Yesterday was a very, very good day. It had been exactly a month since my diagnosis of Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia, and my husband and I met with my oncologist to get staged and get a prognosis, after a battery of tests.
I am stage ZERO! CLL begins with stage zero, unlike most other cancers. Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean I don’t have cancer – it just means that it’s in my marrow and blood but hasn’t spread anywhere else. My bone marrow biopsy confirmed that I definitely do have CLL, but the PET scan was clear!
My prognosis is good! We wait and watch now. I will go to the cancer center every three months forever to monitor my white cell blood count, lymphocytes, and web blood cells. But until my WBC doubles within a span of six months or I start to have lymph node problems, I am treatment free.
Will I need it someday? Most likely yes. CLL never entirely goes away. But I’m already on the one day at a time plan with my other chronic illnesses, I manage the POTs, Ehlers Danlos Syndrome, and about another half dozen chronic conditions.
Life is crazy, man. Yesterday morning I was praying for the diagnosis of CLL rather than ALL – chronic vs. acute. Chronic has to be managed, acute is trouble. Funny that a month and a day ago, I would never been so flippin’ happy that I have any kind of cancer. Now I’m praising God that it is not acute, or do I require any treatment right now.
I didn’t need another major health concern, but I feel like my training wheels are off in this regard. I already live illness every day. And whatever this brings, I intend to rise to the occasion. Probably while doing a lot of bitching now and then, and maybe some crying, and a whole other layer of frustration…
But I’m pretty scrappy.
Thank you for all of you who have been praying for me. It is truly the best case scenario. I love my medical team and I’m so grateful for them as well.
I was alerted by the WordPress Bots that I have blogged 50 piecesnow on “Words by Jana Greene.”
I started this blog and retired my first, because I have different things to say now, and I’m not writing just for Christians. At all. I am writing for people who maybe don’t know what they believe, but they believe in the search for it with all their heart, and appreciate a kindred spirit. (Christians are of course welcome too; I count myself amongst you.)
I wanted to write in a way that was cleansing, raw, and maybe a smidge inspirational. And I think I’ve accomplished that. I hope so, anyway.
Fifty bearings of the soul.
Fifty chances to be vulnerable, in case someone else is feeling vulnerable too.
Fifty articles by the same old person?
Or am I the same old person?
I have a dear friend who likes to say that instead of having one inner child, we all have a whole preschool in us. And we do. I am finding myself to be a whole class full of university students.
Or, since I never went to college, maybe just a whole demographic of sensitive souls. Some that laugh at inappropriate things, like a 12 year old boy. Some who feel wise as a sage. Some that whine and fight naps like a preschooler. Some who manifest peace that passes understanding, like a monk. And some that scream WTF???!! into the abyss, like….well me.
Every last one of them, emotional.
All of them passionate. (Some of them need to chill already!)
Every day, we learn something different, hoping to end up a better person in some small way.
And most days, I come here to free-bleed words into the internet abyss, or celebrate some small victory, or rejoice, or complain. Sometimes all of those in one day!
What I’m trying to say in way too many words (as usual) is – I appreciate that someone out there is reading my work, and hopefully not looking at it like a stain on the carpet. I do enough of that to myself.
Hopefully, every day we are gaining some measure of connection or hop Ee, and if I can be a part of that, mission accomplished. Everything arrives right on time, and it’s my honor to share it with you, fellow human.
Thanks for taking the time to read me. I am grateful for every single way God manages to connect us, even as we are being divided (and subdivided) by society. Let us press into one another, with the Truth – which is that we are all connected.
While I’m bleeding words, I may as well hemorrhage some gratitude too. ❤
I have been triggered by so many scary things lately, pending my prognosis for CLL.
If we can be “triggered” by things that make us anxious, surely, we can choose to focus on the “glimmers” instead. It sure does seem that feeling triggered is a natural response to stress – it’s automatic, at least for me. It’s my subconscious mind’s default when facing the unknown.
I can amass worries, panic, and thoughts of doom like a pile of dirty laundry that takes up a whole corner of the room, without me realizing I don’t have anything clean to “wear.” I don’t want to wear despair, but as an uber-feely person, I do.
Or, I can focus on the glimmers, instead of “researching” CLL into the ground, (which will not change an outcome either way.) Here’s to counterbalancing with some GLIMMERS:
I love my medical team and trust them.
I have an excellent therapist.
I do not feel abandoned by God, but instead warmly comforted by him (to my own surprise.)
I have the strong support of my husband, children, dad, and sister. And a circle of friends so tight, they have become family in every way. I’m so grateful for my tribe.
Every medical professional I meet – even in passing – has been kind.
Many people live 10-20 years with my condition.
I have insurance, which is a monumental blessing (but OH how it breaks my heart that not everyone has access to medical care! Alas, that’s a whole blog post in itself, for another day!)
But I have to think on these things ON PURPOSE, or fear takes completely over.
The nurse who administered the radioactive isotope for the PET scan was prepping me for yet another IV this past week. I thanked him
“I’m not sure you should be thanking me,” he said, with a chuckle. “I’m fixing to poke you, make you radioactive, and put you through a machine.”
“Yes,” I said. “But you are kinder than you have to be. And not many people are anymore. You explained everything, you are being gentle with my arm and my feelings. You are being a ‘glimmer’ in this otherwise dark journey I’m on. Thank you.”
Triggers cause anxieties to pile up. The more they pile up, the more they smother me. Glimmers inspire me to give my neurosis a good scrub, clean up my attitude, and fold and put away my worries.
But hons, them clothes ain’t gonna clean themselves. They just won’t. I have to notice them, and unless I make a concerted effort to be aware, they pass me by. Every morning, I do a little mindfulness session. I play affirmations on my playlist and encouraging music. A little hippie-dippy meditation alone time with God. Help me to be aware of glimmers, I ask of him. Because in truth, they happen to us all the time. In my natural state, I just need help with awareness. It’s been a game-changer.
Try to notice the glimmers today and strengthen your divine in whatever way that works for you. I’ll be over here praying and sage-ing, singing, and loving, and hoping and believing (with, of course, intermittent bouts of anxiety. Hey, Rome wasn’t built in a day, and it can’t be ALL glimmers, ALL the time. We are only human, after all – but there is much beauty and joy that goes unrecognized.
