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.

“Ah, the English and their stupid sense of fair play.”

Friday finally dawned. Today was the day. My Rock, my parents and I arrived at Dr. K’s Office in the late afternoon. The nurse took me to an exam room. Dr. K came in and shared what he knew with me. (It took years for me to let people know that Dr. K told me first. He wanted me to try and grasp what was happening before explaining the situation to my family, in the purple room. This was a gift. It truly was.)

After Dr. K spoke with me, we met my family in the purple room. This moment is frozen, in slow motion, in my mind. I saw my Rock, mom and dad in a different light. I could feel time.

Dr. K sat in one of the chairs. The four of us sat on the couch. Dennis had his Franklin Planner and was ready to take notes. My parents looked nervous. Dr. K told us that I had leukemia. My Rock began to write. My mom said, “Not my baby!” My Dad started to cry. The WW hit me repeatedly. With every gasp. With every stroke of the pen. With every tear. Honestly, it wasn’t because I was sad. It was because I was causing this grief. One of the first thoughts I had was that my entire family would have to change how they fill out paperwork. They all now had an immediate family member who had cancer. We’d never had that before. We come from a very healthy gene pool.

Dr. K continued. The specific type of leukemia was not known, but the results would be in on Tuesday. He described what the possibilities were by saying that on Tuesday he would let me know if I had a house fire and the house could be saved. OR (I heard this word quite clearly). Or, that the fire had spread throughout the walls and there was little that could be done.

Dr. K answered our questions. He was extremely patient, kind and direct. He was exactly what I needed in a doctor. He offered two bites of wisdom that I took to heart:

1. Cancer is the only word we hear in all caps and bold. Don’t give it that weight. (True nugget of wisdom here!)

2. Final results wouldn’t be in until Tuesday. Take these three days to make memories with your kiddos. Get your affairs in order. Come back on Tuesday, with your bags packed and ready to be admitted into the hospital. Dr. K promised that he would fight for me just as hard as I would fight. Together.

Things I learned in those moments that remain tattooed on my heart:

1. Time is a gift.

2. It is… unnerving to be in the body that is trying to kill you.

3. Time is a gift.

4. The Uninvited Guest was clearer, but I still couldn’t see his face. That’s not how this was supposed to work. I should know him and begin fighting him immediately. He was duplicitous, this UG. “Oh, we English and our STUPID sense of fair play.”

The Unexpected Guest remained with me as I finished out my teaching duties and packed up my desk. His presence was keenly felt. It wasn’t sorrow as I didn’t know what was before me. It wasn’t fear. The best way I can describe him is uncertainty with a hint of dread.

Tuesday evening my parents arrived. I helped Victoria and Matthew with their homework. My Core Four stayed with our routine of homework, dinner, downtime, pick out clothes for the next day, pack lunches and ready the backpacks. We were happy to be together, and having Grandma and Grandpa there was a gift!

Wednesday dawned. We drove the kids to school and made sure they were ok. GA Debbie would check in on them for us. My parents joined Dennis and I and we headed to The Alice Gustafson Cancer Center. The car ride was quiet. I remember pulling into the parking lot and seeing “Cancer Center” and I thought, “There’s a Center just for Cancer. How sad.”

We all took the elevator to the second floor. Dr. K’s Office. Dr. K’s specialty was dealing with female-related cancer, but he was known for being a researcher and was willing to see me on such short notice. The waiting room was large. Scattered around the room were baskets of beautiful hats and scarves. They were free for whoever needed them. I can still see those baskets…

After getting my vitals taken and blood drawn, the nurse took me to an exam room. Enter my next GA – Dr. K came in and introduced himself. He was straightforward and kind. Exactly what I needed. Dr. K always told it like it was, with metaphors. He asked lots of questions and then started his physical exam. He taught me about bruise progression: how the colors morph and in which order. He taught me about petechia: those pesky red dots I was covered in.

