How to suffer well.

Today I chatted briefly with a woman who has just been diagnosed with cancer.  I could see the suffering in her eyes.  And it all came back to me.

The way my spirit felt broken.  The lump in my throat.  The pit in my stomach.  They way I didn’t eat for days.  The middle of the night panics. The crying in the shower.  The forced smiles for my kids.  The tears that could bubble up in an instant.  The constant fear.

It is always amazing how quickly I can return there.  Sometimes when I’m running and my muscles are aching in the very best way, and my breathing is regular, and my heart feels strong — I think — maybe I can out run it. Maybe I can pretend it never happened at all.  And then I look over my shoulder, only to see “oncology appointment” written neatly in my planner.

While I was hiking in Colorado a couple of weeks ago, I couldn’t help but think about my suffering.  And this may sound strange to say, but I think I suffered well.  Could it be that there is an art to suffering? A graceful way to fall?

In my mind I kept writing and rewriting this blog:

How to suffer well:

Fall all the way to the bottom.  Don’t catch yourself.  Don’t brace yourself.  Don’t prepare for the landing.  Fall all the way down.  You are going there anyway.  To embrace the fall, is to shorten it.

And here is the thing about being at the bottom — you get this unique perspective of life, you get this unbelievable view of -up. Sometimes I would imagine myself on the bottom of the ocean floor, life swirling around me in this rhythm that wasn’t mine.  I would picture bubbles, and slanted light, and that feeling of being a kid in the pool and opening your eyes underwater and looking at the sky.  From down there the light bends, and colors merge, and you can hear sound, but no words, and you know when you rise to the surface you will fill your lungs with air, just to float back down again.

Sometimes beautiful, tragic, devastating, and powerful things happen at the bottom. Fall all the way down.

Shed your leaves.  Let go of all the stuff that covers you up.  This is hard to do.  And cancer doesn’t leave you with much time.  Sometimes you find yourself shaving your head when you were only months away from having your hair long enough to pull off a side braid.  Sometimes knives are involved, and surgical glue.  Sometimes you don’t have a choice as to how and when you will let your leaves go.  And you find yourself staring in the mirror bald and broken wondering how you ever thought a zit, a patch of gray hair, a new found wrinkle, or jeans that didn’t fit — ever brought you down.  Let all the stuff that covers you up -go.  Be bare.

Sometimes there is such beauty in the bareness.

Finally, be both. Be both brave and terrified.  Take deep breaths and steps forward. Put on your tennis shoes, turn your music up and move. And also, allow yourself to cry.  To wilt.  To curl up in a ball on the couch for as long as you can.  Be both graceful and a mess.  Tie up your scarf, put on your dangling earrings and dare yourself to dance.  And also, cry so hard that your eyes swell up.  Go out into the world red, and blotchy, and broken.  Be both.  Never make yourself choose.

There is such freedom in both.

So there is my advice: fall all the way to the bottom, shed your leaves, and be both.  I call it the art of suffering.  It is something I never aspired to be good at, but life is funny like that.  And you don’t have to have cancer to suffer this way, perhaps it is a universal truth.  To kneel down to the dragon.  To surrender yourself in a way that doesn’t make you weak, just vulnerable.  To say out loud, “I am broken.” I like to comfort myself by believing that to suffer well, is to heal well.

And here is the most important part . . . you will heal.  It’s a promise.  Your healing might not look like what you think it should look like, but you will heal.  This is how I know:

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The sun always rises = darkness never lasts.

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There is beauty in the shadows.

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Love will always find a way.

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Her funeral was magic.

kathy and melissaKathy Cramer.  She was one of my mom’s first friends in St. Louis, and because we had no other family in the area, she became our chosen family.  She was often at our table on holidays- stopping by my parent’s house for a drink, or just dropping off the perfect present to my boys for no reason at all.  She always smelled great, looked beautiful, and hugged me fiercely.  I always liked Kathy.  She was kind, and good, and made me feel special. She brought with her delicious food, engaging conversation, and a contagious, positive energy.

Breast cancer made us closer.  I had it.  She had it.  Different stages.  Different treatment plans.  But the same cancer.  We shared text messages, conversations, and the hope that both of us would be well again.

Last week as I drove to the ICU.  I knew I would be saying goodbye.

