I'll be honest, I've had just a couple of people ask me if I ever thought that Eric was trying to send me messages from where he is right now. I can say that after 22 years of him hardly ever not talking to me, if there was a way for him to talk to me from the other side he would have certainly utilized it. Enough said.
But just because I don't ever hear his voice, doesn't mean that his words aren't all around me. I find his words in my head, coming out of my kids' mouths, on notes and on lists, lots and lots of lists. This weekend I stumbled upon his words in the form of a past Valentine's card. For those of you who want to know about our Valentine's Day traditions--or lack thereof--please refer to my post about Mother's Day and drop in Valentine's Day--but maybe not quite as bad. What I stumbled upon was a lovely Hallmark card that didn't have any tell-tale signs of frantically being purchased at Cub Foods. The card's sentiment was simple. "I love sharing forever with you. Happy Valentine's Day."
On a side note, we used to laugh because Eric claimed that nearly all Valentine's Day cards started with "You know that I never tell you enough how I feel...." and clearly that didn't apply to him. It was one of his reasons for mostly boycotting the holiday.
As I read what he had written on the bottom, it sounded so familiar. "What is one year when compared to forever? I would go through it all again just to be by your side. I love you." It sounded familiar because those words are nearly the exact words I tell myself when I stand still in the scurrying of my day to look at his picture on my living room wall. It's how I comfort myself when sleep escapes me on these cold winter nights. It's the encouragement that I cling to when I look out at the years ahead of me. What is one year compared to forever and yes, a thousand times, yes, I would go through it all again to be by his side. I thought these were my words of comfort and hope, but there they were in his scribbly handwriting, loving me so sweetly from years ago.
Just so you don't get the idea that every Valentine's Day was wine, roses and love notes, I also discovered another Valentine's card that was likely purchased the day after the holiday because some wife probably pitched a fit that there wasn't a card for her on Hallmark's favorite day. If you're Eric Rynders, you will find a creative way to make your wife smile even when you miss her holiday.
When I was diagnosed with cancer, several friends--work friends, school friends, church friends--rushed in and
organized meals to be brought into our home on the weeks following each
treatment. I was brought lots and lots of wonderful meals that fed me and
my forever hungry children. I really love to cook so relinquishing this
duty was not easy for me. Often times, even more lovely than the food
that filled our stomachs, was the sweetness of the individuals delivering the
meal. Some of them were dear friends who would give me a hug, offer up
some love and wish me well until the next time our paths crossed. Some of
them were nearly complete strangers who I had only every passed in a hallway at
the kids' school events. They knew about me from afar, but decided they
wanted to do something to help. They would express their sympathy about
Eric, ask about me, about the kids, about how all of this was working. I
was grateful for the meal, but I was more grateful and impressed by their
willingness to step their foot into our somewhat messy life. These people
were gifts to our lives during those long winter months.
I want you to know that we were delivered
some really wonderful meals and please read this post to the end before you
think of me as some kind of foodie snob or that I am one bit ungrateful for anything, gourmet or not, that was brought to our front door. If you were one of the many people that might have brought ham, then you're clearly wondering if this was your night. Go ahead and wonder. The story is not so much about ham, but about hope.
It was a frightfully cold night and my
taste buds were reeling from my latest dose of chemo. The meal that was
lovingly dropped off that night was ham. Fantastic. Something salty is
always the best option for me to be able to taste at least part of it. I
had kept all the dishes covered to hold the heat in while I quickly set the
table after coming through the door from work. After we had gathered,
offered up a quick prayer to bless the food, I started to uncover the ham.
The kids asked what we were having and I said, "Ham!" as I
uncovered the first dish. What I uncovered was like no ham they had seen
before. It was a processed pink color and the "string"
indentations across the top were not fooling anyone. They both leaned
forward and stared, "That's not ham," one of them said.
"Yes, it is," I said. "It's just not like ham that
you're used to." "Is it even cooked?" they asked, doubtful
that I had any idea what I was talking about. "Of course...it's warm," I said as I touched it to confirm my theory. I shaved
a couple of slices off the one end and laid it on their plates. They gave
me a look. I gave them a look back. "It's just fine.
Just eat it. I'm not making something else for you. Someone
made this just for us and we will eat it."
You have to understand that these were some
dark, very dark days after Eric's death. We went through the motions that we could remember from life before and
we prayed that each day would be a little easier than the one we were leaving.
