No Soup For You!

Who remembers Seinfeld’s Soup Nazi? The maker of to-die-for soup who had little patience for customers who couldn’t follow his three golden rules – pick the soup you want, have your money ready, and move to the extreme left after ordering. Mess up one of those rules and, “No soup for you!”

I think my daughter was the inspiration for that character.

That child has this uncanny ability to live life by her own rules. She has high expectations of the people who surround her, and a zero tolerance policy for those who are expected to surround her but don’t. Can’t follow the rules? Well, then no soup for you!

Seats at that kid’s table are hard-earned and will be immediately removed when you’ve done her wrong. Some days I find that terrifying, and other days I am in absolute awe of her ability to remove the toxic from her life.

I’ve been practicing my ‘no soup for you’ proclamation with her. She says I’m doing it wrong. Let’s hope my seat doesn’t get removed from the table!

Hold My Beer

You know those women who glow during pregnancy? The ones who giggle with friends about their unreasonable cravings while praising their growing bundle of joy for blessing them with gorgeous locks and glowing skin? Those women who simply emit a golden hue of pure joy for nine months?

I was never one of them.

I was the pregnant girl attached to an IV pole because my growing cherub caused persistent severe vomiting leading to weight loss and dehydration. That was the clinical definition of my first pregnancy, but I simply called it really effin’ annoying. New moms assured me that it would all be worth it. I smiled and excused myself to vomit out back in the parking lot like some drunk sorority girl.

When my oldest was two, I decided it was time to give this pregnancy thing a second chance. How much worse could it possibly be, I wondered.

That’s when my second child whispered into the wind, ‘Hold my beer!’

My second pregnancy played out much like my first. Once, during Sunday mass, I emptied my first born’s toys onto the floor and immediately threw up in her favorite bag. Right there. In church. During the priest’s eulogy. Our exodus from the Roman Catholic Church can likely be traced back to that very moment.

I developed a strong affinity for elephants during those nine months, pitying them for their unlucky place in the evolutionary chain. Two years. Those Momma Elephants grew their babies for two years! How unfortunate for them. And how unfortunate for me that my 9-month tenure felt more like their two year reality.

But, remember those new moms? The ones who told me it would all be worth it? They were so right.

Earlier this month, my youngest daughter – you know, the one who whispered ‘Hold my beer?’ She celebrated her last, first day of high school. Her last, first day! And I suddenly find myself envious of those Momma Elephants and their two, whole years while I count down my measly nine months.

In nine months she’ll walk across the stage, wearing her cap and gown. In nine months she’ll be ready to leap into the next phase of her life. In nine months I’ll curse my place in the evolutionary chain and wish time would somehow just. Slow. Down!

Sigh…

Our babies need those first nine months to ready themselves for the world. I suppose we parents need these last nine months to ready ourselves for a new chapter ahead. But, I wonder, how much better could the next chapter possibly be?

Hold my beer!

Reckless Abandon

My oldest daughter will celebrate her 16th birthday this week. That seems absurd and incredibly difficult to believe considering that I’ll be celebrating my 29th birthday again this fall…

My girl was just a year old when we moved away from our family and friends. A new home, a new town; we spent a lot of time together – just her and I.  Those days lent credence to the saying ‘the days are long, but the years are short.’  Time felt infinite and I was certain that the life lessons I needed to share with her could wait for another day.

That seems like a lifetime ago.

We surprised her with a little soiree ahead of her birthday – a few friends, some simple fun and lots of laughs. I insisted on giving her her ‘sentimental’ gift that night because I’m no longer good at waiting. Time is suddenly fleeting and there’s so much I need her to know before it’s too late.

Too late? What a terrible thought.

Becoming her mom was life changing. For a long time I referred to it as a game changer, but I was wrong. Motherhood was certainly life changing but game changers are different.  Game changers define life into the before and after, the life lived and the life worth living.  Cancer was my game changer.  It shifted life from some day to today. It shifted time from infinite to finite. It shifted….everything….even the way I choose to be Mom.

I’m oddly grateful for that.

She is my wild, free spirit; my dreamer, my reckless abandon. Taming her was the futile and pointless job of her before mom. Her after mom knows that sixteen years went by in the blink of an eye. After Mom understands that reckless abandon may be the only way – the best way – to enjoy a life well lived.

Happy sweet 16 to my reckless abandon.

Love you always,

After Mom

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My girls will join me once again this October for my 3rd “after mom” half marathon to benefit Sparrow’s Nest. I love sharing this with them and I love being able to pay forward the kindness that was shown to us during my game changer. With your help, I will be able to feed a family living through a cancer diagnosis for one year. Please consider making a donation of any amount by visiting Sparrow’s Nest

Many thanks!

 

 

Superstorm

I was a terrible teenager.  Not terrible in the troublemaking sense because, simply speaking, I was a people pleaser.  I was an overly sensitive, emotionally erratic, sometimes dramatic, terrible decision maker.  And yet, I had no reason to be.

My home life was stable, my parents were loving, my siblings were crazy (in the best way possible) and our house was perfectly manicured.  I had good friends, boyfriends too, I wasn’t bullied and I did fairly well in school.  With the exception of our disturbingly decorated red-ceilinged living room, there was little in my life that lent itself to the overwhelming and emotionally charged teenage version of me.

So what was my problem?

I was a teenage girl.  That’s it, nothing more.

But what if? 

What if my teenage years were more than a self-imposed emotional superstorm?  What if my mom had cancer?  What if my dad needed surgery?  What if my mom lost her job?  What if my dad did too?  What if we struggled financially and what if my parents struggled to find marital bliss in all of this?  What then?  And, the worst thought of all, what if this is the emotional superstorm that I’ve created for my own teenage girls?

All of these challenges have certainly left an indelible mark on my little family.  Cancer being the first falling rock in an avalanche, creating an instability in my kids’ lives that I never dreamed I could be responsible for.  It forces me to think about what I would have needed as a teenage girl caught in a real-life emotional superstorm.

I would need to be loved for my good decisions and loved harder for those bad ones.  I would need an example of resilience and a model of strength.  I would need to be surrounded by people whose simple presence lifted me and made me feel certain that I could go on.  I would need to know that the finish line is made sweeter when the journey to get there seems outright impossible.

This is who I hope my teenage girls see when they look to me.

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This post was meant to be a thank you to all of you who supported Sparrow’s Nest through my Team Sparrow half marathon fundraiser, but my thoughts are scattered and the words tumbled out differently than I expected.  

Sparrow’s Nest fed my family during cancer treatment and it means the world to me to be able to pay it forward.  That is one of the reasons why I run.  But there is a very selfish reason why I continue to run as part of Team Sparrow – my teenage girls.  I haven’t provided them with the stability that I had growing up but, through this team, I can show them what resilience and strength looks like.  To see them and to hear them cheering wildly from the sidelines as I crossed the finish line was one of the proudest moments of my life.

The finish line really is made sweeter when the journey to get there seems impossible.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Healthy, Wealthy and Wise

I don’t like resolutions.  They are always filled with good intentions but, really, who needs more good intentions in their life?  On top of that, I’m typically a failure when it comes to resolutions, and I certainly don’t need any more self-inflicted failure in my life!  So when the new year rolled around this past January, I snubbed those resolution makers and decided that some self-reflection was in my best interest.

That’s when I discovered an article about something called the ‘power word.’ Touted as the ‘no-fail alternative to resolutions,’ the article encouraged readers to choose one word or phrase that they hoped would characterize their upcoming year.  The power word allowed for more fluidity – a broad theme with multiple tasks or goals that changed according to the craziness happening in my life at that moment.  This sounded like something I could work with.

I experimented with a few words before committing.  There was ambitious.  No.  Open-minded.  Not right.  Thankful.  Maybe.  Badass.  I really liked that one, but I got rid of my leather jacket years ago.  The list went on and indecision nearly caused me to fail at this no-fail alternative, until I considered what had been missing from my life.  That’s when I nailed my 2018 power word.

Back in December, it felt like there were so many things missing from my life.  I was knee-deep in yearning for my former life;  the life that allowed me to complain about our overbooked schedules and demanding jobs;  the life that gave me permission to put things off until ‘someday;’  the life that didn’t include patrolling my own body for unusual activity or choosing the right hair product for the new coif of chemo curls piling up on my head.  I ached for that old life of mine.  The ache was so intense that I feared it was becoming unhealthy.

Enter my power word.

In this new year, I desperately wanted to be healthy – physically, mentally and emotionally.  I wanted it for myself, but I also wanted it for my kids, my family and for everyone that has surrounded and lifted me over these last two years.  I owed it to myself and I owed it to them to be the best version of me that I possibly could be and so, I chose the power word HEALTH.

Five months into my healthy new year and I think I’m doing alright.

I won’t lie.  There are days when all I really want to do is lay on the couch eating fritos and drinking cheap wine, but I usually don’t.  I’ve learned to use my power word as motivation;  as an encouraging way to methodically reach multiple goals…..and it’s actually working!  Whether it’s getting myself out for a run, learning to cook a new, healthy recipe, working towards a job that fulfills me, volunteering for things that bring me joy or planning those trips that I’ve put off until ‘someday’ with my family, I’m doing it.  And it’s making me feel – and even look – healthy!

Amen for the power word!

Now I just need to work on the ‘wealthy and wise’ part.

PS – What’s your power word?

