"One doesn't discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time" Andre Gide (1869-1951)

This blog site will hopfully serve three purposes: First: I will use it as a tool to keep everyone informed and up-to-date on Shea's journey with cancer. Second: It will give her a way to express her ideas and feelings when she has the energy and/or desire to do so Third: It will be a way for me to express some of the good and bad experiences that we have and will encounter along the way as we watch Shea walk on water. People tell me this will be liberating...I hope they are right. The idea for the name of the post came as we read the quote from Andre Gide. It also perfectly describes what I have watched Shea do from the time that she first heard that she has cancer. Several of her doctors, nurses and care people that she has come in contact with all remark that they are amazed at the quiet dignity, calmness and optimism that radiates from her. Watching her, you can see that she has turned her face fully toward the Lord and has unhesitatingly stepped from the boat of safety and ordinariness (is that even a word?) and is walking whatever path He has chosen for her to walk. I am still left inside the boat, struggling to contain my hopes, fears and anxieties. Sometimes I feel like I have found my sea legs, and at other times I'm fairly sure I'm going to drown. I'm going to start with the sequence of events. Shea called me and asked if I could go with her to the doctor on Tueday the 29th of March. She had been seeing a doctor previously who had become concerned about her and had scheduled a sigmoidoscopy. I left work early on Tuesday afternoon and had made plans to accompany Shea to the doctor visit followed by a dinner out and maybe some shopping. Shea had just been taken back for the procedure and I started to leaf through a magazine when the doctor was suddenly kneeling before me. He asked if I was "Mom" and invited me back to watch, under the condition that I sit far away in case I became light headed or passed out. Obviously, he didn't know me very well. It only took a minute before I was supporting Shea's back and trying to stop my mind from spinning. Having a degree that has a bit of a medical background can be a good thing. Having a degree that has a bit of a medical background can also be a bad thing. I didn't need Shea's doctor to tell me she had cancer. It was fairly obvious. I was terrified that she was or wasn't processing the information he was giving her. She was responding as if she understood, but I didn't see it registering. I was scared for her to ever 'wake up' and realize the news, and I didn't know how I was ever going to tell Kelton that his oldest baby girl had colon cancer. My knees began to shake when the doctor smoothed back her hair at one point and called her a "sweet angel". After several pictures and around 20 biopsies, we were done and placed in the recovery room. I took a moment to sneak into the deserted waiting room to place a call to Kelt. It was one of the most difficult things I have ever had to do. Shea was resting comfortably and had just been given something to drink when the doctor came back in with the pictures from the scope. He very compassionately talked to her about his fears and that he thought that she had cancer. Shea stayed focused on his face, smiled and said thank you. I battled back tears as I realized that her hands were clenched tight and she was 'white knuckling it'. We were told that we would need to go to the hospital in the morning for a CT scan, and so Shea was told to not eat anything that night. The next day, we went to radiology for the wonderful CT scan. Shea was given a lovely concoction that we called "cat crap kool-aid", basically because it looked by kool-aid, but tasted about as appetizing as cat crap sounds. After the scan, we were told that the Dr.'s office would be contacting us shortly. the call came and we were advised to go home, pack and wait for the phone call that would head us to the University of Utah Medical Center. We hadn't even left Logan before the call came. We rushed to the house to pack and I took a moment to grab Nick to let him know that I wouldn't be staying at home that night, but would be going with Shea to the hospital. He knew the severity of the situation, but he looked up at me and said "Do you believe what you tell me?". I said "What do you mean?" He said, "You say Heaven is good. So the way I look at it is if you are right, then if Shea goes to Heaven that is good. And if Shea stays with us that is good, too. So if you believe what you say, then no matter what, it is all good." I had to take a split second to evaluate if I believed what I had said. I realized that I did, and ever since, a sweet, calm feeling has been in my heart. I cry when Shea is hurting, or when I see one of the other children's uncertainty, but I do know that whatever path the Lord has planned for our family, it is all good. When we arrived at the University of Utah, we were told that a stint would be placed in her bowel to avoid an obstruction. We were also told that the cancer had spread to her liver. Once again I felt the ground shift beneath me. We went to bed and tried to get some rest to face the next day. The next day found us preparing for a move to the Huntsman Cancer Center. This is like moving from a regular hospital room to a four-star hotel with really crappy beds. It had the added benefit of having several really good-looking men around. Jenessa commented that it must be a pre-requisite for working there. I had a friend tell me that the dermatology ward isn't so lucky, but we are here to tell you that the 5th floor at the Huntsman is looking mighty fine. Surgery to place the stint went well, and so after 4 days without food or drink, Shea was allowed to eat. More tests revealed that the cancer was starting in her lungs, so chemo needed to be the first line of defense. Shea had a power-port catheter placed in her chest on Monday to facilitate the chemotherapy infusions. She begins chemotherapy this Friday. The doctors tell us that we won't be able to have visitors on Friday, Saturday or Sunday so I guess we will be stuck with just the nuts that live here...that should be interesting. We had someone who has watched a loved one struggle with cancer say to us "I don't want to tell you about our journey. We have our journey, but you will have yours. I can only tell you that this journey will drag you through hell, will place you high on mountaintops and everything in between, but I promise you that you will be stronger and better for it". So....we are now members of "The Cancer Family". It's a highly dysfunctional family, but we are part of it and we are damned (sorry Bishop) determined to put as much 'fun' into that dysfunction as we can. We are ever grateful for your thoughts, prayers and multiple acts of kindness. They support each and every one of us every second of every day. We love each and every one of you. Thank you seems so insignificant...but, THANK YOU.