Anniversaries can be a wonderful thing. A day to celebrate a special event with those important in our lives.
The Cloak of Invisibility sounds like a wonderful thing. The ability to walk around, undetected.
This time of year is when I celebrate an important anniversary, my cancerversary, March 30, 2004. It’s been 19 years since I was given 3 days to make memories with my family and get my affairs in order. Every year, as this date approaches, it casts a spell over me. Some years it’s been overwhelming gratitude. Some years it’s been overwhelming excitement. Some years it’s been overwhelming grief.
This year…
This year I’ve spent more time in doctor’s offices than I have in a long time. More specialists, more diagnosis’, more tests, more medical opinions. It’s been exhausting.
This year the grief has been stronger. Grief missing my Dad. Grief missing friends who have passed away from cancer. Grief missing a healthy life.
I’ve kept much of this year in silence. My Core Four knows all. My close friends know some. I’ve tried to walk in my normal life, acting as normally as I can… If I ever made plans I ended up canceling them, so I stopped making them. I had slipped on my very own Cloak of Invisibility and prayed to be able to walk around undetected.
HOWEVER
My Core Four always made sure I was taken care of. They saw me. They heard me. My close friends saw me. So, even under that Cloak I was able to feel love, laughter, hope and faith because people chose to see me, and I cannot thank them enough.
This year…
This year I have experienced highs and lows. I have felt invisible, but never truly was. So, when My Core Four celebrates my cancerversary on March 30, 2023, and we give thanks for these 19 bonus years that I have been given, I will choose hope. I will promise to see people in my life and remind them, when they put on their own Cloak, that they are loved… seen.
As I write this, I’m sitting in my office at work, nothing but the Christmas lights and the glow from my favorite candle (Vanilla Pumpkin Marshmallow from WilsonHaus Candles) lighting the room. It’s quiet… peaceful…
It’s been a difficult year. Physically… medically… peoplly.
Being in a clinical trial that never ends has been exceptionally challenging this past year. I would not go back and change any decision that I’ve made, but, it’s hard to live in a body that just won’t cooperate. Looking back through the years it’s been easy to understand why my personal views changed from seeing everything either “this” or “that.” My life is filled with so many “ands” – and, it’s a painfully beautiful thing.
Back at home, in my closet, on the top shelf, is a clear storage container that has all of my mementos from my cancer journey. There are newspaper clippings featuring me and Victoria at a Relay for Life Rally. There is the paper tiara from my birthday in the hospital. There are gifts my children made me while I was so sick – you should see Matthew’s paper mache maraca – it’s wonderful. Paper copies of the online blog that My Rock started to keep everyone updated. There are all of my blood test results, bone marrow biopsy reports, year in review calendar’s from the cancer center, etc.
Then there’s the VHS tape, “Embracing Life with Arsenic.”
And the Daily Bread booklets that my Dad wrote in every day while I was fighting for my life.
There have been 7 constants in my life since the day of my diagnosis: Dennis (My Rock), Victoria, Matthew, Mom, Dad, Denise and David (My Priest). They loved me through every moment of those horrible days, then and now.
My Rock would update the blog while sitting by my bedside, ready to do whatever was needed. He still does that, every day. My heart is frequently overwhelmed by his selfless love and devotion. He freely supported me while I was helping to care for Mom then Dad in their final days. He listens. He loves. He’s a good man. I wish the world saw this…
Victoria sacrifices on a daily basis to help take care of me. She is strong, loving, fiercely loyal and thoughtful. If you are in her life, you could not have a better friend. I wish the world saw this…
Matthew understands me on a level few people do. He’s strong, loving, selfless, and one of the most genuine and talented people I know. I wish the world saw this…
Denise, my oldest sister, has never ever failed to show up in my life. She is loving, loyal, thoughtful, and cares more about the people in her life than anyone I know. She selflessly took care of Mom and Dad. Having lived Dad’s last 2 weeks on earth with her, I am in awe of her. Truly! I wish the world saw this…
My Priest, my only brother, has never ever failed to show up in my life. He is loving, loyal, thoughtful, loves life to the fullest and treasures family. Having lived Dad’s last 2 weeks on earth with him, I am forever thankful for his leadership and strong arms that just held me as I sobbed after Dad left us. I wish the world saw this…
Mama, we had a difficult relationship during my early life, but connected as adults. She never questioned to come if I needed help. She came after the birth of Victoria. She came when my children needed them. She took over the running of my household while I was so sick. She accidentally burned a perfect iron impression into the carpet of my house in Michigan… I miss that iron spot.
