November 8th, 2022 was the date my life was forever changed. To be honest, I never understood why anniversaries of important or sad events bothered people. But I do now. Because today is November 8th, 2023 — and with that comes a tidal wave of emotions.

I’ve chosen to start this day off by doing one of my favorite things, drinking coffee and writing. So alas, here I am — writing, reflecting, and tasting the deliciousness that is coffee.

Even my choice of coffee mug reflects the past year of my life. I chose a coffee mug that my Dad had gifted me while I was in the hospital. I believe he bought it for me right before I stopped drinking coffee. How ironic.

That was one thing cancer stole from me during that time. My beloved coffee.

I was too sick, too nauseous from all the chemo to partake of it. I was one of those moms who still drank coffee while I was pregnant–but the chemo nausea was just too much.

So maybe that’s the first thing I’ll thank God for today.

My body and my tastebuds allowing me to enjoy coffee again.

Now back to November 8th, 2022. I want to relive that day through my words, so here we go.

I stayed home from work because the doctor thought I had pneumonia. It made sense, I couldn’t breathe, was feverish, and my lungs sounded terrible. It was also Election Day, so schools were closed. We were having a training at our school, and so I had dropped Noelle off at her Aunt Bri Bri’s house for the day.

I remember standing at the end of her long brick walkway from the road that leads to her house. I was headed to get an X-RAY of my chest. And in typical Briana fashion, she said she loved me and would be praying for me, and that Noelle was going to have a fun day. And that was that.

It pains me as I begin to unwind the next part of this day.

I drove maybe 2 miles down the road to get my chest X-RAYed. I wasn’t really that nervous, but I was a little bit because I knew pneumonia could be dangerous.

The X-RAY begins.

The technician asked me if I had ever had problems with my lungs before.

“No?” I sheepishly replied.

She took a few more X-RAYS. I tried to see her face through the divider. And I succeeded.

She looked confused and concerned.

I felt my stomach drop.

I was told to have a seat and to not leave.

I sat down in that dark X-RAY room, and panic and tears started flowing down my face. I couldn’t breathe. I was having a panic attack. I was familiar with panic attacks because I have struggled with anxiety disorder. But this time, I had a real, tangible reason to be —panicked.

The Dr. came in. She was amazing and tried to calm me down. She assured me she was going to take good care of me.

I called Spencer and asked him to come be with me at the clinic. He was a little hesitant, as he is a very positive, very logical person. He’s seen me be panicked before– but he was kind enough to leave his training for the day and be by my very anxious side –yet again.

At this point, I still didn’t know there was a mass. I didn’t know it was cancer. I just knew I couldn’t leave.

The nurses check my vitals. Everything was beautiful. My oxygen was 95, which is honestly shocking considering how much fluid was on my lungs.

I just remember them trying to decide if I could go home or if I need to be admitted to the hospital.

I was scared.

I was scared of being admitted in the hospital for pneumonia. After all, people die from pneumonia. I was having flashbacks to a couple months prior when my Dad was in the hospital with pneumonia and it almost took his life. What about my girls? How would they do with mommy in the hospital? I had flashbacks of all the scary covid stories, people being intubated, ect. Was that going to be me?

I wanted to go home, but I wanted to be where I needed to.

I pictured that long walkway between my car and Briana’s front door. Briana standing there telling me Noelle was going to have a great day. Whew, she was going to be just fine. I needed to focus on my health.

They sent me to the ER.

It was fine. I was fine. Everything was fine.

I got settled in a triage bed, and sent Spencer off to get me a vanilla latte because I sure as heck deserved one.

He was gone when they wheeled me to CT.

Wait, why am I going to CT? No one had told me anything. WHY WAS I GOING TO CT?!

I began to have another panic attack laying on the CT table. I was all by myself. Confused.

CT for pneumonia? The techs wouldn’t tell me why I was there.

As I layed on that CT table, and my body was going through that scan– I was terrified. I thought of two things. First thing I thought of was Olivia Weatherford. An 8 year old girl in my community who had been through hundreds of CTs–she was brave, so I could be too.

The second thing I thought of was God. Or maybe He was thinking of me. I don’t know. But as clear as the words are to you on this page, I heard him saying I was okay. I heard Him saying he was not surprised at where I was. I heard him saying I could trust Him as this chapter of my life unfolded. And in my panic, in my anxiety, I felt a peace. A reassurance.

And I don’t know if that makes any sense— but it’s what happened. And to be honest, I wrestled with God over that little conversation I had with him during my first CT.

Why could I trust you in THIS, God? Why are you not worried? Why did you see this coming and you DIDN’T STOP IT?

CT was done, and I was met back with Spencer in my triage room. I suddenly was not up for drinking that vanilla latte anymore.

But still, my husband was calm, cool, and collected. Which in hindsight, all of this probably rocked his world. Well, I mean, I know it did, but I wonder what the effects of my cancer diagnosis have had on his positive, half glass full, nothing-can-go-wrong type personality?