I knew my kids were missing their normal and I was equally frustrated
that I couldn't be in the kitchen preparing their favorite meals and serving
those meals to a table filled with my people. There was emptiness and
sadness everywhere we looked. One of those kind of days where a bad ham
can send you right over the edge.
We sat in silence, chewing our ham.
I think one of the kids asked if they could warm something up from the
fridge and I probably said fine. Out of the blue, Bea said, "I want
to know what it feels like to punch that ham. Mom, can I punch the
I sat for a minute and thought about the
question--was it okay for my daughter to punch our dinner? My first
thought was "would Eric let her punch the ham?" I worried that
my chemo-clouded brain was probably not qualified to make this decision.
I asked her to repeat her question, certainly I had misunderstood.
She said more forcefully, "I want to punch the ham."
Knowing resistance was futile, I said, "Sure, punch the ham."
She walked around the table, looked
squarely at the mostly uneaten ham and wound up for a solid punch. The
ham made the same noise that a well-toned stomach makes when you slug it--not
that I've done that often in my life. Henry and I exchanged looks and
smirked. He followed his smirk with "I want to punch it, too."
I shrugged my shoulders and nodded in approval. He landed a blow
that was slightly louder than that of his sister. We all laughed.
Now everyone was looking at me and I just smiled and nodded and got in
line to blow off some steam at this unassuming piece of pork. Yes, I,
too, slugged the ham. By this time we were laughing harder than we had
laughed in weeks. Weeks where we wondered if we would ever really laugh
Needless to say the ham got slugged
repeatedly and might have even gotten juggled... Once our laughter
subsided and we had wiped away all the happy tears that had taken the place of
so many sad ones, we gathered around the table and thanked God for this most
amazing meal and for the wonderful hands that had brought it to us. Although this ham wouldn't win any culinary awards, it was,
by far, the most memorable meal that graced our table. God knew that we
needed something more than nourishment on that cold winter night. We
needed a way to remember the joy and laughter that had previously been so taken
for granted around out table--and he needed a ham to make that happen. We needed to break through the sadness and
once again experience the freedom to throw our heads back and laugh. It
was a turning point for our somber family and as I look back I am filled with
Do you know that in 2 short days you will be gone from us for a year?
Do you know that the combination of snow falling and the scream of an ambulance makes my eyes fill with tears, every time?
Do you know that Henry went into your closet (which will always and forever be called your closet even when it fills up with my clothes) and pulled out the leather jacket that I gave you as a wedding gift and has been wearing it ever since?
Do you know that Beatrice sleeps in your ratty Eddie Bauer sweater that I've been trying to get rid of for years?
Do you know that just last week Simon told me that he didn't cry for the months after you died, but lately it makes his eyes fill with tears when he thinks about you?
Do you know that the Scout leaders at 409 wear a patch with a Dutch oven that says "Eric"?
Do you know that I can't change the voice message on your cell phone even though it's been Simon's phone for the last year?
Do you know that some nights I spray your cologne on my pillow hoping that you will be in my dreams?
Do you know that I'm done with my treatments, my surgery, my cancer stuff and that I'm alright?
Do you know that we joke about putting a big nativity scene in the front yard now that you're gone? (Don't worry, we won't)
Do you know that each and every time I see a mini van like yours I check to see if it's you? So far, no luck.
Do you know that just the other day Simon held up his thumb and finger showing me the space of a couple of inches and said, "This is about the amount of time we have to be alive on earth" and then pointing outside to the horizon he said, "and the time we get to be in heaven just goes on and on. Mom, we're going to be with Dad in no time and then we'll be together forever."
Do you know that the weekend is the hardest because that's when we spent the most time together and every time I sit in church I think about what it felt like to have you slip your arm around me?
Do you know that I still sleep only on my side of the bed?
Do you miss me?
Do you know that Henry and I didn't want them to take you away with the shirt you were wearing that day (because it was the same shirt you were wearing the day he was born) so we wrestled you out of it and laughed about how much I hated that shirt and how perfectly ironic it was that you would die in it?
Do you even care about any of this?
Do you wish we were with you?
Do you know that we buried you right by your Grandpa Buys, just yards away from corn and alfalfa fields?
Do you now know the answers to all the questions you had here on earth?
Do you spend time with my dad?
Do you ever see Cassie? Arie? Luke? Grandma Rynders?