Daddy, we had a special bond. I do not ever remember a time that my Dad wasn’t there for me. Ever. When I was little he brought me Rocky Road ice cream any time I was sick. He took me on father/daughter dates on a regular basis. He literally helped save my life while donating his blood to me, on numerous occasions, during my treatments. I miss him so very much… so much… My heart is broken.
This past year I have felt quite lost, at times. My body is wearing out and most doctor appointments have resulted in news that isn’t great.
AND
My life is blessed beyond measure. I have a job I enjoy with people that I love. My Tribe is constantly checking in and showing true love and care. My medical team is excellent and always thinking outside of the box. My four doggos fill our home with laughter, snuggles and unwavering love. My parents are no longer here on earth, but they are with me every day. People, good, real and genuine people, are in my life and just make it better… Real is easy to decipher it, once you see it.
Beauty and tears. That’s my life. I’m forever grateful.
The Rule of Three. There are several “rules” out there, and in this case I’m referring to events happening in groups of three. My Dad believed this, and I’ve followed right along in this belief. Patterns emerge in the most interesting places.
I also believe in the Core Four. You’ve heard me refer to My Core Four in several blog posts, and one astute human (yes, you, Caleb) asked why I used the number 4, since My Core Four referred to My Rock (Dennis), Victoria and Matthew. In case you’re counting, that makes 3. That was a great question, and I have a three-part answer.
One: It’s my nod to one of my favorite tv shows, “The Middle” and their use of “The Core Four” during a famous New Year’s Eve toast by the refrigerator. Trust me, it’s hilarious!
Two: There’s another member of My Core Four, me. Throughout my diagnosis and treatments, I came to realize how important it was to listen to my inner voice. It was quite a bizarre thing to be trapped in a body that was literally killing me. Being trapped and feeling the things I was feeling, well, the only way my doctor’s could help was by telling them. (This may seem like a no-brainer to you, but it was very difficult for me to do.)
Three: Everyone in a group is important. Everyone.
Greenville Theatre is a magical place, full of the best humans. It also happens to be my place of employment. To say that Covid-19 caused some difficult months, is quite the understatement. Our doors were closed for over a year and a half. During that time, I had the privilege of working alongside three of my favorite humans, Cory, Graham and Thomas. I fondly call them “the boys.” It was just the four of us working in the large theatre every day. Anything that came up, we dealt with together. Never was this more apparent than when Dad was diagnosed with cancer. Was it work related? No. Was it friend related? Yes. The boys frequently checked in on me, supported me, and made me feel less alone. The day before I left to help care for Dad throughout his hospice journey, they brought me beautiful flowers and the sweetest card. I cried. A lot. They allowed me the space to feel what I was feeling. That is a rare gift.
When I headed to Wisconsin, I took that card with me and read it every day. The card represented their friendship, and it continued to help me feel less alone during some pretty awful times. Their friendship meant the world to me. It still does. The boys make me laugh on a regular basis, and they still check in with me to see how I’m doing. My second Core Four was in the making long before I knew just how much they would mean to me. Some friendships sneak up on you like that, and I am proud to call Cory, Graham and Thomas my friends.
During Dad’s illness there were so many family members who came to visit. Each visit was a joyous event, and each happened at the perfect time. Dad loved nothing more than to be surrounded by family. Once the visits were over, and in the final days of his life, it was just David (my Priest), Denise (you’ll meet her soon), Jessie (ditto) and me. Dad declined so quickly it was shocking. We never had time to breathe and establish a routine because things changed almost hourly. Days and nights blurred together. Our hearts were breaking but there was no time to acknowledge that… we had work to do, care to give, meetings with the hospice team to have, and micro-naps to take. Frankly, this was the most difficult thing I have ever done, and it would have been impossible without this group of people.