The nurse brought in my blood counts. My platelets were so low the machine couldn’t read them, they had to be checked by microscope. Dr. K said that he would meet with me and my family in a few minutes.

The nurse took us back to the purple room. I grew to hate the purple room. It was a small room painted in a beautiful and calming purple color. There was a couch and two chairs. Nothing good happened in that room. I had told myself that I could handle anything but a bone marrow biopsy.

Dr. K said he wasn’t sure what was going on. I could have anything from a blood disorder, bone marrow issue, or a worse disease. The quickest way for us to find the answer was to have the following tests done tomorrow: CT scan to check for Lymphoma and a bone marrow biopsy (BMB). He had already scheduled the BMB, it would be first thing the next morning. Dr. K stressed the importance of a positive outlook.

We drove home. We made dinner. Helped the kids with their homework and continued our normal, with the addition of explaining to them what I would be doing the next day. Here is when it gets fuzzy again. The WW comes out. The hits were being felt now. A BMB? That’s the only thing I didn’t want to do. My kids were quiet. My husband was being a Rock. My parents were going to let my siblings know what was going on.

That Unexpected Guest morphed into the background at times, but he was always there. I could see him a tad clearer now. Honestly, I still didn’t know what I was feeling. Looking back I still don’t know, but it’s embedded into my DNA.

Time stood still. The Unexpected Guest brought a companion. Endless Night came softly. So softly I didn’t notice right away.

Moments. They each matter. We each see them from a different perspective. I saw them through the eyes of the patient who was also a wife, mother, daughter, sibling, Aunt, friend and teacher. I brought each of those roles into every experience. Every test. Every result. Every update to the people in my life. Still do.

BMB was in a surgery unit at the hospital. Juan, my pastor, came to see Dennis and me before the procedure. I can still see him there so clearly. The IV was in, all pre-op meetings done, and the nurse had me say goodbye and I walked to the surgery room. The WW stayed quiet. That walk was a gift! I walked into that cold surgery room on my own two feet. Little did I know that in some of the darker days ahead that walk would be an inspiration!

BMB done. We all got home a couple hours later. A hospital staff member called to say they have an opening with the CT imaging and I needed to come back. Dennis and I head back to the hospital. Mom and Dad picked up the kids from school. Dennis and I finally arrived back home. We tried the routine as best we could , but that pesky UG reminds us that the results will be in the next afternoon. This may be our last night of “normal”. No one says it out loud but we all see him. He’s there.

Endless Night is a peculiar thing. I know time is constant. I believe that. But when Endless Night came he distorted that fact. Sometime during that night I knew – and clung to the fact that one positive thing would happen tomorrow: the Unexpected Guest would have a face. I would know who he was.

Denial. Shock. Grace. Everyone has a different name for it. “It” being the way one deals with difficult circumstances. At this point in my story I honestly believe I was experiencing me… how I would respond.

Funny thing about difficult circumstances: people think they know how they would respond, therefore they know how you should respond. Curious.

Resuming our story from Monday. I taught my classes and headed off to the doctor in the afternoon. Yes, mildly irritated that I had to go in for an appointment. I had things to do. Children to love. Husband to adore. Students to help. Naps to be taken. Anywho, at the doctor’s office the receptionists were incredibly sweet. They usually were. The nurse, who I knew by name, was very sweet. She usually was. My doctor, who I had a great relationship with, sat down beside me. That was new.

The Whomping Willow is out in force now, folks. She (yes, my WW is a she) is delivering blows right and left. It’s a little foggy for me. I’ll just share those moments frozen in time.

Doctor tells me my labs showed an issue. My counts are low. I asked if there was a vitamin shot or something we could do. Doctor takes my hand and says ALL of my counts are low. My white count, my red count and my platelets are all well below normal. They are all dangerously low. At this point I feel like a cartoon character who just sits there and blinks while sound effects point out the blinking. This is the first definitive hit of my WW… I was thrown into a new place so quickly I didn’t know what was happening.