And all that energy, and sparkle that she had always radiated, was gone.  She was dying.  I have never seen someone dying before.  It is not like the movies.  It is not peaceful, and pretty.  It is raw, and hard to look at, and scary . . . and real.  I watched my mom and her friends whisper their goodbyes.  I watched her nephew stroke her face. I watched her husband hold her hand, and kiss her head.  I watched her chest rise and fall, each breath was a battle.

She died later that night.

And it all feels like it happened in a blink of an eye.  She was just here.  She was this force, this fire, this light.  How is that possible that she is gone?

How is it possible that we are all here, and then in a blink, we’re not?

It feels impossible to digest.  And yet, it is the only thing we know to be true about life: it ends.  We are all going to die.  It is a truth, a reality.  And yet, it shocks us, surprises us, knocks us down, and leaves us shaking our heads and hands.  How can she be gone?

Today was her funeral.  And to say that it was magic, might sound strange, but it was: it was magic.  It was inspiring, and devastating, and joyful.  It was beautiful and full of such a sweet sorrow.  It was, as her husband named it:  a “celebration of impact”.

Kathy spent her life’s work as writer, a motivational speaker, an innovator, and a risk-taker who developed a organization that focused on the impact of being positive.  I watched her TED Talk recently, and she tells the audience not to stay in the negative for too long, to move it aside and say, “besides from all of that, I can solve this anyway.”  And somehow even though her closest family members, friends, and husband were beyond devastated with the loss of Kathy’s life, they focused on the positive.

They focused on their memories, on their gratitude for knowing her.  On their ability to see the extensive reach of her wisdom.  Instead of focusing on her death, they focused on her life.

Is it possible to be lifted up at funeral? To be inspired, and motivated, and to leave feeling grateful?  Is it possible for her husband to stand up – on what will probably be the saddest day of his life – and so gracefully speak of his love?  Yes.  Her funeral was magic.

It is true that we will all die.

But it is also true that Energy can neither be created nor destroyed; rather, it transforms from one form to another.

And it has to be true that Kathy was there today, in the music that left us with chills, in the magic that left us hopeful and motivated to walk out into the summer air, and in the moments that left us feeling the weight of death, and the hope of love. 

As the lines of a Mary Oliver poem read at her funeral say “Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

It is a blessing, and a burden to remember these truths.  We are blessed with this “one wild and precious life,”  and we are burdened with the question: “what is it you plan to do?”

Kathy and I spoke about how cancer brings you a certain clarity.  A new lens to look through.  How the depth of the small stuff sticks with you.  How your ability to notice and recognize beauty intensifies.

And Kathy lived all the way up until she died.  She recognized her one “wild and precious life” and she did great things.

Today I left her funeral wondering what risks I will be willing to take?  What leaps of faith will I be willing to make?  What will I do with my one “wild and precious life”?  The teacher in me thought about working backwards with the end in mind.

I too, want a funeral, that’s magic.

 

 

I did it!

 

Last summer I wrote this about my cancer experience: “I described this journey as a triathlon: bike (chemo), swim (surgery), and run (five years of ovarian suppression and hormone blockers).  I guess I am here finishing up the swim.  Tomorrow will be three weeks since surgery.  Every day the pain lessens, and my boobs look more like body parts, and less like Frankenstein’s head.  But as I end this leg of the race, I am feeling that familiar dread of the unknown.  What will the run be like?  Is my body strong enough to keep going?  What does forced menopause look like for a 36-year-old body? What will the side effects be of these new meds? When will I get my full energy back? How long until my hair doesn’t scream “cancer patient”?”

Today, (about 14 months post double-mastectomy), I completed my first triathlon.  I used the triathlon metaphor as a way for me to visualize my breast cancer journey.  I said the swim was like the surgery because I was a swimmer when I was young and had a lot of experience with it, and after Alex was born I had a pretty intense surgery to remove a blood clot- so surgery was not new to me either.

I said chemo was like the bike ride, because I had no experience riding for long distances, and it was the part that scared me the most.

And I said the five years of pills and ovarian suppression were like the run.  Because it seemed the most doable and familiar stretch of the journey– I completed three half-marathons before having kids.

I wanted to do a real triathlon so that I could prove to myself that my body was back.  To prove that it belonged to me, that it wasn’t a prisoner to my port, the heaviness of chemo, or the slow movements after surgery.  I wanted to feel strong again.

Last night it was hard to sleep.

I was scared and excited.

I felt ready, and unsure.

I felt like a chapter was closing, and another was opening.

