If I could list all the names of the wonderful women I know that have been touched by breast cancer... well, I'd never stop writing. But five women in particular, have been on my mind in the past month and I just have to write about them tonight.
It has been six months; half a year since I last wrote an entry. It's been a while. Six months ago I reached the end of my radiation treatments. I'm still on medication that I'll be on for four more years. I'm still going to the hospital regularly, but the visits are few and far between. My life has gone back to normal, for the most part. I was on leave for six weeks, came back to work, got promoted and started anew at my awesome job. As the days wore on, life became more and more about my daughter, my husband, my family, my friends, my hobbies... and me. That also means it became less and less and less about cancer. Life goes on. And as it does for me, so it does for others I know...
Paula. My dear friend, who is celebrating this year, 10 years in remission. 10 years cancer free. I am inspired by you; and grateful to you for being there for me two January's ago when I chose to shave my head before my hair fell out. You took me out while I was in chemo and needed a change of pace. We spent all night sipping coffee at the Starbucks inside the Barnes & Noble. I still remember. I'm grateful that you were texting with me during my first mammogram this year. You made me laugh when I was screaming in terror inside, as they asked to take more pictures. Then you celebrated with me when the results were negative. The same celebration you've been having year after year now, for the past 10 years. I look to you and think... I can be like her. I will celebrate 10 years too. And more.
Meredith. A new friend who seems to be living a parallel life to mine. I call you friend now because there's no other word to describe you... even though we haven't met in person yet. I know people that you know. You know people that I know. They've been telling us for the past year that we should know each other. And now we do... thanks to you... because you reached out. You are roughly my age, you have kids too. You were diagnosed less than two months after I was. You were in chemo the days I was in chemo. You must've been exhausted the same days I was exhausted. You were in radiation the same days I was in radiation. You must've been burnt and peeling and itchy the same days I was going through it all too. It was you who said in one email that you were finding yourself thinking less and less about cancer as the diagnosis and treatments got further and further away. I know in my heart that when you read this, you will know exactly what I felt when I started writing; that you will know exactly why I was compelled to write this today. I'm looking forward to meeting you too.
Kath. I loved seeing you last week at the social media workshop. I loved walking into the room, standing behind you and realizing that I knew who that woman was standing in front of me hanging up her coat. I loved sitting next to you in a very ordinary, everyday, work endeavor - knowing that we had something more in common than having had breast cancer. When I met you, you had been diagnosed already. You were going through chemo, in fact. I confess- I couldn't wrap my head around it back then. I look back now and I realize I could've been... should've been a better friend, neighbor to you. And yet, the day I was diagnosed, you were one of the first people I called. And you called me back right away. I will never forget that. I will NEVER FORGET THAT. You are amazing. I've watched you live your life... get up everyday... achieve your goals. You taught me to not be afraid of what was to come. And you were right- the hardest part was the beginning; the not knowing.
Joy. My high school friend. When you wrote me last year to tell me you had been diagnosed, my heart sank. I had hoped, prayed that I would be the only other person I would ever know to be diagnosed with breast cancer. I know that couldn't possibly happen. But to hear about someone in my own high school class... that was hard to hear. And yet, you gave me the opportunity to turn around and comfort you, the same way so many other caring women comforted me. I was able to... pay it forward. I've followed you on Facebook and watched you handle every step of your treatment with the same grace and strength I knew you to have even back in our high school days. You are gorgeous- in mind, body and spirit - through the treatments and now as you move forward.
Marie. You came up to me today at the hospital. I was sitting waiting for my ovarian suppression shot. I was busily typing away on my phone, working since there was nothing else to do. I thought I recognized you when I first walked in, but when you didn't respond I thought I was mistaken. But then you got up and walked over. We shared a waiting room for many days last summer, waiting for our daily radiation treatments. I think I finished before you, or maybe it was the other way. It's all fuzzy now. But I do remember other names, faces from that waiting room - Margo, Cleo, Mary... and you. You looked great today. But there was something else. I know you were happy to see me; to reconnect. But when you told me you were there because your husband had more treatments, you looked sad. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that it goes on for you, and for your husband. But he and you are in my prayers. And I'm overwhelmed by how often you've thought about me, prayed for me. You are the reason why I'm writing this blogpost tonight. You have compelled me to reconnect... not with the cancer that I'm fighting... but with the inspiring silver lining that came with it. And that is you.