At this point, no doctor or physician had been in to talk to me yet. I still didn’t know why I went to CT.

And suddenly, I am being wheeled to another part of the hospital. I can’t even remember the name of it.

Well, this time I knew I wanted my husband to be there. But I was told no, he could not come.

I’m not really sure how—but he was able to join me. Maybe I had another panic attack, maybe I asked to speak to the charge nurse — who knows—I just remember he came with me. And I needed him.

Again, I asked where I was going — no answers.

I get into the room, and I am told to lean over. They are going to take the fluid off of my lungs.

Suddenly, I am stabbed in my side. I grasped for air, and… I could breathe. I didn’t even think about how painful that jab was, but how I could breathe.

Spencer held my hand tightly. In my disarray, I asked him to sneak a picture of all the fluid they took off. 🤪

Maybe that’s why they have a policy of no family members in that room–cause jokesters like me take photos.

A liter and a half—gone.

I was happy. I didn’t feel scared anymore. Maybe I would get to go home now!

I’m wheeled back to another ER room at this point. Spencer and I are both feeling pretty good about everything.

We had been updating family via text.

And then. A moment engrained in my brain. A moment that I wish was all just a bad, bad dream.

Some random blonde young ER physician and the kid she was “training” stands in my doorway.

IN MY DOORWAY. NOT MY BEDSIDE.

“We found a giant mass in your chest. We believe it’s cancer. That’s all we know.”

There’s no telling what I asked or what I said. All I remember is collapsing in Spencer’s arms.

And we sobbed.

And we shaked.

And we wept some more.

“Call Pastor!” I said.

Right? How could I tell my family? It would make it all true. But we needed support. We needed help.

And so our Pastor came. And I don’t remember much. But crying. I remember he asked me what my favorite verse was. And he prayed that over me.

Psalm 23.

And I’m crying as I write this. It’s funny, because I didn’t even know I still had tears to cry over this day.

But I do. And that’s okay. Because, Jesus wept. And He weeps with me too.

Another physician comes in. I remember saying “well the mass is small, isn’t it?”

And in typical oncologist fashion—“No, it’s actually rather big. 10 cm. The size of a grapefruit.”

My heart sunk, yet again. At this point we were told, maybe it’s Non Hodskin’s Lymphoma. Well I knew my FIL had survived NHL—so I could too.

Turns out my diagnosis was different—but that’s another day.

And that’s about as far as I want to write about on this day. I don’t want to relive anymore right now.

And that’s one huge lesson I’ve learned throughout all of this. (I’ve learned many!)

I’ve learned how to take care of myself. To speak up for what I need. To allow help when it’s needed. To feel my emotions, and then move on.

So that’s it for today–and as my amazing therapist taught me—she said this is now my “take back” day.

November 8th no longer gets to just be my “diagnosis day” but my Take Back Day. A day I take back, for MYSELF.

She encouraged me to think of a saying, or a mantra for this day. And I immediately knew.

I will not DIE, but LIVE, and declare the works of the Lord. Psalm 118:17

And so I called the bakery and ordered a giant cake with that verse on it.

And after I finish posting this, I’m going shopping.

I’m celebrating my life and being alive.

Most cancer survivors celebrate their remission day. Truth is, I don’t even know the exact day I was found to be in remission. So there’s no other “dates” that I have in my mind. So November 8th, it will be.

And make no mistake, on the latter part of that verse.

You see this verse isn’t just about me living and not dying of cancer, but of DECLARING the WORKS OF THE LORD.

And that’s exactly what I am going to do.

The rest of my life.

Some of you may think I’m too much, too bold in my faith, too much of a Jesus freak–but I don’t care.

I think of Michael Scott in that scene where he yells, “I DECLARE BANKRUPCY!” 🤣

And maybe that’s what I will look like as I declare the works of the LORD over my life.

To be honest, there were days during my treatment I wanted to die. My mental health was in such a terrible state from all of it, and the predisone—I told my sister I didn’t want to do treatment anymore. It was too much. Just let me, die.

But THE LORD kept me. He held on to me. He was literally my lifeline.

Some you might be thinking, “Wow that’s really bold of her to share.” or “Wow what a terrible mom she is to have let her mind go there.”

But whatever— this is me, declaring the works of the LORD over my life.

He kept me. And I can’t explain it, I wish I could.

But that’s maybe where faith meets us.

In that place between understanding and our external circumstances.

So let it be known, I will live and not die, and declare the works of the LORD.

Thank you, for following my story. Thank you for caring enough to read this ol’ blog. Thank you for donating money, sending meals, sending cards, sending books, sending up prayers on my behalf.

Perhaps I have seemed “quiet” on social media or my blog, but the truth is. I am still writing. I am writing a book. Not just about cancer— but about so many things.

I will live and not die, and declare the works of the LORD.

I love you,

Leah