An Early and Unexpected Birthday Present

28 11 2011
Me, about to light the candles on one of my favorite “birthday cakes” — pumpkin pie! — in 2007, one year after finishing treatments for my Stage 1 breast cancer diagnosis in 2006. And yes, those are my boys — Don and Theo – in the background.

Let me tell you about my birthday. When my birthday is coming up, EVERYONE KNOWS. I make sure of it. And it’s always been that way.

Until this year. I can’t put my finger on exactly why I feel differently about my birthday this time around. Of course, there’s the cancer diagnosis from January. But to me, that should be MORE reason to celebrate November 29, 2011. Still, so far, I’ve been unusually quiet about the occasion.
When it comes to my birthday, I’ve got a rep for being downright obnoxious — in a way that has earned me a label as a prankster. One year, when I was an English/Writing Instructor at Washtenaw Community College in Ann Arbor, Mich., I told my freshmen Composition I class that there were “just 14 shopping days ’til my birthday,” and that if they wanted to view my Birthday Wish List, they could go to www.amysbirthday.com. Of course, the site didn’t really exist, and after watching several of my freshmen students (poor things) taking copious notes, I let them know that it was all a ruse.
But I have always loved my birthday, and the occasion has grown from my birthDAY to my birthWEEK and finally, in recent years, my birthMONTH! I’ve been known to call close family and friends to remind them that there are “only 28 shopping days left til MY BIG DAY,” and to continue the countdown via text and email, unti they are weary, though I am still grinning.
So, why the kabash on the joy I feel every year about the celebration of the day I came into this world? Is it the new diet, and the fact that I can’t eat birthday cake? No. I don’t think that’s it. My best guess is that perhaps I feel some sort of irrational need to stay “under the radar” this year — lest some power out in the universe hear the ruckus and decide that this birthday is my last.
Or, maybe it’s more simple than that — that somewhere, deep down inside, I hold a terror in my heart that that could simply be true. That’s the way I felt yesterday afternoon, as I unwrapped bulbs to put on the Christmas tree. Each time, I wondered if it would be the last time I’d be unwrapping and hanging that bulb.
Then came today. Today, I received an unexpected birthday present.
Last week was supposed to be a chemo “on” week, but my platelets — low enough to send me to the ER on Nov. 18 — still had not recovered. Typically, after one week of rest, they will bounce back and I can get treatment. So, this morning, quite expecting that this would be Day 1 of four infusions over the next 11 days, I got into the car with my cousin and chemo driver, Lori Parker, and off we went.
When we got to the hospital, my blood counts told a different story. And truly, I was surprised. I’ve been feeling a little tired lately, it has indeed been a looonnnggggggg year, but what could I — what could anyone expect after 10 months of chemo? My counts — even with the extra week of rest — had not recovered. My platelets were actually even lower than they had been when I was in the ER. Time is what it takes to create platelets and send my counts back into the normal range. But a lot of time had elapsed, and still, nothing. To add to the issue, my white blood cell counts were low and had also not budged.
What to do? That was the question.
So, me, my cousin Lori, my Physician’s Assistant, and the nurse from Clinical Trials all put our heads together and ran through the options. What is becoming more and more clear to everyone on my team as I continue this brutal protocol (my current protocol in comparison with others is quite taxing both in the time commitment and the potency/side effects of the drugs I’m taking) is that my body has just had it. I’ve been saying that for weeks to those close to me: This chemo regimen is really wiping me out.
I feel like I’m in the boxing ring and every time I get knocked down and the referree stands above me, counting to 10, it’s taking me til 8 or 9 to get back up, rather than the 2 or 3 of several months ago. And I mean that from not just a physical, but also a psychological, standpoint. I have a pretty high threshold for the pain and misery the treatments have brought this year, as the trade-off of LIVING is something I cannot put a pricetag on — but even I feel like I’m at my wit’s end. And that’s exactly what my PA saw in me this morning.
Still, the question remained: What to do?