It's you, Marie. And you, Joy. You, Kath. You, Meredith. And you, Paula. And it's all the wonderful women and men who have come to my rescue, and continue to rescue me as I wake up everyday, grateful and amazed that I'm still here.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Ladies
I'm down to the last two radiation treatments. That means I've completed 31 out of 33. I'm near the top of the mountain and the view is fantastic. But I am exhausted and am looking forward to just healing. The 33 treatments flew by a lot quicker than I thought it would and I can hardly believe I'm almost done. But I couldn't have done it without a lot of help - from family, friends - all of you who continue to think of me, pray for me, reach out to me. But I dedicate this post to the ladies I have met along this hard climb over this very tall and seemingly insurmountable mountain.
You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, "I lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along." You must do the thing you think you cannot do. - Eleanor Roosevelt
Many of the women I met from the very first day I looked my horror in the face were nothing but kind and loving to me. I have had the pleasure and the privilege to meet the bravest and most loving women I could have ever dreamed existed. They are mothers - mine and my husband's who have been there to support me whenever I needed it, and when I didn't know I needed it. They are my girlfriends who never tire of telling me my incredibly short hair is adorable and bold; or who reach out and ask me to lunch, how I'm doing, or just to say they are thinking of me. They are the doctors who understood my fear, but were pragmatic and perfect in their expertise. They are the nurses at the breast center, who hugged me and said everything would be OK, and that I was in the best hands. They are the nurses in IV therapy who helped me through chemo and are still happy to see me when I visit, but rejoice that I'm not there for chemo anymore. They are the nurses at radiation oncology who watch my skin closely and said to me today that they're happy I'm almost done, but they're not ready to lose me yet, and they are the therapists who know just what music to play when I walk into the treatment room - who share stories of their children, grandchildren, their weekend, and share their lives with me.
But there is one set of ladies I would like to acknowledge especially... they are the women who have survived cancer. They have bravely faced cancer -in whatever form, beat it back, and have moved on. And yet they so generously give of themselves when someone like me is unfortunate enough to join the club no wants to be part of. They are also the lovely women I've met in the waiting room during my radiation treatments. You are there with your mothers, waiting for your husbands or fathers, or are there, like me, waiting to go into the treatment room every day. You keep the same routine I keep - waking up to come to the hospital, change, wait, lie on a table, and do it again - waiting patiently for the weekend. You are amazing and brave and the days went by faster because of you.
You all do the thing you think you cannot do... and you are all surviving and moving on. You are pure strength, love and grace.
You are Kath, Paula, Amy, Suzy, Auntie Jane, Auntie Ding, Mary, Cleo, Maria, and countless ladies I admire and draw strength from every day. I wish I could name you all, but know that I love you all.
You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, "I lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along." You must do the thing you think you cannot do. - Eleanor Roosevelt
Many of the women I met from the very first day I looked my horror in the face were nothing but kind and loving to me. I have had the pleasure and the privilege to meet the bravest and most loving women I could have ever dreamed existed. They are mothers - mine and my husband's who have been there to support me whenever I needed it, and when I didn't know I needed it. They are my girlfriends who never tire of telling me my incredibly short hair is adorable and bold; or who reach out and ask me to lunch, how I'm doing, or just to say they are thinking of me. They are the doctors who understood my fear, but were pragmatic and perfect in their expertise. They are the nurses at the breast center, who hugged me and said everything would be OK, and that I was in the best hands. They are the nurses in IV therapy who helped me through chemo and are still happy to see me when I visit, but rejoice that I'm not there for chemo anymore. They are the nurses at radiation oncology who watch my skin closely and said to me today that they're happy I'm almost done, but they're not ready to lose me yet, and they are the therapists who know just what music to play when I walk into the treatment room - who share stories of their children, grandchildren, their weekend, and share their lives with me.
