Rising Above

September 15, 2020September 15, 2020 ~ Georgia Coats ~ 3 Comments

An individual has not started living until he can rise above the narrow confines of his individualistic concerns to the broader concerns of all humanity. MLK, Jr.

I’m not sure if I’m haunted or inspired.

20 years and I’m still trying to figure out living.
20 years since my leukemia diagnosis in September of 2000.
20 years of grasping at my sense of self in the midst of chronic limitations.
20 years of a tenacious spirit learning to dance in fragile body.

How can I rise above my personal cancer and be a part of treating malignancies that face all humanity?

This question has been weighing on my mind since last September. I needed to rise up for my journey of Chronic Hope in order to clarify my identity.

20 years later, there is clarity to rise. But rising above is not a climb.

It’s a descent.

My challenge, quarantined in 2020, has been to listen, lament, and repent of injustice in myself and in our culture. To weep with those who weep and mourn with those who mourn. I really wanted to just take action. But I had not stopped to consider the lack in my understanding of justice and society. And how justice for all reflects the heart of God.

There is a lot of humble stillness and lowly heart work involved in rising. Nothing glorious or stunning. Just quiet, dark, quarantined heart work.

If the world had not shut down in a global pandemic, would I have done that work?

I don’t exactly know how to take action, but one thing has become clear:

If I don’t take action, something in me will die. Or will never have the chance to truly live.

So, from this humbler and haunted place I desperately seek to learn in community from those who are taking action. To join. To grow. To serve. I thought the vulnerable and the marginalized needed me. It turns out, we need each other.

Rising above is not mine to achieve. Starting to live is not mine to map out.

Mine is to quietly join the labors of love.

To learn from those who weary their hearts and dirty their hands for the plight of others.
To allow the plight of the vulnerable to be felt deeply and personally.
To understand how to do justly, because I cannot truly love mercy without it. Mercy accompanies justice.
Ultimately, to surrender the sense of self I’ve worked so hard to grasp.

Mine is the work of vulnerable humility.

Rising belongs to the Divine Hand that is strong and wise enough to lift me up in due time.

Just curious… what are the daunting malignancies you’ve been called to rise above?

White Noise—A Cry of Repentance

June 11, 2020June 13, 2020 ~ Georgia Coats ~ 4 Comments

I’m sorry.

Not I’m sorry, but…

Not I’m sorry, in general.

Rather, specifically…

I’m sorry for my ignorance that has perpetuated an unjust status quo.

I’m sorry for my silence when advocacy was needed.

I’m sorry for all the little compromises that left your life more difficult and exhausting.

I’m sorry for my complicity in racism.

For my fear of not knowing what to do, and so yielding to inaction.
For letting false White conceptions of color blindness go unchallenged.
For not understanding how the systems I’m a part of and benefit from have put me in a privileged place at your expense.

I’m sorry for the White sorry buts that add salt to your wounds.

I’m sorry for being dismissive when the problems of society get too scary for me to handle.

I’m sorry for allowing this or that movie about ugly White racism to appease my conscience and make me feel like I get it—when I don’t.

I’m sorry for getting so used to Black bad news that it has become noise in the background of my passive tranquility.

I’m so sorry for reducing your trauma to my White noise.

Deliver me from the guilt of bloodshed, O God, you who are God my Savior, and my tongue will sing of your righteousness.

Open my lips, Lord, and my mouth will declare your praise.

You do not delight in sacrifice, or I would bring it; you do not take pleasure in burnt offerings.

My sacrifice, O God, is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart you, God, will not despise. (Psalm 51: 14-17)

Lord, forgive us for the pride of thinking we’re innocent.

Lord, expose the hypocrisy in our breaking hearts and lead us to repentance.

Lord, forgive me for being an ambassador of peace but not understanding justice.

Lord, forgive me for being so passionate about Your great love for all nations and tribes, races and languages, yet somehow not having eyes to see and ears to hear the trauma and injustice of my Black brothers and sisters.

Lord, forgive us for our White supremacy—for standing too high on a pillar of infection—like an abscess on our nation. It’s disgusting.

