There is no such thing as a routine mammogram when your sister had breast cancer

Ten years ago this month, my sister was diagnosed with breast cancer.

We had no family history. She did not have a lump. And they only found it because she is ridiculously, brilliantly diligent: she never skips an annual exam of anything, and when they told her she should have annual mammograms and ultrasounds "just to be safe" due to the density of her breasts, she did so. The mammogram didn't catch it, but the ultrasound did. It was small and stage 1. The type of cancer she had was the most aggressive kind, and it is very possible that if she had skipped a year...because ya' know, we don't really have that in our family...she may not be around right now.

Yes. Happy ending. 

She's happy and healthy and all is well.

I won't say she "beat" cancer, because I've always felt that to say that about those who survived is to imply that those who didn't, didn't fight hard enough. Cancer is a bitch. And sometimes, no matter what you do or what you believe or how much of a great attitude you have, cancer wins. 

So, yes, we are some of the lucky ones.

That's not to say she didn't fight. She fought like a bad ass. She not only listened to her doctors' recommendations, she challenged them, went beyond them, did what was right for her, and did it all with a sense of humor. (After each of her multiple surgeries, she would swing her drains around like a pin up girl with a feather boa and drawl: "Look, Lizy, aren't I sexy?").

At the time, I don't think I processed it all too much. Some of it might have been self-preservation (read: denial). Some of it might have been that I was in the throes of raising two little boys. I look back and often wonder: "Good God, how did we all make it through that? How did she make it through all that?" We all know--or can imagine--how hard the war with cancer is, but the details...the everyday, the private horrors...It is amazing how we, as humans, can put our "big girl pants" on and do what's gotta be done.

My sister has some physical scars from her duel with the big C, but I'm pretty sure all of us have some emotional ones. She says her cancer changed her life. She's proud and relieved to say that she's "one of those" who feels she is better off because of it. I suspect we all are. I don't think any of us take much for granted (most days), but every May when I walk into that dark room in my paper robe, I have to remind myself to breathe. I never, ever miss my annual appointment. I don't even allow it to run "a little late." I feel like that's one small way I can pay homage to my beautiful, brave sister. 

So, ladies. Don't miss that appointment. Don't skip it. Don't put it off. Because you're probably fine. But you owe it to yourself and all those who have fought the fight to put on that damn paper gown, walk into that room, and breathe.

***********************************************************************************

In honor of breast cancer awareness month and my sister, here are a couple of posts I wrote back then. 

My Sister Has Breast Cancer (or Time to Put on Your Big Girl Pants)- I wrote this one while sitting in the waiting room when she was having her double mastectomy on November 3, 2012

My Sister HAD Breast Cancer (or: Time to Pop Open the Sangria) - I wrote this one after celebrating her last clean scan on February 3, 2016.

My sister HAD breast cancer (Or: Time to pop open the sangria)

This one has a happy ending.

Usually, I don't like to know what happens at the end. No spoilers. But this story...this one I prefer starting with the ending.

My sister battled breast cancer. And won.

I hate those terms, even as I write them: battled, won.

What does that mean? That the people who didn't end up with clean pet scans three years later didn't battle? Didn't fight? If she, God forbid, had not made it, would I have said she had lost?

The truth is, I suspect, that she was lucky. Or that it wasn't her time. Or it wasn't meant to be.

Whatever it was, whichever cancer cliches I choose to use to describe it all...the ending is a happy one.

On November 3, 2012, my sister had an elective double mastectomy. I sat in the waiting room, cross legged in a scratchy chair, trying to shut out my parents' terror and my brother-in-law's fear by writing about my own. I haven't reread that post, ever. I plan to when I'm done with this one, but I will force myself to wait until I hit the "publish" button here before I go there. I want this post to be a clean purge, one based on what I am feeling and thinking now, and what I have thought the last few days, and what I have learned from her cancer; not a post that is reminiscent and dramatic because of that one.

Today, my sister received the news that her full body pet scan--the one her oncologist said would serve as her "closure"--was clean. Three years after a diagnosis, what seemed like a million surgeries and complications, a bald head, plenty of follow-up blood tests with good news...the final test. Her closure. Supposedly, she is now just like one of us: her statistics are pretty much almost the same as mine. Maybe yours. Maybe the guy in the cubicle next to her. She is...what? Cured? Done? A survivor? Regular? I'm not sure what to label it, exactly, but I like when an oncologist tells my sister this is her closure. I like when they use a machine so powerful it can look right into her body and find any chance of cancer, and then tell her: Nope. You're good. 

A happy ending.

Her cancer changed her. That is for sure. But it changed all of us, I think. I know it changed me. It was like I had that post war shock thing: it vibrates inside of me harder now than it did then. Back then, I was all head-down-get-through-it-taking-care-of-business-matter-of-fact. But later, it was like I lifted my head and looked around, confused, dizzy, shaky, like: Holy fuck, what the fuck was that? My sister had fucking cancer. My sister had fucking chemo. My sister could have fucking died. 

The reality of it: that cancer had actually touched one of us...not like a story about someone at work, or a parent of a friend, or a third cousin, or my 80-year-old grandfather. No, this was real. This was my healthy, loud, always-looked-younger-than-her-age, not-even-fifty-years-old sister. This was one of Us.

It made illness, frailty, mortality all real.

I have always tried to live life Big. My husband and I, we don't wait around too much on things we really want to do. We don't wait for the weekend to have fun. I have always tried to see life as finite and urgent.

But this...This...this just made me see that way of thinking as a Necessity more than a Philosophy.

And even the way I see my sister has changed. When the shit truly hit the fan, she did what she had to do. When she had drains sticking out of her body for days, she'd call them her "balls" and swing them around and make jokes. When she admitted that losing her hair scared her more than anything else, she shaved it off. When she was done with the physical fight, she turned inward and made her Self truly happier. When she was told it was better to stop thinking about it, she got herself trained as a volunteer to help other women going through it. She has been brave and real during all of it.

When she was waiting for these results, I really truly believed they were going to be okay. Something inside of me told me she was done with this. She had come out of it on the other side.  Today, this chapter of her life is closed, as far as I'm concerned. She deserved her happy ending.

**Follow-up: So yeah, I went back. I read the post. And now? Well, let's just say I'm gonna drink a lot of fucking sangria on Sunday with my sister.

