I. Was. Running....

It's been almost a month since I crossed something off my bucket list.

I completed a half marathon.

Yes, little old me, the girl who was picked last for every physical education class sports activity in elementary and middle school.. the girl who waited to take her sole PE class of high school until the last semester of her senior year (and then got out of most activities because I was the token senior).

Last April, I had decided that I would sign up for the Sarasota Half Marathon. I figured, "Heck, it's a year away, and it will be a great way to get back into shape after the baby." I never imagined my life would have taken the turn that it did, and after my cancer diagnosis and treatments, I put my marathon registration packet at the back of my desk drawer.

While recovering from chemo and the mastectomy, my energy levels were diminished, and my upper body strength was next to nothing. It took me nearly two months just to lift my kids in and out of their car seats. Each day slowly got better, and I was able to see the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel.

So, four months after my surgery, I got an itch. A small thought crept into my mind... perhaps I could do this marathon... And then the thought got bigger. And more persistent. And then it turned into, yes, I'm going to do this.

I needed to do it. I needed to prove to myself that cancer would not win. That I was o.k.a.y. enough to train, run, and cross the finish line.

The marathon was a metaphor for my journey.

Slowly, I began to train. I was going to the gym a few times a week doing strength training. I was running my neighborhood in the afternoons. And my co-workers joined in my task of practicing running the Ringling Bridge after work.

Oh, and did I mention my best friend Amanda was doing this with me? From afar, she was my biggest cheerleader. And I was going to need her more than I realized when it came to the actual day of the race.

I knew I wasn't as ready as I would have liked to have been, but my goal was just to cross the finish line, and hopefully not be last.

Race day came, we were at the starting line at 7am, and we were off. I did well until Mile 8 where I started to have pain. Apparently, those twinges of pain became some epic blisters on the soles of my feet. Amanda kept tugging me along as more and more people passed us by. Around Mile 11, I looked back, and we were the last two people with the bus following us in. So much for not being the last one across the finish line...

I had one small emotional meltdown at Mile 12. The very sweet people in the bus asked if I wanted a ride for the rest of the marathon. I said, "Absolutely not. I didn't beat cancer and make it through 12 miles for you to pick me up in these last few moments..." Amanda grabbed me, and our friends who had finished the race an hour earlier came back to cross the finish line together with us.

The race had a four hour time limit. I crossed the line with a time of 3:52:45. While I was literally the last two feet that crossed the line that day, I didn't end up having the longest time. So, technically, I achieved my goal. My feet were burning, my legs were cramped up, and I could barely see through the tears.

This race really was a metaphor for all I've been through. I had a challenge. I trained for it. It was harder than I had ever anticipated. Parts of it were easy. Parts of it sucked. There were laughs. There were tears. There was pain. But there were family and friends that carried me through it.

And I won.

P.S. - The following week, I registered for next year's half marathon. I have to redeem myself!

Happy 2nd birthday, Ben

As I started thinking about writing this blog post in honor of Ben's second birthday, I was immediately filled with guilt.

I didn't write one for Aaron's birthdays, so would I be knocked down a few notches in the "good mom" ladder? I'll write for his next birthday, I promise.
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So, happy 2nd birthday, Benjamin.

When you're old enough to read, but more importantly understand, I'd like you to read this and know just how much you've been loved.

Your labor was easy. Painful, but easy. And fast. I labored all day at home, not even realizing I was in labor until my mother-in-law suggested that I start timing those "tinges of pain." I got to the hospital and couldn't even sign in the contractions were coming so fast.

I was 9-centimeters upon admittance to the hospital.

I pushed for 21 fast-paced minutes and there. you. were.

And I could describe your personality in the same way: Easy. Fast. And sometimes painful.

You were happy and easy-going for the first 18 months. We barely even noticed you were around because you were so peaceful.

Then you turned a year and a half and BAM. There you were. You were (are) full on in all that you do. When you're happy, you're ecstatic. When you're sad, you're gloomy. When you're mad, you can throw a temper-tantrum like the world has never seen before. When you're giggling, you're belly laughing like an old fat man. Seriously. I wish you could see yourself. You are fierce.

But you're strong. You were just six months old when we learned that you'd be a big brother. I had just envisioned you always being the little brother. You were forced into a role that you didn't ask for.

Then you were asked to grow up and sometimes take a back seat to some very grown-up issues that Mommy and Daddy had to deal with. You sometimes got "lost in the shuffle" of life, of a new baby, and of being a little brother, too.

You learned to hold your own, to share, to play, and to take care of others. You've learned to hug your baby brother, tell others to "sssshhhh" when he's sleeping, and take pick his bottle up when it's fallen. You have such a sweet and gentle heart, and I hope you never lose that.

