am I a survivor?  A patient?  When you are undergoing the first rounds of radiation treatments, it is difficult to feel FINISHED.  SOMETHING is being treated.

There is nothing inherently frightening about a radiation treatment.  It doesn’t take long, and everyone is LOVELY.  The only necessary skills are holding still and breathing on command.  Nailed it round one.

I HATE going.

All of the logical self-talk in the world can’t talk me into seeing this process solely as the opportunity to heal and stay well.  I know this, because I have literally used up all of the self-talk in the world.  I put on a happy face – except for treatment two – when unruly tears persisted in traitorously spilling down my cheeks (positive note – it did not devolve into the ugly cry).  I protested, “I don’t even know why I am crying.”

But, I did.

Every day, I have to confront the cancer.  I have to look at a chest marked with angry scars and radiation paint markings covered with tape.  I look like a map.  The kind you see on the wall of a METRO train – a hundred possible stops.  I remind myself –  just keep going until you reach YOUR station.  I’m ready to hear that it is time to exit the cancer train.

Which brings me back to my little friend in the library.

“Did you used to have cancer?”

“Well, they cut it out, so I guess you could say that I USED TO HAVE cancer.”

“You don’t have it no more?”

“I think maybe I don’t…”


“I think maybe I did!”


Leave it to a child.  A child who I do not know, as she is in a lower grade and has not come through my hands yet.  Her small voice – walking me through the positive declaration that I USED TO HAVE cancer.  Celebrating LIFE in a chance meeting in the school library.  Today, my radiation treatment didn’t bother me a bit.




When I posted on Facebook that I had breast cancer, the outpouring of love was overwhelming.  Everything from prayers – to meals – to hand holding – to house cleaning (yes…I am serious) was offered without hesitation.  A friend from childhood posted “I’ll be praying for you.”  I knew she would.

I was living in a state of uncertainty as I waited for the total picture of my cancer diagnosis.  Staging sounds so fun – on a home improvement show.  Grade indicates worth – in a diamond.  In the world of cancer, staging and grade reflect how difficult life is about to become.  In the face of the unknown, I pondered all possibilities.

What would I do if I had THIS much time?  How would I change my life if I knew it would last THIS long?  Which begs the question – WHY would possible impending death  lead me to live differently?  Would I savor the precious quality of life more?  Would I take more risks?  Love better?  Walk in gratitude for every breath?  Why wasn’t I doing all of that already?

The truth is, possible impending death is a significant part of the human story – from birth.  One day will be the day.  My childhood friend who committed to pray for me died completely unexpectedly a week after I had my mastectomy.  Her worries had been for my run in with the big C – not knowing what was just around her corner.

The adage to live like you are dying is not new.  What it is is WISE.

You have NOW – what will you do with it?

What about Saturday?

I think about that first Saturday.  When no one knew that Easter was coming.  When every certainty evaporated.  The “what now?” had to have been suffocating.  The not knowing is always the hardest part.  Not believing is almost worse.

I am pretty sure that no one believed what was about to happen next.  I think that -because no one was gathered around to watch the miracle unfold.  The activity surrounding the tomb was all based on what was humanly possible.  A guard – to ward off possible body theft followed by “miraculous” alternative facts.  Women – bringing spices to dress the body of the dead.

It is puzzling that no one was gathered at the tomb waiting with hopeful expectation – given the Angel’s statement to the women – “HE IS NOT HERE; HE HAS RISEN, JUST AS HE SAID.”  The best “TOLD YOU!” of all time.

All of the evidence.  Miracle on MIRACLE.  None of it convincing enough to override the human instinct to only believe what we can see and understand RIGHT NOW.  THAT Saturday, it seems like every eyewitness forgot that Lazarus strolled on out.   That the widow’s son sat up and chatted.

The current sorrow appears to wipe out every inch of previous wonder.

No judgement here.  I think we have all had those kinds of Saturdays.

It is so much easier to focus on what is humanly possible than to wait on a miracle.  Why this is true, I do not know.  It has just been my observation and experience.  This may be why we quickly reach the end of our proverbial ropes.  What we can’t work out for ourselves – we assume can’t be done.

In the face of miracle on MIRACLE.