Because, to quote Ferris Bueller, ““Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”
Util next piece, friends. Please be kinder than you have to. It’s a rough world out there. Spread all the glimmers you can.
Tomorrow I will find out what stage my Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia, as well as my prognosis. Sunday, I had a little nervous breakdown – nothing that would send me to a grippy-sock vacation, but enough that I purged three weeks’ worth of tears in one flail swoop. I really let it out, which ended up being a good thing, even though I tried to resist The Big Cry up until then. I was afraid if I started, I wouldn’t be able to stop. And I was right – I didn’t stop for hours. But eventually I did, if only because I exhausted myself.
Monday, I felt a little better.
Tuesday, my nerves started gearing up again.
And today – Wednesday – I have been up since 2 a.m. doing “research.”
Now “research” by a person such as myself, means obsessing over whatever the Internet says my results are. The internet gives only two types of medical information – the shit that paints a gloomy picture, and the shit that is so clinically detailed, nobody outside of medical school would understand it.
I have berated myself on a number of occasions because I like to think I’m intelligent(ish,) but I cannot follow the concepts that keep the human body going. There are too many numbers, symbols, letters, reactions, tests, and charts. I was lost at line 1 of every article I read.
I am not medical-school smart, obviously. I am an empath who can micro-read the slight variations in a tone of voice, miniscule body language movement, even a “vibe.”
A genius at vibing, which frankly has never paid the bills or helped me read a medical report. I can string words together pretty well – words are my art medium. I can understand some abstract concepts, but I am lost right now. And my brain has only one useful thing to say in all of this drama, which is – unhelpfully – worry. How many times do I have to surrender? Meditate. Go inward, Self. And for cripe’s sake, you failed 10th grade Algebra, so maybe stop trying to make sense of flow symmetry and lab results.
My head is a jumble already, what with a crash-course introduction to CLL Genetic markers? I’ve learned what some of them mean. Flow Symmetry tests? Pure sci-fi. Bone marrow biopsies? Not as bad as a spinal tap, but certainly no fun. PET scans? Makes you radioactive and entails a lot of waiting around.
But I have also learned that mine is a typically slow-growing cancer and is rarely diagnosed in someone under 60. Many people live years (being closely medically monitored) and there are treatments that typically help extend the life. I keep telling myself it’s “no big deal.”
That I already contend with chronic pain and illness on the daily, I’m frustrated with this additional issue. So, daily I find myself fluctuating between telling myself to stop being such a baby, and equal parts Oh my GOD. (And yes, I recognize that there are much worse cancers, much worse conditions out there … this is just my brain trying to hammer my feelings out of my noggin and onto a page, where it is much easier to reason with!)
The not-knowing is awful. I will be happy to close out my “research” study, after the appointment tomorrow. Knowlege is power (for real for real) and I guess that’s why I feel like a puny weakling right now, especially mentally. But ONWARD AND UPWARD. I am actively seeking “glimmers.”
“Glimmers” are simply the opposites of “triggers.”
I can focus on being triggered, and there will be plenty of reasons to be. The triggers that, well…trigger me. LIke: I am legitimately phobic of hospitals. The very word “cancer” trips me up. Thinking of how all of this will ultimately affect my family – HUGE trigger. How much is this going to run us, financially? Feeling like I was already sick, so what the actual HELL? There’s a little justifiable anger there, if I’m being honest. The pokes and prodding. The waiting rooms. The smell of antiseptic. Germs. Upended plans. Good old fashioned sadness.
Next, I think I’ll write about glimmers, and end today’s writing sesh with some positivity.
Some of y’all had your say. Now I’m going to have mine. I interrupt the “regularly scheduled programming” to have a little commentary on Christian Nationalism. (In a former blog, I once had a reader comment, “THIS is NO PLACE for POLITICS!” Um, it’s my little piece of real estate on the web, and my blog, and as such, I reserve the right to write whatever I damn well please. Aint nobody making you follow me. It’s still a free country! Not sure for how long, but…
“Bad Faith” on Amazon Prime is upsetting, terrifying, and should be recommended viewing for any soul who “follows Jesus.” It is not a “liberal” movie – many Jesus-loving believers who are NOT Christian Nationalists get their say too. Yes, we DO exist. Please consider giving it a watch.
I am absolutely sick that Jesus – the one who embodies the fruits of the spirit – charity, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, generosity, gentleness, faithfulness, self-control, etc. – is being trotted out as an effigy in a MAGA hat, pimped out by “Christian” Nationalists with entitlement complexes, and being affixed to a movement that does not honor him in the least.
I cannot imagine Jesus waving an American flag any more than I can see him in a …
“I ❤️ ROME!” T-shirt.
The God who spoke us ALL into existence, and created the entire UNIVERSE, omnipresent and all-powerful, thinks WE – a people who do not even originate here but stole every inch of it – are the “chosen.”
The self-importance! The arrogance, to believe he chooses Americans above other nations and peoples, while having no concern for racism, poverty, human rights, feeding the hungry, or doing any damn thing that might humble them in the least.
How did we GET here? America ain’t all that anymore. I’m embarrassed right now. I imagine Jesus saying, “I know you not,” when seeing the hoards of entitled conservatives storming the White House. And the party has chosen the single least-like-Jesus person on the planet to head their cause.
Forgive us, God, for our utter arrogance. And forgive those who speak in word but not deed – even though I’m certain this is not a “they know not what they do” excuse. They know.
As a former Christian Nationalist myself years ago, I asked God to break my heart for what breaks his. And guess what? He didn’t break it on account of billionaires with megalomaniac tendencies. Or people who are intolerant, smug in their resolution that social justice doesn’t matter, or unwilling to see a point of view different from their own.
Be conservative if you want. But leave my Jesus OUT of your politics.
Got through the PET scan yesterday. Thank you all for sweet thoughts and prayers. It went “fine,” whatever that is. Except for once I was strapped on the table, I started crying. Fat, rolling tears came, en masse. And I had nothing to disassociate with. I wanted to grab my phone, or a TV remote, or a book, or ANYTHING. But my arms were strapped down to my side, so there was nowhere for any of it to go, no way to stuff it. So, as I traveled inch-by-inch through a giant mechanical donut (not nearly as bad as an MRI – look at the positive! – tears just rolled down my face for 45 minutes.
