Here I sit. Staring at the screen. My last post was November 28, 2008. It seems a lifetime ago. Since then, I've survived the holidays, completed my last chemotherapy treatment, returned to work full-time, and continued to grieve the loss of my mother. It wasn't that I didn't want to write. I just got busy, living my life. That's a good thing. So many of you have expressed concern that I haven't written, and have even said you missed reading my entries. I've missed writing them. Rest assured my health is fine. All reports are excellent from my oncologist and I'm enjoying some doctor-free time for another month or so. In early March I'll begin the reconstruction process, which will take a few months, and a couple more surgeries, as I understand it.
Not a day has passed where I haven't paused and thought, "I should write about that." I've made a mental list of all of the topics I want to cover. Some are happy. Some are sad. Some are hilarious. I'll be posting and dating some of these things retroactively in order to keep the chronology in sequence. I do hope someday to parlay this little blog into a book so want to keep it as organized as possible. So, be sure and check for new entries ... they may not always be at the top.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
10 Things I'll Miss About Chemotherapy
1. Not having to do my hair
2. Not having to shave
3. Not having to wax (there's a trend here)
4. Wonderful head rubs from my 6 year old with yummy smelling lotion and soft little hands
5. An excuse for naps. Every day.
6. A valid excuse to be lazy. And selfish.
7. Knowing that I was launching a full "Shock and Awe" assault on the cancer. There's something unnerving about laying down arms.
8. Being spoiled and pampered by everyone.
9. Feeling young, vibrant and healthy compared to the other patients.
10. Hearing from dear friends, old and new. I've promised myself I'll keep the contact going.
2. Not having to shave
3. Not having to wax (there's a trend here)
4. Wonderful head rubs from my 6 year old with yummy smelling lotion and soft little hands
5. An excuse for naps. Every day.
6. A valid excuse to be lazy. And selfish.
7. Knowing that I was launching a full "Shock and Awe" assault on the cancer. There's something unnerving about laying down arms.
8. Being spoiled and pampered by everyone.
9. Feeling young, vibrant and healthy compared to the other patients.
10. Hearing from dear friends, old and new. I've promised myself I'll keep the contact going.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
The Chemo Finale
December 4, 2009. My last chemo treatment. My best high school friend had flown down to be with me and keep the house running. The kids were on winter break. Thankfully my friend stayed with the girls so that Bill could be with me.
We arrived right on time, as usual. It was rush hour in the infusion suite, as usual. I seemed to be on the same schedule with the same group of patients. One woman, in particular, was there every single time I was. She was quite a bit older than me and only spoke Spanish. Her wig was horrible. Most days it was crooked and helmet-like. We exchanged glances and knowing smiles. I wondered if today was her last day too.
I'd been lucky with my first two treatments. The infusion "suite" was full and there were no available seats. So I got a private room. That was a good thing. It was the same barcalounger chair with the TV in front of it, but there was something very comforting about not having to make eye contact with any of the other patients. It made it easier to stay in my own little bubble, not think about mom, or what could wait for me in my future.
This day, however, I was not so lucky. The suite was a busy place. The private rooms were all taken, by patients already hooked up to their IV pole with the telling bags of chemical cocktails hanging in order of delivery. The red ones were the worst. Adriamyacin. They gave me that one when I had Hodgkin's so many years ago. I nicknamed it "The Red Death." It made me sick as a dog, burned as it went in, made me pee red, and did a number on my heart. After just two cycles, the oncologist changed my regimen as he didn't like the affect The Red Death had on my heart. Today I wonder if that was the cause of the mitral valve regurgitation for which I take a daily pill.
Back to the suite. The nurse had me sit in an uncomfortable chair to start. I was hopeful that this was my "on deck" chair and that I would move to one of the more comfortable loungers before they started my drip, which took 3+ hours start to finish. Bill had to stand.