A bump in the road can jolt us into crippling amnesia.

But.  Easter. Comes. Anyway.

What would it have looked like if everyone who had experienced/witnessed a miracle was gathered at the tomb all Saturday long?  Waiting.  Believing.  Knowing that the deepest joy of all time was a sunrise away?  Sorrow for a night.  Joy in the morning.

What if we lived like that?  Recognizing that we have experienced miracle on MIRACLE.  Facing our inevitable Saturdays with expectancy that when human possibility reaches a stand still – be on the lookout for the MIRACLE that is about to go down.

Sorrow for a night.  JOY in the morning.  Never forget that Saturday gives way to Easter morning.




Reaction Time

We were walking home from school together when Gina’s older sister called out from across the street.  Gina just ran.  No looking.  No caution.  All go.

Seven years old.  That is the age I was when I saw my friend get hit by a car.  Only, it didn’t just hit her.  It ran right over the top of her, leaving her trapped underneath the back left tire.  I can picture it in my mind’s eye like it happened earlier today.  The panicked look on the driver’s face as she jumped out, saw the pinned child, and rushed to move the car off of her crumpled body.  I distinctly remember that she was confused about whether she needed to pull forwards or back up.

I took this all in.  A seven year old pillar of stone.  No ability to help.  No idea what to do next.  Adults poured out of surrounding houses.  In light of the horrifying scene in the street, it is understandable that no one noticed a child panic-rooted to the sidewalk.

Eventually, I just walked the rest of the way home.  I let myself in.  Didn’t say a word about what I had just witnessed.  It was an hour before I told my mother what happened.  It took 24 hours to find out whether or not Gina survived.  She did.

Looking back, I am pretty sure that I was in shock.  Looking forward from that point until now, I am pretty sure that I have a significantly delayed reaction time to stressful events.  I don’t know if I was born this way – or if I learned it that day on Santa Clara Avenue.


When the doctor said “cancer,” I didn’t cry.

When the plastic surgeon said “disfigurement,” I assured him that it wouldn’t bother me.

When the cardiologist said “more surgery,” I said, “Good thing – I need new wires!”

When people said “I’m so sorry,” I said, “No worries!”

I’m pretty good at stuffing and plowing ahead.  But, cancer IS scary.  Being disfigured DOES bother me (not enough for implants, but a little).  I DON’T want more surgery to relocate my pacemaker (even if I need new wires).  I’m SORRY about the cancer too.

True to form, about four weeks after surgery, I was able to really look at where I am and what has happened.  It is overwhelming from every angle.  The love has been like an ocean that just keeps crashing on the shore.  If you have ever been to the beach in Northern California – you know exactly what I am talking about.   Think Goat Rock.

“No worries” is just a foolish thing for someone like me to say.  I DO worry.  In fact, I think I say “No worries” because I am worried about appearing worried.

Beat that.

I like to think that I am so unaffected by expectations of physical beauty or norms that my recent resemblance to Flat Stanley is unimportant and of minimal consequence.  While it is true – I am not completely undone – I am just the tiniest bit unraveled around the edges.  Like a frayed hem.  I know this because when my husband asked me if I would like for him to dump my bra drawer to make room for other items that I “will use” – I said “NO” – and I said it with a THE VERY IDEA!!! tone.

More surgery.  Does anyone vote for that?

As I endeavor to be brave – to lean in to the lesson – to unleash the inner warrior – I am reminded that IGNORING what is happening is not the best strategy to rise above.  It might look brave – but it is actually that old panic-rooted to the sidewalk mode.  I think that true bravery comes in the same moments when you are trembling and tearful – but resolved to face what is actually happening.

After a season in a full body cast, Gina went on to live and thrive.  So.  Will.  I.





Tck…tck…tck…tck…cha-CHUNK.  A roller coaster climbs.  Just the thought of that sound makes my entire body clench.  It is really the worst kind of anticipation.  Dread…dread…dread…dread…DOOM.  My favorite part of a roller coaster is exiting the ride.  Even if it is on Jello legs.

