How Do You Plead, Mrs. McClendon?

Minus Gray; Charlie, Buck & Elizabeth

With four children, it's extremely difficult to read anything other than menus, the entire label on the back of a bottle of adult cough medicine (usually at 2 am with an underweight, underage child hacking at the side of my bed) or stain remover instructions. I have magazines all over my house because I crave the feeling of reading something, anything, from start to finish. Yesterday proved to be different-- I had the opportunity to read a book, a short book albeit, in between all my tests at the hospital. The last time that happened, I had elected to fight a traffic ticket and read "A Girl named Zippy" while waiting for my name to be called from the docket. The judge kept looking at me because I would read a part that was so funny I would crack up and interrupt her questioning ("And did you not know your cousin had stolen your car while you were passed out?"). In an attempt to control my outbursts, I would cover my mouth with my hand and my shoulders would uncontrollably bounce up and down--you know, the kind of laugh that's usually reserved for church, weddings and funerals. I may have lost that $145 argument, but I won in spades with my stolen afternoon on that bench.

Since the day of my diagnosis, I have been consumed with the thoughts of where the cancer may have spread. I told myself repeatedly, "well heck Melinda, if it's in your lymph nodes, it's probably everywhere....it's covered your liver like creeping fig, your brain is speckled and your lungs, well it's a wonder you can still breathe." I imagined how I would break the news to my already-terrified babies, how my sweet Ted would handle it, and of course, how Daddy Frank would take the news. I began questioning every decision I was having to make; wondering if the hospital and doctor I had chosen would be able to help by cancer-ridden body. I went so far as to imagine David Johnston singing "I Can Only Imagine" at my funeral. Poor me. Poor pitiful me.

When the nurse called Monday morning to schedule the tests, I sat motionless on the side of my bed and wrote down all the necessary tests on an invoice from MORE magazine (Second Notice). This was a last-minute plan, luckily, so I didn't have time to contemplate all the possibilities. I dressed, picked up a few magazines and at the last second, grabbed a book that I bought several months ago, thinking I'd read it poolside this past summer. I never got to the pool, so the book held my coffee cup on my bedside table when I folded laundry.

A brain MRI, a full body MRI and a bone CT scan kept me busy for nearly 6 hours. The tests were just what you'd expect, but the time in between--waiting for syrup, dye and iodine-laced cherry water to enter my veins/bones/organs--took forever. If you've never had any of these tests at the Medical Center, you don't know what you're missing. Did you know that they have a machine that is designed specifically for warming blankets? They do. And they give you a new one every time you lay down on a different table. It's really quite nice. Anyway, the waiting allowed me to pull out that little "coaster" and start reading. And read I did!

Andy Andrews is a New York Times best selling author. He's a life coach of sorts. He motivates people to be better through a series of very successful books and international conferences. He's a pretty big deal. I've never read his stuff before, but I liked the subject matter on this one and thought I might give it a try. And he's from Dothan. Went to First Baptist where I think his daddy was the music minister years ago. "The Noticer," is a book about Perspective and if you've not noticed, that pretty much sums up my philosophy on life. Without giving away the premise, the main character in the book is a God-like figure who encounters every day people in Orange Beach, Alabama, with every day problems. "Jones" as he calls himself, counsels each of the characters and gives them a new perspective on their problems, and ultimately, their blessings. While elementary in presentation, the message is one we all need to be reminded of--if we are capable, even in the most extreme cases, to put our situation into a clear, unbridled perspective, we can walk through any fire, not only unscathed, but grateful for the experience.

As usual, I felt like the luckiest person in that hospital yesterday. Surrounding me were hurting parents of sick children, uninsured patients with chronic illnesses, and people drinking their third pot of coffee anxiously pacing the hallways. And there I sat, in my warm blanket, being reminded of my many blessings and reading a book (cover to cover) that I was confident my God had put in my bag. My perspective is clear. Eternal or otherwise.

My test results today proved Mr. Andrews correct:

40% of the things we worry about will never occur

30% of the things we worry about are things from the past that we can't change anyway

12% of the things we worry about concern needless health issues

10% of the things we worry about are what other people think about us

8% of the things we worry about are actually legitimate

In the past 2 weeks I've wasted a great deal of time and energy worrying about something that falls in 3 of the above categories. Eighty two percent of my thoughts were for naught. Thank you Mr. Andrews, for putting it in perspective for me.

And now that I know the beast hasn't spread all over me like kudzu, I hesitate to say that the battle ahead now seems like a cake walk. Sure, I have a fat-daddy year ahead of me with amazing challenges and dozens of needles (ugh) waiting for me. But trust me, it could be so much worse and that's how my awesome God has prepared my heart for this adventure. I now know who the enemy is and where it is. Ted and I are ready for this battle. So bring it on.

As they say in Geneva County, "I ain't scared." (David McCormick). Now that's perspective!

hugs and kisses!

Update:

appointment with Oncologist Scott McAllister here Wednesday a.m.

appointment with Surgical Oncologist Kirby Bland UAB next Wednesday a.m.