While in the on-deck chair I got my IV hooked up. Thankfully the oncology nurses know their way around needles and veins. Most often it took just one stick, thankfully. Have I mentioned I'm not a big fan of the whole needle thing? Sometimes when getting blood drawn it will take 3 and 4 tries. I've gotten pretty good at being able to tell which ones will have a problem. It's a confidence thing. Plus the size of the needle. I've gotten very adept at saying "please use a butterfly. I've got chemo-fried veins."
Not long after an elderly gentleman in the big green lounger to my right got up to leave, and I was ushered to his chair. There was a chair for Bill too. We both settled in. Me watching All My Children on the TV above my head (in such a group setting there wasn't really an option of changing the channel), and Bill opened his school books.
John, the Nurse Practitioner and guy-in-charge-of-chemo, came over to chat. "How are you feeling?" he said. We exchanged pleasantries then he connected the bag of my first cocktail. The Happy Juice. And thank God for it. Keeps the nausea at bay amazingly well. I'm happy to report that I did not vomit once as a result of my chemotherapy. Happy juice. Rock on!
Next came the Taxotere. Derived from the French Yew tree (not to be confused with Taxol, my mother's cocktail of choice, which was derived from the North American Yew tree). Soonafter he came back on hung the next "on deck" bag. This one was Cytoxan. Derived from who knows what or where.
Bill and I both settled in. The chemo didn't hurt going in. I didn't feel any different. Modern medicine had come a very long way in the 24 years since my last chemotherapy experience. In fact, it was almost boring. I alternated staring at the TV, reading my book, and dozing in the big comfy chair.
Prior to my first treatment I hadn't eaten anything for fear I was going to be nauseous right away. After a couple of hours Bill was hungry and went to grab a sandwich. He came back with a tuna sandwich and a smoothie. "Do you want some?" He said. At first I thought "No, I shouldn't just in case." But as I watched him eat, and I smelled the tuna, I thought "That smells really good." And so began our chemo tradition. A lunch date featuring tuna salad sandwiches and a smoothie. Today was no different, so Bill set out for Henry's Market, and came back with our lunch, which we both enjoyed.
Before too long John came and switched the IV over to the Cytoxan. One more hour to go. One more hour before I could say "It's all moving forward from here." "The worst is over." "I can get on with my life."
"I need to call mom and tell her," I thought to myself. "Oh yeah, I can't." Bill was there, holding my hand and studying his books. "I so want to talk to my mom," I said. As John came over and removed the IV, he began to review all of the things that would happen next. Follow-up appointments, blood work, etc., etc., etc. All I could think of was my mom, and how much she would have reveled in celebrating this milestone with me. So I cried, alone. Another one down. Another chapter nearly finished. I was assuming at this point that the reconstruction process would begin a new chapter, for this marks the end (we hope) of yet another illness. The rest is just window dressing.
As my mom always said, "this too shall pass." And so it did. Next?
We arrived right on time, as usual. It was rush hour in the infusion suite, as usual. I seemed to be on the same schedule with the same group of patients. One woman, in particular, was there every single time I was. She was quite a bit older than me and only spoke Spanish. Her wig was horrible. Most days it was crooked and helmet-like. We exchanged glances and knowing smiles. I wondered if today was her last day too.
I'd been lucky with my first two treatments. The infusion "suite" was full and there were no available seats. So I got a private room. That was a good thing. It was the same barcalounger chair with the TV in front of it, but there was something very comforting about not having to make eye contact with any of the other patients. It made it easier to stay in my own little bubble, not think about mom, or what could wait for me in my future.
This day, however, I was not so lucky. The suite was a busy place. The private rooms were all taken, by patients already hooked up to their IV pole with the telling bags of chemical cocktails hanging in order of delivery. The red ones were the worst. Adriamyacin. They gave me that one when I had Hodgkin's so many years ago. I nicknamed it "The Red Death." It made me sick as a dog, burned as it went in, made me pee red, and did a number on my heart. After just two cycles, the oncologist changed my regimen as he didn't like the affect The Red Death had on my heart. Today I wonder if that was the cause of the mitral valve regurgitation for which I take a daily pill.