But there is one set of ladies I would like to acknowledge especially... they are the women who have survived cancer. They have bravely faced cancer -in whatever form, beat it back, and have moved on. And yet they so generously give of themselves when someone like me is unfortunate enough to join the club no wants to be part of. They are also the lovely women I've met in the waiting room during my radiation treatments. You are there with your mothers, waiting for your husbands or fathers, or are there, like me, waiting to go into the treatment room every day. You keep the same routine I keep - waking up to come to the hospital, change, wait, lie on a table, and do it again - waiting patiently for the weekend. You are amazing and brave and the days went by faster because of you.
You all do the thing you think you cannot do... and you are all surviving and moving on. You are pure strength, love and grace.
You are Kath, Paula, Amy, Suzy, Auntie Jane, Auntie Ding, Mary, Cleo, Maria, and countless ladies I admire and draw strength from every day. I wish I could name you all, but know that I love you all.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Knowing When to Rest
I have a problem setting limits... for myself. I push, and push, and push until I'm too tired, or too frazzled, too stressed, or at my wit's end. That can't be good - on all accounts. I don't think my stress levels brought about my breast cancer. I think it had more to do with my genes. Actually, I do know, because I was tested: BRCA1. (Attention, all female family members on my Dad's side: please get yourself tested if you can!) Back to stress... what I do know is that it probably didn't do me any good. It still doesn't and that's why I need to stop and smell the roses. Literally. I need to stop, look around me and take stock.
I've done quite a bit in the last six months of my life. I'm in the home stretch when it comes to beating this damn disease. I'm almost at the finish line. I just have roughly 6-7 weeks to go and a Monday to Friday date with the radiation machine at my hospital. And then I consider myself at the top of that mountain it's taken me so long to climb. I've armed myself quite well for this tiring trek... I've started this blog; I've told all my friends and family; I've asked for help when I needed it - when it made sense. But now I need to ask myself for help: I need to give myself permission to rest. I don't generally know how to do that - rest. I've realized that I don't know how to de-stress. So I've taken matters into my own hands - like I did when I shaved my head before I lost my hair to chemo. This time, I'm going on short-term disability. I'm giving myself the opportunity to rest during the hardest, most tiring part of radiation.
I've come to realize this: life is short. Even if I live to be 92 years old, I will still consider life short. There's so much to do! There's so much to see! There's so much to laugh about, dance about, sigh about. I don't want to miss a single day, a single moment of being able to do all that. So if that means four weeks of rest, no work, no worries, no stress... then so be it. I'm putting myself first and I'm going to enjoy it, damn it!
I've done quite a bit in the last six months of my life. I'm in the home stretch when it comes to beating this damn disease. I'm almost at the finish line. I just have roughly 6-7 weeks to go and a Monday to Friday date with the radiation machine at my hospital. And then I consider myself at the top of that mountain it's taken me so long to climb. I've armed myself quite well for this tiring trek... I've started this blog; I've told all my friends and family; I've asked for help when I needed it - when it made sense. But now I need to ask myself for help: I need to give myself permission to rest. I don't generally know how to do that - rest. I've realized that I don't know how to de-stress. So I've taken matters into my own hands - like I did when I shaved my head before I lost my hair to chemo. This time, I'm going on short-term disability. I'm giving myself the opportunity to rest during the hardest, most tiring part of radiation.
I've come to realize this: life is short. Even if I live to be 92 years old, I will still consider life short. There's so much to do! There's so much to see! There's so much to laugh about, dance about, sigh about. I don't want to miss a single day, a single moment of being able to do all that. So if that means four weeks of rest, no work, no worries, no stress... then so be it. I'm putting myself first and I'm going to enjoy it, damn it!
Friday, May 27, 2011
Half Full
It's been a long six and a half months since the day I found the lump in my breast. I've gone through an intense roller coaster ride that is by no means over yet. But a significant portion of it is in its home stretch. In just two weeks I will be done with chemotherapy. That's huge. And it's time to celebrate and be happy. In my climb to the top of Mt. Cancer-Free, it's time to stop for a second and survey how far I've come.