Pulling the Trigger

Do I have your attention?  By choosing this title and pairing it with this free media photo, it wasn’t hard to pull you in.  I bet you think you know what I’m going to say.  I bet you’re already calculating your quick response…and I bet it’s not a nice one.

I forgive you.

I forgive you because, if you’re reading this, I like you.  You’re on my ‘friends’ list and, whether it was 25 years ago or just last week, at some point in my life I decided that you were good.  I’m sticking to my guns on that one (no pun intended).

I’m not going to share my opinion about what should have or could have been done to save the 17 people who died in this most recent school shooting.  The world – and Facebook – certainly doesn’t need anymore opinions from armchair quarterbacks or those with 20/20 hindsight vision, a degree in psychology, or a sharpshooter weapons badge.

Nope.  The sweet faces of those Florida kids whose lives were stolen needed more than our opinions.  They needed our solutions.  They needed us to talk openly about mental health, about support systems for at-risk kids, and they needed us to talk about our prized 2nd amendment and the semi-automatics it allows us to have.  They needed us to feel uncomfortable with the opinions of others while still being able to listen.  They needed us to check our egos at the door and SAVE THEIR FUCKIN’ LIVES!

Sigh….

The most intelligent thing I’ve read on this subject came from a stranger whose opinion seems to differ from my own.  “There is middle ground,” he said, “and if we both walk away from the table a little upset, it will be progress.”  

I couldn’t agree more.

It’s time to remind ourselves that we have chosen to surround ourselves with good people;  good people who may have different opinions.  It’s time to pull the trigger and get uncomfortable.  It’s time to stop the insanity.  It’s time for some real solutions.

 

I Always Feel Like Somebody’s Watching Me

It wasn’t long after the birth of my first child that I began thinking ’Good Lord, I’ll never poop alone again!’

That’s the dirty little secret that nobody warns you about.  One day you’re this free-wheeling, laidback couple with barely a care in the world.  And then BAM!  Suddenly you’re a frenzied, exhausted mess and the sole caregiver of a whole new human being.

I’m repeatedly amazed that the human race is not on the ‘endangered species’ list. 

There was a steep learning curve involved in becoming a first-time mom.  The fierce, unequivocal and unconditional love came naturally, but the realization that this little person was watching and emulating my every move was unnerving (to say the least).  Parenthood already seemed to be a daily lesson in humility, self-control and patience…and then I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

Immediately after sharing the news with my daughters, who were just 9 and 12 years old, I knew that my every move was being examined.  My conversations were scrutinized and my facial expressions were considered.  My youngest daughter quietly studied me and seemed to have an insatiable craving to be physically attached to my side.  She spent countless hours on the couch with me, oftentimes carefully navigating a way to snuggle with me without hitting my port.  Other times she simply needed to be in my space, the physical presence of me providing her with some perceived sense of security.

If I allowed myself to briefly imagine that my girls were not gripped by the chaos of cancer, my oldest daughter was sure to remind me.  My creative, sensitive, free-spirit wasn’t just watching me, she was photographing me.

She captured me crying when the first notes of encouragement and gifts of support began arriving in the mail.  She photographed my feeble attempt at a stylish pixie haircut just before losing my hair and my pathetic attempt to look strong in a pink Wonder Woman t-shirt after all of that hair fell out.  She took pictures of me looking pale and frail in a hospital bed and more pictures of me weeks later in the post-surgery recovery room.  She reminded me, over and over again, that she was watching.  Closely.

The hardest part of cancer, for me, is knowing that my girls have seen things that can’t be unseen.  They saw me struggle and cry and, sometimes, scream.  They saw me attached to IV lines in a small, cramped room full of cancer patients.  They saw me sick and bald and lying listless in a hospital bed.  They saw it, they saved it and they filed it away in their memory bank.

I want to erase their memory bank.

Post-treatment, I struggle most with this thought; this fear that my girls will never lose that memory of me, never be able to shake the image of their frail, sick mother.  I hate it. 

I’m not certain if my anger is a healthy motivator, but I freely admit that it is a factor in navigating my new normal.  I desperately want to replace the memory of cancer-stricken-me in my girls’ brains.  I want them to see me looking and feeling healthy.  I want them to see my resilience, my fortitude, my grit.  I want them to see and feel my resolute determination to live. 

It’s this sheer determination that has me convinced that I will cross my first half marathon finish line this November.  It’s also the reason I take every opportunity to train alongside my girls.  I want to cross finish lines with them, arms raised in the air and sweat dripping from our foreheads.  I want to erase the image of poor, weak mom from their minds and replace it with an image of a strong, resolute, determined mom.  I’ve never wanted anything as desperately as I want this.

And so I signed us all up to run the Sparrow’s Nest Superhero 5k this past weekend, where we proudly flaunted our knee-high Wonder Woman socks, complete with tiny capes.  And, together, we ran across that finish line.