I would have given my kingdom for a single meme. Alas, it was just me and God in that machine, and it became clear to me that I am really sick.
What a time to snap out of denial, eh? Until now, I’ve thought of all the tests as just a “maybe I have cancer. Or maybe they’re wrong!” Even though an oncologist told me I did. Even though the biopsy confirmed it. They just have to do all these tests to rule it out, I kept telling myself.
Except they do not do bone marrow biopsies and PET scans for the hell of it. So, in the PET scanner, radioisotope coursing through my body, I accepted it. I cried the whole damn time and just FELT it. I was literally a human burrito, wrapped tight and constrained. I was reminded that this is why I made such a great candidate for alcoholism. Numb the BADFEELS.
After my childhood trauma and the series of unfortunate events in my life that followed, I just didn’t want to feel for the longest time. That was 23 years ago though and I know better now.
My sobriety is secure, and I’m grateful for that. It is only secure for today, because that’s how this thing works no matter how much sober time you have. But I’ve found my rusty recovery “toolbox” recently and it turns out that the tools are still in pristine order; it’s just the container that’s a little corroded and aged (hey! Just like my body!) I am daily remembering to keep my tools in working order – reaching out to friends. Spending time in meditation and prayer. Strengthening my soul. Keeping my mind busy. Practicing extreme gratitude.
But damn, y’all. I was already sick. There were already days that it was too much, just too much. So maybe the next step is anger, I don’t know. I suspect there is overlap in the stages of grief.
Anyway, one more test down; next up is meeting with my oncologist about staging the cancer , giving a prognosis, and planning treatment. Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia is forever – the only cancer that never truly leaves your body. But the best-case scenario would be that he takes a “wait and watch” approach. I will have to get labs every three months for the rest of my life; to monitor it, and take action when the sea of letters and numbers and markers and God-only-knows-what-else indicates treatment. But I am symptomatic, so it will not surprise me if I need chemo. That’s the crappy thing right now – that I have no idea.
So I’ll break out another tool, which is trust. Trust that the Universe has my best interest in mind, and that may not look like physical healing. I learned a long time ago that everything is indeed not healed in the name of Jesus – in this Realm. I would rather have a healed Spirit than a healed body, and for many years, “name it and claim it” damaged me far more than being sick. Casting “demons” out of sick people is incredibly damaging. As is “you are already healed in Jesus NAME!” Really? Because I am still physically hurting. Stop it. Just stop telling people that it’s their lack of faith that is keeping them from getting healed; all it does is create spiritual orphans out of people who are already suffering. I’ll get my healing. Eventually, but maybe not here. And that’s not lack of faith. Child, if I lacked FAITH, I wouldn’t have bothered to stick around this janky planet, in this janky body.
I’m real sorry my chronic, debilitating illness makes your faith messy. People get well. They also stay sick. And sometimes they leave us. And I’m pretty sure Jesus understands that. Don’t insult my faith. I have been through more and trials infirmary in my life than you can shake a crucifix at. God and I are well, thank you.
I digress though. What was I talking about? Oh yeah, letting the emotions flow. Because they aren’t going away on their own either; feelings are meant to be felt! Even the yucky ones.
Three weeks ago, I received my diagnosis of chronic lymphocytic leukemia. It’s been a weird time, to say the least. I still can’t believe I am typing the word cancer as relates to myself, because I’ve often thought, gee….I have a lot of medical problems but at least it’s not cancer!
And life – for the thousandth time – said THAT’S WHAT YOU THINK!
A few surprising things are resulting from my utter shock. For the first week, I don’t think I used the “C” word (no not that one, don’t be gross.) I called it “the illness.” Sick.” But I am finding that calling it out by name – cancer – takes just the tiniest, miniscule crumb of scariness out of it, even though I’ve seen what it can do and have respect for the illness. Acknowledging the name of the thing you’re fighting helps the fight-iness, I think. I am not apt to tolerate elephants in living rooms anymore, but face it and comfort it, if need be. But see it…really see it.
A dear friend of mine told me yesterday to stop calling it “my” cancer. “It’s OUR cancer,” she said, which made my eyes well up. I don’t want to bring my friends and family infirmary and sadness. I want to bring them joy and laughter. Alas, like everything else in life, it’s not “or” but “and.” It isn’t joy OR sadness. It is both, and there is nothing I can do about that.
So even though this is completely out of my control – as are all of my conditions – I’m trying to temper the rushing guilt of bringing everyone down that comes in waves. Our sweet tribe – our closest of friends – lost someone to cancer, only seven short months ago. We are family, in all the most genuine of ways. We are all still reeling and broken, trying to figure out how to live in a world she no longer inhabits physically. (Notice I said “physically.” I feel her spirit every single day, and I know she comforts and encourages me now.) Hers was “our” cancer too. Because none of us live in a vacuum, nor would we want to. It was an honor for her to let us walk her home. I hope I am half as brave, ballsy, and beautiful as she, in coping with this journey.
Perhaps this is not a wilderness experience. Maybe it’s not survival-“Naked and Afraid”-style – when one person has tapped out, and the lone contestant braves the wild. Truthfully, there are traumatized parts of me – parts left of the little girl in me left to fend for herself when I was helpless – that is fighting the urge to run. Run where, I do not know. I’m not a runner. But if I disappeared into the ethers, just *POOF!* it would not make anything easier for the people who love me. It’s a dumb thought born of “flee, fight, fawn,” which I very much needed to hone as a child but does not serve me now.
But I surely do feel Naked and Afraid – raw, vulnerable, exposed, frightened. All of it tinged with guilt about dragging other contestants into a jungle they didn’t even sign up to brave.
If you’ve ever watched the Discovery Channel show, the participants are supposed to be given ONE item to help us survive. A machete. A tin cup. A fishing hook. SOMETHING.
WHERE IS OUR ONE ITEM, FOR CRIPE’S SAKE??
And then it comes to me – we are equipped. With just one survival item – it’s all we get.
Love.
See, the undamaged parts of me have a knowing – we are given one item, and only one that matters. It’s not a weapon. It cannot be stolen, used against us, or bartered.
Love keeps me from tapping out. Love keeps me from running. And love will be the key to my survival – to OUR survival. It’s all we take with us. It’s all we are born with and die with. It is everything.
