If you haven’t read the play, “I Remember Mama,” I highly recommend it.

Mama.

I had a seemingly ordinary childhood. Four older siblings. Two loving parents who worked hard to provide for us. A roof over my head. Food on the table. Picnics. Cookouts. Hiking. Siblings. (My two favorite memories of them are the time when I “accidentally” taped the cats mouth shut and my brother – my Priest – had to help get it off of the poor thing [in my defense I was 5 years old], and when my middle sister, Lisa, made me so mad I ran away from home, with an empty suitcase, which earned me a fried chicken dinner from my mom, as she knew that would always bring me home, even at the age of 7.)

My earliest memories are from the farm in Illinois. It was a wonderful place to grown up. Lots of room to run and play. Gardening. Exploring. Ice Skating in the winter on the frozen pond…  I love that we always had family dinner together, at the table. Mama cooked. Wow, could Mama cook. She was amazing. I miss her pies and her rhubarb torte, which was my request for my birthday once I reached high school. When I was young my mom made amazing cakes. One year she made me a huge alligator cake. This was before TV Food Network, Cake Blogs or specialty shops. She figured it out and created those cakes from love. I continued this tradition with my own children, because of Mama.

I grew up and left for college. Met a boy, fell in love and Mama helped plan my wedding. Then my babies came. Mama helped then, too. When Victoria was just a newborn she was very sick and Mama flew to Michigan to help me out. (My Rock arranged that, by the way, without my knowledge. I still remember my absolute RELIEF when I saw Mama walking through my front door.)

My babies grew. Life was pretty close to perfect. Then March 2006 happened. Cancer happened. Mama and Daddy came. They moved in and took care of my family for months. Mama made breakfast for Victoria and Matthew. She did the laundry, cooking, cleaning… she ran my home when I could not. Every afternoon she would drive to the hospital to spend time with me. (Daddy came every day before morning rounds and stayed all day until Dennis could come up.)

One day when Mama was ironing clothes she accidentally dropped the iron and it burned a perfect iron shape into the rug. When I came home from the hospital she was so apologetic. I didn’t see a burn. I saw love.

I miss that iron shape in the carpet.

A few years later we moved to Colorado. Mama loved it there. She spent her 80th birthday there. She loved the Air Force Base in Colorado Springs. She loved Pike’s Peak. She loved the Garden of the Gods. I love all of those places, too. Our greatest shared love of Colorado was for Georgetown. We visited there often. High Tea in the Tea Room. Sour Cream Ice Cream from the candy shop. Riding the Georgetown Railway. Eating amazing burgers and sweet potato fries at Ed’s.

May I say that Mama went to Pike’s Peak via the Cog Railroad and via my driving up to the peak. Hands down that drive was the scariest thing I have ever done. Truth.

We moved to South Carolina the year Mama died. She never saw my home. We never explored this city together.

My Mama had survived being hit by a car – not while she was in a car, but when she was a pedestrian. The car was going about 40 mph. My Mama lived with blindness and hearing loss. If you had met her you would never know any of this unless she shared it. She was joyful. She warmly opened her home to anyone. She loved going to church. She loved playing cards. She loved watching TV Food Network. She loved her grandchildren. She loved her children. Most of all she loved her husband.

I had the extraordinary honor of visiting Mama twice in the 6 weeks that she was ill. Once in the ICU and once in the Hospice facility. The cancer had eaten away at her bones. Her breathing was difficult. When I would spend the night with her she would always ask about her husband and children. It didn’t matter it if was 2 am or 2 pm. She checked on her loved ones first. Now, after that she would talk my ear off. Once I had to ask if she would mind if we took a 30 minute nap. Mama’s memory was always strong.

Daddy celebrated his birthday when Mama was in hospice. She determined to make it a good day for him. She asked me to buy him a gift. She prayed for a good day that day. It was an amazing day. She was alert for most of the day. She was surrounded by her children. She had her husband, as always, right by her side. We laughed. We talked. We took lots of pictures.