This morning there was a lot of waiting (there always is with unknown and scary things), and then before I knew it I was in the water, swimming, and breathing.

If I concentrated on the full distance, I felt overwhelmed.  But if I focused on Joel walking along the shore of the lake taking pictures of me, I felt okay.  I kept moving forward.

I wore a swimsuit, not a tri-suit, so I am sure a few people got a good laugh at me trying to squeeze myself into some spandex biker shorts with wet legs.  And then I was on the bike.  At first it was nice.  I didn’t feel too hot, I felt my breathing starting to regulate, and the sun and wind were at my back.  Then people started zooming by me, and I started to slow.  I kept thinking, how many miles has it been?  Can I really bike 15 miles? But I forced myself to remember chemo.  Chemo was the bike.  I can do this.  I focused on keeping my legs moving.  Just keep moving forward.

The bike was finished, now the run.  My legs felt like dead weight, I really wanted to sit down.  Just rest for a few minutes.  But I pushed on.  I focused on my breathing, one foot in front of the other.  Just keep moving forward. And then I saw it.  The finish line.  I couldn’t help but smile.  I did it.

My body is back.  It belongs to me.  I wore a swimsuit and biker shorts to run –I didn’t even need a sports bra (implants don’t bounce!).  My hair no longer screams “cancer patient”, in fact I don’t think anyone except my few friends and family members there knew I had cancer.  My cancer journey isn’t defining me in the way it once was.  I am someone new.  I am strong, and experienced at focusing on the small moments, movements, and emotions that make the long game possible.

No matter what comes my way, I know that I can concentrate on my breathing, put one foot in front of the other, and keep moving forward.

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Another Type of Cancer

There are some things that you can’t “un-see” . . . even though you wish you could. I just watched the video of police killing Alton Sterling. I wish I could un-see it.

I got goose-bumps. My throat felt tight. Tears squeezed out.

Seeing it makes me responsible. It holds me accountable. There will be part of my brain that will want to listen to the voices that will probably eventually say things like: “He had a gun. He was a threat. He was a thug. He had a criminal record. “ Part of my brain will want to find refuge here. Here in this place that helps this not feel so awful. Maybe if I can separate myself and my husband, and sons from him, it won’t be as bad. Maybe if I desensitize myself just a little more, it won’t seem like we have a crisis on our hands. And this part of my brain is not evil, it is not bad, but it is wrong. It is dead wrong.

We cannot find comfort in making Alton Sterling, Freddie Gray, Michael Brown, Tamir Rice, Eric Garner, Tarika Wilson, and the countless of other people who have suffered this same tragic fate – seem less than ourselves. If we go there, we are missing the point, we are failing each other.

I am a white woman. I cannot, even for a second, know what if feels like to be black. But we don’t need to be black to be devastated by this. We cannot let our brothers and sisters suffer alone.

Please. Please. Please. Do not allow yourself to rationalize these deaths. If you find your brain clinging to words and phrases that make this violence seem justified: thug, threat, criminal, dangerous — watch the video. And ask yourself: even if it is all true, even if he was a bad man, with a bad past – what happened to the part where he is arrested, read his rights, and taken to jail? What happened to that part? Watch the video.

You will not be able to un-see it. You will wish you could. But human suffering should stir something inside of us.

I have written my blog about my journey with breast cancer. But this is a different type of cancer. One that makes us all sick. It is easy for some of us to pretend it is not there, silently racing through our veins. But these episodes of senseless brutality and violence, they are symptoms of this disease. We cannot heal until we admit that we are sick.

Cancer made me sick, but it also taught me how to heal.  I couldn’t get well until I knew what was causing the symptoms. We have to know what we are up against.  We have to call this what it is: racism. We have to be vulnerable, and weak, and admit that we need help.  We have to be good to ourselves, to our souls.  We have to feed them with truths, and empathy.  We have to be willing to lose something: our comforts, our artificial harmony, our quiet meetings.

When I was sick, those who loved me suffered alongside of me.  They were uncomfortable at night, they begged and pleaded with God.  They sacrificed their time, and their energy and sat with me and made me soup.  They suffered alongside of me.  And they did it so gracefully, that I never once had to yell: “you wouldn’t understand, you don’t have cancer! You don’t know what it is like.”  They were graceful, and sorrowful, and even though they didn’t have cancer, they felt my pain, too. This made me feel like I wasn’t alone, like I was still connected, like my fight, was their fight too.