The options are better than I imagined. Though I’ve always known that there is an arsenal of breast cancer drugs from which my doctors can pull in our continued quest to battle the monster and win, I didn’t realize just how much some of these drugs could change my life — for the better. Not only in their efficacy, of course. But also, in my quality of life. That’s a biggie, as lately, between the beating I’ve been taking via the chemo drugs and the huge adjustment I’ve had to make with the new anti-cancer diet that I’m on, I’ve been watching my quality of life wither.
Though my blood counts do eventually rebound each time into a range that allows me to go through yet another round of chemo, each time, they not only bounce back a little more slowly, but they fail to reach the threshold of previous levels. This, in short, means my bone marrow is having a very hard time recovering.
What to do? Perhaps move to a different chemotherapy drug. While my results this year have been very good — after all, my cancer has not grown and has actually shrunk some — were the PARP Inhibitor in combination with other chemotherapy agents the “silver bullet,” as my PA pointed out today — I’d likely be in remission. The results are good, but we can hope for — and work toward — better. And, with the message my body is clearly sending out — now might be the time. I may be moving to a new drug as early as next week. My oncologists will be discussing my options this week and I’ll learn more at next Monday’s appointment.
What does this mean for me? Things I hadn’t even yet considered; places I hadn’t yet allowed my mind to go. The drug that was proposed today is an oral form of chemotherapy with little toxicity and few, if any, side effects. And if I do exhibit the side effects, the dose can be adjusted accordingly to eliminate them.
The “frosting” on this “birthday cake” is that this new drug would give me back something that has been steadily waning over the course of the year — my quality of life. I would no longer need to go to the hospital three days a week as part of my treatment protocol. Instead, I would take this drug orally, at home, 14 days on, 7 days off. I would need to see my doctor only once every three weeks, just to check in.
Instead of spending my days lining up chemo drivers and people to pick up or drop off Theo when I’m just too sick, or drawing up a schedule that includes days when I KNOW I’ll be sick, I could potentially and very hopefully return to a more normal — or even a normal — work schedule. What a thrill that would be! And no longer would so much of my life revolve around my chemo schedule — like travel — as my chemo would be “portable.” Should we decide we’d like to get away and visit friends, I don’t have to search the calendar for my “week off” — and then wonder if it really will be my week off  — or if chemo will be delayed for any number of reasons, our plans thrown by the wayside.
The best part of all is that this drug has proven to be very successful in breast cancer patients and is one that I could stay on for years, should I need to. Even if I go into remission, this is a drug that I could continue to take in order to keep me there. A maintenance drug.
And, as my PA pointed out, this drug would continue to buy me time as we wait for the even better ones that are coming down the pike. Next week, she’ll be in attendance at a breast cancer conference in Texas, where she’ll be learning all about what’s on the cutting edge in breast cancer treatment.
All of this came as a complete surprise to me this morning — a delight. And just ask Don — surprising me is one challenging task. (He long ago nicknamed me “micro” because he says I’m such a micro-manager.) But indeed, I was surprised, and it couldn’t have come at a better time.
I’ll learn more next Monday, but, as I left the doctor’s office this morning, the potential of moving over to this new drug, based on the feedback from my medical team, seems quite real and very likely. Not only that, but my exam today went very well. My team is really pleased with how well I’ve battled the cancer this year. I do not exhibit the signs of a “cancer patient” — like shortness of breath, cough, extreme fatigue, or “looking sick.” My lungs sound beautifully clear as a church bell, ringing through the air on a crisp, clear Sunday morning.
I’ve been lucky enough to carry on with much of my “normal life” since my diagnosis — as you know from reading my blog posts. There has still been plenty of real life there for the taking — and I’ve been pouncing on the opportunities. Now, it looks like we might be moving forward into a place that would allow me even more of those opportunities. What a thrill! Way to make me smile!
Happy Birthday to Me. And, when I blow out the candles on my cake tomorrow (even though I CAN’T eat it), you know what will be on my mind as I make that magical wish.