Saying goodbye to Mama in hospice was overwhelmingly painful. Sorrowful. We knew it was the last time we would see each other. My next trip home would be for her funeral. Anguish. Anguish is the word that fits best. Sitting at the airport gate I happened across this, and it was perfect:

I miss Mama. I miss mom. I miss the amazing lady of Dorothy Sanders.

The year after Mama died I went back to Colorado on a solo trip. I visited Georgetown looking forward to the places Mama and I loved. Ed’s was no longer in existence. The candy shop didn’t have any sour cream ice cream. The Tea Room wasn’t serving high tea that day. So, I did what any adult would do, I sat outside of the candy shop and cried. I was alone. I missed Mama terribly. My heart felt like it was breaking all over again.

We never get over loss. It doesn’t get better or easier. Personally, I think we absorb it as part of the ever-changing “new normal.” Some days the loss seems fresh, like it just happened. In those times, it IS like it just happened. Some days the loss hovers like the Uninvited Guest.

This story, found on The Little Things website, explains it best:

“I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. I don’t want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don’t want it to ‘not matter.’ I don’t want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it.

Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can’t see.

As for grief, you’ll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you’re drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it’s some physical thing. Maybe it’s a happy memory or a photograph.
Maybe it’s a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.

In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don’t even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you’ll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out.

But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what’s going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything…and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.

Somewhere down the line, and it’s different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O’Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself.

And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you’ll come out.

Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don’t really want them to. But you learn that you’ll survive them. And other waves will come. And you’ll survive them too. If you’re lucky, you’ll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.”

My seemingly ordinary childhood was extraordinary. Mama ensured that somewhere along the way. I will always remember Mama.

Total Disclosure: Address Unknown, by Agatha Christie, is not a stage play. It should be.

Have you ever gone on an unplanned trip? A last minute, don’t know where you’re going or what you’re going to do, kind of trip. How does one pack for that? I am neither Thelma or Louise. I like a good plan. Or, should I say I liked a good plan.

One day I’ll write more about our three days – all of the things we did – the talks we had – the phone calls made – the goodbyes… I’m still not ready.

Tuesday morning, April 6, 2004. My Core Four became divided. Victoria and Matthew went off to school and Dennis and I, along with my parents, headed to the Cancer Center about 30 minutes away. I had a suitcase and Baxter. I had a blood draw and was taken to an exam room. My Rock and parents were taken to the purple room.

Time is a funny thing. It can both stand still and run full speed ahead at the same time. At least that’s what it did for me from the time I went into that exam room until… Hmmmm? 🤔 I’ll have to think about that…

Short version: I heard the words Acute Promyelocytic Leukemia for the first time. Dr. K said he had a call in to MD Anderson’s Leukemia Research Team to find out what they were trying. He knew it would involve a couple of experimental chemo therapies. He asked if I was ok with that. The alternative was that I would be dead by the end of the week. Dr. K and I agreed to fight together. I told my Daddy that I was a “tough old bird and would fight.”

My Rock and I walked over to the hospital and I was admitted to the 7th Floor. The DNR floor. Do Not Resuscitate. I met several kind nurses. I signed the DNR order. I made a living will. I received a nice package with pamphlets about cancer, protective isolation, blood transfusions, duo port care… honestly, the only things that hurt my heart were the two coloring books for Victoria and Matthew called, “My Mommy Has Cancer.” That tore at my heart. IV’s were started. Talk of an upcoming surgery (to place my Duo Port) took place. Dr. K came by to say we were on board with MD Anderson and I would start the experimental oral chemo today. The first round of IV chemo had to wait until my port was in but he would be by to check on me later. More nurses. More paperwork. My blood test results came in. All of my counts were so low they said I would have been in the ER for sure if I hadn’t gone to the doctor last week.

Last week? That was just last week?