Lance it. Drain it. Then, heal it.

Like a boil that must be opened with all its ugliness to the natural medicines of air and light, injustice must be exposed to the light of human conscience before it can be cured. MLK Jr.

I see now that racism is a White problem.

I understand now that Black Lives Matter—so much. I’m sorry I never said so sooner.

I hear your cries of grief. I’m sorry it took me so long.

I shudder at the images of George Floyd’s murder. And Ahmaud Arbery, and Breonna Taylor. I’m sorry for your loss. Your losses. I’m sorry for the innumerable losses that have gone unseen.

I can know better.

I can be better.

I can do better.

It’s not your responsibility to enlighten me. But many have taken the time to love me where I’m at and patiently help me get to a better place. Thank you.

I know I’ll mess up again. I know racism has had its ugly effect on me. I know there are still offensive ways in me.

Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me and lead me in the way everlasting. (Psalm 139:23-24)

For context: I am white. I am a follower of Jesus. I deeply value the authority of the Bible. I am a church goer. I work in non-profit contexts. I have been on an intensive journey of listening, learning, and lamenting since May 8, 2020–what would have been Ahmaud Arbery’s 25th birthday.

The influencers who have significantly informed my understanding, challenged my beliefs on issues of systemic racism, and shaped how I craft my words are: Dr. MLK Jr., Dr. Robin Diangelo, Dr. Anita Phillips, Jemar Tisby, and Mona Haydar. And my friends, Befkadu Meshesha and Ian Simkins.

Compromised: Immuno-and-Otherwise

April 17, 2020April 17, 2020 ~ Georgia Coats ~ 4 Comments

I got a call the other day from Dr. K, my former hematologist-oncologist of 15 years. From Michigan. I don’t know if it’s the weight of the heavy Colorado spring snow on budding branches, or the heaviness of a pandemic that hangs on every soul, but I cherish the check ins that comes my way.

Being officially in the immunocompromised category by chronic leukemia and the immunotherapy treatment for it, I feel privileged to receive random check in calls from caring people wanting to know if I am doing okay during this pandemonium that has taken over the globe. They want to make sure I am taking extra care of myself.

Emotionally Broadsided

When Dr. K called, I felt emotionally broadsided by the unexpected check in. I’m sure he has a million things to think about at the main hospital, hit hard with COVID-19, in the heart of Detroit. But he paused to think of me. To make sure I was doing okay.

That call confirmed my self-diagnosis. I am emotionally compromised. Yup. Emotions are just below the surface and ready to well up. At. Any. Moment.

Just a fair warning: If you call to check in and say kind things—I’ll probably cry. If you stop to tell me your sad or touching news—I’ll probably cry. It’s possible I might start out laughing at something and end up crying. Or vice versa. Why limit ourselves to one emotion at a time when we can feel multiple, complex emotions simultaneously?

Mentally Tumbled

And then there’s my brain. My thoughts tumble around in my head like wet laundry. The significant intertwined with the curious and bombarded with the mundane and distracted. Chaotic and scattered. It’s the opposite of focused. I’m lacking goals, and trajectory is vague. So many thoughts circling around in each presented moment. Yup. Definitely mentally compromised, too.

“How is Strength my Weakness?”

My favorite part of the movie Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle is when the characters discover that they each have specific strengths and weakness within the Jumanji game. Kevin Hart’s character discovers that strength is actually on his list of Weaknesses.

I love his question:

“How is strength my weakness?”

But I also like to flip things around:

What if weakness is actually my strength?

What if tears are my superpower? And grief is a place I’ve grown comfortable with?

What if chronic hope comes from chronic illness?

What if immunocompromised means I’m also immuno-alert?

What if mentally scattered means centered in the present?

What if my limitations are the exact ingredients of sensitive, present, and vulnerable I need now, in the middle of a pandemic?

Broadsided by Grace

If I were to connect with the Designer of my strengths and weaknesses, how would that go?

I imagine it to be similar to The Apostle Paul’s process, being broadsided by grace—grace that came through a conduit of weakness.

Paul pleaded and discussed with the Divine to take away his weakness.

