…adam

One year ago today, I died.

Not a spiritual, metaphorical death, nor the death of a dream, but a true, physical death.

During a major surgery, I bled out and my heart stopped.

I know this because (spoiler alert) I woke up in the ICU the next day. There were more tubes in my body than I thought possible, not just in my nose and mouth, but also in my neck, chest, and arms. Waking up was startling, but Allison was there, a familiar, albeit abnormally concerned face. As Allison tried to calm me down and keep me from grabbing at my tubes, some nurses entered through the ICU curtain. These weren’t the ICU nurses that had been coming in every 15 minutes to check vitals, these were my surgical nurses – the ones who had been with me through four previous surgeries. I was startled to see them because I’d never had a post-op nurse check in visit, and more, because they were sobbing. They wanted to come visit me and to see if I was alive. I listened as they explained to Allison what had happened during the 7 hour surgery.

They explained that one of my tumors, the grapefruit sized one, had fused to my aorta, and when they attempted to cut it out, my aorta shredded and I bled out. They told us about my heart stopping, about the emergency blood transfusion, and about trying to put my body back together. They told us about my main surgeon losing it on everyone in the room, and how he refused to let me stay dead. I wish I remembered more and I’m simultaneously grateful for the grace that allows me to only recall vague details.

I remember freaking out with the energy of someone who is heavily sedated and I remember Allison holding my hand. I remember snippets of the next several weeks; of losing a kidney, of having to use a walker to move, of one of my surgeons showing up every day just to sit with me, even on his days off. I remember a lot of pain and discomfort, I remember a lot of setbacks, and I remember the day we got to come home. But I don’t remember death.

And I know the stories; I know what’s supposed to happen when you die and come back to life. I’m supposed to see a glimpse of heaven and then I get to write a book and speak about it and retire to Asheville with a hot tub that overlooks the mountains. I know I am supposed to return with this renewed purpose, of all of life coming into complete and perfect perspective. It’s supposed to be heroic and inspirational because if it’s a sin to “waste your cancer,” then I can’t begin to imagine the consequences of wasting death. I’m supposed to be overwhelmed with gratitude for my second chance at life like some sort of Ebenezer Scrooge who gets to run into his redemptive Christmas morning.

I didn’t have a “Christmas morning”, and even a year later I barely have running. I have renewed battles with everyday life, with treadmills and yoga mats, with acceptance of limitations, with waiting for the next chapter of post-cancer life to begin. The dilemma with battles is that they sound more victorious than they feel. In truth, what I really have is healing and scars and rhythms of scans and ultrasounds and blood work forever. I have quiet joy and I have lament.

It’s in lament that I have found the clarity of death. It’s in the depth of the overwhelming odds and weeks in the hospital and the painful recovery. It’s in a body that, even one year later, still hurts and functions differently than it was intended. It’s in scars that share stories of survival and it’s in quiet, small victories.

Psalm 77 is (currently) my favorite lament. Read the whole thing, but in verse 19 Asop writes, “Your path led through the sea, your way through the mighty waters, though your footprints were not seen.” A lot of this journey has felt less like journeying and more like drowning. Like the clouds pouring with water, the depths convulsing and overwhelming us. This day a year ago was full of sentences like, “we were just so afraid you wouldn’t come back” and “I’ve been in a lot of surgeries, but I haven’t been more scared then when we lost you.” Today of all days those words echo in my head. There is such a unique grace in dying and staying dead. There is such ample mercy in dying and getting to live.

But there was and is a path through these tumultuous waters. It’s an unseen path but at some point your head breaks through the waves and you gulp in air. And when you look back you don’t see a path. You don’t see a set of footprints. You see the water. You see where you were. You see where you are. Annie Dillard describes it this way: “There is another kind of seeing that involves a letting go. You do not seek, you wait. It isn’t prayer, it is grace.”

When we move through seasons/moments/years of lament, we let go of our control and we wait. It isn’t prayer, but grace that moves us before God. It is grace that we wait and it’s grace that guides our path through the sea. Sometimes we drown and sometimes we get to fill our lungs once again. There is beauty and grace in storms if we choose to see it, if we choose to be fully present in it.