Doctor tells me we need to draw more blood to find out if counts have changed since Thursday. He asks if I’ve done anything to cause possible bruising. Ummm… I played volleyball on Friday. He looks at my arms and just closes his eyes. Doctor then proceeds to tell me I have an appointment with a specialist on Wednesday and they both strongly advise I stay home and take it easy until then. Sorry, I teach block classes on Tuesday so I’ll be at work. Wednesday I can stay home.

I go to get my blood drawn in the lab at the doctor’s office. Everyone is being extra sweet. I appreciate it, but I am still lost. That WW hit sent me far away. Enter another guardian angel, Debbie. She was at the doctor’s office and heard me talking. She gave me a big hug. That hug helped bring me back. Debbie, I’m sure that day is burned into your memory as well. Thank you is inadequate to express all that seeing your face did for me in that moment… ❤️

As I left the doctor’s office I knew I needed to talk to my Rock immediately, but not at school. I looked at the business card of the specialist I was to see on Wednesday. It was an oncologist. So, I did what any grown adult would do. I drove to my first GA (guardian angel), Lisa, and called Dennis and asked him to meet me there. Lisa, you opened your heart and Home during my foggiest moments… you are a treasure!

Dennis came and we discussed what my doctor had said. We agreed to tell Victoria and Matthew what was going on so they were not in the dark. We went home. Told our children and called our parents. My mom and dad prepared to leave the next morning for the 7 hour drive so they could be with us at the Oncologist visit.

Tuesday. I prepared for a full day of classes and office work. My first class started around 10 am. My doctor called around 9 am. My counts were even lower, which was not good. He told me if I got a paper cut I could bleed out. WW hit: I knew – I KNEW this would be my last day in the classroom for quite awhile.

I enter Keyboarding and my students give me a wonderful gift of a button that says “World’s Best Teacher”. WW hit: my students were so sweet and thoughtful but all I could think was that if I put the button on and poked myself I could bleed out right there, and that wasn’t going to happen.

This Keyboarding class, I loved these students. It’s no surprise to anyone that among them were some of my favorites. 😊 This group stayed with me through thick and thin. Still do. You know who you are and I love you.

I thanked them for my gift and told them that today we were going to have a fun day. Lots of games to hone our skills. I started them on one game and then walked over to look out of the window. I looked back at my students. One student looked right back and I could tell he knew something was wrong. David, you have always been wise beyond your years!

I looked back outside. There was an unexpected guest here. One I didn’t know. One I was afraid to know. One I knew I had to face.

March is a crazy month. It is the month my world changed. It is the month when the Whomping Willow comes out of hibernation and prepares to, well, whomp.

March 2004. Michigan. My Core Four were involved in: weekly bowling league (Matthew and Victoria) and tournaments (Matthew), volleyball games with the Sr. Varsity Ladies (coached by my Rock), speech practice (I had 14 students gearing up for a competition), AWANA, choir practice, I had just finished writing a play for the elementary and was gearing up for rehearsals, kids’ homework, regular life stuff, etc. Crazy. Practically perfect.

March. I was tired. What working mom isn’t?

March, the third week. I had noticed some bruising. Not surprising. My parents and siblings will tell you I always was covered in bruises. Graceful I am not. Then small, red, pin prick looking spots started appearing everywhere on my skin. Not surprising. My Irish skin only has two shades: white and red. Then on Wednesday something happened I couldn’t ignore.

Wednesday was a particularly crazy day. We stayed in town from 7:30 am until 9:30 pm. School, dinner, choir practice, AWANA. A full but good day. On this Wednesday I ran back home because I needed a nap. I ran back to town but by the time choir practice was to start I had to go home, the fatigue was brutal. Back home, not an hour from my earlier trip, I found a bruise the size of my hand… not my fist, but my entire hand. It didn’t hurt. It wasn’t there an hour ago.

This was my first indication that something was “off”.

Thursday. The next day I asked my friend, and school nurse, what she thought. Lisa (one of my guardian angels) was more concerned with those tiny red dots. She suggested I call my doctor and make an appointment. They were able to get me in that day. The doctor took some blood and said he would call me when the results came in.