The Decisions That Matter

I am thinking maybe I should change the name of this blog to But Then I Sold My House.

Not only is it the only thing I’ve been writing about lately, it’s also the only thing I’ve been thinking about. So yeah, for those of you who have been around (here, or in my “real” life), no more Open Houses for us. We sold. (Not, mind you, thanks to the aforementioned sucky open houses, but because we finally caved and listed on the MLS, which just goes to further prove my theory that Open Houses really do suck). We officially listed our house on Friday morning and by Sunday afternoon we had not one, but two, buyers. Somehow, in a matter of a month, I have gone from just considering the possibility of moving, to signing a contract and running around town collecting liquor boxes for packing (it would be even nicer if the liquor was still in them).

I would never describe myself as a risk-taker.

More of a chicken.

With anxiety.

And a near-compulsive need to control everything and avoid change of all sorts at all costs.

Except, maybe I’m not.

I’ve given this some thought, and I’m starting to think that maybe I am a little gutsy…at least when it matters.

Take, for instance, my divorce 15 years ago. I was 25 years old and had been married to a man who everyone thought was the cat’s meow, but really, he was just a pussy who constantly told me to lower my voice and wear more beige. I didn’t tell anyone I was thinking of leaving, because I knew everyone would try to convince me to stay, and to be quite honest, back then, I was too young and too scared to be really confident in my choice. So I mulled it over for 2 years, alternated between trying to be what he wanted me to be and being even more of what I truly was, and made myself nearly sick with anxiety and resentment. When I finally walked out and told people, I had almost no support. My parents thought I was crazy and barely spoke to me (except to tell me I was crazy). My sister told me she thought I was making a huge mistake that I would regret for the rest of my life and “simply could not support this.”  My best friends told me they couldn’t be my friends anymore because “divorce is against the Catholic religion” (I kid you not). People at work kept whining: “But whyyy? He seemed like such a niiiice guy and you guys made suuuuuch a cuuuuute couple…”

Over the year that followed I got my own apartment for the first time in my life, started dating the man of my dreams, and became my own person. Now, in the interest of complete disclosure here, I will admit that, on most days, I did not accomplish all of this with grace. Not even close. I was a blubbering, anxious, over-eating, not-sleeping, therapy-attending, scared shitless little mess.

But I did it anyways.

And now here I am, selling The Dream House Of My Grown-Up Life, moving in temporarily with my parents (they no longer think I’m crazy—or maybe they do, but they just don’t tell me anymore), buying an RV to live and travel in over the summer, and hoping to eventually find a house that will be smaller, cheaper, but still "cute enough," so that we can live the Life We Really Want. I have no idea what the next 6 months hold in store. I am cleaning out 9 closets worth of Stuff that is being sorted into piles labeled Garage Sale, Throw Away, Keep. Every time I step into my little oasis of a closet with its mini chandelier and get teary, I remind myself that a wall of stilettos is not worth giving up trips with my husband and a college fund for my kids.

When people ask where we are moving to and I answer, “We don’t know yet,” the responses seem to follow a theme: 

“Wow, you’re bold.”

“Wow, you’re brave.”
"Wow, you're crazy."
or

“You guys are like gypsies.”

“You guys are like hippies.”
"You guys are perfect for each other."
or
"You're gonna be miserable in a smaller house."
"Your kids are gonna be miserable in a smaller house."
"Why do you want a smaller house?"
Or my personal favorite:
“You’re going to live in an RV?!?”

Then there are those few people who listen quietly and nod and smile and ask questions about our plan, and seem confused or concerned while I'm talking, but then will tell me--almost in a conspiratorial whisper--something along the lines of: "Wow, I really admire you guys."

It's interesting how when a person is making a major life move, especially one that tends to go against the norm, people have strong opinions (which they tend to volunteer freely). I suspect for some, it is truly out of concern and love because they are worried we are making a mistake. For others, I suppose it is simply disconcerting to see others doing something that holds potential regret. And I have no doubt that some are forced to face their own demons when presented with my choices.

It all makes me anxious: the packing, the waiting, the not knowing where we are going, the looking for a new neighborhood that is "good enough" but also "cheap enough" (quite a feat in South Florida), the giving up of this house...the house we thought would be The House. And yes, sometimes, people's reactions make me a little anxious too. But really, I have realized in my old age (uh, hello? 41?) that I have quite a rebellious side, and there is nothing like telling me something I think is a good idea is a bad idea to make me really want to tackle it and kick some serious ass coming out on the other side all shiny and happy.

The bottom line is: yes, some of this is risky. Yes, some of this is considered a little loopy, especially by society's standards (I can not tell you how many times people have asked me: "Who the hell downsizes?!?"), where everything and everyone is about More and Bigger--all categorized under the label of  "Improving." Yes, I am scared, sometimes. But I'm doing it anyways. Because this is really what I (we) want. This is worth the risk.

Just like that divorce so many years ago.

Sometimes, in life, even the chickenshits have to be brave and do things anyways...because that, after all, is what really matters.

Open Houses Suck

As soon as he left to take down the Open House signs, I went into my bathroom, opened the cabinet under the sink, and took out the toothbrush holder that had been hiding under there. I went around our 4/2, 2-car garage, corner-lot-with-pool home and blew out all the candles that had been lit earlier in the day in an attempt to make the house look more Zen and appealing. I didn't really blow. I huffed and puffed violently with great indignation. Everything that we had put away when we "staged" the Open House came back out: the toys, the books, my contact lens solution.

I hate Open Houses.

I hate and resent that I have to pretend I don't really live in my home, have toys and books and bags scattered around, where we live, where we spend our time, where my children are growing up, and my husband and I are fighting growing old.

I have done these before: these Saturdays and Sundays with the curtains all opened and the ceiling fans whirring and the candles lit. Where everything is "just so" and you pretend you live in this house like this, make it seem that it can be someone else's, but hide everything that actually makes it look lived in, real.

We want to downsize. We want to sell this great big dream house we bought and gutted and made to exactly our specifications. We want something smaller. Simpler. A few years ago when we took every penny we had (and several more that we didn't), nothing but granite counters would do. Now, when we go house shopping all we care about is a big back yard with space for a pool and storage for a new RV. Formica counter tops? No problem. No garage? We'll buy a storage shed. I am well aware that, most likely, I will give up my walk in closet with the tiny chandelier and wall of shoes. (If you are anywhere near a size 6 1/2, you might want to be real nice to me over the coming weeks.)