We lived this journey together. Every heart-wrenching, laughter-educing, memory-making moment, together. Dad never lost his ability to communicate, even though it was more subtle. He was most at peace when we were all in the room together, laughing, reminiscing, and badgering each other. We stayed with Dad until the hospice nurse arrived to confirm that he had passed, and that was an hour after his last breath. We stayed with Dad until he left with the funeral director. It was at this point that we split up for awhile… Dave went running (a pastime that Dad had started with him years ago), Denise and Jessie took care of some family who were visiting, and I left the house to get sick.
We came back together and soldiered on… we had work to do, care to give (picking out clothes for Dad, writing the eulogy, and continuing to carry out his wishes), meetings with the funeral director to have, and micro-naps to take. It never ended, until it did, and our hearts continued to break.
We are now a bonded group. We lived so much together in those few weeks. My third Core Four was a lifetime in the making. They are not only family, I am proud to call Dave, Denise and Jessie my friends.
There it is again… The Rule of Three. I have three Core Fours. It’s almost like Dad reached out and provided exactly what I needed when I needed it most. Thank you, Daddy! Grief is a small price to pay for the extraordinary privilege of love. ❤
The words just haven’t been coming to me to try and explain what it was like to take care of and sit by the bedside of my Dad… Things changed so quickly that it was impossible to adapt before the next change. Honestly, my heart still feels like there is something that can be done to help the situation… It was like living in a fight or flight response for 9 days straight…
Then came the memorial services and graveside military service.
Then came working in the house and starting to organize everything.
Then came the trip back to South Carolina and trying to return to “normal.” (I truly dislike that word!)
Then came me wondering how Daddy was doing so I picked up the phone, only to remember…
Life without Dad is an ache unlike anything I’ve every experienced before. I’ve always been a Daddy’s girl, the baby of the family, and quite proud of those facts. Growing up I had “Daddy dates” on a regular basis, and after I got married and moved away, Mom and Dad stayed very active in my life. We visited them, they visited us, we talked on the phone, and I wrote letters and cards. After Mom died, Dad would come and stay with My Core Four for months at a time. I’ve never had a period of time that didn’t involve my Dad.
Today is Father’s Day.
I’m heartbroken.
I’ve cried more in the past month than I ever have before.
I had the best Father in the world!
And yet…
My head is unable to give language to all that I feel, so I will just say this: there is no “without.” I do not live a Life Without Father. He lives on in the lessons he taught me and the love that he showed me… He lives on in the best parts of me. He lives on in the lives of my Rock and Victoria and Matthew, because he loved them so very much.
Happy Father’s Day, Daddy! I love you and am so very thankful for you!
I had a pretty idyllic childhood. My earliest memories are of living on a corn farm in Illinois where my days were filled with climbing trees, exploring along the creek, picking wild blackberries, helping plant and then harvest our large garden, walking through the old cemetery next to our house, and hanging out in my favorite spot, on top of the old pig pen. So many good memories. Are all of my memories wonderful? Certainly not. There was the time several wasps decided to attack my back, literally. There was the time I taped our cat’s mouth shut, though I’m not sure who that gives more of a bad flashback for, me or my Priest. (He suffered the wrath of the very unhappy cat as he removed the tape.) But, the majority of my memories are wonderful.
When I was in 3rd grade my family moved “into town.” Town wasn’t a booming city, but it certainly was different than the large farm. It was there that I learned to mow the lawn and plant strawberries in our smaller garden. I was still able to climb trees, well the one oak tree that we had in our yard. Dad always knew he could find me there if I wasn’t hanging out in the basement by his desk. Mom and Dad loved gardening, and it became a favorite pastime, though I still remember the time we were eating some fresh broccoli only to find little worms in there. Now THAT was a fun family dinner.