Friday. Competition day. Spent 10 hours with my students either observing their acting or judging other students. This competition had over 1,000 students. Super crazy and amazing day. We returned to the school where my husband’s volleyball team challenged the faculty to a volleyball game. It was a blast! My arms and hands were turning all kinds of interesting colors – that silly Irish skin, or so I thought.

Saturday. The Core Four stayed home and recovered from a busy week, prepared for the next week. I sewed costumes for my two for the play that I had written, as practices were about to start.

Sunday. Church day. I stayed home. That brutal fatigue would not let up. Plus those pesky red dots… a few started to bleed and wouldn’t stop very easily. Strange.

Monday. A new week. I was excited to see my students – go over their performances from Friday as well as normal classroom lessons. I taught computers, keyboarding and speech. My students were the BEST. They were family. Many still are. ❤️

9 am. My phone rings. My doctor wants me to come in as soon as possible. I ask if it can wait as I had classes to teach. Maybe Wednesday or Thursday? No. It had to be today. (Insert Whomping Willow here. Not at that exact moment in time. It comes any time I reflect back on that time. At the time I had no idea. None. Now I know better.)

This is the beginning. My prelude. My introduction. The first paragraph in my playbill.

In theatre “notes” are given after a practice or performance. They give the director an opportunity to speak to the actors and crew regarding all aspects of the production. Periodically, I will be using notes to talk about different aspects of my story. They may not be in chronological order. But they are important.

Moving to Greenville was not an easy move for me. I love Denver. Many wonderful friends there. An excellent medical team. Beautiful mountains, fresh air and mild weather. (Seriously, it’s not covered in snow all of the time!) However, as much as I love Denver I love my husband far more. I will always be where he goes. ❤️

There’s a true gem here in Greenville. One I honestly didn’t see coming. Greenville Little Theatre – the people there – have been a tremendous blessing. They have shown love to my son and nurtured his love of acting. They have helped heal parts of my heart… These people are real, honest, caring and others-focused. Matthew is at home there. At GLT I feel a sense of peace I rarely feel elsewhere.

Their current production, “Ragtime the Musical” is superb. The cast works together seamlessly to tell a story that moves the audience. If you are near Greenville you do not want to miss this. (There’s a handsome man in the chorus who plays several characters…. he’s amazing.)

Ragtime also represents a first for me. The first opening night I’ve missed. Matthew has had 8 performances and I saw it for the first time today. That’s unheard of for me…. I am his biggest fan. (Plus I adore the cast, crew, director and choreographer.) Opening night I cried… not being there was awful.

However, Matthew had family there. He had Mark, Suzanne, Allen, Kimberly, Jon, Carter… the list goes on. These people may not know what a blessing they are… I hope they do.

So here are my notes:

* no man is an island. YOU, WE, ME – we do impact the lives of others. Let’s be mindful of that.

* live authentically. Life is short. Trust me!

* listen to understand and not to respond. I learned this when I was thrown into the new world of cancer. It’s like entering a foreign country and trying to learn the language, social cues and society structure while making life-saving decisions. A tad overwhelming! The more I live the more I realize that we do this every day! (That sounded very “Yentl”) We never know if the person we are talking with is fighting a battle we know nothing about. I try to stop and listen. Understand. It’s not always easy but it’s always worth it.

* it’s okay to laugh and have fun. I used to feel guilty about this. Now I cherish it!

* moments matter. I LOVE theatre. Every aspect. The costumes, the staging, the acting choices, how the actors exit, sound, lights…. It may not be your thing. That’s okay. Enjoy what you love. We don’t have to love all of the same things to connect.

That’s it for tonight. 😇 It’s been a good day. Spent with my Core Four, watching a Broadway quality show filled with people I adore. Two weeks ago life looked quite scary. It may look scary again. So I choose to enjoy this day. Am thankful or it.