Copyright 2011, Amy Rauch Neilson





Smooth Sailing — Well, Pretty Much.

23 11 2011
Me, Don and Theo, testing one of the sky lanterns for the Dec. 3 Sky Lights of Love Benefit. Photo by Kristi Rugh Kahl.

Test runs are important. We learned just how important last Sunday, when Don, Theo and I met at Van Buren Park with Sky Lights of Love Organizer Kristi Kahl and her son, Logan, and friends Jodi and Randy Krueger, to give it a try, figure out the logistics.

I’d never seen a sky lantern up close until my bff Kristi pulled up with a half dozen or so samples. I was surprised by how BIG they are! Even though I’ve seen them in pictures and in videos, I never realized their size. They must easily be three feet tall once they’re fully inflated and ready for lift-off.
The picture of me, above, sending a pink ribbon sky lantern into the skies looks like it went off without a hitch. It did — until it got snagged in a tree. So, though the outlook point at the park, which overlooks gorgeous Belleville Lake, was great in theory, we realized then and there that there are just too many trees. So, we moved to a nearby open field, where, once we got the lanterns lit, they expanded with air and took off. And all of us breathed sighs of relief.
These babies remind me of miniature hot air balloons in both the way they look as well as how they soar into the sky. They ascend higher than I ever imagined. After several minutes, they’re still going up, up, up — until the naked eye can no longer spot them. I love that. They then self-extinguish at some point and fall to the ground. They are biodegradable, so no harm done. Just lots of love and wishes sent into the night sky.
The mechanics are pretty simple, once you get them down. That’s what we worked on with several of these lanterns Sunday — and after a few trial runs and burn marks (on the sides of the lanterns, not us!), we’ve got it. At the Dec. 3 Benefit, I will give everyone a run down of how to do a safe lift-off via the PA system, and we will have people roaming through the crowd to help.
There’s still time to join us. Lanterns can be purchased through Sunday, November 27. We will be sending up a number of the pink ribbon lanterns like the one shown above, but also, some beautiful In Memory Of lanterns that I just this week realized are available. They are white with gold trim and there is a large tag on the top on which we will be writing the name of the person or people indicated by the purchaser. There is a section on the PayPal order form where you can indicate if you’d like to light one off in someone’s memory — or, if you are unable to attend, we will do it for you. The sentiment on the memory lanterns is beautiful: In memory of those who have left us, may this light rise to the heavens to shine with you for all eternity.
To order a lantern, click here, or go to the Events tab on the blog’s homepage and look under Upcoming Events. If you have questions, please feel free to contact Kristi Kahl at kristikahl@comcast.net. If you have already placed an order, and would like to designate a lantern In Memory Of, but haven’t yet done so, please email Kristi. Also, if you are planning to attend the event, please drop Kristi a quick email and let her know. We are looking forward to filling the sky with light, hope and love with all of you on Dec. 3.
Copyright 2011, Amy Rauch Neilson




“Don’t Look Around. Look Up.”

19 11 2011

Photo Copyright 2011, Kathy Stadtfeld

Editor’s Note: A two-part article on me, my family and the BRCA genes appeared Sunday, Nov. 20 on the front page of  The Detroit Free Press. Part II appeared Monday, Nov. 21.  Also, the Canton Observer ran a nice piece on the Dec. 3 Sky Lights of Love Benefit. You can go to the Events tab on the blog homepage and click on Upcoming for more info.
When my close friend Kathy Stadtfeld shared this photograph with me, I was astonished.  I hadn’t yet shared the story of that January night with her, but somehow, she had captured on film the very vision of God’s pure white light as I see it in my mind’s eye.  I begged her to let me use it on my blog.  “But of course,” she said.