I want to stand up for my black brothers and sisters. For my friends who will have to teach their sons of color about keeping their hands visible, their heads down, and their voices soft. I want to suffer with them because I know, and believe that “No one is free until we are all free” – Martin Luther King.

I am healing from my own cancer, but sickened by this one.  Watching the video is like seeing the pathology report.

But what? What can we do? The truth: I don’t really know. I truly don’t. When problems feel THIS big, I feel this small. I raise my hands up, and shake my head. And feel like one drop in the ocean.

And then last night I attended a performance by Show Me Art’s Academy as part of their “Spreading the Love Youth Tour”. As I was waiting for the show to begin I read the back of the program: “SMAA, was established by Marty K. Casey, a little more than a year ago, due to the civil unrest in Ferguson, which highlighted very serious concerns for the overall welfare of youth in the St. Louis area.” Marty got on stage before the performance and told us that she wanted to be part of the solution, and she had this idea that she could use music to heal. She called her friends, she rolled up her sleeves, and took a risk.

And there I was watching a group of 20 students, both white and black from all different zip codes sing their hearts out. The final song was “Glory”. The lead vocalist was young girl. She came out on stage with crutches and sat on a stool. The song began to build as the Hazelwood Drumline circled around the audience. The volume grew, and their powerful voices rang out:

“The biggest weapon is to stay peaceful
We sing, our music is the cuts that we bleed through
Somewhere in the dream we had an epiphany
Now we right the wrongs in history
No one can win the war individually…”

The crowd was on their feet. I watched young singer’s face change as she saw us: white and black, young and old rise to our feet. I looked around and saw everyone begin to join hands. My eight-year-old son set his program down and grabbed the black man’s hand next to him, I reached for the woman’s hand to my right. And we lifted our arms together. The music poured into our souls. Tears streamed down my cheeks, and the girl on the stage could see this, the kids singing on stage could see this, they were healing us. Their words, their voices, their passion, it ignited the room. This is what healing looks like.

When I was falling asleep last night I kept hearing the words, “Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me.”

Watch the video. And turn off the voices inside your brain that attempt to make Alton the “other”.

There is no other. There is only us.

As my one of my favorite bloggers, Glennon Doyle Melton, always says: “we belong to each other.”   This is a crisis. This is a cancer. How many more lives will be lost before we open our eyes?

 

Just a snapshot

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This is the only picture that exists of me getting chemo.  I stumbled across it the other day, and my stomach sank.

My dear friend Meghan took the picture (she also made the adorable sign).   If you look closely you can see a clear tube running up to the top of my chest, my sweatshirt is  covering my port.

I stared at it for awhile.

My eyebrows are thin and small.  I have scarf on my completely bald head.  It is April, but I have a heated blanket covering up my super thin frame. (I lost about 10 pounds during my treatment). I’m a bit pale, but that smile is real.  Although I was dreading the aftereffects, it was the last time I was going to have the slow drip of lead forced into my veins.  I couldn’t wait to fast forward time, and be done.

This picture does something to me.  It digs up something that wants to stayed buried.

There are no other pictures of me getting chemo.  And that is on purpose.  I did not want to capture it.  It was too painful, too raw.

But as I look at this picture, I feel grateful to Meghan.  Her bright spirit handed me the sign, told me to smile, and snapped it in a blink.  And now I have this image.  This image of me at one of my weakest points in life.

What I see behind that smile is flashes of the raw pain that cancer brings.  I see my face puffy, red, streaked with tears.  I see Joel’s sad eyes when he found me sobbing in the shower, my fists balled up, my chest heaving with fear and anger.  I see my boys walking out the door in the morning without my hand in theirs.  I hear their laughter as someone else chases them to the park.  I smell the lavender oil that I would swirl in my bath, and the ginger tea I used to settle my stomach.  I see the pill bottles and sticky spoons.

Recently when I was back at the cancer center for one of my shots, I got stuck in the waiting room for over an hour.  I always dread going back there.  The smell of the building gets my heart beating fast.  I feel like I am awaiting impending doom.  It is hard for me to sit still.  I try to distract myself with my phone, but I can’t help but notice.