Do you know how inadequate I feel some days as a single parent?
Do you know how amazingly strong and resilient our children are?
Do you know that we still laugh?
Do you know that we still cry?
There you have it. I spend a lot of time wondering about what Eric thinks about right now--what he knows right now. I know that many of my fellow Christians feel that once we are in the presence of God that the things of this world grow dim--unimportant, so to speak. I'm absolutely certain that that's true and I wouldn't want to imagine Eric fretting around about what's going on down below. But it's also hard for me to wrap my head around his separation from us. Is the veil between us sheer and airy or a thick heavy tapestry. I think anyone who has lost someone has to wonder about the connection between the here and now and the there and ever after. So we're left to wonder about these things, I don't imagine that Eric's God-created mind has been erased of the relationships and history that he held so dear during his time on this earth.
So how do I imagine him? That's a good question. During those moments in church when we're belting out one of our favorite songs or hymns and I can feel my eyes fill with tears, those are the moments that I think "This must be what it's like up there". Some days I almost raise my hand in praise. I said almost because the Dutch in me just can't quite do it yet. When we're singing those songs, those favorites, I imagine him singing right beside me, drowning me out with his big, bold voice. In that moment he feels very close. Heaven feels very close. I like that. It comforts my weary heart.
So I'll wonder about him today, this week, for years to come, until I join him in heaven to worship next to him once again. Right now I have all these questions, but I'm pretty sure at that moment all the questions will fall away and the only question and answer that matters will be the one that got us to that glorious place.
This is probably Eric's favorite question and answer--not probably, it is definitely his favorite. It is Heidelberg Catechism question and answer number 1. He committed it to memory and recited it to us often. We read it on a very cold December day as we laid him to rest. I think if he could talk to me today he would tell me that it was the only answer that really mattered.
What is your only comfort in life and death?
That I am not my own,
but belong with body and soul,
both in life and in death,
to my faithful Savior Jesus Christ.
He has fully paid for all my sins
with his precious blood,
and has set me free from all the power of the devil.
He also preserves me in such a way
that without the will of my heavenly Father
not a hair can fall from my head;
indeed, all things must work together for my salvation.
Therefore, by his Holy Spirit he also assures me
of eternal life and makes me heartily willing and ready
Today will be a pivotal day in your life. You will get a phone call from an oncology nurse that will change a lot of things around you and inside of you, but it won't change who you are. You know deep down inside that you can get through hard things--you have always known that. Today and in days to come that will be put to the test. Always remember that you're stronger than you think you are.
Over the next year you will find yourself surrounded by the most remarkable support system. You won't be able to escape it. It will be as overwhelming as the news you received today about your cancer. This amazing group will be made up of your husband, your children, your families, your friends, your neighbors, your co-workers, your fellow church members and even complete strangers. They will encourage you with hugs, phone calls, gifts, text messages, emails, cards, food and prayers that will keep you going through the most difficult days. Let that group of people help you even when it's hard to accept it. Some days the help might be something that's equally important for them to do as it is for you to receive. Don't be too proud to take the help that's lovingly offered to you.
Rest assured, you will be tended to by the most amazing doctors. They will be more than doctors, they will become your friends, your team members. You will cry in their offices and laugh at their jokes. They will look you in the eyes and tell you that they can help you and they will mean it. They will ask you where your strength comes from. Don't ever, ever miss an opportunity to tell them where your strength and comfort comes from.
You're going to pound your fists on your steering wheel and cry hot, angry tears when you hear this difficult news. Get it out. Tell God how angry you are and how it doesn't seem fair to your little family. He can handle it. He created every cell in your broken body and he's catching every tear in his very capable hands. In the next year you will learn to love and rely upon him more than you ever dreamed possible. He will be there in the cold, dark nights and he will greet you each morning with a fresh day. He will bring you emails, cards and conversations at the exact moment that you need them. He will make your witness strong and will give you so many opportunities to encourage people even as you struggle.
Here's the truth, chemo will suck. I mean really, really suck. Night 4 will be the worst. On those Monday nights you will cry yourself to sleep. You will feel awful physically and emotionally. The darkness will be heavy. Let that be your day to sink into the sadness. Let it go dark for a while because I promise you the sun will rise again the next morning. Trust me.