His Designer declared:

My grace is enough; it’s all you need.

My strength comes into its own in your weakness.

And so, the Apostle Paul relinquished himself to be broadsided by grace:

Once I heard that, I was glad to let it happen. I quit focusing on the handicap and began appreciating the gift. It was a case of Christ’s strength moving in on my weakness. Now I take limitations in stride… And so the weaker I get, the stronger I become. (2 Cor. 12:9-10)

Weakness was the Saint’s necessary ingredient for greater sources of grace.

To hear the voice of my Designer… Not to tell me I am healed or that I am strong. But to hear that at the heart of humanity is weakness, and that on my list of strengths, weakness is at the top.

The weaker I get, the stronger I become. In my current mentally scattered state, I’m okay to sit in the presence of this paradox. I’m okay to lavishly love on another grieving soul with my unstoppable tears. I’m awkwardly eager to hold up my best super girl akimbo pose with my favorite napping blanket flapping cape-like behind me in the wind.

I’m surprisingly okay. Immuno-okay. I’m being cautious, and there’s not much to report health wise or otherwise. So strong in weakness. So okay with my compromised state (at least in this present moment).

Corona 2020 #3: Rhythms of Quarantine

April 3, 2020April 7, 2020 ~ Georgia Coats ~ Leave a comment

Sunday, March 29: In harmony with my heart

Virtual church at 11-ish. Pilates and worship. Coffee with my Sweet. I’m grateful for his enthusiasm in making my perfect cup. I have been working on the right lyrics that are in harmony with my heart. Simon and Garfunkel always have space in my struggles. But they must be interspersed with strength of the human spirit, and the hope of worship. My heart is tender towards key words: shelter, isolation, hidden, breath…

Walking makes me feel better, and alone. The city is quiet and desolate with pockets of families huddled together.

We are defined by our safe people and everyone else. Who are the people bio-connected to each other? What about those who live alone? Who are their bio-connected “we”?

Following news out of Detroit. Things are exponentially worse. The Henry Ford hospital is where my hematologist of 15 years lives. My babies were born there. It is a state of emergency.

Michigan seems like a dream to me now… I’ve come to look for America… Michigan feels like a dream to me, too, Simon & Garfunkel.

The Value of Closure

I am struggling with closure. Some things have ended abruptly and I find they wreck me more emotionally than they would at another time. My resilience is thin. With tears, it’s best to sleep on it. If my resilience is thin, others’ is too. God, help me to see as you see.

Strong for my people. Rest. Prayer. I am ready to take a small courageous step towards healthy closure in uncertainty. Courage is fear prayed up. Yup.

Monday, March 30: It’s okay not to be okay

Ella is in tears. She feels socially limited in the middle of her brother and sister. She has done everything we have thought to do at home by lunchtime. Aimlessness brings sadness.

She needs her middle school peeps. I tell her it’s okay to cry. It’s okay not to be okay.

Magic in the little things—a fixed bike, fresh berries and a can of whipped cream. Zoe and Ella set off on a park adventure of their own. Then we make lentil soup. I see her perk up just a little.

It’s okay not to be okay.

Jamin’s new tetherball arrives from Amazon. Steve and Jamin head to his school to hook it up to the pole there. Jamin is that 5^th grader—the one who has prayed for school to end since it started. He is in a happy place.

My walks get longer and more emotional as I listen through my varied lyrics. I am weak. I am strong. It feels like winter and loneliness. I rise up. I have breath. I shelter in with people I love dearly.

It helps to have purpose and set baby goals…

I have a little space in my emotional reserves to follow up my concern for my refugee neighbor friends. I check in and brought Legos for the littles (after running them through the dishwasher). I inadvertently photobombed their cute family pic—at a distance.

Seeing their faces made my heart happy. 😊

I walk in the rain and the sunshine. I am oscillating. Laughing. Crying. Purposefulness. Aimlessness. Weight of the world. Isolation. Safety. And Fear.

Everyone check in with someone, ok?

Celebrating my small mom victories. My kids seem more settled. Cake pops made. Tetherball played. Lentil soup is perfectly seasoned comfort food—reminiscent of homemade dhal from a past season of life and friendship.