Dear Reader, yesterday was hard. I will write about it in a bit. But as I was resting this morning and going through the scazillion pictures on my phone, I came across some videos I’d taken to make a little TikTok about little things that make me happy. I had taken them before I knew I was facing cancer – but decided to make the video anyway. Because all the more reason to make it. All the more reason to take notice of good things. Not for the sake of toxic positivity, but because I’m trying not to let the negativity win. Blessed be, friends.
Okay this is the proof I got out of my actual pajamas yesterday, if only for an hour.
By: JANA GREENE
Hi. In the interest of journalistic integrity (haha), I feel like adding a disclaimer of some kind to the entries I’m going to be adding in Words by Jana Greene. Because I’m a writer, I like stories to have a clear beginning, middle, and end. I like when I can weave the narrative in clever ways or end up with a cohesive piece.
Yeah, this is NOT that.
When writing about this journey in particular, I am writing stream-of-consciousness-style, and if you don’t want to read me because this page may be full of incorrectly punctuated, rambling, seemingly random words, I get it Sis. I am not over-editing, because that breaks the intention of sharing my heart and makes it sort-of clinical in a way. I’m going to get plenty of “clinical;” this is the opposite, I think.
Yesterday, I had a rollicking good afternoon. Weirdly good. I put on a dress, asked my husband if we could go to dinner. I’m so tired of having cancer-ese language in my head.
I did my makeup, which happens with the relative frequency of a solar eclipse, and my hair – which is very long and very thick, and EXAUSTING to my hypermobile shoulders. And THEN – after alllll that – I look him dead in the eye. “Baby, I’ve used every ounce of my energy getting ready. I’m exhausted.”
“It’s okay,” says he. “Want to order in wings and binge-watch Dexter?” GOD, I LOVE THAT MAN.
So, lickity-split, I changed back into my “Agape Against the Machine” oversized t-shirt, ordered food, washed off every bit of makeup, plopped on the couch with my beloved, and ate chicken wings King-Henry-the-Eighth style in a MOST unladylike fashion with what little energy I had left.
The energy of a sick person is finite. And some days, it is more finite than others. “But you just DID it,” they say. “Yes!” say I. “And that’s why I can’t do it again!”
Doling it out over the course of the day must be deliberate. We don’t just “do things,” we do things that deplete our body’s energy ration in parcels. The parcels are not of our choosing, even. We wake up, take stock of pain, and – if our pain to exhaustion ratio is high, goals for the day get voted off the island until you are left with one crappy thing to do that isn’t even fun. Disabled bodies are utilitarian, and have no time for frivolity, on low-energy, high-pain days.
The ante was significantly upped with the cancer diagnosis June 13.
Tomorrow morning, I go for an invasive bone marrow test, which by all accounts SUCKS. I feel like up until now, I’ve been pretty accepting of my diagnosis and kind of positive about all this, but I ain’t feeling brave this morning. Fight, Flight, and Fawn all have seats at my breakfast table right now, and they look a hot mess.
So, today, I interrupt my own sometimes-toxic positivity with a special news bulletin:
I’m scared.
For the first time since the diagnosis, I am legitimately scared. I don’t know what triggered the fear (having cancer, probably – ha) but as tomorrow’s test looms, I’ve decided NO THANK YOU PLEASE, I don’t want to do this cancer thing. But thanks for the offer, I already have a full schedule full of trying to stay alive. I already gave at the office. Dance card is full.I have prior engagements. But thanks for stopping by!
But that’s not reality, so I just need to be able to say, “I’m f*cking terrified.”
When a disabled person gets cancer, there are “people of the Lord” who assume God’s got it OUT for me. Why else would he “allow” all of this? Or this secular quip: “You’re the unluckiest person I know.”
But I don’t feel unlucky. I am surrounded by light and support and love. I just feel scared today, with a chance of intermittent sadness. Not strong. Not perky and upbeat. Just run-of-the-mill scared. I feel both: Scared AND lucky to have such an amazing tribe helping me make it through.
So I’ll shut this laptop, and light some candles, and get into a quiet spot, and breathe deliberately. I might take out my tongue drum and play some tones, focusing on each one as it completes its own life cycle of vibration, letting the sound take my fear down a buttonhole. Light some sage, let it’s perfume reassure me. Pray honest. Do some breathwork. Maybe I’ll get into the paints and make a mess today. Talk to God, and listen for his answer back, which can come in a myriad of ways – you just have to have the awareness to hear it. (Just ask for greater awareness of the Divine. God wants us to have the peace that passes understanding. He is not stingy with it! Don’t believe me? God lit in the forest by yourself for a while and receive. I highly recommend.
These are some of my tools to treat the fear when it comes. I acknowledge it, thank it for trying to protect me, but busy myself in art and music until it can stop actin’ a fool. And perhaps in the coming weeks, I will have another energy burst and put on the little black dress again, and actually make it out the front door! Maybe get all the way to a nice restaurant, where I’ll be able to stay awake, digest food like a normal person, and have a whole-ass date, start to finish. My husband deserves that – and so much more.
I’m so old, I remember when presidential debates were civil and if one talked over the other, it made news because it was RUDE. Remember when rudeness mattered?
I’m going to stray a bit from my usual content to vent about our current presidential situation, hopefully for the last time, but don’t quote me on that because HOOBOY! It’s going to a bumpy ride.
No. I did not watch the Presidential Debate. So let’s get that out of the way. “But Jana, how do you know it was a disaster if you didn’t watch it?” I’ve unfortunately pored over the snippets and talked to friends who did watch.
Ain’t nobody got anything good to say, unless they are maybe really good at cognitive dissonance, which is when you’ve already made up your mind about a candidate, and anything he says will be processed in your brain IN HIS FAVOR.
The reason I know this is I was the Queen of Cognitive Dissonance not too terribly many years ago. So cocksure was I that I was on the right side of history, I hardly listened to what people who believed differently than me had to say, and when I did, I listened through the filter of already being “right,” which discounts their point-of-view entirely before you’re out of the gate.
And if you have made up your mind already, debates are useless – just a gladiatorial showcase or two old men who have NO concept of what living paycheck to paycheck is, much less be “in touch with the People.” (The PEOPLE? Yeah, that’s US. We fall by the wayside in all of this.)