You will come to love those people who work with you at the oncology clinic. They will totally be able to sense that you're not a big fan of being part of their club and they will kindly serve you and tend to you in spite of your stand-offish ways. After a year, they will greet you by name and you will ask them about their kids. Take a minute to talk to the chatty lady next to you who's got the battle scars of a tough cancer road. Let her encourage you. In a year, you'll be the one telling someone that they're in good hands and they'll be just fine.
And don't be too hard on yourself. This year you will be tempted to handle your cancer and your obstacles better than anyone else ever has. You're going to be crabby and short with your kids. Your house is going to get messy and the laundry will pile up. Go to bed early when you need it. Just for the record there is no special prize for being the best at handling tough days. The gift is getting through them and getting a new one each morning.
You know how your brother once told you that he liked to climb mountains because he wanted to see how hard he could push himself. It's going to be that kind of year. This year will force you to dig deep and figure out where your strength comes from. You will learn to love, love, love the verse, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." You will feel weak, but you will also feel God's power. Your roots will be growing deep even when your leaves are scattered on the cold ground.
Last but not least. You will laugh. Read that again because you're not going to believe it today, but you will laugh often. You will feel joy, real joy. Soak in those times and use them to get you through the days where laughter doesn't come as easily. Remember when the kids were little and everyone was crabby and Eric would say at the dinner table, "I don't think we've had a good laugh today yet" and we would force ourselves to laugh until it kicked in and we were all really laughing. Do that. A lot.
So in closing, hang in there. When you're sad be really sad and when you're happy don't apologize for it.
And not to spoil the ending, but everything's going to be alright.
PS. You're going to love your new boobs and cute bras are definitely in your future.
For a couple of reasons, today I ended up logging into my Caring Bridge account. There I found the long list of sites I have followed over the years. It's a rough list. As I look down the line there are very few who haven't passed on or are on a health road that is far from easy. Out of nowhere, I decided that I wanted to read the last updates around Eric's surgery which took place well over two years ago. I don't know that I could have read these six months ago or even six days ago, but today I needed to remember my thoughts and feelings at that season of my life.
Sometimes you have to look backwards to really see how far you've come. The voice of those entries was really trying to be brave, to put a happy face on the heaviness that was happening within her own four walls. I could feel the fear of the unknown and the relentless waves of disappointment. Those were difficult days and my heart breaks for the struggles that Eric endured as he recovered from that last surgery. I would sleep out on the couch while he tried to find maybe one hour of comfort in the recliner. I would hear him get up in the night and pray that I wouldn't hear him hit the floor if he passed out. There was physical pain and there was emotional uncertainty. I have nothing but respect for the courage he showed in dealing with it all. Those were incredibly tiring and tedious times in our life.
What would life be like if I were still adding journal entries to his story? What if there were more entries around a surgery in December or a trip down to Mayo in the spring? Selfishly, I want him back at my dinner table, behind the wheel driving my kids to their activities and looking at me from his pillow as I prattle on about my day. That's what I want and when I imagine it, he's healthy and strong. When I look back at those journal entries I know that we were saved pain and suffering. We were saved a decline in Eric's health that would have no doubt been difficult. What I'm saying is that God's divine timing is perfect, even when it's perfectly painful,
As I read each entry on his site, I had to admit these words to myself, I wouldn't want him back. I wouldn't want him to wake up short of breath one more time, I wouldn't want him to have to make one more trip to the ER, to have to pause one more time, winded, at the top of a staircase. I love him enough not to want that for him even though I can feel his immense love for us in the way he bravely battled the broken heart God gave him. I am glad he fought, but I'm grateful that he can now rest.
I found two different updates that I wanted to share from the journal entries.
From May 2, 2102 "A bruised reed He will not break." To be very honest, we've felt more bruised in the last several weeks than we ever have in our lives and this promise is one that we cling to. We are thankful that God never gives us more than we can handle and that he surrounds us with people to hold us up when we go through periods of trial. This is all part of our story and we thank you for the roles which you play in it. What I've learned in the past year is that God almost always gives us more than we can handle. That's how he designs it so that we absolutely have to lean into his strong arms for comfort, for guidance and for strength. He doesn't expect us to go it alone. He provides his strength through his promises, his hope and through a thousand different people who come alongside you, give you encouraging words or simply warm your day with a smile as you pass in the hallway.
From March 7, 2012 Part of me thinks that I should write some really mushy stuff but in truth if you like that kind of stuff you probably get 4 emails forwarded to you each week full of that. I do appreciate your prayers for my health and especially for Dawn and the kids. They are real troopers and I am very proud of how they manage all of this.
