Hello—my name is Crystal Renaud. I consider myself Jenny’s best friend or should I say, Jenny is my best friend. Either way, we’re besties. At the beginning of this cancer journey, Jenny handed me the keys to her blog and today I want to share the things that she would never share for herself.

Not the safe-for-Facebook side, but the ugly, terrible, awful side of cancer. 

We all know that chemo causes your hair to fall out and that is the picture of cancer most of us see. As her best friend, I am privy to text messages that contain a different kind of picture. Images of her broken and beaten chest after double mastectomy or images showing how her new “breasts” have opened and become infected.

You see, it’s not just hair that Jenny has lost. 

Imagine your life for a moment. 

In one afternoon, an entire year of your life has become marred by the unimaginable & shocking diagnosis. You thought you were going into the doctor for an infected milk duct. But instead, you hear the words, “You. Have. Cancer.”

You can’t imagine it because it’s an unreal reality to most people. 

Then, imagine you’re spun into a whirlwind of 18 weeks of poison, multiple surgeries, 6 weeks of radiation, piling medical bills and a doctor’s appointment nearly everyday—all the while trying to be a wife, raise 3 kids, volunteer at church, be a friend to others and work full-time.

You can’t imagine it because it’s an unreal reality to most people. 

Imagine what it is like as a woman to lose your real breasts—the ones you fed your babies with—and have them replaced by a silicone shell with a metal port for filling. Also, known as tissue expanders. Your skin is stretching and stretching to allow room for an elusive implant one day.

You can’t imagine it because it’s an unreal reality to most people. 

Then, imagine your incision breaks open and becomes infected. It takes you a week for your surgeon’s office to get back with you. You are told you need to have another surgery to repair the first… only for it to open again and be told that once again… you have to get it repaired. And this is all before real reconstructive surgery begins. All this just to get to the point where you might feel like a woman again.

You can’t imagine it because it’s an unreal reality to most people. 

Cancer is not just chemo, radiation and surgery. Cancer comes with daily reminders that you’re not the person you were before you were diagnosed. Unless you’ve walked the cancer road personally or have seen with your own eyes what it is like (for me, Jenny is #4 of my friends to battle cancer—and I have lost 2 out of 4 of them), then you just don’t know. Cancer takes a toll on everyone around you. Not just the one with the diagnosis.

When the chemo ends and the hair starts to grow back and our friend begins to look like our old friend again, a lot of people begin to think the worst is over. And we carry on with our regular lives like nothing much has happened.

Our friend has made it through. 

And with that…
The cards stop coming in the mail.
The meals stop being dropped off.
The offers to babysit dwindle.
Friends stop coming by—and some never did. 

But for someone like Jenny, the worst has just begun. Liken it to fighting in a war. When you’re in the war, you’re not able to process the causalities around you. It’s when you get home that the toll of what you have just experienced begins to add up. You battle your broken body. You battle depression. You battle God.

The worst wounds are not the ones you can see in a text message. They are the ones that you can’t see. It’s the wounds that you carry close to your heart because finding words to explain them is too difficult. And you stop asking for help because you feel guilty that you’ve asked too much of others already.

That is where our Jenny is. That is where her family is. 

But cancer is not a spectator sport. 

It’s an all hands-on-deck, everybody suits up, nobody is benched kind of sport. Please don’t retire your jersey just yet. Our friend is still in the game of her life and she needs her teammates around her. Please take a moment to pray with me for Jenny and read Psalm 91 (the verse God brought to her at the beginning of her diagnosis):

Psalm 91 MSG

1-13 You who sit down in the High God’s presence,
  spend the night in Shaddai’s shadow,
Say this: “God, you’re my refuge.
    I trust in you and I’m safe!”
That’s right—he rescues you from hidden traps,
    shields you from deadly hazards.
His huge outstretched arms protect you—
    under them you’re perfectly safe;
    his arms fend off all harm.
Fear nothing—not wild wolves in the night,
    not flying arrows in the day,
Not disease that prowls through the darkness,
    not disaster that erupts at high noon.
Even though others succumb all around,
    drop like flies right and left,
    no harm will even graze you.
You’ll stand untouched, watch it all from a distance,
    watch the wicked turn into corpses.
Yes, because God’s your refuge,
    the High God your very own home,
Evil can’t get close to you,
    harm can’t get through the door.
He ordered his angels
    to guard you wherever you go.
If you stumble, they’ll catch you;
    their job is to keep you from falling.
You’ll walk unharmed among lions and snakes,
    and kick young lions and serpents from the path.
14-16 “If you’ll hold on to me for dear life,” says God,
    “I’ll get you out of any trouble.
I’ll give you the best of care
    if you’ll only get to know and trust me.
Call me and I’ll answer, be at your side in bad times;
    I’ll rescue you, then throw you a party.
I’ll give you a long life,
    give you a long drink of salvation!”

God has been so faithful. Our Jenny is still with us. But we are her community. We are like God with skin on. She needs us. Keep supporting. Keep  loving. Keep praying.

And thank you for taking the time to read this.

With love & gratitude,
Crystal Renaud