Thank you #2: Kristen and Greg

My high school ex-boyfriend and his wife.

Yup. That’s who this blog is about. That’s normal, right?

Here’s a little background. Greg and I dated in high school. Then we broke up. A tale familiar to any high school couple. We’ve kept in touch through the years. We’ve stayed friends. He’s a pretty cool guy. I figured he’d marry a pretty awesome girl. I mean, come on, we dated, so clearly he has impeccable taste in women. Little did I know just how awesome Kristen would be. 

Kris and I became friends on Facebook a few years back. That’s the only communication she and I ever had with each other. We’d comment on each others' kids’ photos, our daily posts, and send the occasional message to see how the others' families were doing.

When the news spread about my diagnosis, Kris went into planning mode. I don’t know all the specific thoughts that went through their heads, but within a couple of weeks, Greg was on the phone with my parents, asking if it was okay that he and Kris spearhead a project that would help us through the cancer journey. They wanted to create an Amazon gift registry where people could purchase things that our family would need – diapers, wipes, formula, cleaning products, detergent, paper plates, and plastic cutlery. My parents were surprised and humbled by the offer.

Within a week, the UPS and FedEx boxes started coming. Our doorbell rang non-stop for months. I’m not exaggerating when I say that we sometimes saw the same delivery man three times a day. Our home was filled with donations. Some boxes were marked by the givers. Some were purposely kept anonymous. We had to use a spare bedroom to house all the boxes of diapers and wipes that were given. We are now at one year out, and I still have diapers left. We just, and I mean, JUST, ran out of formula. I will literally have Lysol wipes to last me a few years. 

Kris continued to send me envelopes of coupons, gift cards, and encouraging notes.  Then one day, a package arrived from her. Enclosed was a quilt that she had someone make for me. Its main color is purple, and there are inserts with people’s messages of hope, prayer, and Bible verses. She had cut all the strips of fabric, enclosed directions, sent the strips to people who had been a part of my journey, and included return envelopes for those people to mail them back to her. She then took that fabric and had a friend create the most beautiful quilt. As if that wasn’t enough, she had a Shutterfly photo book made with pictures of all the people – friends and strangers – who prayed us through this process so that I could finally put some faces with names. It is a gift like no other.

As it turns out, we were to be vacationing in the same town over Christmas. We adjusted our schedules so that we could meet each other for the first time and have the families spend a few days together. It was one of the best Christmases and vacations we’ve ever had. It’s not every day that you can “go on vacation” with your husband, your three kids, your ex-boyfriend, his wife, and their two kids. It may sound a bit Jerry-Springer-ish, but I tell you, I laughed more those few days than I had in months. Kris and I shopped in the little town and went to lunch where we talked, laughed, and cried for hours. It felt like we had been friends all of our lives. The two families went out to dinner, and when all the kids were asleep, we stayed up late into the night and shared stories. I couldn’t have asked for a better vacation, or for better friends.

Greg emails each week to check in and see how we’re all doing. Kris and I keep in touch weekly on Facebook and occasionally on the phone. It’s tough to carry on a phone conversation when there are a total of five children between the two of us, so the phone calls are few. Perhaps when the kids go to college, we can have an actual conversation on the phone. I know that we have forever friends in them, and that our families will grow up together.

What they did for us was not just thoughtful and a “nice gesture.” The registry they created saved us financially. What most people don’t know is that the day before my diagnosis, my husband was laid off from his job. There went a full-time salary and benefits. We were days away from the birth of our third baby, and since I couldn’t breast feed, formula was a necessity. And an expensive one. The donations that came in from the registry allowed us to use our money for medical expenses, food, and the “regular bills.” There’s no way we could have done it without them.

So, to Kris and Greg – thank you for all that you did. We look forward to many more, healthy, years together. When’s our next vacation? 

Thank you #1: Amanda

This girl doesn’t cry. I met her in 1999, and I had never seen her cry. She’s a rock.

But then one day last May, I called her and shared some news. And for the first time in our 13-year friendship, I heard her tears. 

I called my best friend Amanda, who lives about two hours away, to tell her that I had found a lump and that I was going for tests.  She was at my door the next day.

A few weeks later, I called to tell her that the chemo was working and my hair was falling out. I told her that I’d be shaving my head that night. I never had to ask - within two hours, she was at my door, holding my hands while the clippers started doing their job. She hugged me tight when I didn’t have the strength to look in the mirror at my face. She told me I looked awesome.