Also, I hate to state the obvious, but we have seen with our own eyeballs how each of them ACTUALLY “presidents.” So this is season two of a really sh*tty series and I cannot BELIEVE it was renewed for a new season.
Didn’t most of us teach our kids not to bully others, call other children names, to share their toys and resources, and to use their indoor voices?
We taught them to work out their feelings out without resorting preschool behavior (even though THEY were ACTUAL preschoolers?) At tender ages, they learned to advocate for themselves without being disrespectful, to not inturreupt each other, and to tell the truth?Weren’t these the baseline manners and respect we instilled in them when they were in diapers, for @&$/# sake?
SO WHY CAN’T ADULT LEADERS MANAGE TO TO DISPLAY ONE SINGLE BIG-BOY BEHAVIOR? NO REGARD FOR RESPECT, AND NO RISING FIRST- GRADER MANNERS? If they were on their BEST behavior (you’d think auditioning for Leader of the Free World would inspire classiness, but you’d be wrong) during a debate, at least we would know they had some civility. But now I’m thinking HOLY SHITEBALLS, maybe this IS their BESST behavior. Which explains so much…
What’s that you say? They are righteously upset, and that makes it okay? Hell naw. It doesn’t make it okay. This country is broke as a joke, in more ways than one. Guess who else led “passion” for what they do? Nero. Hitler. Caligula. Hell, even Ted Bundy.
Maybe some of are staying away from politics right now NOT because we don’t care about our country, but because we care so much about her we can barely stand to watch the fall of an empire, in the name of Christian nationalism, no less, by a man who displays not ONE SINGLE FRUIT IF THE SPIRIT. Not even a little, shriveled grape of grace, or dingleberry of actual truth. (Note to self: incorporate “dingleberry of truth” in everyday conversation.)
The sitting president is giving Weekend at Bernie’s. I don’t actually thing Biden is evil, just aged and currently on some other planet, which also does us NO good here on earth, that he is supposed to be RUNNING a portion of. The other is, well, Trump.
Shame on us. Shame on us for accepting this. Shame on us for propping up Biden and expecting him to have ONE coherent thing to say, and shame on us for allowing that tyrannical, arrogant, extremely UN-Jesusy megalomaniac who has published his own version of the BIBLE (which doesn’t phase some of you, wtf?) get THIS FAR.
We are the laughingstock of the entire world and I ain’t even mad about it because DAYUM, old farts!
Through the supposed “leaders of the free world” we saw a political version of The Punch and Judy Show (Biden would be familiar with that.) You gave us a shitshow SO SPECTACULAR, it will go down in the books as the single most undignified, unhinged, embarrassing impressions of two entitled, pull-up wearin’, nanny-nanny-boo-boo-stick-your-head-in-doo-doo Kindergartener displayin’ blowhards, for ALLLLL the world to see.
Returning to my regularly scheduled content next, which is usually about my woo woo spirituality, recovery, the frustrations with and triumphs over chronic illness, including cancer.
I would rather write about my chronic illness than the chronic state of the union – the union is whack, and our candidates are a cancer on this great nation, no less toxic than a percentage of the janky blood my marrow is making – useless in any practicality and snuffing the life out its host. As Americans, we are playing host to this political machine, and it is sucking the life out of us. It is ABSOLUTELY dividing us from one another. Which I think is their whole point.
And with that, I bid you good day. Please smile at strangers. Please feed the hungry. Please be there for your sick friend, open the door for people, and remember that every single person is battling something you don’t see. Please try to remember these two “leaders” don’t your name, or even really care what you think, so long as it translates to money and power.
A conversation between Fundamentalist Me and New Me:
FUNDIE ME: “Lord, if I ever stray from your will, please just take me home before I disappoint you.”
NEW ME: “Wow. That’s a little dramatic. You are asking God to let you die if you ever start asking questions of a spiritual nature? Isn’t that basically crossing all the “t”s and “i”s, so in case you ever DO stray you can get God on a technicality?”
“No. He’s a good, good father. I will walk each day by faith each day. Because Oh! how he loves me so...”
“He is. And he does love you so. But that prayer is literally the definition of ‘living by the letter of the law. I remember how much you love music. You’ll appreciate it even more in the future. Did you know, all music is worship, by virtue of being a creation of the Universe? Led Zepplin, Indigo Girls….”
“Deceived. Let’s change the subject. This country is going down the tubes! Jesus must be ready to return! Turn before you burn!”
“But ‘it is finished,’ I thought. “To me, that means that it’s a finished work.”
“Speaking of work, this nation was built on…”
“Yeah, in the future, you don’t support blind nationalism.”
“I know that’s not true, because God would have taken me home already if I stopped supporting the nationalist movement. I love my country!”
“Sweet girl, it won’t be the same country by the time you get here, trust me. Better in some ways and so much worse in others. You will care about social justice…”
“Gosh dang! NO.”
“And the death-wish-before-doubt prayer that God will take you right off this earth before he’d let you become liberal….er, um, I mean unholy fallen daughter of the Highest King. You’ll see how whack that is.”
“We are all born unholy. Did you just say ‘whack?’”
“We are all already holy. We are all redeemed. We are all saved. All means all.”
“WELL, I NEVER!”
“Actually, you do. You will ‘never.’ And your heart will be full, because you have no other motive than love. You’ll go to Pride rallies and pass out Free Mom Hugs…”
“No. There’s no way. You can love them without approving of their lifestyles.”
“… And the people there will sometimes dissolve into your arms and sob, because their own parents reject them just on the basis of their sexuality.”
“Well, they shouldn’t. BUT you’re playing fast and loose with ‘grace’ to ‘condone’ all that.”
“What’s to condone? As turns out, that’s not what loving unconditionally is supposed to look like; having ‘buts‘.”
“I mean, love the sinner, hate the sin. You keep saying ‘love.’ Love is discipline. So that’s not what God meant.”
“Isn’t it? Once I filtered the BS out that I feel like Jesus wouldn’t approve of, it made things so clear.”
“Did you just say ‘BS’?”
“Yes. And I say a lot of other potty words too. After repressed for so long. I now know that cussing is not what God meant about keeping our language and hearts pure. He meant don’t use your words – even scripture – as a weapon towards others. Using language for cruelty, exclusion…”
“You don’t say the ‘F word,’ Lord, please say ‘no.”