Somewhere in the last months, I blinked, and you've grown up. You became two. And now you're my little man.

Happy birthday, Benjamin. I love you, Mr. Blue Eyes.

No photos, please!

I'm just over six months along in this journey called cancer.

The range of emotions has changed over the months, weeks, days, and even hours. There are some days when it is all I think about. And there are other days where I can go for hours and forget. There are times when I am a tower of strength, and then there are moments when that tower collapses into tiny bits of  dust.

When I started chemotherapy, I was advised to "take lots of photos." I couldn't imagine why I would possibly want to do that. I swore off cameras, phones with camera, and for a while, mirrors.

Why would I want to take a photograph, a still moment in time, a permanent image of a time in my life that I never want to revisit?

It's not like someday, years from now, I am going to bored and think, "What should I do today? Oh yeah, let me pull out my cancer photo album." It's not an album I'd bring out at a dinner party to share with guests.

The image in the mirror will last a lifetime in my memory.

I don't need photos to remind me.

Walking down the hallway at work, perusing the grocery store aisle, or pumping my gas at the local gas station, the average person wouldn't look at me and see a cancer patient. I make sure that my make-up is fresh, my eyeliner is dark, and my eyebrows are penciled in. I have a wig, that really, is a good wig. It came with roots and all. Most people can't believe that it's not my real hair. I appreciate their compliments. Until my breast reconstruction is complete, I have to stuff the left-hand side of my bra. I cover my collar bone because the radiation is now leaving me a lovely shade of crimson.

But when evening closes in, the wig comes off, the make-up remover erases my face, my "stuffing" comes out, and my redness shows, I am constantly reminded that this journey is not over. Yes, I am officially cancer-free, but the aesthetic side effects last longer. It's not easy to look at myself every day in the mirror, and I can't imagine taking photos unless I'm all "made up."

Those close to me (or at least my Facebook friends) have seen some recent photos. I'm all made up, so no one would be the wiser. But know this: with the exception of a family photo shoot, the only photos I have taken since my diagnosis have all been since I was declared cancer-free.

I don't want to look back at any photos and say, "That's when I had cancer."

I only want to see photos of myself cured.

So, thank you to those who offered advice, urging me to photographically document this journey. But I just couldn't do it.

I had even planned on blogging more, but I think for the same reason, I didn't want my entire life to become about cancer. So, now, I plan to blog more.

Now that the cancer is over...

Stronger

Typically, when someone wants to break up with someone, the cliche used is: "It's not you, it's me." 

Well, not in this case.

Dear Cancer,

It's time we had a talk. It's over. This "relationship" we've shared, we're finished. And this time, it's you, not me.

You showed up unexpectedly.
You settled into my life, my home, my family, and my body. You were unwanted here.
You took away my security and my peace.
You wrecked my sanity.
You caused me to question my faith.
You had me take time away from a job that I love.
You caused me to need medicines that made me sick.
You took my hair away from me.
You canceled vacations.
You made me unable to sunbathe this summer. You made me hate mealtime.
You crushed my self-esteem.
You made me lose time with my children.
You denied me kisses from my children when they were sick.
You hindered my ability to hug my kids, my husband, or anyone else who wanted hugs.
You gave me scars.
You hospitalized me for the first time in my life for an illness.
You put me in an operating room three times.
You made me have blood transfusions.
You have made my family cry.
You have caused financial hardships.
You made me scared of the future.


Despite our inability to get along, you did cause me to learn some things and make changes in my life for the better. So thank you for the following things:

You strengthened my marriage.
You reminded me to hug and kiss my children every chance I get.
You taught me to not take the little things for granted.
You have forced me to book vacations that wouldn't ordinarily have happened.
You're helping me write my bucket list - a real one this time.
You've taught me who my real friends are.
You pushed me toward God and prayer more than any other time in my life. Take that Satan.
You've restored my faith in human kind.
You helped me lose the rest of my baby weight, and then some. (There have to be some perks, right?)
You've rekindled friendships that I thought were gone forever.
You've brought back family members who were lost.
You've allowed me to appreciate the little things.
You let me play in the rain with my boys and not worry about getting wet.
You've taught me how strong I really can be.
You've allowed me to learn how to ask for help.
You've taught me that spending time with my kids is more important than a vacuumed house.
You're teaching me that beauty and strength are found on the inside.
You've made me promise to "pay it forward" for all the kindness we've been shown.
You're causing the stirrings of ministry opportunities for me to start.


So Cancer, I leave you with the lyrics to a song. If you didn't get the message before, perhaps Kelly Clarkson can sum it all up for you. Good-bye.