It's been hard. The hardest stretch of life I've ever overcome. I was just saying to Dennis last night that I still remember clearly the afternoon I heard the news that it was cancer. And as my Dad's third death anniversary approaches on Saturday, I can say that hearing I had cancer was about as devastating as the night my Dad died as I held his hand. My only consolation at my Dad not being alive now is that he didn't have to see me go through this. Having had non-Hodgkins lymphoma, my diagnosis would have broken his heart. On the other hand, having had my Mom with me and Dennis when I heard the news and as I went through the hardest part of waiting for more information, surgery, and the first, hardest round of chemo, was my saving grace. And yes, it broke her heart to watch me go through this, but as mothers' hearts go they are extremely resilient and strong, and so full of faith that for the longest time, she carried me with her and helped to strengthen mine.
Your best friend is the one person in the world that you run to when you hear the best news in the world, and the person you need to be with you when you hear the worst. Dennis, as always, has been my rock. He is my fixed object in the distance, guiding me so I don't get lost and drown when I'm in murky waters. Once again, I thank my in-laws - Bella and Anatoly - for having raised such an amazing person. I'm the direct beneficiary of their hard work.
And there have been murky waters for sure. I've heard this often in the last half year: every cancer patient's experience is different. From their diagnosis and treatment, to how they approach battling the disease. My approach has been to kick ass. I have refused to let breast cancer take over my life. Every day I wake up and I'm alive is a day not to be wasted. Getting treated is just one more thing I have to do. Yes - it's changed my schedule, but it's just another appointment I have had to fit in to my crazy life. And as many bright moments I've had - which I will of course end this post with - I've had the down moments. I've had my doubts and I've had my times when I wanted to curl up into a ball and cry my heart out. And I have. I haven't written about it much because I don't like to dwell. But when I'm looking back to see how far I've come, it's only fair to recognize the places where I almost fell.
Everyone that knows what I'm going through and has seen me has said I look great. Bless your souls. And for the most part, I feel great. In fact, truth be told, this is the healthiest I've felt in my life- ironically. I've changed my diet, cut out as much sugar as I can on a daily basis, I'm exercising more - I've actually dropped a dress size! But (there's always a but), I also lost my hair. I have no eyebrows, no eyelashes, and my fingernails are blue, brittle, and ugly thick. I have a mad scar across my chest where my right breast used to be. My toes are numb and tingly all the time. And since my surgery didn't just remove my right breast, it also took out all my lymph nodes, for the rest of my life I can never carry anything over five pounds using my right arm. It's very much a handicap. When I look in the mirror early in the morning sans wig, make up, and prosthetic boob, I'm not the same person I was a year ago. There are times I want to cry. There have been many times I have. But these are all cosmetic. I've been told every day after the last day of chemo that I will feel better and better, and more like my old self. I believe that.
The scariest moments for me have been when I'm feeling vulnerable, I'm feeling off and tired and stressed and tested. And that's when the worst fearful thoughts rear their ugly heads. It's when I start asking why did I get cancer? Why me? It's when I'm paralyzed by the thought of "what if?" What if I don't survive this? Last year I couldn't have known this would be my next year. What if I die next year? What if I die the year after that? And the worst what if thought... What if I die and Alyssa grows up not remembering me? That is the worst thought for a young mother, and when it crosses my mind, I know I've sunk to the depths and I'm letting cancer get the better of me.
And then it's time to snap out of it and think of how blessed I am. Time to look at the glass half full. That is frequently the biggest challenge to me, and yet, when I succeed it's the best prize. People around me have been the silver lining to my dark and stormy clouds. It's been family, friends who have supported me, Dennis and Alyssa. It's been Alyssa with her innocence and smiles, and "I laffs u!" that have lifted my spirits like nothing else can. It's been my doctors, nurses and physical therapist who have made the tediousness of hospital visits bearable... and even fun. Ironically, I will miss them and yet also would be happy to never have to see them again - at least where they work! They are the heroes - especially my nurses - in my battle to survive. You are amazing.
I'm not anywhere near the top of my mountain, but I can see the summit from where I stand now. And all the faces of my friends and family at the top who have survived cancer. There are many sad stories out there, and equally there are many happy ones. I still remember my family doctor saying this to me shortly after my diagnosis: "Frances, there is no reason to believe you can't live to be 97 and die in your sleep. You're just going to have to work a little harder at it than the rest of us." She is so right.
