A Community of Strength

When I was first diagnosed with cancer, I had no idea where that fit into the rest of my life. I was still a wife, mother, daughter and friend but now I was also a cancer patient. One of these things is not like the others. One of these things just doesn’t belong.

After psycho nurse asked me how I “felt about having young children and cancer”, it got even worse. I didn’t know what that meant for me, or my husband and daughters. I didn’t know what that meant for my future or if there would be one.

I just didn’t know.

I looked for a support group locally for other “mothers with cancer”. I contacted the American Cancer Society and was told there were many breast cancer groups and there would be moms in there. Only problem, I don’t have breast cancer. There were also “look good feel good” groups for women going through chemo. There would be moms there.

But again, I wasn’t going through regular chemo. I was on a targeted therapy, a daily pill forever, and  I wouldn’t be losing my hair (until now).

The one thing that didn’t belong was me.

I searched online. I googled “moms with cancer” in every form I could think of. I found support groups for kids whose moms have cancer. I found more breast cancer support groups. I found parenting through chemo websites. Again, none that fit my situation. So I tried to figure it out on my own. I wasn’t all that successful.

I joked with friends that I wanted to start a cancermom.com website but I never did. I was diagnosed in 2006. In 2008, Mothers with Cancer was started but I didn’t notice.

I didn’t notice until Marinka suggested I join twitter. I put the word cancer in my little bio thing and I started getting followers. Fellow women with cancer who didn’t care what kind I had. Most of them have some form of breast cancer – the cancer I secretly wanted if I had to have one, simply because of the sense of community they seemed to have. I know that’s a ridiculous thing to say, but when cancer enters your life, rational thoughts take a flying leap.

I started looking at the blogs attached to the twitter names and realized I’d missed out on a whole world of support. Cancer women. Amazing women who, despite having a different diagnosis, knew exactly what was in my mind. There was Susan @whymommy from Toddler Planet, Jenny @jaydub26 from Get out Gertrude,  Rachel @ccchronicles from The Cancer Culture Chronicles.

This week Susan and Rachel passed away on the same day and it broke my heart. Yes for me, but mostly for the women who share their diagnosis because for them, it hits too close to home. This week there were also two members of the GIST community who died but those didn’t touch me in the same way. I suspect it was because they were men. I know that sounds really callous but if I’m being honest, it’s true.

With these women and moms it was different. I didn’t often comment on their blogs and don’t suppose, other than Jenny, that they really even knew how much I followed them. Rachel was always there to comment on a cancer related tweet, to offer support in 140 characters or less. Jenny and I entertain/distract ourselves with Words with Friends on a constant basis now. She is an inspriation and I consider her a genuine friend, not just someone on my “friend list”. And Susan, she was my go to blog when I needed to find out how to do this mothering with cancer thing with  grace.

These are just a few of the strong women who face their mortality everyday and do it with such strength that I am in awe.

I am sorry I didn’t open myself up sooner. These women and others on Mothers with Cancer  know how to do what I’m supposed to be doing.

I believed I needed to find other people on the same medication, or with the same diagnosis to have something in common. I was wrong. These women already knew what I didn’t – that drawing from collective strength is so much better than going it alone!

It doesn’t matter what kind of cancer you have or what kind of treatment you go through. What matters is the shared frame of mind. Finding those who understand what goes through your mind in the middle of the night. Your fear of leaving your loved ones. Your fear of what lies ahead.

To these fabulous women and so many others, I want to say thank you.

Thank you for sharing your struggles as well as your strength.

Thank you for allowing me to share your experiences.

Thank you for writing my own thoughts much more eloquently than I do.

Thank you for showing me how to die with grace and dignity.

Thank you for reminding me to LIVE!

For all that and so much more, I will always be grateful!

A walk in the rain

Some day are easy. I get in a routine, I plan things out and they go as expected.

Some days they don’t. Friday I was ready to go to Portland for the 1/2 marathon. I was packed, I’d double and triple checked everything from undies to weekend instructions for SG. It was going to be an easy sort of day.

At 7:30 the phone rang and I heard “Sweetie, I need you.”

It was my friend and her husband was dying. She needed me to come be with her daughters as soon as mine got on the bus. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to drop everything and run to her but I think I just muttered something about Portland.

She’d forgotten I was leaving and as soon as I reminded her I was on my way out of town, she apologized and said, “No, go. You have to go.” But I was first on her list and she needed me. And I left town. I hate that.

I didn’t really have much choice. Other’s were planning on me going and of course, my friend here wouldn’t have let me stay and skip the trip. I’ve been with her much of the last 6 weeks and have been by her side since I got back but it still bothers me that I left. She is my friend and I would do anything to make life easier for her.