Brother, let me be your shelter

Never leave you all alone

I can be the one you call when you’re low. NeedtoBreathe

I hug my people. I have people to touch and kiss. We pray together anticipating the new day. The new school schedule. A plan. A purpose. We pray that summer camp won’t be canceled.

Tuesday, March 31: Collecting scattered thoughts

Everyone sets an alarm. Online school is starting, and we have family implementation plans in place. Ella is chattery about her teachers and friends. Her eyes light up. Jamin is moaning but following the plan. Zoe persists with vigor in all her endeavors. Steve’s virtual work continues per usual. I write 3 new virtual meetings set on my empty calendar.

Time to write. To think. To be alone with my thoughts in my bustling home. Interruptions are frequent. Flexibility of this new norm.

Clarity of thought. Processing negative emotions in healthy ways. Moving forward.

Deep breath. I will turn on the news.

Physical goals: Engage my core muscles more often—to that end, wear less leggings and more regular pants. Walk a little further. Add a few extra sit ups, crunches, or pushups each time I do some. Baby steps in physical exercise make me feel like I can control something. And move forward in something.

Wednesday, April 1: Tears are my superpower

Aimlessness is real.

Scheduling is helpful.

Technology is frustrating.

Closure…find closure where you can on even the little things, since so many things ended or were put on pause so abruptly.

Zoe and I enjoy the show: Zoey’s Extraordinary Playlist. Episode 8—Zoey’s Extraordinary Glitch—was so embarrassingly awkward. The main character can’t stop herself from bursting out in song to express her deep, undealt with emotions.

I courageously show up for my meeting to find closure, and I cry through the second half of it. I guess I’m still not ok and it’s going to come out somewhere—like Zoey does with song and dance in the show, I do with tears. Closure on this one thing feels good and right and satisfying. But I’m still crying. Awkward, but unapologetic. Express gratitude. Everyone’s resilience is thin. It’s okay not to be okay.

Rollerblading with my girls is a sweet time on a beautiful day. Normal, not normal. Strange, not strange. No one is out. Everyone is distant on a college campus in spring. I feel simultaneously content and overwhelmed. We go about our days distancing, while others can’t breathe. And others die. How does closure come for loved ones who experience loss?

At the end of the day I’m both relieved and bummed that there were no innovative April Fool’s jokes going on at our house. Not in a place to create and laugh and bounce back just yet.

Thursday, April 2: Wearing mascara doesn’t prevent tears

Time to face my fledgling teaching plan. A meeting with my boss. I teach adults. Moms like me who show up to my English language class after their kids are settled in school. I can just barely settle my kids to move forward with a plan of any kind. I barely have a moment to catch up with my own thoughts and emotions… innovation is measly and uninterrupted minutes to wade through emails and move towards problem-solving are things from that other life realm.

Deep breath. Grateful for the closure I found yesterday. Like the strategy for debt snowball—knocking out smaller debts first.

Moving forward.

It’s okay not to be okay. But it’s not okay to cry in this team meeting with my boss. Maybe mascara will help prevent tears.

I choose Pilates and prayer over fine-tooth-comb reading all the pertinent email strings before my meeting.

Deep breath, again. In for 3, out for 4.

🎶 And I’ll rise up…

I’ll rise up
In spite of the ache
I’ll rise up
And I’ll do it a thousand times again
For you… 🎶

Innovation, momentum, problem-solving and resilience—in short supply. Like ventilators for patients and masks for healthcare workers.

Mascara does not help prevent displaced tears in zoom meetings. But actively turning off video or audio as needed provides a sense of control over the little things.

And having a boss who hears you… doesn’t prevent tears either.

It’s cold today. There is no mustering of motivation to run the track. No energy to even think about trying to psych myself up for more than a cold, grey walk.

Listening to Simon and Garfunkel and remembering that time when I was on an island. And I missed my boat. And I cried about it… 😭💕🏝

🎶 I am shielded in my armor,
Hiding in my room,
safe within my womb
I touch no one and no one touches me

I am a rock
I am an island
And a rock feels no pain
And an island never cries 🎶

Islands are surrounded by salt water… you would never know if they were crying.