Dad would frequently bring me home something from the office, my favorite being Chuckles, a sugared liquorish candy. The times I was able to visit Dad at his office were the best because he would let me hang out in the break room where I would use the sugar cubes to build forts and tall buildings. Those building blocks were delicious.
When I was in 10th grade my dad was transferred to Wisconsin and we moved there the summer before my junior year of high school. That was a tough transition for me, but family sticks together. It was there that I learned to thoroughly enjoy mowing our big yard, it was my favorite chore as it gave me lots of time to think or escape into my own imagination. It was here that Dad taught me how to fix up old furniture and paint my own room. We went to the Pabst Theatre every Christmas to watch, “A Christmas Carol.” This is where my love of theatre began.
After high school graduation I left for college where my Dad helped move me into the dorm, gave me a big hug and, with tears streaming down my face, told me he was proud of me. Dad wrote me every single week. Phone calls were few and far between because, as this was the 1700’s, there were no cell phones or reasonably-priced phone service. I went home every Christmas and summer, and one summer brought home a young man for Mom and Dad to meet, my Rock. Mom and Dad LOVED Dennis, and there are so many stories I could share here, but I’ll leave those for the comical chapter in the book I’ll write “some day.”
I married my Rock and we rode off into the sunset to start our happily ever after.
But life doesn’t always work out like we think…
My diagnosis came out of left field and I was given 3 days to make memories with my husband and children before entering a new clinical study. Mom and Dad were sitting with Dennis and me in that dreaded purple room when we were given the news. They immediately put their life on hold and moved to Michigan to help take care of my Core Four. Mom helped out at home and Dad came to my hospital room every single day, all day. My parents watched me sign the DNR orders and begin treatment. Those were some dark times, but they were also times that created wonderful memories. It’s the time I first began to observe paradoxical living, the duality of emotions…
I survived, and life – well it didn’t go back to normal, but it took on new meaning. Mom and Dad returned to Wisconsin. They visited often, as we did in turn. They were thrilled when we moved to Colorado. Dad loves the West! When our life took another turn and we transferred to South Carolina, Dad would often joke that he didn’t know why we moved, and I was quick to blame my Rock. Truthfully, I don’t want to be anywhere my Rock isn’t, because that’s home. We do miss Colorado and Dad and I would talk about going back together some day.
Dad loves South Carolina. He enjoys the warmer spring weather and overall lack of snow in the winter. He visited often and never missed a show at Greenville Theatre. Dad would drive downtown and spend all day walking from coffee shop to coffee shop. (He would start at one, order a cup of black coffee and then fall asleep in one of their comfy chairs, wake up and then head to the next coffee shop and repeat the process.) Dad has his own room at my home and loved having a place to belong. My dogs also adore Dad and always compete for his head scratches, belly rubs and scraps of food from his plate.
Dad and Denise came for a visit this past March, once he was vaccinated and it was safer for him to visit. Denise drove with him from Wisconsin and we had 10 wonderful days together. It had been over a year and a half since we had seen each other. It had been far too long.
A few weeks ago Dad started having some aches in his shoulder. My sister, as always, stayed on top of everything Dad related and made sure that he had the doctor check it out. The pain began to grow and Dad’s appetite began to decrease. This past Friday he was incredibly sleepy and had no energy. Saturday was no better so Denise took him to the Emergency Department where they ran some tests. His x-rays showed several tumors in his lungs. I cannot imagine what it must have been like for Denise to receive that news all alone in that hospital room, and then have to tell the rest of us.
There are moments in life when there simply are no words and the emotions are too foreign.
This cancer is fast growing and Denise has witnessed a steady decline every day. After a few tests, and with confirmation from Dad and his doctor, he returned home. Denise brought him home just a few hours ago where she will continue to watch over him, and where Dave (my Priest) prepared Dad’s home for this new chapter in hospice. While my heart is broken and I cannot stop weeping, I know it is a privilege to head to Wisconsin and be with Dad and my family… to sit beside him and tell him stories about the pig pen, the sugar cubes and reflections of growing up in the Sanders Family.
