still here — Together International

It’s already July, dear ones, and I am so very grateful that you are still here.

I’m still here too.

The whole Bauman family is currently battling COVID-19. Yep, after two full years of evading this viral menace, Omicron found us and took a serious bite. We did our best isolate, but it still got us. I am weirdly rejoicing this is happening now, however: my sutures are healed, so coughing and sneezing isn’t a risk. Chemo is done so blood cells are boosted. But it’s not letting go easy. It feels like a nightmare mix of flu and strep throat. Any and all prayers welcome for our encampment of sickos here 😊!

Good news first on the cancer front: I will start climbing the radiation mountain range next week. My radiologist, Dr. Bergsma, is a good one, taking tons of time to orient us to the path ahead in detail. Best news is chemo did its job: I only need 25 radiation sessions, instead of 40.

WHOOP-WHOOP!

After radiation, my lovely oncologist, Dr. Gribbin, will help us gear up for the endocrine therapy. Upwards of 10 years. B

But one mountain, one valley at a time, right?

*My oncologist, Dr. Gribbin. Or is he my older brother?*

Thanks to my awesome hubs, you got real-time glimpse of my surgery. Many of you have asked me to share it from my perspective. I’ve reflected on it quite a bit. It was a doozy for sure. Telling you a bit of the story is good medicine for my soul.

May 9th dawned with the hope of progress. The good team at St. Mary’s injected radioactive seeds into my lymph nodes so they could identify them for removal. I won’t expound, but at one point I was balancing on a table 6 ft in the air almost upside down.

Call me an acrobat!

After they moved me into surgery, Dr. Caughran took my hand and looked me in the eyes: “We got this, Belinda. We can do this…”

I think I only made it through the “Heck yea…” of my ‘Let’s Go’ speech before I was out cold.

I woke up in recovery feeling like a 2-ton elephant was sitting on my chest. Who would have thought ice chips could be so good? The plan from the beginning was to send me home the same day. Yes, we know, seemed crazy to us too after what was tantamount to a double amputation. But the data and our docs said it was safe and better during our age of COVID.

Before I was discharged, we noticed my right surgical drain was filling much quicker than my left. Like a whole lot quicker. And nausea. Icky nausea. Only 15 minutes in the car headed home, I asked Stephan to pull over.

So much for the ice chips.

Back in the car, only to pull over another 10 min later for another session.

At home, I was met with much love and careful hugs from our boys who had readied the house and made dinner. I headed straight to the bedroom, where my beloved, saintly sister-in-law and super nurse, Chris, emptied my drains, noting that the right side was bright red blood and full to the brim. We didn’t know it then, but I was bleeding internally (the technical words is hematoma), and much faster than we thought. Joshua came to check on me just as I started to vomit. He called for Stephan, and the two of them rolled me on to my side and helped me to stop choking. By this time, I had vomit in my ears and hair, but I didn’t seem to notice. I was fading in and out of consciousness.

I remember Chris talking about an aggressive bleed. Stephan was on his phone talking to my docs. Joshua was on the 911 call navigating the rescue team. Caleb was on “consciousness duty,” kneeling in front of me, gently holding up my head which kept annoyingly flopping over to one side. He was asking me to regale him with stories of snorkeling with parrot fish in Costa 🐠 🐟!

Despite his all-star job, the walls started to close in and grow shadowy.

“Belinda,” Chris leaned over, “We need to get you back to the operating room to find your internal bleed.”

The room was turning cold, and my fingers and toes went from tingling to numb. I looked up at Stephan and saw tears in his eyes.

Something was going deeply wrong.

“No, no, no,” I said, “This is supposed to be halfway, not the end…” I turned to Caleb, Joshua now at his side, and reached up to touch their faces. “You know I love you both…?” The room began to swim away from me as I took Stephan’s hand to attempt a delirious goodbye. “I’ve loved you since we were 15…”

Stephan cut me off. “No, Mrs B., we’re not doing this...”

I started to shake uncontrollably.

Next thing I know, I was throwing up on a kind EMT taking my plummeting blood pressure. As they loaded me into the ambulance, I remember glancing at the star-filled sky…

Most of you know I am a fighter. A fighter with gratitude. A fighter with regrets. I fight the pain left by bullies when I was a little girl, and the suffering left by warlords as a woman. I fight up mountains and through valleys. I fight to find the words that change minds and soften souls. And sometimes I even fight people the people I love.

But something profound happened to me that night. The day before surgery, my sweet friend, Tarah, sent me a text. She said she would pray through “the watches of the night” for me from Exodus 14:14: “The LORD will fight for you; you need only be still.”

That night, when I was unconscious and in the thick of it, Stephan reached out to Ashlee. She sent this text back:

As my body slipped into the initial phases of shock, all I could do was be still. In the ambulance, in the ER, the operating room, during the blood transfusion, and the recovery room.

It’s so rare for me to find strength in being still. If I’m honest, sometimes it’s hard to conceive of a God who fights for me. For the women in Congo. Yes! For the girls in Syria. For sure.

But for me? Do you ever feel like that?

That night, somehow, for me, stillness became a form of faith.

Here’s Stephan’s response to Ashlee in the wee hours of the morning:

What if I believe God is fighting for you and you can keep doing the same for me?

You are deeply loved and missed today, friends. Thank you for being here even when our journey comes to a bit of a halt. Your presence is life itself.

Be still.