We want less house and more life.

Our children do not need an entire room filled with toys (what we call a playroom is really just an excuse for excess).
My husband does not need 5 bikes, 10-year-old racing trophies, and rappelling gear he's used twice.
I do not need 7 giant boxes of Christmas tree collectible ornaments.

What we all do need, however, is money for college and retirement.
A newer RV that does not require prayer each time we turn on the generator.
The ability to plan a trip and go on it without having to constantly swat away that nagging sense of guilt.

So we are taking a leap of faith. We are selling a too-big house we love and seeing where we end up. We are gambling on the research we've done (okay, really, Hubby has done and I have sat by him on the sofa and blogged and occasionally nodded and agreed whenever he'd show me something that served as further evidence) that we will be able to end up somewhere cheaper and smaller and possibly closer to the beach (Bonus! Bonus!), with a yard big enough to have what we have here.

Every time someone loves the house, I am hopeful they will make an offer. We will be able to jump in the pool (the metaphorical one, this time) without this prolonged waiting and worrying that we are making the right decision. Let's go already! Let's sell! Let's get out of here! Let's live with my parents for a while until we get our bearings. No more time to debate.

Push me in the fucking pool already.

So I will continue to hide my pictures and my toothbrush. But each time, I will resent it. I will be pissed off at the people who come in and smile politely and nod. I will resist the urge to yell at them: "Don't you see? Don't you see how great this house is? Don't you see how much soul and heart it has in addition to the goddamned square footage?"

And then, I remember...oh yeah, it's not the house that has the soul and heart. It's the four of us. And we plan on packing that shit up and taking it with us...wherever we go.

What did you learn in 2013?

One of my favorite bloggers recently asked me that question. Well, she didn't really ask me...she asked everyone who follows her blog, but of course, I take everything personally.

I almost didn't answer.

A few years ago, I decided to try to not take the new year hoopla so seriously. I used to journal and reflect on the passing year every December 31, and then plan my entire new year: resolutions, grand changes and plans. I put this inordinate amount of pressure on myself to come up with some really poignant, life-changing stuff. It really was exhausting, and most of the time, it felt completely contrived.

So I decided I would sorta ignore all the hype. I would not make any grand resolutions. The year that had passed was simply another year, just like the one that was coming. I forced myself to approach January first as just the day that came after December 31. Admittedly, at the beginning that was tough. Sorta like when you have an itch you're not able to scratch (say, on the arch of your right foot, and you're wearing socks and boots, and you're driving), and you have to white-knuckle it until the moment passes. That's sorta what it was like. I was worried a Very Important Day was here and I was ignoring it.

But after a couple of years, it started to feel very freeing: no self-inflicted pressure, no overly dramatic ponderings.

So when Lindsey Mead posed that question at the end of her New Year's post, I almost ignored it: "Oh, I don't do that stuff anymore. And really, I don't think I learned anything different or significant in 2013." If you'd been here, you probably would have seen me shrugging, dismissively, as I sat at my kitchen counter in my pajamas, drinking my coffee.

But then I took one second to think about it, and it took no longer than that to realize that 2013 probably ended up being One Of Those Really Transforming Years in my life. I highly doubt most people--even those who are close to me--notice the difference, but there has been a shift in me over the last year.

They say that who you are as a person at 20 years old is certainly not who you are at 35. (Public Service Announcement: Having realized this to be absolutely true, I am a firm believer that if you are going to get a tattoo, you should wait until you're at least in your very, very late 20's. I currently have 7 tattoos, and thankfully, none is a Winnie the Pooh, which is what I was absolutely positive I wanted when I was 23.) I remember when I was going through my twenties, which was a decade filled with the best and worst decisions of my life, tons of therapy, and really growing up and becoming who I was meant to be, my wisest, dearest friend (who happens to be 30 years older than I) would tell me this repeatedly. "You won't change that much from 40 to 50, Liz, but there will be a stark difference between who you were at 25 and who you will be at 36." But now here I am at 41, and I feel some major changes inside myself from just a couple of years ago. These changes, in part, came from the first really big serious life stuff I experienced: my sister's cancer, some financial issues, major friendship break-ups, and watching my children go through the seismic shift from babies to boys.

I don't feel like the same person I was a year or so ago.

It was towards the end of 2012 when I dug through a book I had read months prior, searching for a particular quote from a biography, needing it, finding comfort in it, without knowing at the time how desperately I would turn to it again and again over the coming year and a half:

"There's no real point in mourning all the sadness and suffering in the world....So this is my therapy, to sing about the end of the world and dance. We don't find solutions in despair--we find solutions in the defiance of it....Everybody needs a little horn section."  ~Dave Matthews

I had always been one of those people that if anything was "pending" I couldn't be fully happy. It was a futile battle, since those of us who have grown up realize that there is always something pending:  bills, schoolwork, a messy house, medical tests, dirty dishes, a necessary but difficult conversation, sick family members, a torturous work project...  I found myself waiting for things to be Perfect. Of course, they never are. Whether it's really serious scary shit (like my sister's cancer battle last year) or stupid stressful shit (like a never ending laundry pile), there's always something "bad" to be upset about. I always used to think that I wasn't really supposed to be fully content and joyful unless everything that was pending had been "taken care of."

But then that quote--a quote I had read months prior to actually needing it--did something to me. It made sense. It was one of those a-ha! light bulb moments that is very personal and, really, only the person experiencing it can truly understand its depth and importance. I couldn't solve any problem--big or small, real or imagined--by feeling despair. But I could defy that despair. I could sing and dance, literally and figuratively. I could say "Fuck you" to the problem, to the fear, to the suffering. And then, no matter what, I had won. I had taken that moment in my life and lived it. Really lived it. With horns blaring.

I put that quote up at work by my desk. I put it up on my mirror in my closet where I get dressed everyday. For a while, it was even the wallpaper on my phone. Throughout 2013, when I wanted to huddle up and hide under the covers...when I felt the fear and anxiety and despair seeping in and threatening to take over...I reread it, and it got me through.

