THAT WENT WELL
These tiny veins. They roll and hide as if they know what’s coming. And I believe with all my heart, they do.
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The butterfly needle is my saving grace. This is not a new phenomenon, nor an outcome of too many cancer-related blood draws. This is a “Janene thing,” either part of my genetic disposition or, more likely, a response to my Immune Thrombocytopenia caused by the DPT vaccination as a child.*
At 11:45 precisely, Allie, my travel phlebotomist, joins me at my kitchen island. As she prepares this tiny needle and syringe, we chat about our lives, the conversation so vulnerable and engaging that I’m oblivious to the moment the needle penetrates skin.
As liquid life fills two enormous tubes I muse that someday I will write about the difference in color of blood, one human to another, and how I believe that our approach to every hard moment throughout our lives effects the intensity of the red. If you’re wondering, mine is the exact hue of a rich cabernet.
Just as the butterfly finds its target, Allie is sharing about the moment she discovered she was having twins. With equal focus on filling up vials and pouring out her soul, her words hold my attention while her hand cradles mine, taking us to the time she was told she would never have children and then fast-forwarding to the moment of hearing two heartbeats.
There are moments that punctuate our interconnectedness, our comings and goings, as if an intricate dance timed in unison. This is one of those times.
I stare at the miniscule vein just above my ring finger, pierced and pouring out, and think mine and hers are so very much the same.
This pouring out—of heart and humanity—is what I desperately crave.
There is no superficiality in our brief encounter, no thought of getting on with our day. We have, in this stroke of ten-minutes-until-the-hour, entered sacred territory. I am mindful in our here and now of another time and space…of women washing clothes in a mud-bottomed river, of clay jugs atop heads and shoulders and the arduous morning walk to the well. We join our ancestors in our will to thrive in the midst of this sometimes difficult life, someway/somehow.
These hard moments. Our tendency is to close our eyes and will them away.
Yet, what is contained within them is as precious as drawn water.
On this day, my spirit is soaked through.
Oh, what we miss when we hurry onward or begrudge these juicy slices of our own reality, humble or grand as it may be—
The pain I endure this morning will reveal the secrets of my intricate, interior universe. In my mind, a fair trade.
I observe myself getting a little bit maudlin as Allie packs up her things. “There is no such thing as a stranger!” I hear my spirit exclaim.
To be awake enough to agree there is more to this moment than we can ever imagine,
To lean in farther than we think is possible or are comfortable with,
To be realistic while simultaneously seeing the poetry in every encounter,
To believe that there is likely more to all of it than we will ever know.
What are you anticipating as you head into the hard moment?
What negativity are you bringing with you that makes it harder still?
My tiny veins roll over in resistance. But I am determined to move fluidly in and through what is ahead.
It is likely that what we believe about what we encounter, is exactly what we will live.
I watch the butterfly needle gently seek its target. The tragedy in this instant [in the one most uncomfortable] is that we refuse to look, instead we turn away.
The DNA swirling and dancing within us does, after all, have something important, even life-giving to say—
In the memories we inherited,
In the choices we make.
“That went well,” I hear myself whisper as my new friend heads up the stairs to her car.
Band aide stretched across my right hand. Visible bruise underneath.
Before she leaves, I notice a primitive tattoo in a kindred bluish hue across the artery made popular by those who attempt to take all of it, even breath away—
“Just Survive.”
I am caught off guard by this blunt declaration of sheer will and the humanness of it: It occurs to me that Allie’s “just survive” rudementary exhortation is not one that celebrates our weakness but our strength.
How often do we [every one of us] wonder how it is we can face one more disappointment?
Allie’s tattoo, I later discover, was “self-made.” She is, apparently, adept with the needle in both medical and artistic ways. But there is a deeper story there, one left for the next time we meet. Judging by her abundant smile and tender words, she [despite some past sorrow] is making the most of every day. And I can’t begin to express how grateful I am that she’s still here.
That. Went. Well. After all, it’s just a little pain. And I am glad I’m here to experience all of it.
Pay attention to the whispers. Lean in and let them teach you.
There is still so much unknown about ourselves circulating through our veins. The hard moment is a great teacher. I have not wasted the lessons along the way.
NOTES:
If you google, “pain and suffering” you will find hundreds of sites and statistics, most dealing with professed or diagnosed physical pain. Most tell us [these medical professionals, pharmaceutical companies], even our closest friends, that pain is to be avoided at all costs.
How, then, does the collective “us” propose that we grow? My prayers are saturated with pleas for those I love, that what you go through allows complete recovery YET not apart from the revelatory transformation that accompanies every hard thing.
~For those of you who are curious, my blood draw today was to [again] evaluate my circulating tumor DNA:
Every three months I have my blood drawn to determine my current circulating tumor cells. For those who are “medical geeks” like me, this is how it works:
Somewhere in San Francisco there is a lab that stores my frozen tissue specimens from my original life-saving surgeries the first one nearly four years ago.
Through a sophisticated, scientific process, that tissue was used to create my own unique assay composed of 16 DNA mutations that, like a thumbprint, identify my one-of-a-kind disease.
Once this thumbprint is built, it is used to identify circulating tumor cells in my bloodstream identified through continual blood draws that can be analyzed and compared to map the stability, or progression, of my cancer.
Apart from my overwhelming thanks for the sophisticated science that allows us to learn more about my specific cancer and the disease in general, I am sending up an enormous praise that my current circulating tumor cells continue to demonstrate, in my doctor’s words, “Extremely low given the nature of your Stage IV status.”
We know what this means—
Prayer works in supernatural ways,
Praying along with others toward a particular outcome is powerful,
Many voices turn God’s head,
Doing our part to partner with God in his healing efforts produces results of which we can only dream.
Our work moves Him. Our belief changes everything.
Whatever you are going through…there are two specific thoughts that speak louder than the others in my head—
1. DO YOUR PART—the desires of your heart must be validated by evidence of your own movement toward the outcome you seek. Partner with God in His work. He may be waiting for you to make a move.
2. SPEAK LIFE—During my conversation with the genetic counselor she stated over and over, "...your active Stage IV cancer." The fact that I have cancer is not a surprise, but I honestly don't dwell on it every day. Hearing these words was difficult. I needed a moment to recover. What we say to one another, no matter the circumstance, changes everything about how we believe, hope, and ultimately heal. When you are invited to speak into someone's reality, SPEAK LIFE—No matter the prognosis. No matter the science. No matter what you personally think.
*If you want to learn more about my journey with vaccines read, The Agony of Choice
IMAGE: Allie’s “self-made” tattoo [note the somewhat “fuzzy” nature of the lettering while the tiny hairs on her arm are utterly clear]. She is, apparently, adept with the needle in both medical and artistic ways.
MORE READING FOR MOTHER’S DAY: