The Neutral Zone

A funny story: When I got the result of my biopsy (positive for invasive lobular carcinoma), I called my friend Rebecca (not her real name) in Paris because she wanted to know the result. Rebecca and I were as close as friends can get. In the decade since we’d met, we had told each other big secrets. We had seen each other through divorce and heartbreakingly bad relationships. We had endured (or were enduring) our kids’ teen years. We were so close, in fact, that we could tell each other the real truth instead of  the “girl truth,” which is truth that isn’t really true; but merely supportive.

A year and a half later, I’d had my surgery, chemo and radiation. I also was working full time as a single mom with two teenagers. I was, to put it mildly, distracted.

One holiday weekend, I’d made plans to go biking with Rebecca. On the planned Sunday, I sat at my kitchen table, gazing out the window at my dying California pepper tree and wondering how I was going to cut it down. The phone rang. I sipped on my grande non-fat latte, planning my route up the pepper tree, mentally marking the sequence of cuts. I ignored the phone.

The next day at work, I looked at my Outlook calendar. “Bike Ride with Rebecca,” was the text I’d put in the Sunday box. My heart sank to my socks. Shit! I had forgotten about the bike ride!  I called Rebecca. She was pissed, as expected. I apologized profusely. She wasn’t appeased.

I went to work and sent an email. Again, apologizing profusely. My memory, since chemo, has become a plastic knife in a drawer full of Henkels precision blades. If it is not in writing, it does not happen. If it is in writing, it might happen.

Rebecca wasn’t buying my apology, and she told me so. Then she sent me an email that provided further explaination. She wrote that it was clear that I didn’t have my priorities straight. I was stunned.

My ex was friends with Rebecca. After several months of silence between me and Rebecca, he and she ran into each other at a trade show. Whe the topic of me came up, she expressed her disappointment in my skewed sense of what was essential and what was not essential in life. She said she had been there for me totally and was disappointed in my lack of appreciation. She compared me to her friend, Alice, who had done cancer so gracefully, effortlessly. Alice, apparently, did not forget her appointments.

I guess it’s not really a funny story. As I sit here writing, I still feel the sting of those words and am filled with bitterness, defensiveness, incredulity, unforgiveness.

The main point of this story: There is no way to adequately explain to someone who has not been through cancer how tired, forgetful and distracted you were and still may be.

This holiday, I had a similar experience. I had forgotten something important, and the repercussions were intense. The fallout has filled me with rage.

I called my best friend Sharon in Tallahassee. “How are you?” She asked. I told her the truth: “I am a venomous bag of hatred.” I told her about going to church (for the second time this year) and crying at the music’s lyrics about forgiveness. I’d been praying to be forgiving, but all I could feel was misunderstood and royally pissed off.

Her advice: Stop trying to forgive. It doesn’t come from you anyway. Just live in neutral for a while. Stop thinking about how mad you are. How right you are. How wronged you were. Just put it on a shelf for a while.

So that’s what I am going to do. I’ll keep you posted on my progress. Unless I forget.

I must believe (by Judy)

* that I’ll worry and worry but still burst with pride when he gets his driver’s license.
* that I’ll see him graduate from high school, and I’ll be the most obnoxious picture-taking mom there (or one of the most).
* that I’ll be there as he goes through his college journey, and I’ll burst with pride all over again as he receives his college diploma.
* that I’ll watch him get married, if he so chooses, and I’ll dance a mother-son dance with him.
* that I’ll watch him become a parent, if he so chooses, and I’ll spoil any grandchildren that come my way.
* that I’ll be there for him in every way I can be as he re-evaluates again and again what adoption means for him.
* that I’ll grow old with his dad.

I must believe. I must.

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Cross-posted to Just Enjoy Him.

three years ago yesterday (by Judy)

my life changed irrevocably with the utterance of two simple words:

That’s cancer

by a surgeon coldly pointing at my left breast. Life hasn’t been the same for me since then.

Don’t take things for granted: health, life, loves, friendships. They are all so precious, and any one of them can be gone before you know it.

Life is precious . . .and way, way too short.

My life changed in a moment. If I could turn back the clock and never have this awful disease, I would. I wish I could.

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Cross-posted on Just Enjoy Him.

Another Check on the Bucket List…by Mary Beth

In an earlier post on my personal blog, I shared the Christmas stockings that my Mother had knit for my husband, myself and the “kids” (the 4 legged variety) we had at that time. When my daughter was born my Mom was in the the mid stages of Alzheimer’s disease. There was no way that she was going to be able to knit stockings for our kids (the 2 legged variety).  I never really learned how to knit well so I had the brilliant idea that I would cross-stitch stockings.

This is my Daughter’s…

It took me 4 years to finish…

When my son was born I had to complete the tradition that I had started. I really do not remember when I started to cross-stitch his. I think he was old enough to point in a book to which design he liked. Well, he is now 10 and I was determined to finish his stocking this year.

Ta Dah….

It is complete… I can cross this off my bucket list. Two kids… two stockings… When I was diagnosed  I worried about who I would ask to finish his stocking for me. Well that is one worry I can cross off… God knows I have a ton of others to take its place… but I can not wait for Santa to fill up his stocking… made by his Mom… with Love…

cross-posted to marybethvolpini

Thank You Susan G. Komen

by Lorri Steer at www.terribleandbeautiful.blogspot.com

 

It was an expected doorbell ring. My daughter’s friend’s Mom was coming to pick up her daughter from our house. Happily, I opened the door. I hadn’t seen her since her wedding a few months back and I was excited to see how newlywed life was treating her. Apparently, not so good.

“I found a lump” she blurted out.

I started out my “8 out of 10″ breast lumps are benign speech to encourage her. I asked some questions hoping for the answers that would push the possibility of cancer far away. But each of her answers confirmed my worst fears Her lump is fixed and in the upper outer quadrant of her left breast – the most common presentation and location for breast cancers. She smokes. Things do not look good. Tomorrow she’ll know for sure. Today she waits. I wait with her – my silent prayer a litany of “No. No. No’s.”

“My job doesn’t have insurance.” she told me. “Planned Parenthood paid for my mammogram.” Planned Parenthood’s breast health funds from Susan G. Komen may well save this woman’s life. Look at these hands – the hands of a June bride with a renewed hope. The hands of a single mother who has raised her daughter mostly alone. The hands of a daughter – the only one – with 4 brothers. The hands of a friend, a neighbor, the woman who serves you your lunch today, checks out your grocery order or cares for your grandmother at the senior center.

Look at these hands and tell me again why you boycott Susan G. Komen. It may be theory to you, but to some people, it’s real life. Or real death.