My perspective has changed over the last year. I am quieter inside. The infamous noise inside my head doesn't drown everything else out (usually). I stress less. I put more importance on the things that need my attention. I have less time and patience for bullshit--not just others', but my own as well. Somehow, my sister's cancer diagnosis, my little babies no longer being babies, and entering my forties have all combined to make me less fearful of life, but acutely aware of its passing and its opportunities. I want to dance and sing and travel and laugh and explore and grow and love more every day, because I've come to realize that it is my responsibility to do so: I have been given this life...just one chance to get it right...and I want to live it as true to my own desires as possible.
Happy New Year.

On shaky ground with a noisy head

My house was broken into today.
My sister is having another (unexpected) surgery this week.
My friend is trying to repair a broken life.

I am exhausted.

I'm also quite shocked: my instinct has been to look for the good in each of these situations.

The son-of-a-bitch didn't get to steal anything. The alarm and a nosy (wonderful) neighbor scared him off before he could take a single thing.
My sister's surgery will hopefully prevent any further complications.
My friend is being brave and will come out of this better off in the end.

That is what I have concluded in each of these cases.
And anyone who has known me for a long time knows that it is a BIG deal that I even came to those conclusions all on my own...no tears, no hysteria, no panic, no Hubby or Dear Friend calming me down from That Dark Place I can go to in my head.

But I'm exhausted. I feel like life is shifting underneath my feet. Have you ever seen those crazy balance boards they have in gyms that look like skateboards with no wheels? You stand on them and try to balance without letting either side hit the floor? It's like that. Like I'm on one of those lately.

And although I do feel a bit spent lately, I am shocked how, on most days, I am just moving along, doing my thing, preparing dinners, packing lunches, making plans, going to work, fretting about those extra 5 pounds, just going about life. There's definitely been some weight on my shoulders lately, and yet I've managed to carry it at least somewhat gracefully.

And so now I am sitting here in bed, trying to go to sleep early, my body aching for the rest, but my head is spinning...a flurry of thoughts about my sister, my parents, my brother-in-law; my friend and her pain; my home and what could have been lost (not so much material...I have come to the realization today that except for a couple of TVs and a couple of cheap laptops, we have virtually nothing a burglar would want). There it is again: that head of mine...always full of noise. And as evidenced by this post, I have no point, no lesson, or epiphany to share...just a lot of noise drowning out my peace.

Where'd the writer go?

 

 

not sure what has happened

 

 

it's been the longest

I think

that I have not written

Here

since Here came to be

 

my friend called me out on it recently

 

Damn

 

I was sorta hoping

no one would notice

 

or maybe

 

I was hoping

everyone would

 

Lord knows there's plenty of stuff

to write about

 

there's so much

maybe

inside my head

 

that's the problem

 

is it?

really?

it's a problem when you have too much to say?

 

I think that might indicate

a Real Problem

 

cause

really

if I'm not coming to talk

Here

then where am I talking?

 

 

A little out of it

I haven't been here in forever.

I must admit that this time around, it is not just Life, and the usual excuses of being busy or tired. Yes, I am busy. Yes, I am tired (perpetually). But really, the truth is I've been avoiding this place.

I don't have anything to write, I think, because I actually have too much to write about.

Does that make sense to anyone?

There's been too much going in life, and therefore, in my head, lately, and I feel like coming here would be like opening up Pandora's Box. And sometimes, you really gotta get in there: yank that sucker open and delve in. But other times--and I think this is one of those--that I'd rather lock it up and sit on it like an overstuffed suitcase.

I just don't want to Go There. Not yet, anyways. I know the time will come when I will need to ponder, to question, to try to make sense of stuff, and to get it all out. But for now, for just the next few weeks, I would like to practice a little bit of denial. Ignorance is bliss, and all that.

You see, I feel like if I reflect too much, I might have to face some harsh realities: my sister's current situation, the fact that I'm about to hit a major age milestone, and the sudden awareness of the passing of time. (I have not forced myself into such ignorance that I do not realize the obvious link here.)

Since my last post, my sister is healing well. (Thank you to all who have prayed, sent well-wishes, asked about her...) She is still not at the end of her journey (as if any of us ever are), and the family is still struggling day-to-day. There are Big Lessons here. Big. I just don't have the energy to try to figure those out yet.

There is this birthday thing: 40. I will be 40 in just a couple of weeks. That's pretty big, too. And I feel like I'm a little too fragile right now to get all self-reflective and melodramatic and poignant.

My babies are gone. I can't quite come to terms with the deliciousness that is my 4-year-old and my 7-year-old who I feel are growing up so fast, I can't bear it.

And the holidays...this time of year always makes me all pensive.

So I am doing something I usually am not so good at: avoiding. Instead, I am choosing to immerse myself in the busy-ness of this time of year and the excitement of my upcoming birthday trip (Vegas BABY!). There will be plenty of time (and I know myself well enough to know that I don't avoid for very long) to poke around in my subconscious and try to figure out some of the emotions that I've been suppressing...to try to  make sense of or come to terms with or have some sort of epiphany or Something...but for now, I'm just going to put my energies into figuring out which stilettos will look the best and hurt the least in Vegas (as if!), and what Santa is going to bring my little boys. There will be time for heavy stuff. Right now, I just want light.

My sister has breast cancer (or: Time to put on your big girl pants)

I am sitting in a hospital waiting room while my sister undergoes surgery for a double mastectomy.

I am surprisingly calm. I think it's because I haven't really dwelled on what's actually happening to my sister's body as I type. She is 49 years old and takes such good care of herself that people regularly ask which one of us is older (I am nearly 10 years younger). We had no history of breast cancer (or any cancer, for that matter) in our family. So as we waited for biopsy results last month, I thought surely we were in the clear. It wouldn't touch us. Cancer, that is. And then, all it takes is one phone call, and there It is. It becomes part of your family. Your life. Your everyday. We all have to check off the "yes" box on the medical questionnaires that ask about your history. It looms.

In one month, I have learned more about breast cancer than I have known my whole life. I think I might have learned a lot about my sister and myself, too. It's all very surreal. This moment, it is surreal. This post. Surely, I will wake up and say to Hubby, "I had the weirdest dream..."

This past month has been one of the hardest for Hubby and me. As if the c-word weren't enough, there's been Other Stuff. (I feel the need to state, for the record, that the boys are good...knock on wood. I'm so superstitious). It seems that Life has decided we've been good and calm for a while, so let's shake things up a bit. Let's make those two grow up some. They are always so good together, so let's see what they can do when we throw some shit their way.