Early Sunday morning, before I woke up to get ready for the race, I had a dream about them. I bizarre haunting dream where her husband and oldest daughter talked to me then quietly walked away. He said he was finally leaving the hospital. My friend was in a beautiful princessy type dress and there was a young man by her side. I didn’t know who he was but he obviously loved her.  He seemed like a younger stronger version of her husband.

Her husband called him her knight in shining armour. He walked away with their daughter as the young man and my friend went the other direction. Her husband looked at me back and said she’d be happy and to take care of her.

I woke up knowing in my mind that he was gone. He was. He had passed away late Saturday night. I didn’t find out for sure until much later on Sunday when D1 began texting me. I somehow, through texts, tried to talk her through losing another parent of a close friend. In this case, her best friend from kindergarten.

It was a day of extremes. I walked the 1/2  marathon faster than I’d expected. It was a huge triumph for me but I knew in my heart it was a day of huge loss for people I loved.

I thought about them and others while I walked. I listened to my music and read the shirts of the people around me.

An older man had pictures of his wife  at various ages in the same super woman costume printed on the back of his shirt. The words “perfect pose” and “so many years in just one memory” printed above. He was walking for her. In her honor. In her memory.

The tiny little woman with a sign that said “This is my 44th marathon. How about yours?” She was easily 80 and put me to shame as she walked a full to my half. So much strength in that tiny body.

People walking for different causes with photos of people they had lost.

So much emotion in so few hours.

My win among all their loss.

I celebrated. And I grieved.

I talked my daughter through the loss with a confidence I didn’t feel. I cried and texted because I didn’t trust myself to speak. I shared my emotions with friends who love me and who I am so very thankful to have.

Today I wonder how these young girls I love so much, will survive without their father. A father who gave them all necklaces as he said goodbye. Necklaces to remember him but not replace him.

Then I wonder how he did it. How he found the strength to say goodbye. How do we ever say goodbye to those we love knowing we are leaving them in so much pain?

I will go with my friend when she picks up his ashes. The little bit of what’s left of a man who, in life, was such a huge presence. I will hold her hand and cry with her as I try so hard not to think about how difficult and painful his death was. As I try so hard not to imagine my own.

As he passed away, a single tear fell from the corner of his eye.

Many more have followed.

Lucky to call her my friend

It’s friday again and like last week, my thoughts are with a friend.

This time, a life long friend. One I feel like I’ve known since the day I was born when actually I think it was 9th grade. Or was it 8th? Maybe 7th?

Over the many years, there were times we got busy and didn’t keep in touch as well but I’ve always known she was there. That the world is a better place because she is in it.

She’s someone I aspire to be. Her honesty and compassion and genuine goodness inspire me to try to be more. In every way, just more. Her strength in the face of difficult times is nothing sort of amazing.

Today marks a huge loss for her. A life changing heartbreaking loss that will never make sense.

It is not my story to tell so I won’t but I still want to let her know that she and her family are on my mind today. That I haven’t forgotten.

When I was first diagnosed, I emailed her and shared the news. I think it was a couple of days before I heard back and when I did, she called. She said it was news she had to first absorb and that it was too big to reply via email. At least I think that’s how it went in my drug addled haze. It might have been the next day or 10 minutes later and she may have emailed to tell me she’d call. Like I said, drug addled haze.

Anyway, there was something about the way she handled it that sticks with me. Something about her strength when I was struggling that made a difference. I remember her voice being strong and concerned but I didn’t feel like I had reassure her or make her feel better about my diagnosis like I did so many others.

Maybe she remembers it differently or will tell me I have all the details wrong but the feeling of being grateful for her friendship remains. In any version of events, that part doesn’t change.

Then she sent a real life snail mail card. In the years since, she’s sent cards since just to tell me she’s thinking about me or to wish me luck with surgery. Every time I see her handwriting and return address in among the bills and junk mail, I smile. I’ve kept them all.

Each year when we’ve gone to Portland, the highlight of my trip has been the time I spend with her hanging out over a glass of wine and talking. When she came to visit last summer, SG took the girls and sort of disappeared because he knew the value of uninterrupted time with her.

I told you all that about me, in a post about her, because I want you to know her. To know the kind of person she is and how she responds to the struggles of others. How easy she makes it seem to be there in the way you need her to be. How effortless she makes it look.

She’s a friend who goes above and beyond for the people she cares about. When she asks you how you are, you get the sense that she actually wants to hear the answer. How impressive is that?

In the last year, in the face of her sadness, I’ve wished I knew how to help. How to make it easier for her as she has for me. Her loss is so much greater than what I’ve faced and I’ve wished that I could give her the support and comfort she needs. But in the end, I don’t quite know how to be the person she is.

As I write this the tears come easier than the words. I wish that I could be more eloquent. That I could better convey how lucky I am to call her my friend and how much my heart breaks for her.

Today, maybe all I can do is give her is this space – dedicated to her and her family and her beautiful baby girl.

I love you G!