And so today, especially today, I am reminded to be present, not because this is the anniversary of the day of my death, but because I’ve learned this year that it’s in being present that I am led through storms. It’s in being present that we are reminded what grace truly is. It’s in being present that we tell the stories of being led through the waters, of the battles we waged against the waves, of the scars left to remind us that battles can be won and lost. It’s in being present that we truly begin to understand incarnation. It’s in being present that our lament is heard and we get to move through the storm, though the path is unseen, and through the seemingly endless downpour. It’s in being present that we do not find meaning or significance because of our struggles, but are reminded through them of the holy significance that we have always had.

Death is not the end of the story. It wasn’t a year ago,  it isn’t today, and it won’t ever be. So take deep breaths of quiet joy, and tell stories of lament. Though the way is unseen, there is grace in every storm.

Yesterday I crossed the 100th hour of chemo treatments. I have received chemo treatments for literally 100 hours at this point in my life, and just think, I only recently started this journey. 100 hours is daunting. If we allow ourselves to go all Gladwell-ian for a minute, it means I am still 9,900 hours away from being an expert at chemo. So the good news is that I am nowhere close to becoming a chemo expert. Whew.

And while I’m no expert, I have spent 100 hours of my life having healing poison drip into my body. I have sat in the chair. I have talked to the nurses. I have felt sick. For 100 hours, in the same place, in the name of this cancer.

Things I have learned in 100 hours:

• Allison is a champion. She is the best wife, chemo-buddy, social worker, and care-taker; and there is no way to fully express my gratitude for how hard she is working during this season.
• I like our nurses. I am the youngest patient in our chemo ward by decades. I don’t see a lot of the same patients consistently, but our nurses are there everyday and so we are getting to know each other. I think its because I am kinda around their ages that they treat me so well, but its probably because they like Allison and have to hang out with us so much. Or they hate us and just are really good at their jobs.
• The chemo room is not fun. It’s a big room, broken into 6 sections, with lots of chemo chairs. The patients don’t talk much to each other because it’s so draining, so instead we sit and watch each other go through some of the deepest struggles we will face in this lifetime. It’s a surreal spot to spend a lot of time. The only highlight that everyone talks about is the snack stash for anyone interested (I am not).
• My head is fairly normally shaped. I was real worried going into this whole chemo/hair-loss thing that I would have a lumpy head, but it turns out my head is fairly proportional so at least I’ve got that going for me, which is nice. I’m grateful for the hats I have been given to keep my head warm, they are invaluable some days, so thank you.
• I can’t read during chemo. You would think it would be an ideal time to catch up on all my reading but the medicine does not lend itself to mental focus. I read the same page in the same book like 4 times before I finally just put the book down. I can’t remember things either. Chemo-brain is real and it would be amusing if it weren’t a hassle. I wish I could regale you with stories of the funny things I have forgotten, but alas, the memories have lapsed.
• Your words mean a lot to me. I know I can’t respond quickly and I can’t really hang out, but the fact that you remember us and reach out means the world. So even if I am slow to respond and don’t have the energy to hang out in person, please keep saying hi, reminding me that you’re praying, and sharing funny jokes.

As it turns out, it’s not the 100 hours of chemo that are the hardest; it’s every other hour of my days when healing is fighting to take place outside the hospital. Healing is a slow process and the in-between chemo moments are just as valuable as every minute spent in the chair. But the in-between healing feels really slow.

Right now, I can’t do much of anything. My doctor has set pretty strict boundaries about what I am capable of doing (physically and emotionally). My full-time job is to focus on healing. Because of the intensity of my treatment, I have been semi-quarantined. We have been highly cautioned against being in groups of people because of the risk of germs, especially during sick/flu season –  which means most social events and most public places (including church) are not an option for me. The isolation makes me feel a little withdrawn.

Things I’m learning in the in-between hours:

• I’m learning to be grateful for the process of healing; even for the moments of being home and feeling sick, of feeling tired, of feeling nauseous, of feeling restless and and of feeling defeated. This is all part of real healing.
• It’s hard to be present when I don’t feel good, but I want to be. And I’m learning how to celebrate small victories; for moments of feeling okay, for short visits from friends, for messages and texts that keep me going.
• The in-between time is teaching me about sabbath. Rest is hard – real hard. But even in the midst of cancer my doctors have built in moments of rest for my body even though it feels more like a reprieve. Reprieve is a probably a good word for Sabbath anyway.
• In the midst of this, in the midst of feeling like I can’t do anything, I’m learning more and more of what it means to be dependent on the process of healing.
• And more than anything, I am learning to just be. I can’t accomplish anything right now. I can’t do much for other people right now. I can’t feel proud of doing. So I am just learning to be.  That’s harder than it sounds.