So far, so good though. At least there is that: when push comes to shove, we pull each other in. There is light in that. There is grace.

Grace.

Mixed in there in all the crap, in all the horror, the fear, the anxiety, the general bad luck, there is grace. I am realizing that already. But you gotta go out there and look for it, find it, grab it, drag it into you. But it's there.

I've seen grace in the way my sister has stood tall during this, and in the way she's allowed herself to crumble, on some days, when she's had to, to cry and be afraid and wail, and then pick herself up. Or, maybe more importantly, find someone to do it for her...to yank her up by the shoulders and slap her around. It takes grace and dignity and courage to keep your chin up, to be brave and strong. But it also takes grace to know when you can't dig yourself out, to recognize you've gone over the edge, to the dark side, and to know you need to find the way out but you can't do it for yourself.

I've seen grace in my brother-in-law, who was always a man of few words and even less emotion, who told my sister he didn't care if they took her breasts and her hair; all he wanted was her to be at his side.

I've seen grace in the way my parents have put up a front and held themselves together for my sister's sake, and do what they have to do for her, her kids, her husband, and for me, and my kids.

I've seen grace in the way people at work, friends, acquaintances come to bat for you...how my friends walk the line between distraction and a shoulder to cry on.

I've seen grace in Hubby, who woke up early with me today, and when I insisted he go back to bed, that there was nothing he could do, he simply sat next to me, took my hand, and said, "Then I'll just hold your hand while you have breakfast."

You hear all kinds of stuff about how people cope with the hard stuff in life. And then it's your turn, and you just kind of muddle along, and you go through all kinds of emotions and thoughts: denial, anger, frustration, fear, optimism, hope. Everyone copes differently. I'm starting to realize that the only thing that gives me hope in tough situations is the possibility that good might come out of it on the other end....that when the dust settles, you will be a better person for it. That's all I've got to hold onto right now, for me, for my sister: that we will be, somehow, better for having been forced on this journey.

Where I am right now

"There's no real point in mourning
all the sadness and suffering in the world....

So this is my therapy,

to sing about the end of the world and dance.

We don't find solutions in despair--

we find solutions in the defiance of it....

Everybody needs a little horn section."

                                                                  ~Dave Matthews

What are the chances?

When I was 16, I had my tonsils and adenoids out. I had to spend the night in the hospital for observation because I bled too much during the surgery, according to the doctor. A week later, I sneezed in the middle of the night and burst something, which caused me to hemorrhage through the back of my nose. I spent 4 days in the hospital. That sort of shit never happens from a routine tonsillectomy.

When I had my second son, I felt something "funny," and called the nurse. It turned out to be a prolapsed chord (click here for the full story on that adventure), which is really, really serious and "never happens." In fact, during my whole recovery in the hospital and even when I went back for my follow-ups, several nurses, doctors, and interns greeted me gleefully with "ooooh, you're the prolapsed chord!"

This past Friday, I went in for an endoscopy and Bravo probe test, a procedure that should have taken 15 minutes and one my doctor has performed "hundreds of times" without any issues at all. But this is me, and at this point, you should be noticing a pattern. The first probe (a tiny device they implant in your esophagus to measure for reflux disease) was faulty. Hmmm. That never happens. They try with a second probe. It, too, is faulty and does not latch onto my esophagus. "Must be a bad batch," figures the doctor, which he says has never, ever happened, and proceeds to pull the second one out. Upon its exit, the little shit decides to fall into my throat (the capsule, not the doctor), and lodge itself behind my sinus cavity. Now, this really never happens. Afraid it will slip into my trachea and go into my lungs (something "of concern," as the doctor explained later), my gastro now has to call in an ER ENT and put me under general anesthesia (as opposed to just the lovely dose of Michael Jackson drugs they had used to lull me to sleep) and use special tools to free this damned tiny capsule that is supposed to be oh-so-easy-and-effective-and-is-really-a-nothing-sort-of-test-but-yields-such-great-results.

Bottom line? I am that 1%. You know, when doctors say "sign here because here is the fine print of what could happen, but never does"? Yep. Me. Not always. But 3 out of 4 of my surgical procedures have yielded these amazingly fluke-y results.

I came home from the hospital Friday a little pissed off. I had been waiting to have this test done for weeks now, and had been looking forward to getting it all over with. I had expected to be at work all afternoon and, other than having to carry around a little device to monitor the levels of acidity from the implanted capsule, I should have been no worse for the wear. Instead, I could barely chew, I had blood clots coming out in my tissues, and swallowing felt like I had glass embedded in the back of my throat.

And, I admit, I have a propensity for all things pessimistic. Not always. But often. I have been known to go down the path of doom and despair and throw myself quite the pity party.

And, on top of all of this, I have had a rough few months. (I always feel the need to pop in the disclaimer here that "it could be worse"....that "I am grateful it hasn't been anything serious"...that I have just had "some minor medical annoyances," lest I tempt fate because I really, really do know that what I have been going through for a few months is, really, in the grand scheme of things nothing. But all that said, I have felt, pretty much, like shit in one way or another for the last few months.)

But despite all of this, for some odd, unexplainable reason, I didn't feel that bad Friday after all of this. Mentally, I mean. I just sorta shrugged my shoulders and chuckled at it all. I figured it could have been a lot worse, and I was home and was okay. The doctor said he'd make sure I would not be billed for the procedure (which was going to be almost 2K out of pocket because of this oh-so-special-probe-capsule-thing), and that the endoscopy showed nothing serious. I had been symptom-free for a few days, and perhaps with the results of the endoscopy alone, I would be able to resolve the whole problem. And as if that attitude wasn't enough to surprise me, I was also like: "Well, being that 1% sometimes is a good thing, because all sorts of amazing things have happened to me in my life that, statistically, probably never really should have."

What?!? Who said that? Was that really, truly me looking at the silver lining, without even being reminded to do so? That never happens...

But it's true...I immediately thought of all those times I've had the same reaction ("I can't believe that happened!") to good stuff...

Like ending up living in the very house where I took my very first picture with Hubby...the same house I slept in one night when I was running away from my old life, in the very room that now, 12 years later, belongs to my son.