“Oh yes, you’re quite fond of that word. And the funny thing is, so are many of your ex-evangelical girlfriends who never swore because a Proverbs 31 woman wouldn’t say naughty words, and that was the standard for the godly faith of a woman.”
*Plugs ears* “LALALALALA…”
“Oh, you will learn that Eastern religions have a lot of truth. You’ll do yoga on occasion, and…”
“NOT YOGA!”
“Listen. It’s perfectly effin’ okay.”
“You went and said the ‘F’ word.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“God corrects…”
“Then let God correct, as he is far more persuasive and compassionate than we could ever be. Just love one another. He wasn’t just whistling Dixie when he said, ‘love is the greatest of these.”
“It can’t be that simple. You cannot go around willy-nilly approving of people the way they ARE, when they should…’
“Yeah, you’ll learn not to ‘should’ all over other people. And it IS that simple.”
“Well, that’s not ‘love.’ The BIBLE CLEARLY SAYS -“
“Yeah, about that…once you study Christ without 2,000 years of human dogma considered, you’ll learn the Bible ain’t too clear, period.”
“Lord, why am I still living? Oh the humanity!”
“Calm down, you’re going to love God more than ever when all is said and done. Not the concept of God you grew up with, though.”
“Well, I KNOW God, and…”
“You know the absent or spiteful god. God is incredible. So let him out of the box, sister girlfriend.”
“That’s scary. That’s gotta be the devil talking.”
“Yeah, that’s a whole other subject for another time. In the future, Fundie Jana, I’m going to love you, too. Because you strived so hard for a God to accept you, when your very existence proves that acceptance.”
“That’s New-Agey. Please repent. Before it’s too late.”
“I’m extending grace to you. The grace that you have deserved all along, but never claimed.”
“That’s prideful. We don’t ‘deserve’ anything.”
“And you’ll see the bigger picture and realize every single belief you practiced was necessary for you to be free in the end. And you will be free.”
“That doesn’t sound right.” *Wrings hands*
“You’re so afraid just to be. Please believe God is not trying to get you on a technicality.”
“But the ‘human heart is deceitful….”
“God wouldn’t have place a curious mind if you weren’t allowed to doubt and delve.”
“I’m so worried I’m going to lose the love of God if I open my mind.”
“Yes, that’s what kept you sick and stuck for a long time.Reconstructed You will be safe. You will be strong. It is truly for freedom that you have been set free.I love you just the way you are.”
Send me your warm fuzzies, good vibies, and petitioning God for a good outcome today?
Having the skin cancer on my leg removed via MOHs surgery. Completely separate and unrelated to my leukemia, because, um…go big or go home, I guess? (*shrugs and cries simultaneously whilst rocking in fetal position, then gets up and deals with it because THEM’S THE BREAKS KID!*)
They biopsy around the legion (original legion has been removed) to get the margins and have a lab onsite to test each layer for malignancy, leaving the would open as they keep excising around it, until all cancerous cells are gone. It can take hours and hours.
It’s really not that big of a deal, especially with everyone else I’m having to contend with right now, health-wise. But I could do without the aggravation. But we all know aggravation is crappy at taking its turn, always rudely infringing on us at the least opportune times.
If you’re keeping up with my journey (I don’t know that it’s a journey solely about physical health (is it ever? we are not just our bodies, where our minds and souls live. Healing has to be a full-participation thing – and I’m going to be working on my spirit, mind, and emotional well-being with every bit as much fervor as I’m going to put into my physical self.
The Hubs and I went for a little adventure in Southport the other day. We made a whole day of exploring after a lovely ferry ride across the choppy Cape Fear River. Well, we made half a day out of it anyway.
By: JANA GREENE
Nobody talks about what it’s like the first week after a cancer diagnosis. You’ve been leveled, and you know you have a “long road ahead, “but that road is a raging river so far as you can tell. The same day I received my CLL diagnosis, I was also diagnosed with a basal skin cancer on my leg. What are the odds? Two cancers in one day? I never half-ass anything!
Instinctually, you want to lay in bed and lament your fate, with weeping and probably gnashing of teeth, but you have things you want to do. And none of us have the time we think we do, so I’m trying to do the things. Like get out of bed. Like brush my hair. Like meditate until my mind quiets. Sorrow rolls like sea billows, a Nor’easterI didn’t know was coming. But I also have times of peace like a river, attending my way. There is no manual for this. I don’t really know how to feel most of the time.
I was having a good day and we were down for an adventure, so the Hubs and I spent some time in Southport. We even took the ferry across the Cape Fear River. Ferry rides are always fun.
One of the places we visited is the Maritime Museum. It has all the usual small-town museum kitch – displays about pirate life, a few real buttons from the Queen Anne’s Revenge (Blackbeard’s sunken ship.) Displays about hurricanes that have come ashore here. An “interactive” fishing exhibit. That kind of thing.
But what stopped me in my tracks was a display featuring little porcelain figurines of sailors trying to row themselves out of Hurricane- whipped seas. Every crest of the ocean higher than the last, roiling waters with no safe harbor in sight. And this little sculpture spoke to me. It reminded me right away of my favorite old hymn – “It is Well With my Soul,” by Horatio Spafford.
You see, Spafford wrote the hymn after several traumatic events leveled him. He had been a successful attorney and real estate investor who lost a fortune in the great Chicago fire of 1871. Around the same time, his beloved four-year-old son died of scarlet fever.1n 1873, hit by the economic downturn, he planned to travel to England with his family. He sent his wife Anna and four daughters ahead on the SS Ville du Havre, a French ocean liner, while he finished up business. He planned to follow in a few days’ time. While crossing the Atlantic Ocean, the ship was involved in a terrible collision and sunk. More than 200 people lost their lives, including all four of Horatio Spafford’s precious daughters. His wife, Anna, survived the tragedy. Upon arriving in England, she sent a telegram to her husband that began: “Saved alone. What shall I do?”
My grandfather had loved the sea, though he was never a sailor. And he had his own struggles, as we all do. He met up every day with depression, but he also had this bright light – like the bulb in a lighthouse. He showed me the way many times. I remember watching him paint a great Cutty Sark ship. His oil paintings of oceans were always depicted with rough waters, and he spared none of the turquoise, deep blues, and crests of white foam to get the point across – chaos is the nature of this world. Rough seas ahead!