She visited a few times throughout the summer to keep me company. We shopped. We watched reruns of 90210 – the original one, of course. We bought canvases and paint, and over a few glasses of wine painted some artwork for a spare bedroom. We got Subway. We shopped. Oh, did I already mention that?

In August, when I was hospitalized for an infection, she thought nothing of hopping in the car, just for a surprise “afternoon visit,” and she even included a cup of my favorite coffee from Starbucks. (A tall, decaf, white mocha for the record. Only a true friend knows your exact Starbucks order.)

She took the day off work in October to be at my side for my last chemo treatment. She was there beside me when I rang the bell, signifying the end of that portion of my journey. The tears were flowing from all of us that day. 

In March, she crossed the finish line with me as I completed my first half marathon. She cheered me on, pulled me along, and we cried together when it was all over. She got us matching Bon Jovi-inspired shirts.

Nearly five years ago, I had the privilege of giving the matron of honor speech at her wedding. I shared to a group of guests that when I thought of Amanda, the word “rescue” came to my mind. I rattled off a list of times when she had come to my rescue through the years of our friendship: When I had the flu in college, she drove me to school. When I moved home, she single-handedly dissembled my monstrous-sized desk and lugged it downstairs by herself to the moving truck. When I needed to get out of my dorm room, her door was always open. When it was time to paint my first baby’s nursery, she helped tape off the lines. When it was time to throw a baby shower, she planned the whole thing. 

Little did I know what this last year would bring and just how she would come to my rescue - time and time again. She’s the most loyal, true, and loving friend a girl could ask for, and I’m blessed to call her “my friend.” 

Dear Mrs. Pitt...

As many of you have read in the headlines this week, Angelina Jolie revealed that she went through an elective, preventative double mastectomy a few months ago. She shared that her mother died in her 50s of breast cancer, and that she has since discovered that she has a mutation in the BRCA-1 gene that predisposes her to breast and ovarian cancer. She then elected to undergo the double mastectomy to reduce her chances from 85% to less than 5%.

I applaud her decision to "take matters into her own hands" and be proactive.

Let me interject a huge, glaring, loud HOWEVER here...

However, her story is NOT representative of what us "regular" women experience. You know, us, the middle-class, CANCER-SURVIVOR women who do not have maids, chefs, personal assistants, or nannies.

The articles about Angelina quote the actress as saying that "within two days I was feeling great," and that within two weeks she was filming a movie abroad.

Funny, after two days, I was still in the hospital.

After two weeks, I was able to sit up on my own.


Eight months later, I still do not have full range of motion in my right arm.

America has raised her up as this hero that should be praised for being ever-so brave. What the media is not telling is the truth of what her surgeries looked like in comparison with those of us who have had cancer and had to have mastectomies.

First of all, the articles say that she elected to have "nipple-saving" procedures done. Well, that's nice for her that she can keep hers. My apologies for the graphic nature of this, but mine are gone. I have a two-inch scar across each breast that will never disappear fully. I don't know exactly what her surgery looked like, but I assume that her scars will have been covered up by her already existing nipples. So, at the end of the day, I venture a guess (also supported by research) that she looks awfully similar to any woman who had a breast augmentation done. She now has nice, perky boobs, just missing her natural breast tissue, but devoid of the scars that the rest of us have. She does not have to deal with the emotional roller coaster of "losing her breasts," feeling like less of a woman, or any of the emotions I have had to deal with while battling cancer and having to make those decisions. It's very easy to say, "Oh, I don't care that much about my breasts" when they can still look like they always did, if not better than before.

Secondly, the media has said that her "recovery period was a fun time for the whole family."  I'm generally an optimist, but I can tell you that while going through it and in hindsight, NONE of that experience could have been described as "fun." The pain was excruciating. I felt like I had been chopped up with a machete. I had drains coming from under my arms. I looked like a science experiment. For the first week, I couldn't move my arms to feed myself, wash myself, or scratch my nose. I couldn't sit up on my own. I slept upright for two weeks in a recliner. It was not a vacation at my multi-million dollar mansion in France, I can assure you that.
 

You may be thinking that I sound bitter or angry. I'm not. Really, I'm not. I do think what she did was medically sound and commendable. If you don't want the flu, get a flu shot. If you don't want breast cancer, don't have breasts. But please, Hollywood, don't portray her experiences as some holier-than-thou act of extreme bravery and present her on the red carpet with all the pomp and circumstance that true heroes deserve.

At the end of the day, she had a modified boob job. Sorry to burst your bubbles.

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