Like after spending 4 years and all of our money (and some we didn't have) on fixing up said dream house, and feeling like maybe we had bitten off more than we could chew...cause really, how are we ever going to get it all done?...and what are we going to do about the thousands of dollars of work that still needed to be done to the outside?...after giving everything up for this place and thinking maybe we had been nuts all along and looking for a sign that we did, in the end, do the right thing...we got selected out of  "hundreds and hundreds" of applicants who tried to get their front yards made over for the DIY Network TV show "Desperate Landscapes."

Like I walked out on a terrible marriage, despite what everyone around me thought and advised, and not only lived to tell about it, but truly ended up with my happily-ever-after.

Like the second time around I married someone who truly turned out to be my Soulmate (I know how a lot of you feel about that term; if it makes you feel all uncomfortable and cynical-like, feel free to plug in any other appropriate term there instead, such as "great provider," "best friend," "Mr. Right," whatever, just as long as you get the gist).

Like that crazy, terrible 1% chance thing that happened with Aidan's delivery? Well, there is even a smaller chance that babies who are born with a prolapsed chord suffer absolutely no trauma or injury...and he never so much as missed a breath.

Really, what are the chances of any of those things happening? So sometimes, being in that crazy-minority-percentage-of-that-never-happens is a really, really good thing.

I am so damn tired of being negative, of expecting the worst, of worrying and waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was as if it took more energy to be pissed, depressed, and worried about what had happened, than to just accept that it did, look for the good, and move on.

I know: obvious for some of you.

Completely earth-shattering for me.

So maybe, just maybe, I'm evolving...? Learning?

And really, what are the chances of that?

My scariest parenting moment...finally, in print

Sometimes, things happen in parenthood that are just perfect for a blog.

Sometimes, things happen in parenthood that one can not really write about in a blog.

And I'm not talking about "private" stuff. I'm talking about stuff that is just too painful to rehash. Stuff that, when it happens, you're strong and capable and do what you gotta do, but once it's over, you just don't ever want to go There again.

This past summer, something like that happened, and when it was over, my friend immediately said: "Well, there's a perfect blog post!" But it never made it on the blog, because I know Me...I know what my head does...I know the potential for Crazy Shit that can happen up in there. So when it was over, it was done.

But today, this incident was revisited, and it came back, rushing at me, forcing me to finally get it out, write it down, and (hopefully) let it go.

So...the Incident was really, no big deal. Surely, many of you reading this will have similar stories. But this happened to My Kid. And it changed me, just a little bit, forever.

*****

It had been my idea to go ice skating. Ben had shown some interest, and it was the one thing on my Summer To Do List of activities that we had not yet tried. So on the week before the end of summer, we spent the afternoon--Daddy, Mama, and 4-year-old Ben ice skating (or should I say hobbling?).

Ben was pretty good. For a kid who can barely roller blade, he took to the ice rather quickly. At first, he'd just dare a few slides from here to there. By the end of the hour, when we had about 5 minutes left, he decided to go off a little further. I had skated away from him at this point, wanting to see him from afar, wanting to take it in: this little little boy, big grin on his face, brows furrowed in concentration, slip sliding around, almost gracefully.

That's precisely when it happened. I watched the skates slip out suddenly from under him. His body flew up in the air and he landed backwards, head first. As Hubby and I skated over to him, bystanders and skaters and employees rushed over. One mom, I remember, gasped audibly and held her hand over her open, shocked mouth, and uttered a horrified "It was such a loud thump!" when I came over. I remember thinking she was probably one of those moms... But Ben was standing up. He was crying, but he seemed okay. There was no blood. No bump. No evidence.

Within a few minutes, the crying had stopped, and as he sat with his makeshift ice pack on his head, we jokingly took a picture with our cellphone to send to the grandparents. We thought it might be funny to "freak them out a little bit." We came home and Ben asked to watch TV and have some milk and cookies. He seemed fine.

Long story short: about 40 minutes after the hit, he started to cry, almost inconsolably. His tummy hurt. No, his head hurt. No, he thought he was going to throw up. He felt weird. While I called the pediatrician, he started to yawn, rub his eyes, continue to whine. By the time we arrived at the pediatrician's office, less than 10 minutes later, he was throwing up into a Ziploc bag and turning white. By the time we arrived at the ER, less than 8 minutes later, his lips were grey, his eyes were glazed over, and he couldn't tell us his name.

Over the next couple of hours, I watched as my son was strapped onto a table for a brain scan. I watched as he bravely looked away when they put in the IV. I watched as he started to "come back" and begin to question the nurse's skills. By the time the doctor came back with the results that he was okay and that it was "just a concussion," he had started to look and sound like himself again.

So.

Nothing really happened.
Lots of kids have to go to the ER.
Lots of kids bump their heads.
Lots of parents have scary moments with their kids.

But watching my son go from perfectly normal to looking like he was completely drugged and didn't know who he was...this boy who always has something to say, always has an answer to everything, this boy with the full pink pout that suddenly was not even the color of his skin...that will remain with me forever.

And that thought...the one of how it could have, very easily, gone the other way...that's the thought I simply did not want to entertain ever again.

Today, I got a call from his school. He was okay, but he had fallen backward and hit his head on the concrete. When I arrived at the school, I scanned the playground area and recognized his navy blue shirt and royal blue athletic shorts. He was hanging from the monkey bars. I could not have been more relieved. But still, in the car, on the way home, I watched him closely in the rear view mirror. At the first yawn, I panicked: Did he always seem this tired after school? When he said his tummy hurt, I wondered: Does he usually go potty at this time? The memories came rushing back. The fear, the anxiety, the incredible amount of gratitude (at Life, at God, at Luck?) that he was okay.

Again.

My son was okay.

**After I was done with this post and was proofing it, I heard Hubby (who was bathing the boys) ask Ben to let him see his eyes. Immediately, I went to the bathroom: What? What is it? Hubby said he thought Ben's eyes looked shadowy, but in the light, it seemed so did Aidan's. "You know it's when you're looking for stuff to find," Hubby explained. Meanwhile, my heart started pumping, the anxiety, the fear...that fear that Something Is Wrong. Here's the worst part of parenting: you just can't protect them.**

Waiting for the other shoe to drop

I can have anxiety.