Some might think his paintings were of angry seas. But to me as a child, surrounded by the smell of turpentine and admiration for my Papa, it looked happy enough to me – like riding riding the tilt-a-whirl at the state fair. A busy, alive sea…. WHEEEE!
My creative Papa was also a choir director, and when I’d tag along to his practices, he would often choose the old hymn. It is actually a horrible story to tell a little kid. I’m not sure I would have told that story to a four-year old, but it was a different time. I definitely never forgot the song and its meaning.
It means, “Shit happens, kid. Things will occur in your life that an earlier version of you would have sworn would kill you. Hoist the sails. If you don’t have sails, trust the wind. If you can’t trust the wind, trust God. Because tragedy is inevitable, and saved alone, what shall we do?”
Ah, but we are not rowing alone, and we are not saved alone. We are saved by a God who knows we will get roughed up a little and saved by each other – crewmates. Keep rowing over the roiling seas, and I will too. I’m grateful a little plastic sea featuring sailors in danger reminded me to trust God in a small-town museum in the middle of a crisis.
Horatio Spafford had to go through hell in order to create something that has brought untold millions hope and strength.
I have complained to the manager (God) about this protocol, that in order to bring hope, you have to walk through despair. Doesn’t seem like a good business plan but what do I know? He is the Captain, and I am not. Whatever my lot, he has taught me to say, it is well. It is well with my soul. (Today anyway, which is the only day all of us know we have.)
“And Lord, haste the day with the faith shall be sight; it is well, it is well with my soul.” I pray it is well with yours, no matter the seas.
Hello, friends. I have decided to share my current situation, in the hopes it will help me to process what’s going on, and maybe give someone else hope who is struggling similarly.
I kind of hate that about myself – I want to be mysterious and private, I am just really bad at handling things alone, and there’s nothing worse than feeling like you’re in a sinkhole by yourself, (and nobody will even admit there IS a sinkhole, much less throw you a rope.)
So, I’m sharing this in the hope that you guys will lob some prayers and hope and good vibes my way. I could use it. I also hope by sharing this, maybe someone else facing a difficult diagnosis will feel less alone. I have decided to blog about my journey. Feel free to follow here at wordsbyjanagreene.com if you want to keep up.
Thursday, I saw an oncology hematologist at the Zimmer Center, because I’ve had whacky labs and a ridiculous WBC count for a while now. I have been feeling extra run-down. I already have a host of other major medical issues. Why was I being sent to an oncology specialist? Huh. I figured it was just a mix up. It was not. I was told to expect bad news, which was actually helpful to my mental health, even though was the longest weekend of my life.
Today I got the call that confirmed that I have Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia. “CLL” is sometimes described as “the kind of leukemia you want, if you MUST have leukemia.” It is the only cancer that never goes away – there is no getting rid of it, it’s in my marrow. Many people live 10-20 years with it, sometimes without needing continual treatment. It is also extremely slow-growing and highly treatable. And I’m hanging my hat on that. But it’s still cancer. The next step is a bone marrow biopsy, and a PET scan to make sure it hasn’t spread. The doctor suspects it has not, and I hope he’s right.
On the one hand, I have answers. Mystery pop-up fevers all the time? Oh. Excessive bruising? Well, that makes sense. Mind-melting fatigue? Whelp. On the other hand, I have a long road ahead and I’m organically TIRED. Not just physically, but in every way.
I am pretty sure I have done all five grief stages in the past few days. Denial – poring over my labs determined to find some easy, benign explanation for all of it. And hitting a wall with obvious markers all weekend. Anger – WHAT THE ACTUAL F&%$? Bargaining – well, maybe not so much. At the end of the day, God is in control, and I am not, and I trust that he knows better than me. I feel his presence so intensely that I know the Spirit is buoying me up. I seem to be teetering between Depression (it’s a bummer any way you slice it,) and Acceptance currently. And the notes of acceptance are starting to be the dominant flavor.
I plan on letting my feelings have their say in all of this, even though it feels like my brain is being operated by untrained carnie workers right now.
The very hardest thing about this has been breaking the news to my three precious daughters yesterday. Literally the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I am so fortunate – they are all such incredible people and so supportive. And my husband is my ROCK. And I have such beautiful friends surrounding me.
Some people might think I’m the unluckiest woman in the world, what with so many health issues. But I see it differently – how lucky am I to be surrounded with so much love? So lucky. This is not going to steal my faith. Or my sense of humor. Or hope. It can’t. I won’t let it.
Okay, it’s giving 4th grade (but I’m a child of God, sooo…)
By: Jana Greene
I used to doodle a lot in church. Some would call it “prophetic art.” I’m of the mind that all art is prophetic, in that it releases energy. It releases dreams.
This week has been a most difficult week…maybe one of the most difficult ever. Bad news stacked on bad news. But still, deep inside, it is well with my soul. Not my body – and certainly not in my mind!
But my soul? A peace that I have NO business having – on paper. I can only thank God for making sure my spiritual sails were hoisted and my rudder steady. He saw it coming. And he made a way.
When peace like a river, attendeth my way.
But also when sorrows like sea billows roll.
This morning, I doodled again. I got the message loud and clear:
KEEP GOING, KIDDO.
Let the chips fall, but keep going. Accept bad news, but keep going. Cry, scream, and give God a WHAT-FOR. But keep going. You can walk forward while shaking your fist at the sky, I promise!
Maybe your inner kiddo needs reminding too. I’ll keep going if you will.
And thanks, Lord. Because whatever my lot, you have taught me to say, “It is well, it is well, with my soul.”
Things are pretty heavy in the world right now, so I thought I’d write some fluff.
Thanks for your readership!
By: JANA GREENE
Most of the favorite books I read in childhood featured children fleeing into the woods, being rejected by parents, taming wild beasts, and falling in love with poetry (not necessarily in that order.)