Overwhelmed and grateful. I am definitely not an island.

Corona 2020 #1: Cancellations & Celebrations

April 3, 2020April 3, 2020 ~ Georgia Coats ~ 2 Comments

Friday, March 13: Seismic shifts

What a strange and beautiful day. I left early on a birthday hike to celebrate my friend’s 40^thbirthday. We had the Twin Sisters trail to ourselves as we hiked through mounds of freshly fallen snow. I shared my Middle Eastern date cookies with her as a birthday treat. I had just brought them back from Michigan three days earlier. As we hiked, we processed the strange potential things that might happen, and we pondered the impact of recent social encounters and future plans.

Sharing cookies… that feels thoughtful and delightful and celebratory.

It was my kids’ last day of school before spring break. I knew I would arrive home post-hike to shifting sands.

And then the onslaught of virtual communication rushed in—every entity I am involved with is sending out emails of closure and postponement.

My kids dance around the living room celebrating the news of a second week of spring break, a.k.a., enrichment week, as the world is shutting down.

Saturday, March 14: Queen of flexibility

In normal life, I work 4 very fulfilling, part-time jobs—mainly, nonprofits, self-employment, and contract work. I am queen of finding rhythm with flexibility and faith through many changing seasons of my various jobs. And half my work is already virtual.

I got this.

Bring on change.

Bring on the unknown.

Bring on kids at home and the anticipation of spring.

Let’s keep dancing around the living room and watch as many movies as we can think of, and eat large bowls of white cheddar popcorn.

Sunday, March 15: Clean hands and pure hearts

This is ominously exciting. The CDC cancelled church gatherings of 150 or more, but our small community group is getting together to watch it virtually and enjoy Sunday brunch together. In the celebration of slowing down the pace of life and being together, there is a growing sense of urgency for quarantining. Some have opted out of our physical gathering.

Keep your hands clean and move to toe touches and elbow taps.

🎶 Give us clean hands, give us pure hearts
Let us not lift our souls to another

O God let us be a generation that seeks
That seeks your face O God of Jacob

O God let us be a generation that seeks
That seeks your face O God of Jacob 🎶

I timed it… this chorus is a solid 30 seconds of prayer AND proper hand washing.

I love finding hope, meaningful connection, and laughter in challenging situations.

Monday, March 16: Plans proceed but toilet paper is scarce

We have summer camp coming up in July. Kids need their wellness checkups. It’s going to be a highly productive spring break. I got two out of three kids went in the health clinic for physicals and vaccinations. People wore masks and signs were posted about being cautious.

Toilet paper is a weird crisis. We forgot to pick up our usual stash at Sam’s Club last month. Oops! I feel more and more compelled to join the bandwagon of fear and scarcity. Don’t panic… we’ll find some.

In the restroom at the local medical center for my kid’s wellness checkup…

Experiencing a new kind of temptation 😳🧻🧻

Tuesday, March 17: A cold coming on

Ella’s wellness checkup is cancelled. That seems to be the new rhythm. Most things left on the calendar are also being cleared. I feel a cold coming on and my mind trails to all the places I’ve been and the people I’ve touched. I start to rethink some of our spring break interactions… and sharing date cookies.

Wednesday, March 18: Rhythm in chaos

When the winds of change disrupt normal life, I find it helpful to hold on to a familiar chorus—a loose framework of routine and rhythm. I enjoy a morning cup of coffee with my Sweet. I run the empty track at the middle school. I do regular bouts of Pilates and prayers.

My throat is sore and I dig out the thermometer. No fever. All three times.

My mom calls. She’s worried about our lack of toilet paper. My dad unpacks meat from his freezer and finds our favorite kind of Greek cheese at the restaurant depot. We arrange a socially distant walk at a park halfway between our cities. No hugs. No kisses. Just a transfer of food items and a lovely stroll. The sun is in full shine, but road signs are flashing to brace for an impending winter storm.

Still no fever. I would feel horrible if I were the one to compromise my parents’ health in their late 70s.