Where was I? I’d like to go home now. My kids should be done with school and it was time to start homework, make dinner and hang out at home.

But, reality was I had IV’s. Had signed the DNR. Was in protective isolation. Was trying to figure out port surgery. Was getting ready for my first blood transfusion. Was encouraging those I loved. Was desperately looking into the eyes of my Rock pleading for strength. Was taking my first dose of chemo pills. Was clutching Baxter. Was feeling pretty ill. My body was literally killing me and I could feel it.

Address Unknown. I had arrived.

Hello! My name is Baxter Quattlebaum and I was born on April 5, 2004. I have an amazing family and have been on some pretty terrific adventures.

My birth was something pretty special. It was a Monday morning. The mall where my family came to get me was very quiet because most other families were at work or school. My family came into Build-A-Bear and choose me! My mama cherishes me so much, for I hold some very special memories and mementos.

Here is my story…

My family was spending the day together – just the four of them. Mama was pretty sick and couldn’t be around many people, so they were thankful that the mall was pretty empty. They had decided to come to Build-A-Bear because some dear friends of theirs had gone to Build-A-Bear when they were facing a dramatic change in their family. When Mama was told that she might not be around much longer she knew that she wanted Victoria and Matthew to remember the sound of her voice. Victoria and Matthew were pretty young at the time, so my family came to Build-A-Bear to help give Mama the opportunity she was looking for. When Victoria and Matthew picked out the perfect pet for themselves, Mama recorded some special messages for them and the recordings were put inside of each of their pets. That way as Victoria and Matthew grew up, even if Mama was no longer with them, they could always hear her voice and be reminded of how much she loved them.

When Mama picked me out for her pet, Victoria and Matthew recorded their voices saying, “I love you, mom!” – that recording was put in my right paw. Mama and I moved into the hospital the next day and I went everywhere with her. Seriously, she loved me so much she wouldn’t go anywhere without me. I went with her to every bone marrow biopsy (which was every Thursday), every blood and platelet transfusion (which were dozens and dozens), every room change… well, you get the point. And, I met so many nice people! The doctor’s and nurses were amazing. The staff. The custodial crew. Everyone wanted to meet me.

Best part was every night when Mama was alone she would hug me and listen to Victoria and Matthew saying how much they love her.

I am loved so much my Mama says that I look like the Velveteen Rabbit. I’ve never met this rabbit, but Mama says he is from one of her very favorite stories about unconditional love. Life doesn’t get much better than that!

A picture is worth a thousand words, and so much more.

This picture was taken within the hour of my Core Four learning of my cancer diagnosis. We rarely show this to anyone. To you it may look like a typical family photo, but to us it is looking into another lifetime. We were each irreconcilably changed that day. It impacted our worldview. And we’ve paid a price for that. In the case of my two children, they paid dearly – in ways I couldn’t comprehend at the time.

Crisis, as defined by Webster:

This post has been a difficult one to write. I’ve started several times. I wish I could describe for you all of the events that took place during my “three days” – but I just can’t. The words will not come. Revisiting parts of my story are just difficult. But there is a silver lining here, for I now know why it is difficult.

I’ve never been a “why” kind of girl. The “why” never kept me up at night. I honestly don’t need to know the “why” of most things. Basically, I’m the polar opposite of an engineer. I love to know that things work, I just don’t need to know the why of how they work.

That being said, the “why” of “why is it difficult to think back on parts of my story, let alone the telling of it – it shouldn’t be hard” … this has always bothered me. Then one day, about two years ago, I had a moment of clarity. I had been doing some soul searching. Some people (you know who you are) had been not-so-subtly letting me know that I should be writing a book. My consistent answer was an eye roll, which is my favorite facial expression. Don’t believe me? Ask my Rock! Ask my Core Four. They are well acquainted with it.