In third grade, I wanted to be one of the Boxcar Children (written by Gertrude Chandler Warner.) The plot is thus: Four children orphaned by both parents go to live with their grandparents, who resent the absolute shite out of them for having the nerve to be parentless. So, the kids run away and end up living out of an abandoned train boxcar. Sometimes the adventure was begging for food, sounded kind of fun to my naive, privileged brain. They bathed in rivers, dodged rabid animals, stayed up as late as they wanted, and stole honey from beehives (wait…that’s Winnie the Pooh.) You get the picture. So obsessed with the Boxcar Children was I, I would go into the woods behind my elementary school and pretend to be orphaned and outdoorsey. I would build a “boxcar” out of sticks and boards and the random tarp in the woods that – now as an adult – makes me wonder if that tarp had been used in a crime of some sort. Oh well….it made a great roof for my boxcar.
For the best fleeing-into-the-woods pick, we have “My Side of the Mountain,” by Jean George. It is the story of 12-year-old boy who intensely dislikes living in his parents’ cramped New York CIty apartment with his eight brothers and sisters, and can you even blame him? He decides to run away to his great-grandfather’s abandoned farm in the Catskill Mountains to live in the wilderness. Five out of five stars, so good I may read it again at 55. This boy had the life. He acquired a freaking falcon just by gaining the bird’s trust, and catches a weasel and names him “The Baron” because of the “regal way he moves about.” I wanted a weasel named “The Baron.” Just a boy (who was my hero) who lives in the trees, catches fish and smokes the meat, and attains Snow White-level rapport with the animal kingdom. Bliss.
Next up, we have anything by Dr. Seuss. Just pick one. His books were silly for silliness’ sake and I loved it. Utter nonsense, just the way I like it. I went hard and heavy on the Dr. Sues with my children when they were little. I can still recite “One Fish Two Fish” verbatim, whether I want to or not.We were hoppin’ on Pop, hearing a Who, and hanging with the Sneetches. Classic. On one occasion one of them asked, “If Snitches get stitches, do Sneeches get leeches?” (I still don’t know, he never said.)
Then there was Shel Silverstein. Oh Shel. I wanted to grow up to marry the poet behind “Where the Sidewalk Ends.” I wanted to BE a poet and write about pertinent kid topics like he did. Classics such as “The Sharp-Toothed Snail” that bites your finger if you pick your nose, being eaten by a “Boa Constrictor” which takes you on ablow-by-blow account of being eaten by a snake, and “It’s Dark in Here,” about being inside of a lion. Quality prose.
And for those coming-of-age stories, Judy Blume was my go-to. To be a scandalous ten-year old, you must have read Judy. Boobs, periods, or practicing kissing boys were always mentioned, thus giving us the thrill of our training-bra lives. She captured universal growing-up angst better than anyone. Who can forget “We MUST, we MUST, we MUST INCREASE OUR BUST!” This is before any of us had started developing and realized that getting actual boobs and periods were really a tremendous bummer and horrible inconvenience, and none of us enjoyed having when we got them. Judy made it sound much more fun than it actually was. Still a little salty at her about this.
In 1977, “Bridge to Terabithia” by Katherine Patterson came out. There was an immediately a waiting list at the Quail Valley Elementary library, and it did not disappoint when it was finally in myhands. Picture it: Two best friends create an imaginary world called Terabithia, which they escape to in order to manage trauma. When tragedy strikes, they must rely on their friendship to work through grief. This was my introduction to fantasy worlds, and the realization that you can make your own (and you may as well, this place is bonkers.) Another fine example of children “fleeing to the woods.” It was also the book that introduced me to crying while reading. I really felt I kew these kids – who made their own world when this one hurt them. I filed that away in my little survivalist head and it grew into a more vivid imagination.
Which brings me to the series I read as a tween in 5th grade that I plucked right off of the elementary school library shelves, I sh*t you not. HOW? No banned books for us! I’m talking about “Flowers in the Attic” by V.C. Andrews. Now y’all aint gonna BELIEVE this, but here’s the plot: A grandmother locks a 12 year old girl and her 14-year-old brother in an attic. Dripping in wealth but low on compassion, the villainous grandmother decides it’s a good time to break it to the children that one of them is a product of incest. And that’s not even the worst thing. She calls the children the “Devil’s spawn” and is obsessed with the idea of incest, forbidding all contact between opposite sexes. The children are not allowed to make any noise, only in the attic are they free to play because their grandfather will kill them if he knows they are being hidden there. Yikes. (There was a waiting list for that series too. And yes, it’s a series.)
Who was monitoring our reading material? No one, that’s who. It was the 70’s.
I don’t have the attention span to read like I did when I was younger. Too much thinky-ness about “real” issues, but I sure would like to lose myself in a book again! In the meantime, I think I’m going to find some woods to flee to today, for old time’s sake.
I’ve written most of my life about wandering in the desert, because frankly – I knew the desert like the back of my hand. Desert journeys include a lot of traipsing over the same sands you’ve already navigated, because the terrain is indistinguishable, and a lot of anxiety is generated by wondering when the bare, solitary wasteland finally opens up into the green meadow.
“Wandering the desert” is a catch-all term for feeling lost and bereft, without benefit of a plan, and without benefit of a Guide. On your own, finding your way without a map. Knowing somebody somewhere knows how to get out but is watching you bungle it. It’s the Christianese way to validate the spiritual experience of feeling lost and alone.
Every day, more wandering than wonderful. Wander and bump into something in my way. Wander and collapse from exhaustion. Wander and bump into myself (which can be a real awkward encounter, if you’re not ready for it.
Everyone acts like the desert is a life stage you have to go through to get to the other side. But many of us been wandering in a desert, keeping our eye on the sands, only to watch it disappear like a mirage the closer we get. Suffering here is buoyed by the hope that in the sweet by-and-by, we will be magically lifted when God returns to scoop up all of his chosen people, heretics and hooligans literally be damned. Except for I want my magic now, and I rather like the heretics and hooligans (and suspect Jesus does too, given his propensity for hanging out with scoundrels.)
What they won’t tell you is that it’s an inside job – that the Guide came preinstalled in you, and you cannot uninstall it. Trust me, I’ve tried, in times I was sure I knew a better way.
The “magic” of a God who cannot be anything BUT mystical and That’s where the magic happens. Paradise in the midst of a desert. You don’t have to go far to hear the Spirit of Source – go within. Not all who wander are lost, after all.
No bare, solitary, spiritual wasteland for you. Source loves you too much to keep you in that parched wasteland.