Did you really think I would leave you hanging? I promise that we will talk about litter and loyalty, and then put them both together with deconstructed lemonade. Today is all about litter.
Litter bothers me. One of the things that puzzles me about where I live is the abundance of litter that is alongside every road. It’s everywhere. It’s one of the first things I noticed when moving here from Colorado and, quite frankly, it bothered me quite a bit. Every single day I see the litter – the round trip to work, to the doctor’s office, testing appointments at the hospital… Some days I feel sadness and other days I feel anger.
What is litter? Oxford defines littering, “[to] make (a place) untidy with rubbish or a large number of objects left lying about.” I see so many pieces of rubbish along the road and have never understood why anyone would think it’s ok to simply roll down the window of their car and throw something out, not even slowing down to see the destruction they are causing. Small objects, large objects, harmful objects, etc. that will land, stick, and start to decay and change the very soil. One of the oddest things is that the biggest piles of litter seem to be near the “fines for littering” signs.
So why do people litter?
Tomorrow is my cancerversary, the date that I first heard the words, “You have cancer.” March 30th, and the days before and after, bring such a whirlwind of emotions for me. This year it is a tad overwhelming. So many emotions… Having lived this past year, as we all have, in a pandemic, has intensified so many feeling and memories that I have suppressed for a long time. As I reflect back on how my oncologist told me about my cancer, I realized that words are like objects that can be thrown from a car window… they can be helpful or harmful, and they are rarely neutral.
So often words are just thrown out of a moving life without any thought of how/where they land and the effect they have. My oncologist and most of my nurses were able to speak the truth, in love, with the motivation being one of help and assistance. Those words were not rubbish, but a gift. Unfortunately, there were exceptions to that, and those words hurt and haunted me. It’s amazing that repeatedly hearing, “you can beat this” or “we’ve got your back” can be overshadowed by 1 or 2: “your quality of life will be poor so why bother” or “I hope your affairs are in order because you don’t want to burden your family WHEN you die.” Harmful, hurtful and toxic words carry a bigger weight… I’m not sure why that is…
We can never fully know what is going on in the lives of those around us. So, how do we know what to say? That’s the tricky part, finding the right words. I certainly haven’t mastered this yet. The truth is that we all continue to grow and evolve, to learn how to do better the next time. I am not that same 36 year old who was given 3 days to make memories with my family. Lots of life has been lived since then. Sometimes I got it right and sometimes I got it wrong. That’s the beauty of life, that we get to grow, change and become better humans.
My hope is that I become more sensitive to knowing when and how to say something to those in my life. I do not want to give a quick drive by of my own thoughts without stopping to think about how the words will land. My hope is that my love for those around me will always play a part in my word choices… that when my word choice or desire to be heard causes harm that I will ask for forgiveness and strive to do better. The rubbish we throw at each other causes so much more harm than we realize.
My Core Four, I love you and am thankful for you! This has not been an easy journey and I am beyond grateful for each of you and know that the price you’ve had to pay for being My Core will never be fully understood. I cannot imagine this life without you and am blessed beyond measure by having you in my life.
My Friends and Family, I love you and am thankful for each kind word and action! The meals, housecleaning, words of encouragement, gifts of time… they have not been forgotten.
No more word litter. No more rubbish. Let’s all work together to leave each other better after every encounter. Truth + love = flourishment 💖
Lemonade is a delightful beverage. Cool, crisp, refreshing, and a classic drink that has become a staple in households across the world. The complexity is in its simplicity. All you need are lemons, sugar and water. Yet, lemonade also pairs perfectly with other flavors: strawberry, blackberry (my personal favorite is blackberry and sage lemonade), peach, etc. The possibilities are endless.