Thursday and Friday are cold and dark and snowy. No place to go. Every cough makes me a little nervous. Still no fever. Ella coughs and sniffles. No fever.

Saturday, March 21: Keep baking, keep running, keep dancing

The week went by so quickly. It wasn’t much of a spring break—except for excessive movie watching and creative baking and spontaneous dance parties. Keeping our rhythm–Saturday pancakes. The dog park is perfect for social distancing. Another run on the middle school track while the gym is closed and the weather is decent.

NY2020: Feeling Small

January 20, 2020January 20, 2020 ~ Georgia Coats ~ 6 Comments

Dear Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.,

I’m feeling pretty small. Things are kind of crazy at the onset of 2020. Injustice. Intolerance. Mean words. In 2020 people are angry and feel like they have the right to take it out on others.

I used to feel bad for the time in the history that you had to face. I was content to just be inspired by your legacy, that even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, we can still have a dream… that this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed… that all humans are created equal.

Your dreams and accomplishments made me thankful for how you made our nation a better place for everyone to live peacefully and safely.

What Went Wrong?

I’m not sure what went wrong, or if I just opened my eyes a little bit wider. When I read, in 2020, your convicting words against racism, I feel like I could never live up to your standards. I’ve never been discriminated by the color of my skin as you have. I’ve never been as outspoken as you are.

You are our civil rights hero. And we celebrate that.

But, in order to even fathom your dreams in this new decade, I’m realizing that it’s not always about being big and strong and fiercely outspoken. It’s not about excusing myself from an impossible calling for more gifted people.

It’s about the small stuff.

It’s about scooching over to make room on my bench for one more weary human to sit. It’s about knowing my neighbor, looking into her determined eyes and seeing her very great smile of grit and gratitude. It’s about being so amazed by the content of her character that I have nothing but respect for her. It’s about sharing our humanity.

You see, I have some amazing friends. And they have been judged by their ethnicity, religion, immigration status, and the color of their skin. They have faced and overcome tremendous odds to get where they are today. And they still have So. Far. To. Go.

Pompa had been in this country for 9 years before she realized her husband had filed no immigration paperwork for her. So, when he filed for a divorce, he figured she would have to disappear back into the bustle of Bangladesh. With nothing.

He didn’t account for her courage, her fortitude. Or for her faith in the God of the impossible. He didn’t account for the kindness of others—both Muslim and Christian—who provided for her legal fees and her housing needs. He didn’t imagine she had anything to offer that would inspire the faith and courage of others. He was so wrong.

And Zuzu. She has never let her refugee status conquer or even dampen her spirit. Instead, she embraced the opportunity of a fresh start in a new country. As a mother of 3, she also manages the family finances and cares for her aging in-laws while pursuing her education in her 4^th language. Her husband also works tirelessly so she can go to school and together they can achieve in this country what hasn’t been possible for them back in war-torn Syria.

My newest neighbor is a Gentle Soul with the brightest smile I have ever seen. She met and married her husband and gave birth to their 10 kids in a refugee camp in Rwanda. Now, as a widow, she braves a strange new community as a single mom with NO English language. She works nights at a meat packing plant and relies on the kindness of others, her deep faith, and the services our great country has to offer to help her kids thrive.

I feel so small.

I have so little to offer. But I also know that every little offering is something. I have held hands in prayer with Pompa. I have celebrated Zuzu’s achievements over little cups of tea. And I have connected deeply—mother to mother, woman to woman, human to human—far beyond words with my Gentle-Souled neighbor.

Dr. King, thank you for these words:

If you can’t fly then run, if you can’t run then walk, if you can’t walk then crawl, but whatever you do you have to keep moving forward.

I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you actually said this. I have seen my three beautiful friends move forward and cross insurmountable barriers with hope and grit. My friends have been incredibly patient and grateful and gracious. They have taught me to never waste a moment—to live, to learn, to move forward, to love others, to dare greatly. They have shown me equality in our pursuits of happiness.

