An Anniversary

24 years ago today I had my final chemotherapy treatment for Hodgkin's Disease. As I sit here today, I can't help but think that this is not how it was supposed to be. I was supposed to remain cancer-free for 25 years so I could have the big party and buy myself the diamond ring that I've thought of for so long. I was supposed to celebrate this milestone with my mother, one of the very few who remembered this date, every year, without fail.

Instead as I write this, I am weakened by Thursday's chemotherapy (#3), bald and flat-chested, and heavy with grief. There is no party planned, no diamond ring (yet!). I miss my mother more than I can say, especially when I have down days like today. Yet, while I could easily retreat into my own little pity party, I will instead focus on what the last 24 years have meant to me. For if I did not have an anniversary to celebrate today, I would not be here to celebrate it. My mom would often say "getting old stinks, but it's better than the alternative." Rock on, mom.

When I was battling Hodgkin's, I didn't often acknowledge my own mortality. "I'm too young to die," I would think. "I've never been in love. I've never climbed a mountain. I'm not ready to go." So I muddled through with the intrinsic knowledge that I would overcome and go on. Such is the teenage psyche. My parents knew better. They knew that my battle was hard-fought and that the outcome was far from certain. Yet they never let on. They never showed fear. They always supported me. When I said I wanted to race on the ski team, even while enduring radiation therapy, they said OK. They made special arrangement for me to have early morning treatments so I could get in the car and get to the slopes before lunch. When I met with my current oncologist just a few short months ago, he said "Your Hodgkin's Disease was far more serious than this." News to me. I have my parents to thank for that.

And so I reflect on the last 24 years. I've said many times, of late, that if my current situation is the price for those 24 years then bring it on. I will gladly pay it again and again. The greatest gifts in that time are my husband and children, whose unending support for me has sustained me through the most rockin' pity party there is. Dear Bill, most likely, got a lot more than he bargained for but has been the steadiest of rocks and the best of friends.

When I finished my Hodgkin's treatment my own fertility was highly questioned. We certainly proved that theory wrong and our three daughters are our beacons of light ... keeping us focused on the importance of love, family, and the little every day things. With mom's passing I am even more reminded of these. The traditions. The sayings. The expressions. The tone of voice on the phone. These make up the glue that bonds us together forever and will live on in all of us. Even now the girls and I are designing the gingerbread house to end all gingerbread houses. It will be built in mom's honor, dubbed "Grandma's Castle," and hopefully shellacked and preserved for years to come (as was the one I built the Christmas I spent recovering from surgery in 1981).

And what else of the last 24 years? The travels ... to Europe, Asia, Mexico. The season spent skiing and sowing my oats in Mammoth. The five months spent in Ireland ... proving to myself that I could take on the world all by myself. The education of Page ... both formal and otherwise. The teachings of Descartes and the art of appreciating a fine shot of tequila (or several, at high speed). The philosopy of Blonditude ... it's not just a haircolor, you know. The professional life. Awkward at first but comfortable now under the guidance of a few patient and devoted mentors. Knowing my brother not as a rival, but as a friend. Having a big (90-pounds big) dog.

And then there are the friendships. When the universe casts shadows upon us, the true meaning of friendship rises up out of the darkness. I am so incredibly blessed to be surrounded by so many who love me and my family. Whether sheltering my children from the current storm, supporting my parents through such a difficult time, calling with good wishes and kind thoughts, or dragging me to the nail salon for a much-needed pedicure, each and every one of you have been invaluable. I don't know that I'll ever be able to repay the incredible kindness shown, but I suppose that's what friendship is all about. I hope none of you ever endures a similar situation, but please know I will be there wherever the cards may fall.

Most poignantly right now are my memories of mom these past 24 years. As the beaming mother of the bride at my wedding. As the ever-classy hostess of so many wonderful family holiday gatherings. As a true friend, when in September of 2007 she spent several days with me while Bill and the girls were back east. I learned more about her and her life during those few days than I had known ever before. I promised her I will write it all down, and I will. Mostly, I remember a mom who was so patient, so understanding, and always so concerned about me. When the rest of the world was looking to me to take care of them, mom was always first in line to take care of me. I'm grateful that I was able to return the favor in some small way during the last week of her life, and as I take on the role of ... gulp ... matriarch of the familymoving forward.

And what of the future? Well, there WILL be a party. When all is done and I'm put back together again, we will be having a full-blown luau in the backyard, complete with roasted pig. That will likely be in the spring or early summer.

From today, we move forward, as mom would have wanted (insisted, actually). Life is different and will forever be thus. But we will heal. I will heal. Life will go on.