It was three-thirty in the morning on a cold winter’s night last January. I was sitting alone in my home office, exhausted from the physical and emotional battering I’d taken. In the two weeks leading up to that night, I’d found a lump wedged between my left implant and the thin layer of skin on my chest. I’d been through a biopsy and very quickly learned that yes, breast cancer is possible without breasts. I’d undergone surgery to have a port inserted on the right side of my chest, in anticipation of numerous rounds of chemotherapy. I’d been through a very painful lung biopsy to confirm what we already suspected — the cancer had spread to my lungs. I was a Stage 4.

That’s a heavy dose of hard reality for anyone, but especially for the mother of a five-year-old boy. Hours earlier, he’d  fallen into a deep sleep, not a care in the world, clutching his stuffed bear. I’d just finished reading to him about the antics of a monkey named Curious George.

Beside me in bed, my husband, Don, had finally succumbed after a string of sleepless nights filled with the terror of my diagnosis, his world closing in and crumbling around him. I couldn’t sleep. My tossing and turning disturbed Don, who would change position or roll over. I decided that if I was going to have insomnia, it’d best be someplace else. I crept downstairs.

Nighttime never seems darker than in January. Gusts of wind blew the tree branches to and fro, and they took turns scraping noisily against the windows, then the side of the house.

I was alone and completely exhausted. I had nothing left to give the night. No more tears, no more worries, no more ‘what ifs’. I was done. After what must have been an hour or more, I thought about heading back upstairs to bed, but couldn’t summon the energy. So, I sat there in the dark, at my desk, the mixture of snow and freezing rain pelting the skylights like so many forks striking champagne glasses at a wedding reception.

And that’s when it happened.

One minute, I was sitting there in complete darkness, silent, ridden with fatigue. The next, I was filled with a white light. A powerful, pure, all-encompassing white light.

I never saw the light, yet I knew instinctively that it was white. Then words: Everything’s going to be OK. YOU are going to be OK.

But the words weren’t audible. I can only describe them as a rapid-fire communication that came from someplace outside of me and entered my mind in a nanosecond. It wasn’t a conversation. It was an understanding.

I felt nothing but peace and serenity in those fleeting moments. And they were fleeting. As quickly as the white light filled me, the message was communicated, they were gone.

I was still sitting in my office, but I was different. I knew. I knew that it had been a message of comfort from God.

And though it took me a while to process, to truly absorb, what had happened that night, I’ve never had any doubt as to what it was. Not for a moment. Not even a flicker.

It’s going to be OK. I’m going to be OK. And I have a lot of work left to do here on earth before it’s my time. This I know for sure.

Yet, I’m a mere mortal and inherently flawed. And though I’d like to tell you that since that night, I’ve been able to push all fear, all doubt, all questions aside, and proceed with utter confidence, I haven’t. There are still times — and plenty of them — when I am wracked with sobs, days that are filled with despair, void of hope.

Perhaps my sister Julie said it best when she told me that during the toughest, most grueling of moments, I must not look around, but rather, up.

That’s a tall order when you’ve been hurled into a world of white coats, blood draws, chemotherapy infusions, regularly scheduled scans to see whether you are one of the lucky ones whose cancer is shrinking…or not. When, in the months that followed, you hear over and over again the words from the people here on earth who preside over your course of treatment:

Stage 4 breast cancer is incurable.

The average lifespan for a patient with your diagnosis is three years.

You think you can live 20, or even 10 more years? That’s just not realistic.

You will need to undergo some form of  chemotherapy for the rest of your life.

Each utterance is a blow, some harder than others, but all require psychological recovery time in much the way my body needs time to rebound physically after each chemotherapy infusion. It is hard to remember to look up when the script is playing out all around you.

I have my tough moments, times when I cannot imagine continuing this course of treatment that on numerous occasions has physically ravaged my body to the point that I’ve needed to be hospitalized in isolation, or transfused with platelets and bags of whole blood. Times when the ER doctor has looked at me and said, “You’ve got about a 50/50 chance of making it.”