So, when life gives you lemons… you freeze them so they hit harder when you throw them at people. Wait. That’s not right. Let’s try that again…
So, when life gives you lemons you never know what you’re going to get. Wait. That’s a box of chocolates, not lemons. One more time…
So, when life give you lemons… Ok. I’m not a big fan of the traditional lemonade analogy, though I certainly concede that it has its merits. I guess my “issues” with this saying is simply because I’ve heard it quoted AT me so many times. My favorite time was when a well-meaning, clever friend said (I’m paraphrasing here), “Wow, you have so many lemons handed to you in life, you sure must love lemonade!” Well, it’s true that I love lemonade, and I can understand how someone would look at my life and see a big box of lemons, but that’s not how I see it. Not at all.
I’m deconstructed lemonade.
Lemons: cancer diagnosis, chemo, cardiac arrest (x5), bone fractures, teeth loss, migraines, disappointments, loss of loved ones, career changes, heartaches, medical tests, hopes turned to disappointments, constant “new normal” living, pandemic, being misunderstood by others, shouldering more responsibility that I feel I can take (personally and professionally), physical inability to keep up with the lifestyle I’d prefer, etc… The list goes on and on. But, we all have a list of lemons. Every single one of us. I imagine that if you sent me a list of your lemons that I’d think, ‘Wow, what a big box of lemons!’
Sugar: My Core Four, loyal and loving family and friends, fabulous medical personnel, cancer research arriving just in time, a lovely home, fur babies, students, watching my children grow up, good books, movies, camaraderie with other cancer survivors, the Rocky Mountains, chocolate, sweat tea, theatre, great co-workers, fulfilling job… The list goes on and on. Some days I may have to look a little bit harder to find the sugar, but it’s always there.
Water: This one gets tricky, so I’m going to make one caveat here, and that’s that the water is good. Good water adds clarity and dilutes the sour lemons just enough so that the sugar can work its magic. Bad water clouds and alters the flavor to the point where the magic just can’t happen. So…
Good Water: Time and space
My life is magical. I shouldn’t be here, yet I am. My clinical trial group had 30, yet I’m the sole survivor. The lemon is the guilt that I carry for surviving when the others did not, the sweet is that I’m alive, and the water of time has allowed me to be joyfully thankful with a hint of sadness. It’s not lemon water or sugar water, it’s lemonade. It’s a combination of things, experiences, reactions and emotions that have made my life what it is today. So many flavors and nuances that I couldn’t begin to describe them to you, though I do try. Life as a whole is good, and it’s hard, and it’s complex. I try to remember this every time I meet someone new, to remember that their life is made up of so many different things and experiences that it would do them an injustice to pass judgement and put them in a box… a big box of lemons is not where any of us belong.
Life truly is broken up into segments… before and after, before and during, yesterday and today, today and tomorrow, etc. At the same time, life truly is prescribed catch phrases, quotes and Pinterest ideas. Every part of life is neatly packaged up for relatability, understanding and lessons learned. Life just isn’t that neat and simple.
Am I guilty of using this packaging lingo? Absolutely. I love Pinterest, quotes and poems – any language that can try to describe the complexities of the heart and soul. My two favorite quotes/quips were, “I’m a tough old bird” and “I will just pick myself up by the bootstraps and keep going.”
However, what I am learning as I face the “prover” part of my personality is that many lovely word choices are most often used as affirmation, but they are not always used with personal conviction. How can I explain? The phrases and quotes came easily to help comfort others about my diagnosis and prognosis, but they did little to reassure me. There just didn’t seem to be a good place to ask the tough questions or express fears… where could I have said, “I don’t want to die.” The doctor’s office? No, we were always talking treatment plans, expectations, possible side effects, and frankly reacting to what the poisons were doing to my body. Home? No, I couldn’t express that to My Core Four. They needed comfort and hope. My Parents? Certainly not. In some ways, they needed the most comfort and encouragement.
The result of living moment by moment, reacting to the side effects of the chemo, constantly altering treatment plans, encouraging others, offering hope, and trying to literally survive…for me, the result was creating a growing anxiety that has taken root in my soul. The best way I can describe it is sitting around waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Sixteen years of waiting for the other shoe to drop.