Thanks again. Eric
The second paragraph is one that was written by Eric on the eve of his last big surgery. I think it shows his always present sense of humor and his gratitude for the overwhelming support for our family. I also think it's what he would still say to all of you who have loved us so well over this last year. I had completely forgotten about the little note he asked me to post on March 7, 2012. Maybe I was supposed to forget about it so that I could rediscovery it today when I needed to hear his love, his humor and his encouragement to his family. I'd be lying to you if I said that I don't spend considerable time wondering what Eric would think of how we're doing today. Now I think I know.
What I want you to know about being a widow: I’ve been a widow for 7 month and 28 days. Those stats might lead you to believe that I have some chart affixed to my fridge where I’m crossing off days each morning as I reach for the creamer for my coffee. That would be wrong. I just looked at my calendar and quickly and unemotionally did the calculations in my head. It wasn’t always that way. The first couple of days after he left I couldn’t get past 3:07 pm without a lump forming in my throat, then it was Wednesday afternoons that were a hurdle and at this point I still take pause each month on the 4th—it’s doubly bad if it happens to land on a Wednesday. I suspect that eventually one of those 4ths will pass by without my noticing and I will have reached a new sense of freedom in my widowhood. But today, I'm still well aware that Monday will mark 8 long months without my husband.
I became a widow at 44, nearly 22 years after I became a wife. Eric and I planned to have a big celebration when the years that we had been married were longer than the years that we hadn’t. We didn’t quite make it. The time we had together was good--not perfect because its participants were far from perfect. But as I look in the rear view mirror at it, we had a solid and healthy and really fun marriage. I could tell you a thousand reasons why my husband was an amazing man who loved me completely and faced his failing heart bravely, but I won’t. Lots of women have wonderful husbands who fill nearly all their needs and only occasionally drive them completely crazy—mine was one of those.
There are a couple of things that widows have in common. We all carry around the story of our rite of passage into widowhood. For some widows, it’s those last minutes with their husband, for some it’s a phone call that changes their status and for others it happens while they sleep. However it happens the end result is the same—a passing away of the old and an ushering in of the new. My transition came one December afternoon while the snow blanketed the world and brought along with it a coldness that never entirely lifts. I told my failing husband, “Help is on the way, they’ll be right here. They can help you.” As those words left my mouth, I’m certain he was experiencing a kind of help that I could never imagine in my wildest and most amazing dreams. Widowhood crept in as the ambulance attendant asked, “Who can we call?” It became even more real as I helplessly pleaded with my sixteen-year-old, “Is today the day, is this how it all ends? Is he really going to leave us.” One minute I was his wife and in his last breath, I became a widow.
Another thing we have in common is that we hate the word widow—but there’s no other word. Survivor is a more accurate term, but that’s used for lots of things: the list of family on an obituary, reality show winners and cancer patients—which I also happen to be but I’m saving that for another submission, What I Want You to Know About Having Breast Cancer While Your Husband Passes Away…yep, sometimes truth and my life is stranger than fiction. I was informed by a friend that I should be thankful to even have a word—thankful? Having lost a 9-year-old daughter several years ago she pointed out that there’s no word for losing a child. She’s right—children without parents are orphans and spouses without spouses are widows and widowers, people who can’t or don’t have children are barren or childless, but there’s no word for losing one of your children when you have others. Someone should come up with a word for that. They, of anyone, deserve to have a word. So with that kind of perspective I’m glad to have a word, even if I’m not a big fan of joining the club.
I also know that you struggle to know what to say to me. Here's a quote from CS Lewis' book, A Grief Observed--a brilliant and angry book that Lewis wrote after the death of his wife. "I see people, as they approach me, trying to make up their minds whether they'll say something about it or not. I hate it if they do and if they don't." Lewis nailed it. I feel exactly the same way. I recently had dinner with some friends and no one asked about my widowness. In my mind I felt a little like my left arm was on fire and no one offered to get up from the table for an extinguisher. On the flip side, I certainly don't want the whole conversation to revolve around the fact that my arm is on fire, I'm completely aware that there are topics that are much more entertaining. But even a "Wow, that must really hurt..." would have been better than simply ignoring my smoldering arm. It makes me reflect on a couple of meals where I probably let someone's arm be reduced to ashes while I munched on my salad. Sorry for that.