It's not there, all the time. It used to be much worse. You might have even referred to me, once upon a time, as a bit of a hypochondriac (I hate that word). Every symptom paralyzed me with fear and every non-symptom prompted me to imagine one. After years of learning that most of the time, it was "nothing," or, in the rare cases when it was "something," I was able to deal with it and move on, the anxieties eased. Somewhere along the line, over the last few years, I stopped being so afraid.

But recently, I've noticed it lurking...the old familiar fear, seeping back into me, stalking. It's subtle, and definitely more manageable than it used to be. But I sense it.

Thankfully, I've grown enough (and spent a few good years in therapy) to recognize it now, even before it takes hold of me. And so I've spent some time contemplating: why? Why now? Why, after all this time, are some of my old ways coming back, messing with my head, my days, my life? And then, it hit me: It's all good.

Life, I mean.

It's good.

Things are calm. Happy. Easier.

I've been pretty busy the last few years...having babies, buying houses, becoming a real grown-up (albeit begrudgingly at times). Life's been frenetic: sleep-training, potty-training, weight-training...and then, trying to keep my job, my marriage, my social life, and my sense of self all in working order. But lately, things seem to have settled. Hubby and I don't have to fight for quiet time (as much). We aren't waking up in the middle of the night (as much). We're planning exciting adventures again. I find that we are no longer "in survival mode"...we have made it through the infant years, we have settled in, gotten comfortable with parenting, found our groove, and have continued on with our plans for This Grand Life. And so...

There it is.

The anxiety.

The fear: When will the other shoe drop?

It can't be this good. I can't be this lucky. It can't be this easy.

* * *

It reminds me of one of my favorite scenes from the Sex and the City movie (yes, I am going to refer to SATC in the middle of a pretty serious blog post...and to those of you who know me: Why are you surprised?) when Charlotte admits to Carrie that she's scared because she has everything she has ever wanted:

Carrie: What makes you think that something bad is gonna happen?
Charlotte: Because! Nobody gets everything they want! Look at you, look at Miranda. You're good people and you two both got shafted. I'm so happy and...something bad is going to happen.

That is exactly how I feel. I have everything I could possibly want: a husband I am so in love with I can hardly believe he's mine; two healthy, smart, sweet little boys who grin and squeal "Mama" when I walk in the door; a home I never thought I could buy; amazing family; and my list can go on and on. Nothing "bad" is happening. Every one is "good." I am blissfully happy.

And terrified it's too good to be true.

The worst part of it is that the older I get, the more I know of people and their stories...their sadnesses, their losses...and like Charlotte thought: Why not me? Why not us?

It's a terrible way to think. I hate it. I detest it. It is not even easy to write about, to put "out there," because then I almost feel like perhaps I'm making it more real, more me. And I absolutely do not want That to be a part of Me ever again. I refuse.

The crazy thing, the contradiction, is that I don't actually believe in any of this. I believe in surrendering to the universe. I believe in God. I believe in karma. Energy. Trusting. Letting go. I believe in optimism, the strength of spirit. All of it. But sometimes, it's hard for me to apply, to live. And I well know that living in fear, in worry, only has a negative power on my psyche, my day to day, and my health. I get frustrated when loved ones (who I've obviously been influenced by) expect the worst. I want to hit them over the head, yell and scream: Expect the best! Only the best! Let go! Trust! Believe! And most of all, Live! Live life and drink it in...all its joys and blessings and good. Perhaps, it is myself I am really trying to remind.

Questions about dying

"But I don't want you and Daddy to die."

This, from a sobbing four-year-old...my sobbing four-year-old...a child who screams a lot but rarely sheds a real tear.

He was clinging to me, still damp from his shower, his yellow towel wrapped around him, his hair still dripping.

Sobbing.

We have no idea where this came from.

We have had (knock on wood, thank God, insert any and all superstitious sayings here) no deaths or illnesses in the family. We have not watched anything new on TV. Nothing. We'd had, in fact, had a lovely afternoon, the four of us, at the outlet mall, shopping for, specifically, "super-hero PJs." We'd ended our shopping with a ride on the merry-go-round, and had come home for pizza and chocolate ice cream. I'd been cutting up tomatoes and listening to the Beach Boys when I heard some whimpering and something about "getting old" and "dying" coming from the bathroom, where the boys were being bathed by Hubby.

I walked in to find Ben with his towel over his head, making noises which were either muffled cries or silly giggles.

When I took the towel off his head, sat down on his step stool, and asked him what was wrong, his face crumpled.

"I don't want you and Daddy to die."

Hubby and I had done our best to be truthful without being scary, feeling completely unsure and at a loss. I wanted to be honest. I wanted to be somewhat matter-of-fact. I wanted to be calm. I did not, under any circumstances, want to scare him. But I also would not, under any circumstances, lie about something like this.

So here it was: The Heavy Stuff.

We explained to him that our Mommies and Daddies were still around, and that they were old. That being old did not mean you died. That we'd be around for his whole life (okay, that was a slightly twisted version of the truth). That people lived to be, "like a hundred," and that "a hundred was, like, forever." We told him that that was why we took such good care of ourselves, why we ate healthy foods and exercised and slept well and drank water and visited our doctors for check-ups, because we wanted to be around for a super long time. We wanted to get older because then we'd get to watch him and his brother grow up.

"And I'll grow up, and I'll have babies, too."
"Yes. You will. And we'll get to see that."

We explained to him that everyone gets older, that it's okay, that it's normal, that old doesn't mean "too old", that it's part of life. We mentioned all of his loved ones who are "old."

"But who will die first? You and Daddy or me?"

Never could I have been prepared for a question like that...a question with an easy answer (God willing, again insert every superstitious saying here, please), but a question that was too heartbreaking to hear my little boy ask me.

"We will, honey, because we are much older. Your life is just starting."

"Who will die first: Tata, Pepe, Abelo, Aba, or Tantala?" (every grandparent plus his pseudo-godmother, all in their late 60s and early 70s, and all integral parts of his daily life).
"I don't know, honey. No one knows. There is no way of knowing that."
"I think Abelo will," he responds, "because he's got really old hair and a really big belly." (The one humorous moment of this conversation.)
Then a pause.
"So I will die before Aidan." He didn't sound upset when he said this, just mathematical.

And at that moment, I can not...I simply can not...believe I am discussing with my four-year-old whether he or his little brother will die first.