“The Beast” is located at Kings Island in Mason, Ohio.  It is the longest wooden roller coaster in the world.  It is also the site of one of the most phenomenal errors in judgment that I have ever made.  From the line, all the way to the point of boarding, you can see what you (naively) believe is the entire ride.  The actual truth is that the ride covers more than 35 acres.  What you are looking at is only the first half.  While the average coaster ride is completed in just under two minutes, “The Beast” takes over four.  Isn’t that nice?The reason that it goes for so long is the most diabolical feature of all.  It has a second chain lift hill, LARGER than the first.  At the exact moment when the ride begins to slow, and you think that you have survived to see another day, you find that you are actually beginning a SECOND tck…tck…tck… up a monstrous incline.  NOW you can see what you were blithely unaware of as you boarded this death machine, and each “tck” reinforces the fact that you have zero options to save yourself.

That second chain lift hill made me irrationally angry.  I had already paid my dues.  I did NOT sign up for this.  The people who designed this were EVIL.  How could they expect MORE out of me?  My body went rigid. Preemptive rigor mortis.  The g-force inside of me far surpassed anything that was happening on the outside.  I resisted every drop, twist, and turn.

The next day, I felt like I had been in a car wreck.  Like I was driving a Mini-Cooper and I was T-boned by a semi.

I can’t help but compare this experience to life.  You think you know what you signed up for at the beginning.  You calculate the risks from what you can see.  You put yourself in the seat, acknowledging that there will be difficulties.  You power your way through.  Finally, you begin to relax, as you believe that you have made it through the hard parts.

Then along comes that second chain lift hill.  Bigger, scarier, completely unfamiliar.

You can rage at the machine.  You can resist with every molecule in your body.  You can become as rigid as cement.

You will feel like you have been in a car wreck.


You can acknowledge that you are afraid, and guess what – that is perfectly OK.  You can embrace the unknown as simply that – not previously known – not pending apocalyptic doom.  You can attempt to enjoy what is decidedly out of your comfort zone. Raise your arms, let out that half scream/half laugh.  Unclench.  Remind yourself that you are not strapped to a runaway boxcar – even if it feels that way.  There is a track supporting and directing your every move.  Which, by the way, it has been doing since the beginning.  Just because you felt like you were making an informed choice to participate in part A – and part B came as a shock – doesn’t mean that you were ever in charge of the ride.  You aren’t driving.  They don’t call it a “drive.”  They call it a “ride.”  It feels out of control because you don’t have a steering wheel and brakes.  Guess what – you never did.

Relax.  Ride.  Look around you.  You are not riding alone.



Work in Progress

Recently, I came across an article titled “My Name is Cancer”  or “Call me Cancer” or something like that.  Truth is, I was so appalled by the idea I scrolled past as fast as my index finger could go.  I can’t speak to the article – clearly – as I read nothing but the title (and even that is up for debate).  So, no offense if you wrote it.

Why was I appalled then?  My identity is not, and will never be, cancer.

It will never be cardiac block or Graves’ Disease or the common cold either.

This experience is real, and it is tough.  But, it is not me.

I believe that the defining moments in a life should be the things that resonate with your soul.   The times when you feel most authentically you.  When they placed my children in my arms?  THOSE were defining moments.  I can tell you another good one.  I was a sophomore in high school, and I spent my spring break working with underprivileged children in downtown Oakland.  THAT was a defining moment.  I can identify these experiences as defining moments because they were instances of clear recognition of the divine calling on my life.  I was obviously wired to be a mother to many.  These  were great AH-HA moments.

Getting cancer is not an AH- HA moment – it is an Oh-Crap moment.

I think that perhaps this is what happens to some folks.  The Oh-Crap moments overshadow the awareness of  divine calling.  The tragedies become the defining moments.  Life was never meant to be a tragedy.  In life you WILL have troubles.  Jesus said this – immediately followed by – BUT FEAR NOT.  Bad things happen.  Don’t lose sight of the divine calling on your life.  You were born to fill a hole that only you can fill.

I prefer to think of getting cancer as a REFINING moment.  Refining gets rid of unwanted elements and makes improvements.  It is never a bad time to get rid of the things that creep in to hold you back.  It is always a good day to make improvements.

Call me a work in progress.  Always progress.  I’m OK with that.