Back to the suite. The nurse had me sit in an uncomfortable chair to start. I was hopeful that this was my "on deck" chair and that I would move to one of the more comfortable loungers before they started my drip, which took 3+ hours start to finish. Bill had to stand.
While in the on-deck chair I got my IV hooked up. Thankfully the oncology nurses know their way around needles and veins. Most often it took just one stick, thankfully. Have I mentioned I'm not a big fan of the whole needle thing? Sometimes when getting blood drawn it will take 3 and 4 tries. I've gotten pretty good at being able to tell which ones will have a problem. It's a confidence thing. Plus the size of the needle. I've gotten very adept at saying "please use a butterfly. I've got chemo-fried veins."
Not long after an elderly gentleman in the big green lounger to my right got up to leave, and I was ushered to his chair. There was a chair for Bill too. We both settled in. Me watching All My Children on the TV above my head (in such a group setting there wasn't really an option of changing the channel), and Bill opened his school books.
John, the Nurse Practitioner and guy-in-charge-of-chemo, came over to chat. "How are you feeling?" he said. We exchanged pleasantries then he connected the bag of my first cocktail. The Happy Juice. And thank God for it. Keeps the nausea at bay amazingly well. I'm happy to report that I did not vomit once as a result of my chemotherapy. Happy juice. Rock on!
Next came the Taxotere. Derived from the French Yew tree (not to be confused with Taxol, my mother's cocktail of choice, which was derived from the North American Yew tree). Soonafter he came back on hung the next "on deck" bag. This one was Cytoxan. Derived from who knows what or where.
Bill and I both settled in. The chemo didn't hurt going in. I didn't feel any different. Modern medicine had come a very long way in the 24 years since my last chemotherapy experience. In fact, it was almost boring. I alternated staring at the TV, reading my book, and dozing in the big comfy chair.
Prior to my first treatment I hadn't eaten anything for fear I was going to be nauseous right away. After a couple of hours Bill was hungry and went to grab a sandwich. He came back with a tuna sandwich and a smoothie. "Do you want some?" He said. At first I thought "No, I shouldn't just in case." But as I watched him eat, and I smelled the tuna, I thought "That smells really good." And so began our chemo tradition. A lunch date featuring tuna salad sandwiches and a smoothie. Today was no different, so Bill set out for Henry's Market, and came back with our lunch, which we both enjoyed.
Before too long John came and switched the IV over to the Cytoxan. One more hour to go. One more hour before I could say "It's all moving forward from here." "The worst is over." "I can get on with my life."
"I need to call mom and tell her," I thought to myself. "Oh yeah, I can't." Bill was there, holding my hand and studying his books. "I so want to talk to my mom," I said. As John came over and removed the IV, he began to review all of the things that would happen next. Follow-up appointments, blood work, etc., etc., etc. All I could think of was my mom, and how much she would have reveled in celebrating this milestone with me. So I cried, alone. Another one down. Another chapter nearly finished. I was assuming at this point that the reconstruction process would begin a new chapter, for this marks the end (we hope) of yet another illness. The rest is just window dressing.
As my mom always said, "this too shall pass." And so it did. Next?
Friday, November 28, 2008
Giving Thanks
Some may think that it would be difficult for my family and I to find things to be thankful for this particular year. Quite the contrary. Even my mother, in her final days, was thankful and acknowledged how very blessed she was. Yesterday we had a lovely day filled with great food, loving family, and shared memories of those not with us. We ended our evening with karaoke. Sofia and I sang "our song," The Wind Beneath my Wings.
I am thankful for my family. These last few months have brought us closer than ever. The time spent with my mom, dad, and brother during the last days of mom's life was excruciatingly painful, but also brought with it an unbridled intimacy that comes only through shared tragedy, but will endure for our lifetime.
I am thankful for my father. His indomitable spirit and will to go on are an inspiration. I am thankful he has his health, and I look forward to welcoming him to San Diego as a permanent resident. I am thankful that my girls will know him as Grandpa, who makes coins appear out of ears, can ace any geography quiz, and is an amazing musician.