Yet, I will continue. Because I know I am on the path to healing and that my work here, God’s work, is not done. Not only did He tell me so, but I’m watching it play out. Just this past week, a member of my medical team remarked that my results from nearly a year of treatment — 44 chemotherapy infusions — have been “robust.” I love that word and the context in which it was used. Indeed, my progress has been steady, with each scan revealing a continually shrinking cancer, along with areas that have fully healed.

Still, I know the road ahead will continue to have its twists and turns, its bumps and potholes. It is in those darkest of moments when I need to remember the light and the communication from that dark January night, and my sister Julie’s words. “Don’t look around. Look up.”

Copyright 2011, Amy Rauch Neilson





Guest Post: The Story Behind the Story

8 11 2011
By Kristi Rugh Kahl
A few weeks ago, Amy’s husband, Don, was driving home from work in his pick-up truck when he first heard “I’m Gonna Love You Through It,” by Martina McBride, on the radio. He was so deeply moved by the song that he had to veer over to the side of the road afterwards and pull himself back together.
The next day, he forwarded the music video to Amy with a simple message: You need to watch this, babe. Amy did, and her reaction mirrored Don’s. Tears flowed and she found great strength in the knowledge that, like Don, so many people everywhere stood strong in this fight together with their loved ones, right by their side, every day, every moment, every surgery and treatment.
“I can’t imagine what it would feel like to have so many people gather around you to release lanterns of pure white light heavenward,” Amy said. I decided it was time for Amy to experience it for herself. This is the inspiration behind our upcoming benefit, Sky Lights of Love, December 3, 2011, at the Van Buren Township Lookout Point, Van Buren, Michigan. No matter where you live:

You can Participate!

  • Purchase a Lantern, and join us as we gather together to release hundreds of lanterns of light over Belleville Lake in Amy’s honor ! Lanterns will be distributed when you check-in at the event.  Lanterns are available by pre-sale onlyPurchase Lanterns by November 20, 2011.  No Lanterns will be sold at the door.
  • Can’t be there? You can still purchase a lantern, and we will release it on your behalf.
  • You can make a donation to the event here!
We have already been pleasantly surprised by the number of lanterns sold today and donations made for the Benefit — just hours after we announced it yesterday. Thank you! We are off to a good start. We look forward to seeing as many of you there on Dec. 3 as possible!
Don’t forget to check out the Martina McBride video. Not only is the song gorgeous, but it will give you a good visual of just how amazing and beautiful these lanterns are as they soar through the night sky.
Copyright 2011, Kristi Rugh Kahl




Guest Blog: Sky Lights of Love Benefit December 3, 2011

7 11 2011

By Kristi Rugh Kahl


Imagine if you went to your job every day and it made you feel sick to your stomach. Not just the thought of going to that dreaded place, but so physically sick that you couldn’t get off of the couch or out of bed when you got home. Your head pounds and you feel queasy. It’s difficult to eat, but you know you have to in order to keep up your strength. You’ve got to go back to that job. Your survival depends on it. Then imagine that after two weeks of doing this, you wait for your paycheck thinking, OK, I guess it’s worth it. We’ve got to pay our bills. We have a little boy to feed, a household to run.

But the paycheck never comes. Yet, you have to keep going back, two weeks on, one week off. Repeat.

Sad but true, this is the life of most cancer patients on chemotherapy. Not only are they unable to work, or, like Amy, only able to work limited hours, but the bills continue to pile up. The old bills — like the utilities and the groceries — and the new bills: medical. Amy is blessed to have health insurance. But even with that safety net, there are copays and percentages that have added up to thousands of dollars since her January 12, 2011 diagnosis.

Amy’s schedule is no different.  Every two weeks of chemo (what the doctors call “a Round”) takes its toll on her body and puts a financial strain on her household.