So many shoes that I can’t remember when the first one dropped! Life as a survivor and clinical trial participant means that it’s never quite over. There are always tests, new symptoms, new doctors, etc. All this while life continues to go on… It’s paradoxical living at it’s best. (Yup, that’s my sarcasm screaming loud and clear.) My Core Four lives this every day… when is “THE” shoe going to drop. I don’t recommend this type of limbo, not at all.
Now let’s factor in the pandemic of COVID-19 where everyone around me now lives how My Core Four lived during my treatments and isolation. So. Many. Memories. So. Much. Anxiety.
Today I sat in yet another specialists office, waiting for tests, breathing through “the look” of technicians who left the room to go and get the doctor. Sigh… Even though this happens often, it has never become normal.
Another shoe drops.
Yet…
Here is what I’m learning: Love. Gratitude. Joy. These are what I try to lead with and lean into. It’s not the number of shoes that I have, it’s the actual time that I have to live this gift of life.
I have a love/hate relationship with the word “fine.” Most times it feels like an automatic response to the question, “How are you?” Is it a normal response to say, “I’m fine. How are you?” Yes, it is normal. Do I always trust the response? No.
Cheerfulness has been my motto. I’m surrounded by an amazing group of humans: family, friends and co-workers. I’ve lived to watch my children grow up. I’m married to my Rock/love of a lifetime. I’m sitting here in a lovely home, decorated for Christmas, listening to Christmas music while my little group of rescue dogs chew on their toys in contentment. Tonight I’ll make chili and cornbread, because that’s what the blustery weather seems to dictate. Life is good. It’s more than good, it’s pretty freaking fantastic.
Yet…
If I were to honestly answer the question, “How are you?” I would say something like, “I’m really hurting and living with more physical pain than ever before and I’m struggling.” The reasons for the pain, in most part, comes from being part of a drug trial and fighting my own battle with cancer. Would I do it again? Absolutely. No question.
Sixteen years ago, when I was diagnosed with cancer, I kept an incredibly upbeat disposition. I assured and reassured family and friends that I would be fine… that I would beat cancer. I assured my children that if I did die that I would still be with them, in their hearts, even if they couldn’t see me. My oncologist, nurses, specialists and spiritual staff at the hospital all commented on my happy disposition – that it lifted their spirits. One such day, my blood counts were so low that even slightly raising my head off of the pillow would cause a whopper of a nose blood, something that could literally kill me. So, I laid flat, all day, while receiving chemo and blood transfusions. I can barely think of that day without crying… it was difficult. Painful. Scary. On the outside, though, all you would have seen was cheerfulness. The closest I can come to describing the emotions I was feeling in those moments is “terrifyingly confused with a hint of gratefulness.”
My greatest fear was being a burden… it still is.
When I was finally allowed to go home and begin isolation there, I did try and talk with a friend or two about my fears, but I was quickly reminded that everything would be fine… Keep a positive spirit… Only think positive thoughts… They knew I would be fine… Those comments all came from a place of love, I know that. I’m grateful for good friends. However, in my 16 years as a cancer survivor and fighter, I truly believe that we need to give people a place to be “uncheerful” ‘for awhile. Perpetual cheerfulness has, at times, become a prison for me and there are times when I desperately want to break free.
Much of my life and experiences are only truly known by a small handful of people, and that has been my choice. Frankly, most of my life these past 16 years can only be understood by those who have literally walked with me through each trial. My Rock and My Core Four have seen every single trial, and that makes me feel abundantly sad with a heaping dose of love and gratitude.
Some things can’t be told. You either live them or you don’t. But they can’t be told.
However, the lessons we learn, those things can be told. I’ve been on an exploration of who I am and how I can best live this life I have been miraculously given. It’s an ongoing journey. Some people are doers. Some people are takers. Some people are drifters. There’s lots of ways to break down personality traits, but what I’ve learned is that I’m a prover.