"What Doesn't Kill You (Stronger)"

You know the bed feels warmer
Sleeping here alone
You know I dream in color
And do the things I want

You think you got the best of me
Think you've had the last laugh
Bet you think that everything good is gone
Think you left me broken down
Think that I'd come running back
Baby you don't know me, cause you're dead wrong

What doesn't kill you makes you stronger
Stand a little taller
Doesn't mean I'm lonely when I'm alone
What doesn't kill you makes a fighter
Footsteps even lighter
Doesn't mean I'm over cause you're gone

You heard that I was starting over with someone new
They told you I was moving on, over you

You didn't think that I'd come back
I'd come back swinging
You try to break me, but you see
Thanks to you I got a new thing started
Thanks to you I'm not the broken-hearted
Thanks to you I'm finally thinking about me
You know in the end the day you left was just my beginning

Yes, cancer sucks.

When I was a little girl, my parents taught me that the word "suck" was akin to profanity, so I never used it. As I got older, I realized it wasn't that bad, and put it to occasional use. Well, since my diagnosis of breast cancer, the word "suck" comes to mind at least once a day. And it will appear multiple times throughout this blog, so here's the apology to my parents: "I'm sorry I'm using the word 'suck.' Sometimes, nothing else will do."
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I am about nine weeks into this journey known as breast cancer. Someone had told me going into it that I would start to experience a "new daily normal." I didn't know at the time what that meant, but I do now. I constantly hear phrases like, "Wow, you look great," or "You're handling this so well!"

And my response is usually somewhat of the same. "Thanks. I don't have a choice to handle it otherwise, do I?"  And what I mean is this: I could get up every day, refuse to put on make up, jewelry, or clean clothes. I could mope around the house, or worse yet, stay in bed all day. I could have a crappy attitude, shut myself off from everyone, and never leave the house. But why? The person I'd be hurting most is myself, followed by my immediate family. And what would that accomplish? Nothing. A friend asked me, "But aren't you mad?"  Well, sure. I'm pissed off. I didn't want cancer. But walking around like that all the time won't help.

Then I hear, "And you're handling this with such grace..."  Well, I have it on good authority that grace can be defined by not just what you say, but what you don't say. Because if everyone heard my daily, inner monologue, "grace" may not be the word that would first come to mind. Because cancer sucks. It S.U.C.K.S.  And here's how. (This will be my one and only pity-party-blog, so indulge me.)

Cancer sucks when I wake up in the morning. When I've slept eight hours without my own thoughts. In my dreams, I still have hair. Iwake up, feel no hair on my pillow, and adjust my shoulder from where my port is located, I'm reminded that I'm a cancer patient.

Cancer sucks when I get ready in the morning. When I peruse my closet, looking at my pretty nice wardrobe and wonder, "What will take the emphasis off the fact that I'm wearing a wig?" I miss my hair. There's a bald woman standing in the mirror where I used to be. Then I look in the mirror, hoping that my eyebrows didn't just magically fall off over night, thankful that they are still there, for at least one more day.

Cancer sucks on chemo days.  I sit in a room full of people who are old enough to be my grandparents. We all share similar stories. I'm pumped full of drugs with more letters in their names than some middle-Eastern countries, and I know that within hours, my body will be feeling like it's been run over by a truck. A big one. 

Cancer sucks the days after chemo. The tiredness isn't too bad, and it's a good excuse to slip away for a nap, but otherwise - it sucks. My mouth feels like it's full of cotton; like I haven't brushed my teeth in days. My stomach churns and has sharp, shooting pains. Food has no taste. I'll omit the rest of the yucky details.

Cancer sucks when it comes to my self-esteem.  It may sound like I'm some vain, self-centered, conceited woman. The truth is just the opposite. I've never felt amazingly beautiful. Then add to this that I just had a third baby. First, I hate my body. I hate my body for what it allowed itself to do. How dare it get cancer!?! I feel like it betrayed me. I hate what I look like bald.  I hate that my husband has a bald wife. He tells me I'm beautiful; I know he believes that; but it is hard to FEEL beautiful. I hate that I now have scars. Up to this point, the only surgery I'd ever had were my wisdom teeth. I now have s.c.a.r.s.  I've never had those before. One is under my arm from a lymph-node removal, and the other is near my collar bone where my port is inserted. That one is visible with certain shirts. All this combined makes it hard to feel very confident.

So, there you go, the inner-workings of my brain. Cancer really does suck. But choosing our attitude is what makes the difference. I said from the beginning that I would fight this because I didn't have any other choice. And I live that each day.

Yes, this sucks. Yes, I'm mad. But I'm a fighter.
And I don't accept failure.
Not this time.

Hair Apologies

In the shower today, my hair started to fall out.