Being a widow (and reading CS Lewis) has showed me that loss it part of love. Did Eric and I think we would die together in some kind of tragic exit from this life--the likelihood was slim. If most couples are honest, they know that one of them will always leave the other behind. Here is Lewis' quote, "...bereavement is a universal and integral part of our experience of love. It follows marriage as normally as marriage follows courtship or as autumn follows summer. It is not a truncation of the process but one of its phases: not an interruption of the dance, but the next figure." Should we be so surprised about this part of the plan? Sure, I know that I'm relatively young and Eric was, as well, but part of the strength of our marriage was that we did spend a good deal of energy preparing for someone's early departure. It was an ironic blessing of our marriage and one that I hope others take away from our experience.
Last, but certainly not least, a widow spends most of her days suspended between two things--honoring the memory of her husband and moving at a healthy pace away from that life she knew with him. I loved Eric the best that I humanly could and he loved me right back. His fingerprints and words are all over my children and our household, but he of all people would want to see us march bravely forward without him. I can never forget him, no more than I can forget about my ash covered left arm. It will always be with me. He will always be part of my life story, our story. I am a widow, but if I let it be the biggest label in my life it will cripple me and my household. I need to give it its proper place but focus on roles that have life and a call to my future--mother, friend, sister, child of God. That being said, I wear the label Widow with some honor because it means that I belonged to someone. I was the person he pointed to across a crowded room when was telling someone about his wife. I mattered to him so this label still matters to me. It is the leftover shadow of my amazing role as a Eric's wife.
A little aside story here. My brother, Brent came to my initial appointment with my surgeon who he had done part of his residency with at Abbott. As Dr. Anderson went through all these "positives" the diagnosis sounded increasingly more ominous. I think at one point I looked at my brother and said, "Am I completely screwed?" It was so great to have him there to assure me that, yes, it was bad, but what I had was very treatable and would play nicely with treatment.
6 rounds of chemo starting November 14 and ending March 10 (every three weeks). I take a cocktail of Taxotere, Carboplatin, Herceptin and the newly approved, Perjeta (Pertuzumab). I was one of the first 5 people to receive Perjeta at Abbott. Also decided, with a little help from my friends to do cold-capping to save me from chemo hair loss-yay!
Once chemo was wrapped up, I continue to get a bag of Herceptin pumped into me every 3 weeks for a year (ending mid November). It's an easy process and leaves me with very few, if any, side effects.
Daily Tamoxifin pills for the next 5 to 10 years--no biggie.
March 14 MRI shows cancer is gone and the yucky chemo has done its job!
April 14 Bilateral mastectomy with reconstruction and 3 nodes removed successfully. All cancer was completely responsive to (killed by!) chemo.
Normally, per standard care treatment, this all would be followed up by radiation (5 weeks, 5 days per week) due to the fact that the cancer had spread to my nodes. I'm told that I'm a candidate for the B51 study which due to my complete response to chemo gives me a 50/50 chance of having radiation. I talk to my brothers, my oncologist, surgeon, anyone who will listen...looking at my options. If I just go ahead and have radiation it feels like I'm covering all my bases, really killing anything that might be lurking inside of me. On the flip side, radiation comes with its own set of risks and might not be necessary. I ask my oncologist, "If I was your wife, what would you advise?" He said he could honestly tell me to do one thing or the other--they just don't know if radiation (for people with my type of cancer and response) improves your prognosis and that's why they're doing this study. I decide to be part of the study. I pray like crazy that God, in his infinite wisdom will control the "coin toss" and do what's best for my body and His plan for my life down the road. I also pray for peace with whatever the decision is.
On Friday I received word that I had been entered into the study and I didn't have to do radiation! Okay, I was happy and relieved. I had truly prepared myself for either outcome, but it was so good to get a pass on this. Now I can truly get on with my recovery and know that the worst is behind me. And I'm not one bit freaked out by not having radiation.
I've had the most amazing doctors, nurses and medical staff (well there was that one nurse in radiation...) during this whole process. I'm so grateful for their brilliance and their kindness. This has been a long road and I'm not quite done, but I'm definitely making my way down the easier side of the mountain.
PS. I've attached the photo of my first report from my oncologist, Dr. Bloom. He used to be a stand-up comedian in New York--need I say more. He even made cancer funny.