And so, I will keep being and I will keep healing. For 100 more hours.

You can keep up on Allison’s beautiful perspective through this process at allisonbuzard.com and for more medical updates and needs, stay up to date here: posthope.org/BUZfeed

A lot can happen in a fortnight.

Two weeks ago today we found out my diagnosis of cancer, and to be honest, I am not sure we have fully wrapped our heads around the significance of it all. Everything had to happen so quickly with starting the intense chemo treatment almost immediately, that now it seems crazy that it was only 14 days ago that all of this began.

The two weeks have been filled with anxiety, discomfort, sickness, the chemo room, and an overwhelming sense of community and love that I will spend the rest of my days retelling. Stories of love, grace and compassion that have come from people near and far have blown us away. Allison and I knew that we were going to need people to be beside us if we were going to make it through this and the way people responded has been extremely humbling and borderline overwhelming in the best way possible.

Thank you for your support, for your encouragement, for your prayers, for your messages, for your stories of conquering, for your cards, for your meals, for your gifts, for your texts and visits. Thank you for your understanding when responses have been slow or we’ve indicated that we need a quiet day of no visitors. Thank you for the graciousness with which you have walked beside us as we deal with the physical and emotional effects of treating cancer.

One of the side effects no one prepared me for was hiccups. And not just hiccups, but “remember that girl who was on the Today Show because of her hiccups” hiccups. Hours of annoying “chemo” hiccups. Turns out it’s an uncommon side effect. So glad that we are keeping the uncommon going. Ever see a grown man hiccup for hours? It’s uncomfortable for everyone. I sound like a disney character that swallowed a bunch of bubbles. Who knew.

One of the other side effects has been my hair. The anxiety and waiting for it fall out in clumps this week has been one of the harder aspects emotionally for me, so instead of just waiting, we went ahead and buzzed it. My glorious locks hit the ground rendering me to the look of a naked sheep, freshly shorn from his wool coat – cold, confused, and slightly exposed. We tried to make a video of it but it didn’t turn out that great, but even still, you can see it here.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the seasons changing as October has finally relented into autumn in Nashville, with the temperatures dropping and the leaves falling, cascading in their wayward manner to the hardening ground. If I had to pick a season to be diagnosed and begin treatment, I think it would be the start of fall. Fall has always been a symbol of change, and while the beauty of the season is not lost, we know that fall leads to winter and in the season of winter is where deep roots are entrenched, where trees and plants regroup, where healing can take place so that when the time comes they can grow stronger and more vibrant than before.

Winter is a necessary season, and we don’t want to hibernate through this. So that has been one of my prayers – that during this time that deep roots would go further, that healing would take place in every aspect of life and that when the time has come at the first hint of spring and new life that there will be such an overwhelming joy and expectation and understanding as we look back on what could be seen as a barren season, we will see the depth of life that is fully life.

(For more updated and tangible ways that you can help out or stay connected, feel free to check up consistently here. Thanks!)

In the past week through numerous conversations I have discovered that there is no real quality way to deliver bad news, so here goes:

I have cancer.

We got the first call early Thursday morning last week. I had been through multiple biopsies, so many blood tests, CT scans and ultrasounds and finally they were able to tell me what all the nurses and doctors had been hinting around at: the tumor that had shown up on my neck was malignant. Then yesterday we found out more details – It had spread through my body and is fairly aggressive.

Allison and I had discussed this as a possibility but we had also held out hope that God would heal and that it would just be a weird lump and we would all shrug and laugh and be all, “that was crazy, right? Oh well, enjoy your completely healthy life” and we would go on our merry way. But alas, it’s cancer and it’s aggressive. And there are few things that can prepare you for what’s next. I barely remember that first phone call over a week ago other than the words “malignant” and “chemo” and I don’t remember a lot about yesterday’s appointment but “aggressive” and “chemo starts Monday.”

Here is a quick run down of how this all happened (complete with pictures!):

Day one: get home from church and unbutton my shirt and have Allison ask “what’s wrong with your neck” to which I scoffed at because nothing is wrong with my neck, but then I touched my neck and was thought “hmmm. Something is definitely wrong with my neck.” Literally out of nowhere, this had appeared:

Is it noticeable?