I am thankful for my brother, who I've grown to know as a fine man, a goofy uncle, and a terrific dad. I am thankful that I can now call him not only my brother, but also my friend.
I am thankful for my husband, who loves me unconditionally, with or without hair, or breasts, or energy. He's my biggest fan and largest supporter. He sits with me at chemo, encourages me to rest when I'm resisting. Has endless patience in managing the household and the girls on the days when I'm just not up to it. He's also a fine man, and my best friend.
I am thankful for my beautiful girls, who have embraced my experience as their own. Who encourage me to shed the wig to be comfortable. Who like to rub the peach fuzz on my bald head, sometimes even with wonderful smelling lotion. (More on that in a future post, The Benefits of Baldness.) Who proudly keep their friends up to date on the latest with mom. Who aren't afraid to say "Mom, why are you frustrated right now?" Then will listen intently as I share my feelings and return to the happy place.
I am thankful for my amazing friends, who really are an extension of my family. The thoughtful phone calls, endless meals, late night pep talks, shared tears, and love for my children are remarkable, unforgettable, and genuine.
There is so much more to be thankful for, but in the end it is the people we love, not the things we have. I am thankful because I know I am not alone, and will never be. I have my family and, by extension, my friends. I know now, more than ever, that in the end, at the end, family and friends are really all you've got. I am thankful, though bittersweet, to have learned this lesson early enough in life to cherish the important things and gain perspective on the rest.
Happy Thanksgiving to all.
I am thankful for my family. These last few months have brought us closer than ever. The time spent with my mom, dad, and brother during the last days of mom's life was excruciatingly painful, but also brought with it an unbridled intimacy that comes only through shared tragedy, but will endure for our lifetime.
I am thankful for my father. His indomitable spirit and will to go on are an inspiration. I am thankful he has his health, and I look forward to welcoming him to San Diego as a permanent resident. I am thankful that my girls will know him as Grandpa, who makes coins appear out of ears, can ace any geography quiz, and is an amazing musician.
I am thankful for my brother, who I've grown to know as a fine man, a goofy uncle, and a terrific dad. I am thankful that I can now call him not only my brother, but also my friend.
I am thankful for my husband, who loves me unconditionally, with or without hair, or breasts, or energy. He's my biggest fan and largest supporter. He sits with me at chemo, encourages me to rest when I'm resisting. Has endless patience in managing the household and the girls on the days when I'm just not up to it. He's also a fine man, and my best friend.
I am thankful for my beautiful girls, who have embraced my experience as their own. Who encourage me to shed the wig to be comfortable. Who like to rub the peach fuzz on my bald head, sometimes even with wonderful smelling lotion. (More on that in a future post, The Benefits of Baldness.) Who proudly keep their friends up to date on the latest with mom. Who aren't afraid to say "Mom, why are you frustrated right now?" Then will listen intently as I share my feelings and return to the happy place.
I am thankful for my amazing friends, who really are an extension of my family. The thoughtful phone calls, endless meals, late night pep talks, shared tears, and love for my children are remarkable, unforgettable, and genuine.
There is so much more to be thankful for, but in the end it is the people we love, not the things we have. I am thankful because I know I am not alone, and will never be. I have my family and, by extension, my friends. I know now, more than ever, that in the end, at the end, family and friends are really all you've got. I am thankful, though bittersweet, to have learned this lesson early enough in life to cherish the important things and gain perspective on the rest.
Happy Thanksgiving to all.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
H.O.P.E.
This past weekend was the Susan G. Komen 3 Day Walk, described best by a friend who participated. "It was like a combo Bay to Breakers, Club Med, and a big street party. Fun, outrageous, inspiring and heart melting."
I know this is true as I've done the walk twice in years past. First in 2003, then again with Bill in 2004. My neighbor, co-Troop Leader, and dear friend Arlene did the walk this year. Four weeks prior, our Girl Scout Troop hosted our own "walk," at a Saturday Brownie encampment. Arlene and the girls, unbeknownst to me, created the theme "Walking for H.O.P.E." as the activity we would lead that day. The girls write the below.