It's been hard. The hardest stretch of life I've ever overcome. I was just saying to Dennis last night that I still remember clearly the afternoon I heard the news that it was cancer. And as my Dad's third death anniversary approaches on Saturday, I can say that hearing I had cancer was about as devastating as the night my Dad died as I held his hand. My only consolation at my Dad not being alive now is that he didn't have to see me go through this. Having had non-Hodgkins lymphoma, my diagnosis would have broken his heart. On the other hand, having had my Mom with me and Dennis when I heard the news and as I went through the hardest part of waiting for more information, surgery, and the first, hardest round of chemo, was my saving grace. And yes, it broke her heart to watch me go through this, but as mothers' hearts go they are extremely resilient and strong, and so full of faith that for the longest time, she carried me with her and helped to strengthen mine.
Your best friend is the one person in the world that you run to when you hear the best news in the world, and the person you need to be with you when you hear the worst. Dennis, as always, has been my rock. He is my fixed object in the distance, guiding me so I don't get lost and drown when I'm in murky waters. Once again, I thank my in-laws - Bella and Anatoly - for having raised such an amazing person. I'm the direct beneficiary of their hard work.
And there have been murky waters for sure. I've heard this often in the last half year: every cancer patient's experience is different. From their diagnosis and treatment, to how they approach battling the disease. My approach has been to kick ass. I have refused to let breast cancer take over my life. Every day I wake up and I'm alive is a day not to be wasted. Getting treated is just one more thing I have to do. Yes - it's changed my schedule, but it's just another appointment I have had to fit in to my crazy life. And as many bright moments I've had - which I will of course end this post with - I've had the down moments. I've had my doubts and I've had my times when I wanted to curl up into a ball and cry my heart out. And I have. I haven't written about it much because I don't like to dwell. But when I'm looking back to see how far I've come, it's only fair to recognize the places where I almost fell.
Everyone that knows what I'm going through and has seen me has said I look great. Bless your souls. And for the most part, I feel great. In fact, truth be told, this is the healthiest I've felt in my life- ironically. I've changed my diet, cut out as much sugar as I can on a daily basis, I'm exercising more - I've actually dropped a dress size! But (there's always a but), I also lost my hair. I have no eyebrows, no eyelashes, and my fingernails are blue, brittle, and ugly thick. I have a mad scar across my chest where my right breast used to be. My toes are numb and tingly all the time. And since my surgery didn't just remove my right breast, it also took out all my lymph nodes, for the rest of my life I can never carry anything over five pounds using my right arm. It's very much a handicap. When I look in the mirror early in the morning sans wig, make up, and prosthetic boob, I'm not the same person I was a year ago. There are times I want to cry. There have been many times I have. But these are all cosmetic. I've been told every day after the last day of chemo that I will feel better and better, and more like my old self. I believe that.
The scariest moments for me have been when I'm feeling vulnerable, I'm feeling off and tired and stressed and tested. And that's when the worst fearful thoughts rear their ugly heads. It's when I start asking why did I get cancer? Why me? It's when I'm paralyzed by the thought of "what if?" What if I don't survive this? Last year I couldn't have known this would be my next year. What if I die next year? What if I die the year after that? And the worst what if thought... What if I die and Alyssa grows up not remembering me? That is the worst thought for a young mother, and when it crosses my mind, I know I've sunk to the depths and I'm letting cancer get the better of me.
And then it's time to snap out of it and think of how blessed I am. Time to look at the glass half full. That is frequently the biggest challenge to me, and yet, when I succeed it's the best prize. People around me have been the silver lining to my dark and stormy clouds. It's been family, friends who have supported me, Dennis and Alyssa. It's been Alyssa with her innocence and smiles, and "I laffs u!" that have lifted my spirits like nothing else can. It's been my doctors, nurses and physical therapist who have made the tediousness of hospital visits bearable... and even fun. Ironically, I will miss them and yet also would be happy to never have to see them again - at least where they work! They are the heroes - especially my nurses - in my battle to survive. You are amazing.