My oldest daughter took this picture and posted it on Instagram with the caption, “We don’t run for mom, we run with mom…”

And there it was.  Proof that they are still watching and my determination is winning.  #SparrowStrong

 

The Journey

I have a woman-crush on Emily McDowell.  She’s the genius behind a small empire that started out with greeting cards that perfectly express those thoughts that occasionally swarm in my head.  One of my favorites simply says:

When life gives you lemons, I won’t tell you a story about my cousin’s friend who died of lemons.

That one always makes me laugh-snort.  It’s quite possible that you need to live through a cancer diagnosis (and the accompanying real-life stories of deadly lemons that people feel compelled to share) to appreciate the real humor in that card.

Another favorite is her frankly stated, ‘Let me be the first to punch the next person who calls your cancer diagnosis a journey,’ card.  Yes, please!

A journey conjures up images of exotic excursions, delightful jaunts or some wonderfully pleasurable trip.  Calling cancer a journey seems a banal attempt to romanticize the unromantic.

Cancer is not a journey.  Cancer is an acid forced down your throat.  An acrid stench enveloping your every sense.  An explosive fire burning all around you leaving you running, gasping for air.  The lucky ones find an escape route.  The others….

If we feel compelled to find a journey in all of this, let’s follow the slow ascent back to some semblance of normalcy – or the new normal as I begrudgingly refer to it. Because, from the moment your life is turned upside down by the realization that you have cancer (fucking cancer), you never return to normal.  You are always aware that some awful creature burrowed its way into your sacred space and stole your peace.  And he can do it again.  

My new normal, my journey, is about learning how to keep that cancer creature at bay.  It’s about learning how to quell the chaos in my brain that screams, “No, don’t eat that.  No, don’t drink that.  No, don’t smell that.  No, don’t use that.  No, don’t live like that because maybe, just maybe, that will give the creature new life.”

My new normal, my journey, involves an unyielding determination to do life;  to say yes because saying no only emboldens the creature.  “Yes, I will go to Las Vegas.  Yes, I will run a half marathon while I’m there.  Yes, I will raise $3,000 for Sparrow’s Nest.  Yes, I will take that new job.  Yes, I would love to explore that hidden garden with you.  Yes, I will gladly hike Shades of Death Trail with you.  Yes, yes, yes….or, more appropriately stated, FU cancer!”

Walking Papers

My chemo-day friend got her walking papers today.

We’ve spent much of this year keeping each other company, getting to know each other on such a personal, intimate level.  I still have the trashy novel she gave me when we first met.  “Read it,” she said, “It will keep your mind off of this place.”  And while she slept on and off through her treatment, her sister-in-law quietly shared her uncertain and ever-changing prognosis with me.  Sometimes, self preservation kept me on the opposite side of the room.  Other days, I felt an incredible urge to seek her out, sit beside her and spend my time talking with someone who got it.

It seems outrageous to admit that I don’t even know her name.

Despite that fact, the news of her ‘clear scans’ made my heart happy.  I wanted to hug her today!  Instead, I grinned as we conspiratorially whispered about “getting the hell out of here.”  And when her medication made her drift off to sleep, I slipped a note in her bag – “Happy Bell Ringing Day My Friend!  May there be many happy, healthy days ahead.”  For both of us.

Good Days

On my left sits the eternal optimist. She was smiling when she came in, grateful for the anticipated snowstorm and the chance to bake cookies on her ‘good’ day. 

To my right is the pessimist. She’s here with me every time I come. She groans and complains about the same things each week. ‘Why is this taking so long?  Can’t you make this drip go any faster?  What are these nurses doing?’

Across from me sits my ‘chemo day friend’ whose been missing for the last few weeks. The chemo drugs she was originally taking didn’t cause her hair to fall out, but today she’s wearing a scarf , hiding her bald head. I know that means they’ve changed her course of treatment. I’m not sure why and I won’t ask her this time. I chose to sit out of earshot today because I don’t really want to know. Selfish maybe, but also self-preserving. 

I wonder what they think of me and my coloring book full of curse words and my hot pink bag with the words ‘Kick Butt’ embroidered across the front. I bet they call me a ‘warrior’ or maybe ‘brave.’

God I hate those words. 

Brave warriors willingly go into battle believing they can be someone’s hero. That’s not me. I was taken against my will, kicking, screaming and really fucking angry. I’m not brave. I’m not a warrior. I’m a pissed off cancer patient wasting a beautiful day stuck in this prison. All of us here chained by IV polls. 

Sigh…..

I’m trying my best to steal sunshine from my neighbor to the left. Reminding myself to be grateful for the immunotherapy treatments that keep bringing me here and the promise that this will keep cancer away. She’s right I remind myself – tomorrow will be a ‘good’ day and everyday after will get better. It will.