"I don't know, honey. You guys are really about the same age. I know it seems like you're much older, but you and Aidan are about the same age, like your Aunt and me. And you guys are going to be really, really old too."

I assured him, yet again, that he had nothing to worry about. That Mommy and Daddy were gonna be around for a long, long time.

"We're not going anywhere, honey. We're gonna be around, for, like, ever."

We went about our business then...he putting on his brand new Spiderman PJs and jumping around like a superhero, me pressing "play" on the iPod for more summer tunes, Hubby cutting the pizza and opening the wine. There was no more talk of dying. We discussed how many toys we'd be bringing him back from our upcoming weekend away to Key West, whether or not Key West was an island and what did it look like, and the location of the Skittles purchased last week.

But after the boys were down, after everything had been cleaned up, after I'd showered, I knew I had to sit down and write this post.

I had to get it out.

I hoped that by doing that, I'd be able to let it go, not dwell, move on.

The conversation left me feeling anxious, vulnerable, scared, and helpless.

I am sure this could have been a beautifully written post, one with poignancy and poetic life lessons, but honestly, I feel spent. I have no "point," no beautiful ending, no epiphany. What I have is a heavy heart, because the conversation I just had with my little boy made me realize how little I can really do to keep him (and us) from the harsh realities of life.

Afraid of the memories that are to be

I live in fear that I will look back on these memories--the ones I am building right now--and have regrets.
.
I worry that I will look back on my children as they are now...little, growing, almost babies...and love them more in my memory than I am, right now, in the present tense.
.
I worry that I will look back and have missed out on laughter and ease with my parents because I spend so much of the present tense annoyed by the idiosyncrasies of 2 old people who have never really understood me, but adore me and do more for me than probably anyone in the world ever could.
.
I try, so often, to check myself, give myself a psychological wake-up call, when I am in the midst of the chaos or annoyances of life.
.
When the kids are fighting, when the kitchen still needs cleaning, when I am so tired I can barely keep my eyes open, and yet little boys still need to be fed and bathed and dressed and tucked in at least 4 times...while my child-less friends go out every Friday to the local happy hour in their eclectic neighborhoods...when I see couples sitting at Starbucks, sipping and lounging and chatting because they have no pressing demands, to-dos, errands, grown-up stuff...
.
When I am with my parents and they say something silly, something typical and expected and frustrating, an exaggerated version of what I grew up with: sentences and questions and lectures that serve as evidence that I was never really understood, that I was always the odd one out, that in spite of their unconditional love and support, they still silently, subconsciously pass judgment, question, wonder...
.
When I find myself in these moments, I try to envision what it will be like when the years pass...when the boys no longer beg for my time, when my parents are no longer around, when the Memories Of Now will be actual memories.
.
And then I am able to realize and understand that it will be then that I will remember my parents' annoying behaviors as endearing...
.
...and I will wish I could swap a moment of parental independence for a sniff of Cheerios-baby-breath and a constant chorus of "Mama, Mama!"
.
But I can not always snap myself into gratitude with this little psychological game of mine.
.
More often than not, I silently long for the time to pass so that there will be no more diapers or baths.
.
More often than not, I snap inappropriately at a comment made at a family gathering or make an excuse to hang up the phone.
.
And so I live in fear that the Memories Of Now will make me sad one day...sad that I did not live more in the present, that I did not love enough, that I did not appreciate enough, that I missed out simply because I took for granted.

This post on MEMORY was part of "Five for Ten Again." Click on the link or button to join in the discussion.

I'd buy more flowers

.

If you knew you were dying, what would you do differently?

I know. Heavy. Sorry, didn't mean to scare you.

Hopefully, I am not dying. Not just yet, anyways. But I had to have a test done today...one of those scary ones with the words "cancer" and "marker" in there.

I don't mean to be dramatic. Really.

Short version: pelvic pain leads to ultrasound; ultrasound leads to blood test to rule out cancer.

The doctor is not especially concerned. After going in with my looooong list of questions, she answered every one relatively positively: You have no history. The majority of these cysts resolve on their own. This is just a precaution.
.
But even if there is a 1% chance, no one wants to hear the c-word. Ever.

I have a reputation for being somewhat anxious. And pessimistic. And dramatic. Altogether, not a great combination for just about anything, much less for waiting for medical results.

After a mini-breakdown, I composed myself. Everything "looks good." And I just absolutely refuse to lose a day (or seven, since that's how long the results can take) of my life worrying. There is time for the worry, if necessary.

I "put it somewhere." Away. Although the thoughts linger, in the back of my brain, I will fill the next few days with happy busy stuff. And every time I look at my boys, I am determined not to think the worst. Because that is yet another thing you learn after you become a mother: every test takes on a whole new meaning.

A few years ago, I read the book Tuesdays With Morrie. Morrie advised that the best way to be prepared for death is to do as the Buddhists: "Everyday, have a little bird on your shoulder that asks, 'Is today the day? Am I ready? Am I doing all I need to do? Am I being the person I want to be?'" That stayed with me. I tried, really tried to live my life everyday as if that bird were there, asking me if I am ready. Is there anything I would regret, right now, at this moment, if my time came?

I started keeping a Life List then. Things I wanted to do "before I die." The items ranged from be a mother (check!) to learn to make sushi (scratched that one off a few years ago...why the heck would I go through all that trouble when I could go to the corner and pay some nice guy to make it for me?). Of course, the catch with a Life List is that for it to be really effective, you have to try and do stuff as soon as you can. You can't just write stuff down like "Go to Paris" and then not do anything to make that dream closer. Because you never know. You never know when the "before I die" part is coming.

Scares like mine right now throw things right in your face. They give you time to think, ponder, reflect. But in reality, our time can stop abruptly with no warning. We know that, rationally. But we forget. It's hard to practice.

Today I was at the grocery store, and I was struck by the prettiness of some flowers...pink and orange and red Gerber daisies. They made me smile.

I hesitated only for a moment.

I bought them. For myself.

This is something I never do, buy flowers for myself. Don't get me wrong: I buy myself plenty. Shoes and bags and lovely clothes. But flowers? They always seem so...wasteful, temporary, frivolous. But I realized, as I looked at those flowers, that I wanted them. If my days are numbered, I thought, I want those in my house. And that's when it hit me: my days are numbered. All of ours are.

I had forgotten the bird.

I looked over my shoulder. He was still there. He told me to buy the flowers.