I notice the dad that has his two kids with him.  It is summer, they don’t have school, so they have to be there to see this. The grandma that has already lost her hair, and looks so tired, but smiles and holds her grandson’s hand.  The man in the wheelchair that is asking why his insurance won’t cover something, the woman that looks like she can’t be a minute over 25, the scarf that sits lopsided on her head.  The husband and wife that don’t speak, but clutch each others’ hands close to their chests.  The elderly lady carrying a container of her urine, she has to wait in line to ask the receptionist where to bring it.  I hear the words, “oncology, radiation, pet scan, MRI, chemotherapy . . . “.

It all makes my head spin.  The suffering is so orderly.  So neat, with lines, and comfy waiting chairs, and brightly colored magazines.

As each minute passes, I grow increasingly anxious.  I start fantasizing about taking the hand santizer stand and using it as a baseball bat to break the beautiful stain-glass wall that divides the space.

“Melissa,” the nurse calls my name and apologizes for my wait.  I smile and collect my keys and purse and walk back to the lab for my shot.  The deep sting of the needle is nothing compared to waiting room waiting.  My friends tell me this could be PTSD.  I think they are right.

When I was making my way through the first part of my diagnosis I compared my cancer journey to a triathlon.

Chemo= the swim               Surgery= the bike               Shots+pills for five years = the run.

On July 10th I will competing in my first real-life (sprint) triathlon.  I will bring my broken body to the edge of a lake and swim.  I will hop up on my borrowed bike and ride.  And then I will run.

When I cross the finish line, I will be thinking about this photo.  This reminder of where I have been.  It does not define me, it is just a snapshot of my story.  I imagine I will be crying, but there will also be a joyful bursting in my chest. I am here.

 

364.5 Days Post Double Mastectomy

A year ago I was getting ready for bed knowing that the next morning was double mastectomy day.

When the surgeon first explained to me my surgical options, “double mastectomy” came out of my mouth before she could finish.

Even though my breasts spent many years being good to me, when I found out that cancer was in one of them, I knew they both needed to go.

And I knew that it would be painful, and strange.  But so many people said, “well, one of the bright sides of breast cancer is getting a set of new, perky boobs!”  And the delusional part of me believed them.

My plastic surgeon did a terrific job.  She was able to save my skin and my nipples.  Many women don’t have that option.  They were able to carve the breast tissue out, and slide an implant in.  But the truth is: these new boobs are not pretty.  There are dents and ripples.  And they always feel cold.  And you could stab them with a steak knife, and I wouldn’t feel it.  My plastic surgeon explained that I have really only had phase one of reconstruction.  Phase two would be filling in the dents and ripples around my implants with fat from my hips.  She could smooth them out and make them pretty with a fairly simple procedure.

BUT one of the side effects of this procedure is that the fat can bead up and form tiny lumps in your breast.  Tiny lumps that you might feel in the shower.  Tiny lumps that might steal your breath, and land you back in waiting rooms.  So I said, “no” to part two.  Because I never wanted to feel a lump on my breast again.

(Although, if you follow my blog, you know that this happened to me recently even without the hip fat!)

So I’ve lived 364.5 days with cold, foreign, dent-y, sensation-less boobs.

And on some days I feel a real sense of loss.

But on most days, I am grateful.  So grateful.  Grateful that my cancer was in a part of my body that could be carved out.  Grateful that they could put me back together.  Grateful that I am not defined by body.

I can’t believe it has been a year.  I so desperately wanted to know that it was going to be okay.  And it is.

 

 

Feeling Fragile

sad pinkI found a small lump in left breast yesterday.  At first I thought I was just being paranoid.  I tried to convince myself it wasn’t true.  How could I have a lump?  But I did.  It felt small and hard, and seemed to be between my skin and the implant.  I kept checking.  Was it real? It was.

And just like that the wind was out of my sails.  And the all too familiar feeling of fear crept its way into me.  I showed Joel.  The color changed in his face.  He spoke with confidence that it would be okay, but we both just stared at each other.  How could we be back here?  We were frozen while life continued to swirl around us.

The boys were getting dressed for school.  Someone needed to make breakfast.  Alex couldn’t find his shoes.  Andy wanted to show me his Lego creation.

But I couldn’t breathe.  I hid in the closet and called the oncologist, the cancer surgeon, the plastic surgeon.  I left crying messages…”I found a lump.  I need you to squeeze me in today, I can’t wait . . . please . . . please.”