I feel so small in a big, scary 2020 world. But, I’m learning that I can do the small stuff. I can move forward, even if my steps feel ever so insignificant. I can scooch over. I can give my neighbor’s kids a ride home from school. I can help her understand the electric bill.

I can take on small… I could even be great at the small things.

If I cannot do great things, I can do small things in a great way. -MLK, Jr.

Dr. King, did you really ever start out small?

CHRONIC HOPE #6: The Luxury of Looking Forward

October 12, 2019October 12, 2019 ~ Georgia Coats ~ 6 Comments

“If you can’t fly then run, if you can’t run then walk, if you can’t walk then crawl, but whatever you do you have to keep moving forward.”

Martin Luther King, Jr.

When I was first diagnosed with chronic myeloid leukemia (CML) in my 20s I stopped looking too far forward. Planning for the future felt presumptuous, so I learned to live more fully in the present.

September 2019 marked 19 years since my cancer diagnosis.

I’ve had the privilege of reflecting back on 2 decades of living alongside a cancer diagnosis while continuously being treated for it.

4 different cancer treatments.

12+ bone marrow biopsies.

2 cutting edge miracle meds.

3 miracle babies.

3 times achieving medicated remissions.

2 relapses.

1 Master’s Degree.

Tens of thousands of dollars invested.

This journey is chronic. Chronic struggles. Chronic tears. Chronic persistence. Eventually forging a resilient chronic hope that anchors the soul.

I have learned invaluable life lessons of chronic hope:

We all have struggles. We all need help. We all seek a hope that is bigger than us.

We don’t rise above our struggles alone.

I can dare to make long-term goals that are bigger than me, because others dared before me.

In 1959 a researcher identified a very specific chromosomal abnormality present in CML patients. In the 1990s my first miracle medication was developed—a targeted immunotherapy treatment that was revolutionary. The standard chemotherapy treatments do not discriminate between healthy cells and cancerous ones, thus, leaving the patient with a myriad of miserable toxicities and a bleak prognosis. But this miracle medication targeted and treated a very specific problem inside of me, on a genetic level. It was proven more effective, more efficient, and less toxic than standard chemo.

It changed the world for people like me.

Reflecting back is essential for moving forward.

Now, with 3 growing kids, a specialized degree as a language and culture learning coach, and a healthy body in medicated remission, I dare to look forward.

There are so many people along the way who have given of themselves for me to be in this privileged place.

Like the doctor who created my miracle med after building on a researcher’s breakthrough 30 years earlier, what offerings can I bring that just might change the quality of life for a single soul?

These words of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. both scare and inspire me:

“An individual has not started living until he can rise above the narrow confines of his individualistic concerns to the broader concerns of all humanity.” MLK, Jr.

As a language learning coach, I love to champion individuals towards greater possibilities in their lives. But MLK Jr.’s words challenge me further forward. How can I rise above my personal cancer and be a part of treating malignancies that face all humanity?

While Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s impact on society was profound, maybe he started with small offerings and a few champions in his life. I can do that! I can spend precious life energy trying to figure out my present and future impact, courageously taking small steps forward.

“If I cannot do great things, I can do small things in a great way.” MLK, Jr.

Thank you, dear people in my life, who have championed me along the way to fight my battles with cancer—my devoted Greek-immigrant family, my loving husband in sickness and in health, my life-giving friends, my empathetic professors and generous neighbors.

Thank you, doctors and researchers, for devoting your lives and your minds to profoundly changing my prognosis and my quality of life.

Thank you, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., for your wisdom and impact on the world, and for encouraging me to bravely take baby steps far beyond my personal cancer.

Thank you, readers, for allowing me to reflect back and dare into the future on this journey of chronic hope.

This article was published in a series of articles for the Yemeni American News, October, 2019:

Georgia Coats is a Language & Culture Learning Coach, freelance writer, educator, wife, and mother of three who is passionate about healthy mind-body-spirit living. Chronic Hope is Georgia’s collection of stories, lessons, and life adventures of living alongside chronic leukemia, cancer of the white blood cells, for two decades. She often shares what’s on her mind at: www.onmymindbygeorgia.wordpress.com

On My Mind

by Georgia

humanity