A couple of weeks ago, one of her two employers called to let her know that they could not wait any longer for her to get better. Yes, they loved her writing and editing work and found her to be very talented in both arenas. They had recently told her she was “the whole package” — and they meant it. She was offered other writing work that didn’t have the hard and fast deadlines that her editing work for the company required. She took them up on that offer, and understood, but it broke her heart to lose the copyediting position she had, working with a team she loved.

When she called me to tell me what had happened, one of the last things she said to me during the conversation was this: “It was so very hard to know that I can do the job and do it well. When I was healthy, they loved me and I loved working for them. All those years of education and various jobs in the trenches had paid off. Yet, that day, as I held the phone to my ear, I realized that while my mind wanted to scream, Don’t Replace Me! I can do the job! I want to do the job!, my body was telling me a different story. I knew they needed someone in that position who was healthy. Right now, that person isn’t me. And there’s nothing I can do about it besides keep going to chemo, keep praying and doing everything I know to do in order to get better as soon as possible.”

Yes, this is the price for survival, but it doesn’t have to be so hard if we all come together to celebrate her life and help defray her expenses.

When I first mentioned the idea to Amy, she loved the vision of a gathering of people and the lantern release over the lake. But she wasn’t, at first, comfortable with the idea of another benefit for her family. She didn’t want to keep asking so much of so many people. That’s when I told her that asking for help doesn’t mean you’ve failed; it means you’re not in it alone. And that is the theme of the recently released song by Martina McBride, I’m Gonna Love You Through It, that inspired this event (see more on this personal story about Amy and Don on the Events page).

In celebration of Amy’s birthday (November 29), we are hosting a benefit called Sky Lights of Love on Saturday, December 3, 2011 at the Van Buren Township Park.  We will gather at 4:30 p.m. and, at 6:00 p.m. sharp, we will release the lanterns from the Lookout Point over Belleville Lake — a place that is near and dear to their hearts.

The cost per lantern is $10 and the proceeds will go to the Amy Rauch Neilson Benefit Fund to help Amy with her ongoing medical bills and expenses. 

If you can’t attend, you can still participate by ordering a lantern. We will release it in your name or the name of a loved one.  Or if you’d like, please consider giving a donation. 

We all know times are tough, but they are even tougher if you are fighting for your life. As for me, the time is now for my bff Amy. Together, we can make it better by celebrating life and collectively lifting all of our spirits as we watch hundreds of lanterns filled with pure, white light rise up into the night sky. I hope you can join us on December 3, 2011!

Lanterns available by PRE-SALE ONLY – purchase by 11-20-2011
Purchase Lantern or Make Donation Below:

  • Purchase a Lantern, and join us as we gather together to release hundreds of lanterns of light over Belleville Lake in Amy’s honor ! Lanterns will be distributed when you check-in at the event.  Lanterns are available by pre-sale only.  Purchase Lanterns by November 20, 2011.  No Lanterns will be sold at the door.
  • Can’t be there? You can still purchase a lantern, and we will release it on your behalf.
  •  You can make a donation to the event here! 




I Called…And Hope Answered!

6 11 2011

So, I had just pressed “publish” on the new blog post I wrote this evening when this new link and headline popped up in my e-mail box from the National Cancer Research Institute:

First Evidence of New “Druggable” DNA Repair Target to Destroy Cancer Cells

It just so happens that this latest news involves the PARP Inhibitor — a new discovery and possibly even more effective or additional version of the very drug I’m on.

The article speaks to blocking a key DNA damage repair enzyme called APE1:

This technique of blocking two repair routes is already being used with a new class of drugs called PARP inhibitors. These prevent cells fixing faults in BRCA-deficient cells by blocking PARP, a key enzyme in the same repair pathway as APE1.

APE1, like PARP, is essential for carrying out a type of DNA damage repair – removing and correcting faulty DNA components – but has a more specific role in this repair process compared to the PARP enzymes.

The research suggests that APE1 could provide an additional drug target to PARP.