My proverbial need to NOT be a burden to anyone feeds my need to be a prover. I do not want anyone to feel like they have to place their lives on hold, give up any dream, or simply not run an errand because I may need them for something. This is what caused my overwhelming cheerfulness in times of absolute distress. I look back at my time in treatment, isolation, and re-navigating life and see a sick, scared and hurting human who couldn’t bare the thought of causing any more sadness to those around her.
BUT…
That doesn’t mean that my cheerful disposition wasn’t authentic the majority of the time. I have been blessed to have a personality that looks for the good, believes life will improve, loves to laugh with abandon, to cook and clean and work… 90% of the time I am truly happy, regardless of circumstance. There is so much about my life that I love! I’m grateful. I’m blessed. I’m a goofball.
I’m not fine. Every single day the amount of physical pain I feel is overwhelming. I’m also happy. I’m loved and I love those around me.
Life is so much more about “and” than “or.”
It’s okay to be happy with a twinge of sadness. It’s okay to be laughing out loud with a hint of uncertainty. It’s okay to be brave and scared at the same time. It’s okay to be disappointed with a whisper of hope. It’s okay to not be cheerful 24/7. We need to laugh, cry, dance, roll our eyes (my personal favorite) sing, scream, be quiet, be goofy, feel angry, feel hurt, feel love and to be loved. It’s all okay.
Emotions are signposts of where we are in the moment, but they are NOT directives on who we are.
So, now that you know one of my deepest secrets, let me introduce myself…
Hi, I’m Aimée. I’m a wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, cancer survivor, prover and dog lover who loves to laugh (a lot), text (NOT talk on the phone) with my family and friends, cook, discuss the real meaning of life, give where I can, watch scary movies (zombie movies are my favorite) and eat dinner every single night with my Core 4. I’m a work in progress who is grateful for every moment and am discovering that it’s okay to keep discovering. We humans, we grow and change. No one is who they were 10 years ago, or even yesterday.
“It is the story of our youth, our hearts; that touches our very existence, that reminds us of what our lives once were. It is a story of our youthful vigor and folly before cynicism, disappointment, and inevitable sameness etched our personalities (or at least a story of what our idealized youth could have been, if our dreams had worked out as we had wished back then).” – Review by Steve Windisch of The Fantastics
September has always been an enchanted time of year for me. My childhood was simply wonderful and I loved every minute of it… well, maybe not every minute. There was that one time when my brother, aka my Priest, was quite angry with me for no good reason. I was an innocent 5 year old who accidentally taped the cats mouth shut. I’ve never understood why Dave got so upset with me. All he had to do was remove the tape from the cat, and I’m sure that was an easy task.
September was when Mom would roast the last of the sunflower seeds from our gigantic sunflowers in the garden, the leaves in the trees would start to turn, and the breeze would rustle the branches of the Willow trees. It was the time of baseball games, canning the last vegetables from the garden, lazy walks by the creek and getting ready to go back to school. September was a magical gateway to the best time of year, when the air starts to get a little cooler and the days a little shorter. To this day I can’t help but feel the magic that September brought to me on the farm.
September is Blood Cancer Awareness Month. I’d always looked forward to this time and used it to reflect on the importance of survivorship. Then my Mama got blood cancer and she passed away, in September.
I miss my Mom. I miss life on the farm. I miss watching the Willow trees swaying gently in the breeze. I miss sunflower seeds fresh from the oven. I miss lazy walks by the stream. I miss my Mom.
I still love September, but my sweet memories now have a twinge of sadness. Sadness and laughter. Love and loss. Family together then family apart. Gratefulness and emptiness. The feelings seem to war with each other more and more these days. Some days when it feels like December days outweigh the September days I can do one of two things: eat chocolate and watch a Hallmark movie (ok, those of you who know me know that’s not true, I’d watch a movie about a zombie apocalypse) or I can look back on those sweet memories knowing that sadness is a small price for living and loving.
Life is far more about “and” than “or” and my life is full of some pretty wonderful “ands.”
P.S.: If you haven’t listened to the song, “Try to Remember,” I highly recommend Andy Williams’s version. That’s the soundtrack of my childhood and it’s practically perfect.
The Time that is Given 