With the Girl Scouts we took groups of girls on a short, 1/2 mile walk. Each then traced their footprint and wrote a message on it. Those footprints were then put on a poster. It was very moving and inspirational.
As we've done every year since 2004, the troop goes out and cheers on the real walkers. This year and last we were able to cheer for one of our own, Miss Arlene. We all had shirts made with the H.O.P.E. story on the back.
The girls made posters, and pins (safety pins with pink and crystal beads, plus a pink ribbon charm) to give away. We also blew bubbles ... "Bubbles for Boobies" was the mantra. It was such fun to see how much the walkers appreciated the girls' efforts, and the fact that we were out there cheering them on. It also had an even more special meaning for the girls, as they are all aware of my own battle.
At one point, a family walked by and they were all wearing the Stand Up to Cancer T-shirts (you may have seen the television fundraiser). I was so inspired by that event that I said"Love your shirts, where'd you get them?"
"Online," was the reply. Then a woman, probably ten years older than me, wearing a "Survivor" shirt, stopped and looked at me. She studied my bright pink bandana, wrapped pirate-style around my head. "Are you a survivor?" she said (because from the day of diagnosis we're all called survivors ... love that!).
"Yes," I replied. "Going through chemo right now." She called to her son, who was in front of her. He came back, and as he opened his fanny pack to retrieve something, the mother said "I've been looking for you for two days. I have something for you. Last year someone gave one to me and I wanted to do the same." With that her son pulled out a T-shirt. Yellow, with the word Survivor emblazoned in red across the front. It was one of the Stand Up to Cancer shirts that the celebrities wore on TV.
At that point, I had to fulfill my urge to hug her, her son, her daughter, and anyone else who would have one. I will save that T-shirt forever. What a testament to the amazing sisterhood that is breast cancer. Actually, strike that, as it's not just a sisterhood. When my family and I returned to cheer the walkers on and walk the last mile with Arlene on Sunday, as we were cheering a very large man in a bright pink shirt with a bright pink hat on also noticed my telltale bandana. "Survivor?" he said?
"Yep, and proud" I replied. At that point he left the stream of walkers, ran over to me, and gave me a giant, loving bear hug. "I'm getting ready to go through it myself," he said, tearfully. Oh yeah, I thought. This is not just a woman's disease.
This year's walk included more than 4,000walkers, each of whom was required to raise a minimum of $2,200. The simple math equates to a minimum of $8 million raised by this race alone. Factor in that this is one of 14 walks this year alone and you've got more than $100 million, all for breast cancer research.
As a benefactor of that research, I am thankful. Having just lost my mother to lung cancer, a woefully underfunded and far more deadly disease, I am envious. In both cases I have, and will always have, hope.
I know this is true as I've done the walk twice in years past. First in 2003, then again with Bill in 2004. My neighbor, co-Troop Leader, and dear friend Arlene did the walk this year. Four weeks prior, our Girl Scout Troop hosted our own "walk," at a Saturday Brownie encampment. Arlene and the girls, unbeknownst to me, created the theme "Walking for H.O.P.E." as the activity we would lead that day. The girls write the below.
Health ... Walkers have less incidence of cancer, heart disease, stroke, diabetes, and other killer diseases. Increase your heart rate by walking regularly for 20 or more minutes seversal times a week and you'll do wonders for your heart's health.
Opportunity is a chance you have. Everyday we are given the opportunity to live. We should live our life to the fullest by making the most of each day with people we love and care about.
Page. We are doing this walk for someone very special. She started our Girl Scout roop 5902. Her name is Mrs. Page. She takes our troop on outings and helps us be good citizens for our community. We thank her for bringing our troop together and everything that she does for us.
Energy. It's not so much the energy that you have, but the energy you give off. Making people aware is simply giving off energy. There are all types of energy, like health energy, or simply being positive about your health, and possibly your cancer. Energy is passed on from person to person, bringing awareness for the cure.
With the Girl Scouts we took groups of girls on a short, 1/2 mile walk. Each then traced their footprint and wrote a message on it. Those footprints were then put on a poster. It was very moving and inspirational.