I told Joel that I couldn’t go to work, but I continued getting ready.  I didn’t want my boys to see me broken again.  I wiped the tears from my face and kissed them, and straightened their backpacks, and squeezed their hands, and smiled as they loaded up into the car.

And when they were gone I buried myself under blankets and curled into a ball clutching my phone.  Willing the nurses to call back, praying they could get me in, give me answers, make this go away.  And they did.  A scheduled ultrasound in the afternoon.  I tried to talk myself down, but the anxiety was too thick.  It pinned me to the couch and forbid me to eat.

When it was finally time to go, I started to shake.  Joel met me there and took my hand as we made our way to the very place we started this journey.  It felt surreal.  It felt like moving through mud.  The tightness in my throat grew with each step.  After filling out paperwork, they made me leave Joel to change into a pink robe and to wait in another room without him.  There were so many women there in pink robes.  The room buzzed with small talk making my head spin.  It was all too much.  The tears spilled out.  There was nothing I could do to stop them.  I just closed my eyes and let them run down my face.

They called my name and brought be back to the room where I had the original mammogram before my stage 2 diagnosis.  The nurse held my arms and tried to get me to stop crying.  She was kind as she asked me to show her the lump, and then pinched and stretched my skin attempting to get just the right picture.  I heard her sigh, and I tried my best not to read her face.  What did she see?  Was there cancer there . . . again?

She left the room to review the pictures.  I stood there the pink robe hanging down one side.  I was shaking and crying.  She came back in and told me I would need an ultrasound.  More waiting.  Joel was texting me: “are you okay? what is happening? can I be with you? what do you know?”  No. I don’t know. No. Nothing yet.

More waiting.  More time for it all to sink in.  More tears.  Two more radiologists.  Ultrasound machines.  New angles.  Try lying this way.  Try using this gel.  Try turning up the light.  Nothing was working.  They needed more information.  Back to the waiting room.

I rested my head against the wall, and concentrated on the hot tears on my face.  I felt so much.  I felt angry.  So angry.  Angry at the stupid pink robes, and all the waiting, and all the small talk, and all the signs that said HOPE, and all the clip boards, and doctors, and exam rooms.  I looked at the faces of all of the women.  Who would be the next victim to this ugly disease?  If they knew what it was like, they wouldn’t be small talking.  They wouldn’t be using the nice coffee machine, and calmly flipping through magazines.  I had to keep myself from screaming.

They needed another mammogram.  They needed more information before they could give me answers.  This time it took two nurses to pinch my skin, to smash my implant, to ask me to hold my breath.  And then the words that never bring good news: “we are going to get your husband to meet you in an exam room, and the doctor will be in with the results shortly.”

Finally, Joel’s hand in mine.  Color drained from his face.  No words.  He squeezed me as we waited.  I started whispering, “how can this be happening again? Please don’t let this happen again.”  He wanted to comfort me, but he was scared, too.  It’s never good news when you are waiting in an exam room for the doctor.

When he finally came in, the words, “it’s benign,  just a small bead of fat.” didn’t even sink in.  We just stared at him until he said it again.  “Are you sure??” I asked? “Yes.”

Would you believe me if I told you that I could barely feel relieved?  The trauma of the day had left me numb.  The doctor apologized for all of the tests and for all of the waiting, and closed the door behind him.  Joel and I stood there holding each other both crying tears of relief, and tears of sadness.  Even with good news, it all felt like too much.

At some point during my waiting, I snapped this terrible, red-eyed, puffy-faced picture of myself.  I wanted you to see this other side of my journey.  The one that I hate acknowledging, the one that still tries to steal my spark, my sparkle.  Cancer still pokes me with it’s fingers every now and again.  And this is what it looks like.  It is sad, and hard, and it makes you want to look away.  But there are so many women right now who are hooked up to beeping machines dripping with medicine that will anchor them to their couches, that will prevent them from tucking in their kids, or driving to their jobs, or from having a glass of wine with their husbands.  There are so many women who go through this kind of day, but end it with the words, “your cancer is back.”  There are women who know it will kill them.  They know it will steal the opportunity to watch their sons dance at their weddings.

My day ended with benign words.  But it was not a “benign day.”  It was a day that reminded me how close we are all to being broken.

But today.  Today I woke up and left yesterday where it belongs.  Today my brother and I took my dad canoeing to celebrate his 70 years of life.  There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.  We laughed and drank sparkling water, and watched for birds, and admired baby turtles.

And just like that, my sparkle returned.

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