I'm not anywhere near the top of my mountain, but I can see the summit from where I stand now. And all the faces of my friends and family at the top who have survived cancer. There are many sad stories out there, and equally there are many happy ones. I still remember my family doctor saying this to me shortly after my diagnosis: "Frances, there is no reason to believe you can't live to be 97 and die in your sleep. You're just going to have to work a little harder at it than the rest of us." She is so right.
Friday, April 22, 2011
The Long Haul
It's been a while since I've posted and it's because things have felt fairly normal. And because I've felt "normal," I've also become very busy. That's been nice. But now I face a setback. My current chemo drug is doing weird things to my body and I'm realizing that I have to take things easy. I can't push myself to my limit... especially if I don't know what my limit is. That is very frustrating.
One of the lessons I learned early on when I started my treatment was that I need to relinquish control. That is not an easy thing to learn if you're a control freak like me. But I had to learn how to do it because for the longest time while I learned about the cancer I had and how to fight it, there was very little I had control over. As the days went on, tests came back, meetings with doctors were held, I started to gain more and more control. I started to figure out my limits, my boundaries; and within those limits I could push myself as far as I could go. Recently though, I've been lulled into a false sense of normalcy. Like when my life seemed to have no limits or boundaries. I fell for that... hook, line, and sinker.
So I'm learning the lesson all over again... I don't have limitless boundaries. I don't have ultimate control. Most importantly, I have to listen to my body. It has its limitations. It has its boundaries. I can control it, only up to the point it wants to and is willing to be controlled. I'm in it for the long haul, and I've got to make sure I make it to the very end of whatever life has in store for me.
One of the lessons I learned early on when I started my treatment was that I need to relinquish control. That is not an easy thing to learn if you're a control freak like me. But I had to learn how to do it because for the longest time while I learned about the cancer I had and how to fight it, there was very little I had control over. As the days went on, tests came back, meetings with doctors were held, I started to gain more and more control. I started to figure out my limits, my boundaries; and within those limits I could push myself as far as I could go. Recently though, I've been lulled into a false sense of normalcy. Like when my life seemed to have no limits or boundaries. I fell for that... hook, line, and sinker.
So I'm learning the lesson all over again... I don't have limitless boundaries. I don't have ultimate control. Most importantly, I have to listen to my body. It has its limitations. It has its boundaries. I can control it, only up to the point it wants to and is willing to be controlled. I'm in it for the long haul, and I've got to make sure I make it to the very end of whatever life has in store for me.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Heroes
Behind every cancer patient are literally, hundreds of heroes. I've come to understand that one person's fight against cancer is a whole village's battle. I am humbled by all the heroes in my life. And in the last five months I have met heroes of every kind...
The ones I knew would step up. Everyone has them - the people in your life you just know, without a doubt, will be there for you. Through thick and thin, and come hell or high water. You are my rock; you are my light. I never doubted you would be there for me; and I'm blessed that you have been. You know who you are. Thank you.
The ones I hoped would step up. There are people we just wish we had more time to get to know. People in our lives who we love and cherish, but we just keep missing them somehow; or they live just a little too far away; and have such a different schedule from ours. But I have hoped for you. I have wished that you would make time for me. And you have. Thank you.
The ones that have surprised me. And then there are those souls we once met and loved and then they faded away. Or maybe I faded away. Whatever the case, we've lost touch and lead separate lives. And yet, in my fight, you've stood by my side; reached out to me; thought about me; made an effort to let me know that in fact, you're very much around. Thank you.
The ones I never would have guessed. Some people have just flat out amazed me. You have not been part of my life in years. You barely know me. You barely remember me; or at least I think you barely remember me. And yet, somehow you've found me; heard about my fight; and you have stepped up. You are a new friend; an old friend; weren't even a friend - but are now. Thank you.
Behind every cancer patient are hundreds, and hundreds of friends and family who fight the same fight every day. You email me; text me; call me; visit me; Skype with me; pray for me; think of me; bring me dinner; send me a joke; bring me jelly beans; send me cards; hug me; kiss me; wink at me; eat lunch with me; Facebook me; laugh with me; cry with me; take care of my daughter for me; check on my husband; ask about me; take work off my plate; shop with me; chat with me; walk with me. You walk with me every step of the way. Know that I am grateful every day. And in June, here in Chicago, I will walk for you. I will walk because of all you do for me during the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer. I will walk because you have all stepped up for me and I am amazed by each and every one of you.