As we've done every year since 2004, the troop goes out and cheers on the real walkers. This year and last we were able to cheer for one of our own, Miss Arlene. We all had shirts made with the H.O.P.E. story on the back.
The girls made posters, and pins (safety pins with pink and crystal beads, plus a pink ribbon charm) to give away. We also blew bubbles ... "Bubbles for Boobies" was the mantra. It was such fun to see how much the walkers appreciated the girls' efforts, and the fact that we were out there cheering them on. It also had an even more special meaning for the girls, as they are all aware of my own battle.
At one point, a family walked by and they were all wearing the Stand Up to Cancer T-shirts (you may have seen the television fundraiser). I was so inspired by that event that I said"Love your shirts, where'd you get them?"
"Online," was the reply. Then a woman, probably ten years older than me, wearing a "Survivor" shirt, stopped and looked at me. She studied my bright pink bandana, wrapped pirate-style around my head. "Are you a survivor?" she said (because from the day of diagnosis we're all called survivors ... love that!).
"Yes," I replied. "Going through chemo right now." She called to her son, who was in front of her. He came back, and as he opened his fanny pack to retrieve something, the mother said "I've been looking for you for two days. I have something for you. Last year someone gave one to me and I wanted to do the same." With that her son pulled out a T-shirt. Yellow, with the word Survivor emblazoned in red across the front. It was one of the Stand Up to Cancer shirts that the celebrities wore on TV.
At that point, I had to fulfill my urge to hug her, her son, her daughter, and anyone else who would have one. I will save that T-shirt forever. What a testament to the amazing sisterhood that is breast cancer. Actually, strike that, as it's not just a sisterhood. When my family and I returned to cheer the walkers on and walk the last mile with Arlene on Sunday, as we were cheering a very large man in a bright pink shirt with a bright pink hat on also noticed my telltale bandana. "Survivor?" he said?
"Yep, and proud" I replied. At that point he left the stream of walkers, ran over to me, and gave me a giant, loving bear hug. "I'm getting ready to go through it myself," he said, tearfully. Oh yeah, I thought. This is not just a woman's disease.
This year's walk included more than 4,000walkers, each of whom was required to raise a minimum of $2,200. The simple math equates to a minimum of $8 million raised by this race alone. Factor in that this is one of 14 walks this year alone and you've got more than $100 million, all for breast cancer research.
As a benefactor of that research, I am thankful. Having just lost my mother to lung cancer, a woefully underfunded and far more deadly disease, I am envious. In both cases I have, and will always have, hope.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
At Peace
Mom left this world this afternoon around 4 p.m. Dad, Jim and the hospice nurse were with her. She had been unconscious since yesterday, and is now, thankfully, at peace.As difficult as the last week was, we are all so thankful for the time we had with her to remind each other of our love and to let her know that we will be OK, especially with her watching over us.
Thank you to all of you for your outpouring of love and support for mom and our family.
At Mom's request, a private memorial service will be held in Yosemite, our "church", in the spring. In the meantime, Dad plans to get away for awhile and will spend the holidays with my family here in San Diego.
In lieu of flowers, please make a donation in Mom's name to The Yosemite Fund, http://www.yosemitefund.org/. Our hope is to accumulate enough donations to ensure Mom has a permanent place on the Honor Wall in the Visitor's Center.
I thought it fitting to end this final entry with the poem that mom asked be read at her memorial. It gives me great comfort to know that, when my time comes, Mom will be on the other side saying "Look, here she comes!"
Gone From My Sight
by Henry Van Dyke
I am standing upon the seashore. A ship, at my side, spreads her white sails to the moving breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until, at length, she hangs like a speckof white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.
Then, someone at my side says, "There, she is gone"
Gone where?
Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast, hull and spar as she was when she left my side. And, she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port. Her diminished size is in me -- not in her.
And, just at the moment when someone says, "There, she is gone,"there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, "Here she comes!"
And that is dying...
May peace be with all of you.
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