Anywho, (BTW:  I love the word “anywho” – it is not a typo. It’s just me being me.) it was a bit of a mystery as to why I struggled to talk about my story. Total transparency:  it is most difficult to share with people I know. When I lived in Michigan I spoke at several events for cancer survivors. I felt at ease speaking to groups of 500+ people who were strangers, yet kindred spirits. Speaking to crowds, no matter the size, that included people that I had known for years was overwhelming. The fear of judgement was immense. Judgement happens. That’s life, I guess. Oh, how easier our world would be if there were far less of that…

The epiphany I had was this:  I don’t know what I’m more scared of, letting people in or letting the monster out. This was life-changing for me. It has been a process. I struggle with this every single day. Some say it should be easy to just Let it Go, but the struggle is almost paralyzing at times. Terrifying. Stone cold, stop in my tracks and hide away from the world scary.

Resuming our story…

Dennis, Victoria, Matthew and I returned to our home. We greeted two of my sisters, Denise and Lisa (you will meet my siblings in an upcoming post) who had just arrived from Wisconsin. I was hyper aware of my husband and children. My husband heard the news an hour or so ago. My children just minutes ago. Now we had to face the world. Time was not a luxury we had anymore.

This is when it started, when others would find out and hear the words,  “I have cancer.” “My mom has cancer.” “My wife has cancer.” “My daughter has cancer.” “My sister has cancer.” “My teacher has cancer.” “My friend has cancer.” “My niece has cancer.” “My cousin has cancer.” “My neighbor has cancer.” The list goes one. This is a tough one for me to try and explain… I had cancer. To the outside world I was just one person. But there are so many parts of me that connect with others in my life… It wasn’t just “one person” – it was all of my relationships and facets of me. It was overwhelming. I felt the weight of that diagnosis on each level. My reaction was to comfort those who would feel the pain of the diagnosis. There was no time to grieve for myself. Time. Time…

There are things that happen to us in this life, whether they are things we chose or things that were given, that become much more real when we give them legs. For me this is when something is spoken aloud or seen in print. It makes things real. Tangible. Alive. The thing now has life. It is a tangible part of my life. In this moment I was aware that one of the most dreaded words in the English language would come alive. Cancer. Weird thing is, it was already alive. It had been for about 10 days. I was unaware of it. Oblivious. Blissfully ignorant.

Whomp! The Willow was making herself known now. The hits were starting to come so close together it was hard to breathe. But, I had to breathe. My Core Four. My parents. My siblings. My nieces and nephews. My students. My friends.

Three days.

I had three days.

How? How does one do this? How does one decide what’s important – really important… Important enough that it is possibly one of the lasts things that I would do on this earth… There were opinions. They were given in love and helpfulness. But my ears were ringing – ringing loudly with “you have three days.” I could be wrong, but I believe they were also ringing just as loud in the ears of my Core Four. We weren’t yet in “what’s next and how do we fight this” mode. The rest of the world was already starting to get there. It’s a common sense question when someone says they have cancer – “how are you going to fight that?” But my Uninvited Guest still didn’t have a face. He was still shrouded in mystery. My oncologist (WHOMP) had three days to figure out who my UG was and how, if possible, to make him leave.

If possible. There it was. Those are the words that shook me. If possible. WHOMP. How does one fight an unknown UG while encouraging the Core Four, parents, siblings, friends, students, neighbors… while planning (most-likely) ones last days on earth? Knowing that in 3 days we would have a possible battle plan that might include surrender. How?

Those who know me well know I lived in the comfort of absolutes. Black and white. Honestly, I felt like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz and had somehow landed in Munchkin Land where there was color… Even the Wicked Witch had color. She was supposed to just be black and white. An easily recognizable foe. Nope. New land. New colors. New rules. New language. No certainty. One foot in Kansas trying to love, protect, plan, ready my loved ones while one foot was in Oz trying desperately to adjust. Both feet needed to be ready to move in 3 days.