Looks like more great news on the horizon for people like me, who carry a fault in either the BRCA 1 or BRCA 2 gene.

What are the chances that this news would appear in my in-box at that very moment?

Hope is alive, indeed.

Copyright 2011, Amy Rauch Neilson





What’s Next? Cow Tipping?

6 11 2011
Don and I, riding off into the sunset together on one big ‘ol red tractor! Photo by Kevin Finch.

It was a glorious weekend. Friday night was movie night at the Neilson household. It was Theo’s turn to pick. He chose Rio. Love the vivid colors in that film. He also told me that next Friday night, it’s my turn! I don’t know how the kid keeps track of these things, but I’ll take it! Hmm…wonder what I’ll pick? Whatever it is, it has to be “kid appropriate,” as Theo would say.

Saturday afternoon was lunch at the home of Theo’s best friend and classmate, Kai. Theo and Kai are an amazing pair and I believe that wherever life takes them, the bond they have formed in the past year is one that will stay with them forever. I am blessed to have friendships like that and they are a treasure.

Kai’s Mom, Miho, very carefully chose the menu around my new diet — and the food she prepared was downright amazing! Who knew I could eat so well on this new plan? Pumpkin soup made with coconut milk, arugula salad with pumpkin seeds, marinated flank steak, pears sauteed in red wine. It was pure heaven — not to mention the best meal I’ve had since I started the anti-cancer diet prescribed by Dr. Waldo and dietician Jodi Smith. And it was all “legal!”

Late yesterday afternoon and evening was the Crown Jewel of the weekend. We drove out to Saline — destination: acres of beautiful farmland dotted in the fire engine reds, sunny yellows, forest greens of dozens of old-fashioned, mint-condition tractors as they roamed the fields. The land is owned by a close friend and Saturday was the day she deemed as a “Last Hurrah” of sorts, as she will be moving come Spring. Dozens of family and friends showed up for this one last chance to ride her collection of antique tractors — with a few four wheelers thrown in for good measure.

There’s nothing that makes me feel more alive than the nip of a November day, when the rays of abundant sunshine seem to find their way underneath your layers of clothing, and nestle in against your skin, warm and cozy, against a backdrop that beckons you to take a step into nature, then another, then another. Woods, a stream, acres of amber fields, some flat, some gently curved. Fields where the weeds have grown high, others that used to turn out beautiful orange pumpkins at autumn’s pinnacle.

Don took me for a ride on Big Red. We road up through the hills and back down and around again, past the old tire swing, the barn, a cornfield. Together, we imagined what the farmer who used to ride this tractor might have been like, what he had used this machine for, how many hours in a day he spent at the wheel. We road in silence for a little while, then I turned to Don and said, “Is it just me, or does this ride make you feel like cow tipping later on?”

We watched the sun set behind the trees in a mixture of golds and red-hot oranges that set the scene ablaze. I breathed in the smell of the wood burning in the bonfire pit, and laughed as I watched the kids trying to assemble s’mores out of the sticky marshmallows they’d just taken off the flames, the white goo spreading between their fingers like a spider’s web.

It couldn’t have been more perfect — the setting, the weather, the close friends, the sights and scents and sounds. It was the kind of magic that seems to appear every now and again in our lives, spontaneously, as if someone from above had decided to sprinkle pixie dust all over and around us.

It was pixie dust that I really needed right then and there. Last week was trying. The test results, good. The word of “chemo forever” downright terrifying, heart-wrenching, feelings of desperation and defeat washing over me and through me, bringing me to my knees with wracking sobs that came from somewhere deep within.

But moments like the ones I experienced last night, well, they are the ones that remind me of just how big the universe is, of the endless possibilities that it encompasses in a word we know as Hope. Hope that indeed, all things are possible and that the only One who truly knows how my story will play out — the Great Physician — is the only one who needs to.

Copyright 2011, Amy Rauch Neilson








%d bloggers like this: