Pink Isn’t My Color

by Roseanna | May 30, 2024 | Thoughtful Thursdays

Pink Isn’t My Color

How We Decide What Becomes Part of Our Identities

I had called the week before–both my primary care’s office and the radiology place that had done the biopsy. I’d been waiting two weeks for the results…but everyone was out of town, on vacation. So I called my PC’s office again, two weeks to the day after I’d had the biopsy done. The friendly receptionist told me about the problems they’d been having getting test results from the place that had done it, thanks to technical difficulties, but she reached out specifically to them.

And then said something I knew was bad news: “Can you come in at 12:45 today?”

We all know that they give good news over the phone. We all know that if they ask to see you, it’s not good news. So I rearranged my day, and my husband and I went in.

Even so, as my PC broke the news that I have breast cancer and went through what they knew thus far, I had the silliest thought:

But pink isn’t my color!

I know, I know. It’s a weird reaction. But it stayed there in the back of my mind all through the next weeks and the next steps. And it stayed because, I think, it represents something far deeper for me.

I don’t want to be identified as someone with breast cancer.

I finally put it into words a week or so later, as my husband and I sat in the car waiting for our son to come out of youth group. Words he needed, because they hit on something he’d been struggling with too.

First, allow me to offer this: I take no issue with people choosing to incorporate these battles into their identity. Whether it’s being a cancer survivor or a Type 1 Diabetic warrior, or parent or spouse or sibling, whether it’s being a Wounded Warrior or a stroke survivor or anything else–we all choose what we incorporate into our identities, and we have a right to do that. No judgment from me whatsoever. Allow me to also say that I’ve gotten some pink gifts in the last few weeks, and I am so, SO touched and grateful, and I love each one. As I walk through this cancer journey, I love seeing the ribbons that remind me that I’m not alone, and that we’re all fighting together. I love the pink pashmina shawl, and the beautiful bracelet. But much like most of my other articles of clothing and accessories, they may be something I wear, but they’re not who I am.

Because in our family, we tend to come down on it this way:

The only things that get to become part of our identity are the things we choose. Things that happen to us don’t get to define us.

Now, that said…how you react to the situations and circumstances you find yourself in IS a choice. And that’s why so many choose to embrace those things and identify with them. Which is why I’m A-okay with it.

But I look at our circumstances as the things that shape us into who we need to be to fulfill the call God has put on our lives. Those are the words my husband said to me as we were racing to the hospital while our son was being flown by helicopter to Pittsburgh Children’s PICU, in DKA from the onset of diabetes.

And it’s something we’ve lived out since. I’m in lots of groups for families of Type 1 Diabetics, and I know how much it governs the lives of many, many families. I see the water bottles and T-shirts and stickers they wear. Because they are warriors–the kids and their parents–and they’re proud of it.

But my son doesn’t want any of those things. My son is totally chill and laid back and deals with his disease responsibly. He doesn’t get upset by it. But he also doesn’t want it. If they announce a pill next week that will manage it all for him, he will be first in line. He would give it up if he could. Diabetes is something that happened to him–but he does not define himself as a diabetic. He doesn’t deny being one, and he’s not the type to ever be like, “No, call me ‘a person who has diabetes, not a diabetic'” because he knows that amounts to the same thing. But if Rowyn were to write his bio, it would probably say something like, “Avid gamer, good at math but hates it, loves the colors blue and black, can spend all day building things, whether physically or on the computer.” Nowhere in there would he feel the need to mention that he wears a CGM (continuous glucose monitor) or an OmniPod insulin pump. He accepts it as his reality–but not as his identity.

And that’s exactly how I feel about this breast cancer. I accept that it is my current reality. I accept that I have to deal with it, and I will. I’ll handle it responsibly, and I’ll be open and vulnerable about it, just like I am about Rowyn’s Type 1.

But you know what? Pink isn’t my color. I’m not going to wear the T-shirt. I’m not going to get the stickers. I’m not going to drink from the water bottle. Not because I mind other people doing those things–and I will cheer you on if I see you with that pink ribbon! But because this is not who I am. This is just what I’m going through right now. I plan to be a breast cancer survivor, a thriver. I feel such camaraderie for the others who have gone or are going (or will go) through it. Yes, we are a band of sisters who never would have chosen this path but who will walk it in faith. I embrace the sisters. I’ll share the story.

But it’s just a chapter–it’s not my whole book. It’s just a challenge–it’s not what defines the competitor. It’s my reality, not my identity.

How do we decide what becomes part of our identities?

We choose. We choose what we leave as our legacy. We choose what we focus on. If you’ve chosen to embrace being a warrior and the battle you’ve been through, that’s awesome.

But I am not a warrior. I am someone who sometimes go to battle. It’s what I do–it’s not who I am.

I am the Beloved of God. I am the daughter of Ron and Karen. I am the sister of Jennifer. I am the wife of David. I am the mother of Xoe and Rowyn. I am a writer. I am a friend. Those things are what I will let define me, be part of my identity. The people I love, the calling God put on my heart, the words He put in my mouth (or in my fingers, LOL), the belonging to Him.

You can strip away my human relationships, you can take my physical abilities, you can even strip away my words, and my core being will still be intact, because it’s rooted in Him. But I am happiest with my people, with my books.

Not with my cancer. Strip that away, and I’ll still be me. But when it is taken away–and I believe it will be–I’ll be a stronger version of me. That’s what the battles are for. To shape us and strengthen us, and even to break down the parts of us that God knows we’re better off without. The Roseanna that emerges will be a better Roseanna than the one who stepped onto this path that Tuesday in her primary care’s office.

And she won’t be wearing pink.

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Word of the Week – Audition

by Roseanna | May 27, 2024 | Word of the Week

I’ve never really paused to think about the word audition before…but it turns out, its modern meaning is not where it began.

When you look at the word and note the audi- root, you’ll realize that it’s linked to the act of hearing or listening, like audio. So it makes sense that the original meaning of the word, from the 1590s, was “a hearing.” But it carried more of a legal sense–a court hearing, or some other event where the act of listening was the crucial thing.

The sense we most associate with the word today, of a performer doing a trial run for judges, didn’t come around the 1880s! And even then, it was only a noun. You would go to an audition…but audition as a verb only dates from the 1930s!

Have you ever gone on an audition? I have, for both music and theater, in my middle and high school days. Happy to say I always landed a part, though the nerves, man…the nerves! 😉

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Update on Roseanna

by Roseanna | May 23, 2024 | Thoughtful Thursdays

Well, here I am, 10 days after my first infusion of chemotherapy. So many of you have reached out privately to say you’re praying and ask how I’m doing–and many just say you’re praying and don’t want to be a bother so say I don’t have to reply, LOL. So I thought I’d do an official update.

As David drove me to the hospital on Monday, May 13, and asked what I was feeling, my answer was that I was…curious. I like to know things. How was I going to react to the chemo itself, as it went in? (That first time they do it super slowly to watch for allergic reactions.) How would I react over the next couple of days and weeks? Whether the answers were what I wanted or not, I was glad to be to the point where I’d be discovering them.

I have to say that one of the most impactful things about the whole experience has been how wonderful the staff are at the hospital we’re going to. It’s a 90-minute drive but worth every minute. I just went up again yesterday for another biopsy, and it struck me anew–everyone was so loving, so thoughtful, so conscientious of me and my needs. And that’s been true of absolutely everyone I’ve encountered. The infusion itself went great, and my biggest praise since is that I can already feel the tumor shrinking. Praise God for that! And the bone scan last week agreed with the CT that nothing has spread, so I am so grateful and relieved about that!

The first five days were relatively fine afterward. My taste buds are definitely weird right now–anything salty just tastes totally bland to me, a normal dusting of black pepper burns my mouth, but sweet stuff still tastes fairly normal. (Bring on the chocolate! LOL) Thursday I began experiencing the most common side effect of this particular treatment, which is, ahem, intestinal distress. The weekend wasn’t fun, I admit it. I’ve had quite a few queasy days. And I haven’t been able to sleep well, so I’m more tired than I’d hoped to be.

But it’s starting to ease up. When I’m writing this, I feel pretty normal. That can change minute to minute, but I’m enjoying the respite…along with some of the other oddities that I’ve noticed. The last couple of days, soft things feel so soft. I know that sounds weird, but when I lean against a blanket, it just feels like it envelopes me in cushiness. The bed feels awesome when I lie down. The car seat was so comfortable. It’s absolutely bizarre, LOL, but also nice. And thanks to that shrinkage already, I can sleep on my side again for the first time in months! And for whatever reason, body odor has vanished. Didn’t see that one coming, but I’ll take it!

For several days last week, my scalp felt very tender, but that has gone away. I was warned that hair loss couple begin immediately and that it most commonly hits at 2-3 weeks after the first treatment and can really strike any time. So far, nothing abnormal there. But I’m prepared. I have my crazy purple wig (I tried it on, y’all, and I didn’t even recognize myself! LOL) and a pretty white lightweight knit chemo hat thing. So, you know, if I wake up bald before church one morning, I don’t have to panic.

So there we go. I’ve had a few rough days, but nothing debilitating thus far. And I continue to be so, so blessed by the flood of cards and little gifts and donations. Some from good friends, some from people whose names I don’t even recognize, all of which fill me with such humbleness and love. God is so good, and His children are reflecting that so clearly in my life right now. Please know that I treasure every note, every prayer, and every thought. I’m saving up all the cards that have come in, and it’s a mighty pile already! Just seeing it there by my desk fills my heart with such peace.

This may not be the road I would have chosen freely, but it’s a road filled with beauty nevertheless. A road filled with love and joy and peace. Thank you for reminding me every step of the way that I’m not alone.

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Word of the Week – Meme

by Roseanna | May 20, 2024 | Word of the Week

Did you know that meme was coined as a scientific word in the 1970s?

Yep. Richard Dawkins, a British evolutionary biologist, wanted a word to describe ideas or behaviors that quickly spread from person to person within a culture, so he came up with meme, from the Greek mimesthai. His own thought-process is thus:

We need a name for the new replicator, a noun that conveys the idea of a unit of cultural transmission, or a unit of imitation. ‘Mimeme’ comes from a suitable Greek root, but I want a monosyllable that sounds a bit like ‘gene’. I hope my classicist friends will forgive me if I abbreviate mimeme to meme. If it is any consolation, it could alternatively be thought of as being related to ‘memory’, or to the French word même. It should be pronounced to rhyme with ‘cream’. [Richard Dawkins, “The Selfish Gene,” 1976]

By 1997, popular computer culture had picked up the word and used it to mean “images or snippets of video, audio, or text that spread rapidly from one internet user to another.”

Bet you didn’t know that the meme you just shared is part of the study of biology, did you? 😉

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These Bodies

by Roseanna | May 16, 2024 | Thoughtful Thursdays

Crucifixes used to creep me out. I admit it. Probably because I grew up in a faith tradition that put a lot of emphasis on “He’s not on the cross anymore!” as a way of deliberately frowning upon any cross that had a representation of Christ on it. That’s wrong was very clear in the teaching.

So when we started attending a Catholic church, the crucifixes…yeah, let’s say I just averted my eyes. For a while. Until I began to understand why it was so important to remember that Christ suffered. So that it was always before us in our suffering. So that we didn’t have to say, “No, I’m fine. No, I’m not grieving. No, I’m not hurting. Of course I believe! The cross is empty!” and instead we can say, “Lord, unite my suffering to your own. Give it meaning, as yours had. Take it, redeem it, and in turn give it your redemptive power.”

When you enter into a Catholic church before Mass, there’s no babble of voices or laughter or gossip. There are people sitting or kneeling quietly, with their eyes affixed to the cross (there are plenty of “empty” ones too). To the crucifix (there’s always one in the front). “Contemplate the crucifix” was instruction my husband received for what to do in those silent minutes.

It was a challenge for me. But one that made some pretty profound truths settle in my soul. Truths that I’m now clinging to as my own body goes through its own journey of suffering. Cancer may not be the same cross Jesus suffered. But it’s a cross. And it’s suffering. And as I gaze upon that reminder of what He already went through for me, it’s how I know He’ll use this for His glory too.

Just think for a moment about these frail human bodies we occupy. We may tell ourselves that the real us, our souls, are not our bodies, and that’s how we live forever–spiritually, our souls in heaven. And that’s true…in part. But it’s not the whole truth, is it? We are each given a unique body, and it is not only ours, it is us, in a very real way. A very material way. We are not just spirit–we are spirit and body. We are a creation that God made to have both spirit and body.

When He sent Christ among us, it wasn’t just as spirit. This was actually one of the great heresies in the early church, with people claiming He wasn’t really flesh. He didn’t cast a shadow. He didn’t leave footprints. Because flesh, they said, was all evil. Spirit is all good. So a perfect Savior couldn’t have a physical body like we do.

But oh, how wrong that was. We know that Jesus went out of His way to let people touch Him. Feel Him.

God became man. He took on flesh, just like ours. Flesh that grew in His mother’s womb, cell by cell. Flesh that came forth from her body with the same fluids as any other baby. Flesh that grew, learned how to suckle, how to speak, how to crawl and walk and laugh and play. Flesh that needed food and drink. Flesh that bled when cut.

Flesh that He told us would be offered to us in bread. In wine. Flesh that became bread. Became wine, so that we could share in it through the ages.

Flesh that He let be bruised, beaten, battered for us. Flesh that was torn by a whip. Flesh that had nails put through it. Flesh that suffocated on the cross. Flesh that collapsed in agony.

He felt that. Every strike of the whip. Every poke of the thorn. Every hammer of the nail. He felt it. He chose to feel it. He refused the drugged wine that would have dulled his senses. That bodily part mattered. It was through His precious body that mankind was freed from our sin. He didn’t make a symbolic, spiritual sacrifice. He made a complete one–body, soul, mind, spirit.

Just think about it. Jesus chose to fully feel that pain for you, in every cell of His body. In the same body He offered in the bread hours before.

The same body that grew in His mother. The same body that reached out and healed blind men with a touch, gave voice to the mute, restored a paralytic. The same body that walked across water, that spoke the words to calm a storm or return life to a dead man.

That’s the body He gave to us in Holy Communion. The one that hung on the cross. The one that died. The one that was buried in a tomb. The one that lay there, dead, over the Sabbath.

Do you want to know how much Jesus valued that body? Enough that He came back for it. Enough that He raised that same body up again–still with the holes in His hands, His feet, His side. Still able to be touched, to be fed, to be clung to. (Ever wonder where all He went between the resurrection and ascension? He only appeared a handful of times to the disciples. What else was He doing in His resurrected body? Where did He go? Who did He talk to?) That body meant so much to Him that He took it with Him into heaven.

So much that He shares it with us still, even today. Every time we partake of His Flesh, of His Blood. He’s still there in heaven, in His body, and that resurrected body is still present with us on earth every time we share in Holy Communion.

That means that His powerful, death-defying, resurrected body is in me. Just a little bit, when I take that wafer.

You know what that means? That my body matters too. This is the one God gave to me, with all its quirks. For whatever reason, He created us to have minds that think, hearts that feel, souls that chase after Him, and bodies in which He can live. Paul doesn’t tell us we are temples just as encouragement to eat healthy food and exercise. He tells us we are temples because God lives inside us when we open the door for Him, when we share in that blessed sacrament, when we unite ourselves to Him.

But not just to His glory. To His suffering too. We can’t forget that. It’s as crucial a part of the faith as the resurrection. He had to suffer. He had to die. He had to rise again. It all matters.

In my time of suffering, I can look at His and know it matters. I can look at His and know it’s already been redeemed. I can look at His and be reminded that that same body is both in heaven and poured out for me. For my healing. For my strength. But also just to hold my hand through the bad parts. I don’t have to deny them. I don’t have to be stoic. I don’t have to pretend everything’s okay.

I can say, “Even when it isn’t. Even when it hurts. Even when things go wrong. Even when our bodies fail. Even when we’re sick. Even then…even then, He is God. Even then, He knows. Even then, He holds our hand with His own, nail-pierced one. Even then, He is with us. Even then, He says, ‘It matters. I know. And together, we are going to do great things. Even now, when you are so weak. I AM strong.”

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