But, right now I had siblings to call, friends to tell, and students to inform. Deep breath. Breathe. The mundane had built up around me and had created a good life. It was changing. It had to change. There really was no choice.

Flowers. They are an important prop in my story. Sometimes they take center stage. At this particular place in my story they represent the loss of innocence. For my children. For my family. For my students. For my friends. For my husband. For me. We all lost something – some more than others.

For some it was simply a blip on the radar – notice it then go on with life. This would have been me in previous circumstances. Noting someone’s story, pause to show concern and then carry on with only occasional interaction.

For some it was a shadow… they noticed a tangible change in their own life. Several of my students described it this way. They were reminded every day I wasn’t in class.

For some it was a type of imprint. It was like the Uninvited Guest showed up in their own life and remained there. I imagine this was how it impacted my siblings and parents.

For my kids it was a pretty big chunk of lost innocence. The reality of cancer, of baldness, of a looming separation.., all while trying to do school and the rest of life. How? How does one do that in elementary school?

For my Rock it was the possibility of losing his partner. He was expected to shoulder that weight, work, be a single parent, help his partner through “for worse and in sickness”… May I just say that the spouse of the cancer patient has the impossible task of keeping it all together, with very little support. Let’s not forget them! The husband, the wife, the parents of sick kids… they need support. We need to do better at this!

For me… wow. My entire view of life shifted. My practically perfect, crazy life now had just 3 days to squeeze in all the memories and life lessons of a lifetime. I swear I could hear and see time. Everything looked different. It was much clearer. It was quite foggy. It was here that I first began to learn that contrasting emotions can co-exist: sorrow/joy, fear/faith…

“Look at the flowers,” is a statement that conveys a way for ones self to calm down and focus. To take a broken and skewed perspective and concentrate on something beautiful. I can still remember receiving fresh flowers at my house on the day of my diagnosis (where we are in the story), and having conflicting emotions. Does that surprise you? Here’s a glimpse of how basic thinking changes/innocence lost:

* Flowers delivered

** Thankful for the kind deed

**** Oncologist said I can’t be near fresh flowers or fruit because they carry bacteria that my immune system can no longer fight.

********** Flowers and fruit carry bacteria? How did I not know this? What do I do with the flowers? I can’t throw them out, that would be rude. Can I give them away and hope the sweet person who sent them understands?

********************Is this my life now? Having to question the existence of flowers in my home? What. Is. Happening?!!!!

Every single face we see has a story. When I meet someone who is grumpy, sad, angry, lost, I try to remember what it was like when I had to learn to just look at the flowers. Maybe this grumpy, sad, angry, lost person has their own unique bouquets of life they are figuring out. I may not be able to help but I can hold their hand and let them know they are not alone.

This blog post will be difficult. It’s really the start of my journey and how it forever altered my Core Four. I found myself thrown into a new world that had elements of a fairytale. That may sound odd. It felt odd. Not all fairytales have happy endings. Not all fairytales are full of light. I was standing at the edge of a forest, unsure of the characters I would meet. But I could imagine some of them…

After we left the Oncologist’s office Dennis and I went to pick up Victoria and Matthew. We would tell them first. My sisters, Denise and Lisa, had arrived from Wisconsin. Still, we needed to tell our children first. This is how we have lived since that day. The Core Four are told first.

How does one prepare to tell their children that mom has cancer? A cancer that didn’t have a complete name? That we have 3 days as a family and then mom would be admitted to the hospital and may never come home? There was no map for this. There was no book to read, not that we would have had time to read one. Time. Time…

We drove the kids to a park and we all sat in the car. We were honest. We were hopeful. We had faith. The hardest part for me was seeing their loss of innocence. They had to grow up so much in those few minutes. This wasn’t happening to another family. This was happening to us. The kids each asked questions. I expected the questions like “will you lose your hair” or “when will you get better” but I wasn’t prepared for the first question from my 7 year old son, “will you die?”

There are moments that haunt me. This is one of them.