I'd been waiting for it, but with each passing day of not losing a single strand, I alluded myself to thinking that I would be some superhero chemo patient who kept her hair.  But...

Apparently, I'm what the oncologist referred to as "average."  The "average" chemo patient starts to lose their hair by the second treatment. Well, I have my second treatment this week.

As I felt strands of hair between my fingers, and the tears started to flow, I thought back to my life with my hair. And I felt a sudden need to apologize to my locks.

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Dear Hair:

We've been together a long time now. But we need to talk. It's not you; It's me. I'm what they call "average." We're going to have to go our separate ways for awhile, but don't worry, I'll come back for you. In the meantime, I wanted to say that I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for perming you in 1991 at the tender age of 10. It was a mistake, and for the frizzy curls you didn't deserve, I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for not learning my lesson and perming you again in 1995. Let's just leave it at that.

I'm sorry for not appreciating your length and always wanting to cut you.

I'm sorry for not appreciating the natural brunette color you so desperately wanted to be. And for the torture I put you through in trying to change the color.

I'm sorry for the at-home highlights and the terrible cap procedures.

I'm sorry for the entire first year of college when the University's water system was overflowing with chlorine and it inadvertently dyed you green.

I'm sorry for the time in college when I wanted to get you high-lighted, but didn't have a ton of money. I went to a walk-in salon and walked out a strange shade of yellow.

I'm sorry for the years of trying to do it myself and turning you a rainbow of different colors, ranging from yellow to green to orange to black.

I'm sorry I didn't appreciate you. Now, I'm just sorry that you're leaving."They say" you'll come back even better than you were before. Either way, just come back soon. I'll miss you.

Life Chaperone

Chaperone: A person who accompanies and looks after another person 

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I met Nathan when I was fourteen and a freshman in high school.

 

He was a senior.

 

The older boy. Gasp.

 

I had always thought he was super cute. He even offered me a ride to a friend's birthday party after a chorus concert one night, but my parents declined on my behalf because I wasn't allowed to ride in a car driven by another teenager. I was surprised he even knew who I was, but that was enough for me.

 

He graduated high school and went into the military. I dated other boys throughout high school. I did become friends with his two brothers, and I even got to know his parents because they chaperoned many chorus trips.

 

My senior year approached, and our choir was asked to sing at Carnegie Hall in New York City. I worked all summer to save up for the trip in April of 1999. I had heard that he was going to be on leave from the military at the same time, flying through New York on his way home to Florida. His brothers would be on the chorus trip, and his parents would be chaperones. As a family, they decided that he would stop in New York with all of us, be a "chaperone," and then fly home to Florida for the rest of his leave time.

 

I heard he'd be on the trip with us. I hadn't seen him in years, but I was so excited to see him again. I don't know why; it's not like we had had any sort of connection before. Something inside was stirring.

 

While God knew what was going to happen, I thought I was taking matters into my own hands. I was supposed to be in my best friend's mom's chaperone group. Well, at the last minute, I changed groups to be in Nathan's dad's group because I knew they'd hang out together the whole day. I very quickly made myself known, re-introduced myself, and clung on like white on rice.

 

And this time, he noticed me.

 

By lunchtime of the first day, we took our first picture together at South Street Seaport.

 

By that afternoon, he grabbed my hand to cross 5th Avenue. (He hasn't let go since.)

 

I called my mom that evening from the hotel lobby's payphone. The conversation went something like this:

 

Me: "Hi Mom."

Mom: "Hi! How's New York City???"
Me: "Great. Do you remember Nathan, from chorus?"

Mom: "Yeah, why?"

Me: "Because I'm going to marry him someday."

Mom: "Didn't I just leave you at the airport?"

 

People started to notice that we were hanging out. And they started to ask questions.

 

Two evenings later, on April 23, 1999, we had - what we consider - our first "date." We saw the same Broadway show (Miss Saigon), had pizza together at Sbarro's underneath the World Trade Center, and when he dropped me off at the elevator doors in the hotel, he kissed me.

 

And we've been together ever since.

 

We dated for three years long distance. And I don't mean long distance like some do - we were in different countries - no, make that different continents. I was in Orlando; he was in Italy. Then he was in Pensacola, Florida. Then he was stationed on the JFK Aircraft Carrier that deployed to the Middle East.

 

In August 2002, we were married.

 

I don't know how I knew that he was "the one." It was just the feeling that it was supposed to be. That I had found "home."

 

He was supposed to be my "chaperone" that trip. Google defines a chaperone as someone who looks out for someone else. Well, 13 years later, he's still my "chaperone," always looking out for me, taking care of me, and protecting me.

 

A trip of a lifetime...