Thank you, my heroes.
The ones I knew would step up. Everyone has them - the people in your life you just know, without a doubt, will be there for you. Through thick and thin, and come hell or high water. You are my rock; you are my light. I never doubted you would be there for me; and I'm blessed that you have been. You know who you are. Thank you.
The ones I hoped would step up. There are people we just wish we had more time to get to know. People in our lives who we love and cherish, but we just keep missing them somehow; or they live just a little too far away; and have such a different schedule from ours. But I have hoped for you. I have wished that you would make time for me. And you have. Thank you.
The ones that have surprised me. And then there are those souls we once met and loved and then they faded away. Or maybe I faded away. Whatever the case, we've lost touch and lead separate lives. And yet, in my fight, you've stood by my side; reached out to me; thought about me; made an effort to let me know that in fact, you're very much around. Thank you.
The ones I never would have guessed. Some people have just flat out amazed me. You have not been part of my life in years. You barely know me. You barely remember me; or at least I think you barely remember me. And yet, somehow you've found me; heard about my fight; and you have stepped up. You are a new friend; an old friend; weren't even a friend - but are now. Thank you.
Behind every cancer patient are hundreds, and hundreds of friends and family who fight the same fight every day. You email me; text me; call me; visit me; Skype with me; pray for me; think of me; bring me dinner; send me a joke; bring me jelly beans; send me cards; hug me; kiss me; wink at me; eat lunch with me; Facebook me; laugh with me; cry with me; take care of my daughter for me; check on my husband; ask about me; take work off my plate; shop with me; chat with me; walk with me. You walk with me every step of the way. Know that I am grateful every day. And in June, here in Chicago, I will walk for you. I will walk because of all you do for me during the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer. I will walk because you have all stepped up for me and I am amazed by each and every one of you.
Thank you, my heroes.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Because My Mom Said So
The last time I cried as hard as I did today was the day I heard I had breast cancer. On that day my Mom was there, with Dennis, to hold my hand, hug me, and tell me everything was going to be OK. Today, after coming home from the airport to drop my Mom off on her trip back home to the Philippines, I cried so hard I couldn't breathe through my nose... and she wasn't there to hold me. Plain and simple: I want my Mommy!
My Mom was here for four months. She was here from the beginning of this life-changing ordeal that I'm still in the midst of. For four months she put her life on hold for me and she helped get me through the worst of it all. And now I miss her. While she was here, I could be the child; I could let myself feel that everything would be OK because my Mom was here to make it OK.
But this is what she told me before she left: she said, "I wouldn't be leaving if I didn't know, not just believe, but know in my heart that you will be OK." I believe her. Because as a Mom myself, I know that to be true. She needs to go home and resume her life; attend to her responsibilities; and get some much needed sunshine and warmth! She'll be back before I know it. So I will be OK. I will be OK because friends and family are rallying to our side. I will be OK because I have a husband who is my best friend, and my rock. I will be OK because my daughter needs me to be strong, and to be her Mommy whose job it is to make sure everything is OK for her. And finally, I will be OK... because my Mom said so.
Thank you, Mom. I love you more than words can ever express.
My Mom was here for four months. She was here from the beginning of this life-changing ordeal that I'm still in the midst of. For four months she put her life on hold for me and she helped get me through the worst of it all. And now I miss her. While she was here, I could be the child; I could let myself feel that everything would be OK because my Mom was here to make it OK.
But this is what she told me before she left: she said, "I wouldn't be leaving if I didn't know, not just believe, but know in my heart that you will be OK." I believe her. Because as a Mom myself, I know that to be true. She needs to go home and resume her life; attend to her responsibilities; and get some much needed sunshine and warmth! She'll be back before I know it. So I will be OK. I will be OK because friends and family are rallying to our side. I will be OK because I have a husband who is my best friend, and my rock. I will be OK because my daughter needs me to be strong, and to be her Mommy whose job it is to make sure everything is OK for her. And finally, I will be OK... because my Mom said so.
Thank you, Mom. I love you more than words can ever express.
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