So we called the doctor and he was out of town. So I got to see a different guy on Tuesday. From there we went through the aforementioned blood tests, ultrasounds, and multiple biopsies. The first biopsy they let me stay awake for when they shoved a big needle in my neck and took some tissue out. That was a great day and no cuss words were said at all. The second biopsy they put me under and gave me a badass scar.

Told you it was badass.

That brings us to where we are today. Scared. Anxious. Ready to beat this. This place is going to be an important part of lives going forward.

I start chemo on Monday. And we go from there. We know very little and we still have a lot of questions. But here is what I do know:

Allison is strong and loving and there aren’t enough words to express how incredible she has been through this. She has juggled her dynamic career and huge opportunities at work with being with me for appointments and hospital visits and she has thrived at loving me so very well. I’m so very grateful for her. There aren’t enough words for her. She and I process differently and we both will do our best to keep you updated on our blogs. You can find her’s here. 

We know that we have some incredible people in our lives both near and far who surround us and have loved us well. Whether it’s been wine showing up on our porch or a care package for surgery or people who let us come over and not make us talk about anything deep, or drop everything because we need a distraction so we aren’t stuck at home in our own thoughts, random texts or a self-appointed chair of our fun committee – we have amazing people who love us well. And chances are you are a part of that. So thank you.

We know that God is faithful. We know that His Word is true and it’s deep and it resonates and we believe fully in the words of Isaiah that God is my healer. And he will heal. He may use chemo and some surgery but healing is healing.

We know we are going to need your encouragement as we go forward. We need stories of hope and healing. We need verses to cling to in dark moments. We need game nights and and funny movies when we don’t even mention cancer. We need distractions and we need people to engage in the hard times as well – people who sit with us when we are grieving or in pain. We need people to help mow the lawn and sit with me in the hospital or who take my wife out for a girls night. We need books and netflix recommendations and things to keep our minds distracted and going.

We know that you can treat us like we are still Adam & Allison. We still have personalities and the world didn’t shift it’s rotation to swirl around us during this time. Please tell us what’s going on with you – what are you finding joy in right now, what you are frustrated with at work, what you find funny, what you are reading, listening to, all that stuff. This isn’t our defining story, it’s merely a part of our story so please let us know how we can be praying for you, how we can be encouraging and serving and loving on you. We need our own outlets in the midst of this. We are still the same people and we don’t need pity, we need community. And Sour Patch Kids. 

I know that I don’t want you to shave your head. Several people have already offered to join me, but the truth is, that’s silly. We will all discover just how lumpy and ugly my head is, so if you have hair, flaunt the hell out of your glorious mane and we will compare conditioners when mine returns.

We know this is a season. We know we are praying a lot and we are finding so much to be thankful for so please please please let us know what we can be praying for you for as well.

We know we don’t want you making assumptions. If you have ideas or want to ask, go ahead. But be graceful with us in how fast we respond. We don’t want people to think “oh, someone already thought of that for them” or “I don’t know what to even do so I’ll just let someone else.” We want this to be like every other aspect of our lives – full of the people and community who mean so much to us so please engage with us. Some friends have asked us to create lists – amazon wish lists and other ways to help out and if you are interested in seeing those lists, be sure to ask and we will get them to you.

We know we don’t need to hear stories of those you have lost to cancer. We are emotionally on edge and no matter how well-meaning the stories, we are looking to be surrounded by stories of hope and joy. We are not blinding ourselves to the reality of cancer and to the toll it has effected on almost every one of us. We refuse to bury our heads ostrich style to the realities of this world, but we also know what we need during this time. Cancer has won a lot of battles, but this will not be one of them.

We know this is a hard way to find out for a lot of you. We are sorry we couldn’t have conversations with each of you, but we found out the details yesterday and while I wish we could all sit on our back deck under the lights with a glass of wine, we aren’t afforded the time. Monday is coming quick. But I know I am grateful for whatever role you have played in our story so far.

We know that we have no idea what we are getting ready to engage in, but we know that we have a faithful God and a dynamic community so we will walk faithfully forward. This has been an incredibly hard month and a half and it feels like we are facing a steep, uphill climb. But we know that a lot of you love us and love us well. So thank you.

Thanks for reading. Thanks for being our friends. Thank you.