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A long way up at St. Stephen's Basilica. Metaphor for life?

Several people noticed that we didn't post last week and asked if there was a reason. Yes, there was---last week was challenging. The lowest of the many low moments was kneeling at Shane's feet while he wept like a baby from exhaustion and pain. The bone pain in his femurs was so terrible that he didn't sleep for an entire night. I've never seen him trying to escape his body as he did that next day; desperate for relief, comfort, certain that he couldn't handle any more of this.

And there were lovely moments too. Talking with the kids, late night gelato runs (and long talks) with my dad, a visit to St. Stephan's Basilica, meeting the family members of other patients at the clinic and gleaning gold nuggets from their experiences (I call it my cancer support group), seeing Shane's pain dissipate after a blessing. There have always been miracles and blessings, I would be remiss if I didn't mention those. In great measure they are the result of your prayers, fasting, and love. God is good and faithful. Always.

Most days have a sort of a dream quality---slow moving, like wading through molasses with every step, never really getting anywhere. I'm not working in my business, I'm not mothering my children, I'm not tending my home, I haven't given my pregnancy a second thought. My only job is caring for Shane. And yet somehow just that one responsibility takes everything I've got.

I know how to work hard. Many times over the years I've pulled an all-nighter at a birth, slept for 2-3 hours and then put in a full eight-hour day with clients. I've done hard things in life and work; squeezing a mom's hips all night, caring for someone else's newborn in the wee hours of the morning, advocating for a client in a sticky situation, enduring Micah's illness many years ago. And now? Phone calls, emails, and texts are often overwhelming. Finding a house in Colorado feels paralyzing. Cancer study is exhausting and I don't get far. Composing a simple blog post can be a monumental effort.

In many ways I am a newborn babe, helpless, crying out often for soothing and reassurance. A very strange place for a very independent woman to be. Before cancer Shane would lovingly chasten me, "You're too independent, let me help you." But I rarely accepted help even from him, and I certainly (almost) never asked for it. Perhaps cancer is exactly the medicine I need. A large dose of humility. But knowing that doesn't always make it taste better going down.

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