Her Story is My Story (1)

"Baby, it's over."
"What's over, Momma?"

In the past few months I had grown used to getting panicked random phone calls from her. Many not making sense. "Momma, pull over to the nearest crossroad and tell me the address. I'll get you home." "Momma, I need to know your hospital schedule for the week, so I can make sure you have transportation." "Momma, I'm emailing you your dinner delivery schedule. Please make sure you go to your gate at 5:15 to pick up your dinner. Yes, I know that little diner you like. Yes, I remembered to ask for extra ketchup. Please try to eat something, Momma."

"Baby, it's over."
"What's over, Momma?"
"They are dismissing me. There's nothing left to do."
"What does that mean, Momma?"
"It means I'm going to die. I'm done."

Over the last two years we knew she was going to die. Two years prior she was time stamped with a six month expiration date. Two years later she was done. There were no more trials to apply to be a part of, no more experimentals, no more Avastin and esophageal blisters. No more first thing in the morning phone calls holding my breath hoping that she answers so I knew she hadn't died over night.

When she was first diagnosed, I was pregnant with her first grandchild, a grandchild that she wasn't supposed to have given my health issues. For the first trimester of my pregnancy, she was cancer free in theory. We didn't know. We didn't know for what her doctors at MD Anderson think was at least 15 years. To say she was excited to be a grandma was quite the understatement. She was that lady who carried around the ultrasound picture of the chicken nugget blob and showed the grocery store checkout clerk. By the time she was diagnosed in my second trimester with neuro endocrine carcinoid tumors, I was just praying that she lived long enough to meet my child.

They said six months at the most. Clearly her medical team didn't know who they were treating. This lady was frustratingly stubborn and charmingly hard headed. She wanted to meet her grandchild, so she was going to meet her grandchild.  And she did.

Today I Can't Hear Her Laugh

Some people don't like to acknowledge a date of death.  I get it, trust me.  October 29 is a weird day.  My goal this year was to not be sad.  I have a few years under my belt.  But then today, I couldn't hear her laugh when I thought of her.  And I'm trying so very hard.  I can hear her try to read a menu at a Mexican food restaurant using her Yankee accent, even though she had lived in Texas since 1983.  I can even think of her smell and still know what it was like.  But I forgot her laugh.  She had a great laugh, I remember that.  I hope it comes back to me.  Sidney will never know her laugh or have memories to forget, but she really likes to hear stories about my mom.  And, I don't want to forget.

I've started writing them down, so I remember.  Stories and little things- her favorite color of lipstick, the way she could peel an apple in one long strand of peel, the recipes she used.  I want to remember, and I want Sidney to know.

So, my friends, here's where I need your help.  If you knew her, or knew of her, or just made an observation from her picture, could you write it down for me.  Because I don't want to forget.  And, on October 29 I would like to honor her.  xo

damn it.

two in one week.  two friends were taken by cancer within the last week.  two friends completely unrelated in circles to one another died.  from cancer.  in the last week.  damn it.  i will never understand.  i rejoice in the success stories.  in the winners circle.  for the lucky ones.  i am faint to use the word "blessed".  because i don't think my mother or bob or becky were not "blessed".  it is the luck of the draw.  and i don't know how you pull the golden ticket.  i wish with all of my heart that i did.  instead of doling out advice on how to rid the esophageal tract of chemo blisters or recipes to increase white blood cell counts or where to buy the warmest, yet still stylish, millinery for bald cancer heads... i wish i could hand out the lucky numbers for the cancer lottery.  but i don't have them.  and i don't understand.  and it's days like these... two in one week... that i would really like to know why.  tomorrow i will go back to giving cancer advice.  real advice, like what do you do when they can't stop vomiting blood (watch the color carefully). or whom do i call when insurance says they won't pay (i've numbers for you to call).  or my mom is stubborn and won't let me drive her to oncology appointments but she isn't safe to drive (i've got your back on that one too.)  but for now, damn it.  damn it all. 

You've Gotta Have a Villiage

Because here's the thing, y'all. Let me let you in on a little secret: this parenting gig is no joke... And there's no manual. You need a hope, a prayer and a Villiage. My Momma Villiage saves my rear all of the time. They are a group of beautiful faces and even more lovely hearts. They come bathe your kid when you are literally crawling across the floor over piles of (clean, thankfully) laundry because you are clumsy and broke your toes. They drop off a kind note and a mani/pedi gift certificate when the volunteer position you took on becomes a full time job. They send a funny text message that makes you laugh and cry at the same time, because you're knee deep in kid and dog puke and you can't have a drink because it is only 9 am. You need a Villiage. When your kid wakes up with newly discovered sensory issues and won't wear underwear, you need a Villiage. When your kid seems to be having an allergic reaction to a chicken and you can't administer an antihistamine while holding your other goldfish toting baby, you need a Villiage. When it all just becomes too much, you need a Villiage. When no one else wants to hold Merv the Rooster and his five inch claws, you need a Villiage. It's good to sit back and know that we are all in this together. That no matter what, we are a Villiage. xxoo

i miss her.

Sometimes I miss her so much I can taste it. Like every part of me misses her so much that my senses overload and I get dizzy and can taste the ache of wanting her here. I miss her all of the time, but every once in awhile I miss her that much. It's usually in the quiet times, like now, when I'm slumber partying with my tiny girl and I just want her to know how funny and smart and fun and lovely her granddaughter is. Because I know they would've adored each other.  

Once I went and read her charts from MD Anderson, and over and over it was written that the patient was not afraid of dying. That her biggest regret was knowing her grandchild would never know her. So she had to keep trying. Experiment after trial after experiment until there was nothing left to try. I threw the charts away. 

Here's a neat thing about being a grandparent. In a way you get a second chance. She wasn't the perfect parent, but I know she loved me. And I know, even without saying, that she deserved her do over. She would have made an amazing grandmother. 

Right now I can taste it. I miss her so very much. And why do I share something like this? Because it keeps her real. Because I know that there are friends out there who absolutely get it and they need to hear a 'me too'. That most days you are ok, but some days you are not- even after two years. And that's ok too. 

Register for the Fine China

In October, my husband and I will celebrate nine years of marriage. October 29 to be exact. October 29 happens to also be my dad's birthday and the day my mom died. It's a weird, feely, don't really know what to do with it kind of day. 

My mom was a floater, a nomad, an afraid to put down roots kind of gal. I'm pretty sure this is why I am the complete opposite. I crave what some see as mundane. I like having dinner on the table for my family. I like working in the garden on Saturdays. I try to nurture my relationships- many of my friends have been in my life since I was a girl, and I try to love more recently found friends with the same appreciation. I love routine, traditions, roots. 

Ten years ago, when many of my friends were getting married, we started wedding gift registries- toaster, the go to Kitchenaid Mixer, a random cheese board for ALL of the cheeses we so often snack on, fine china and crystal goblets... By the time the blessed day rolled around, the we could totally host High Tea for all of our buddies. Thousands of dollars worth of fine dinner plates, bread plates, saucers and gravy boats. That most of us will probably leave in the boxes or use once a year at Thanksgiving. 

Fast forward to this morning. My 4 year old daughter was watching me dust the china and crystal... And she asked what it was... And I got to tell her stories about mommy and daddy's wedding and stories about the people we love who gifted these things to us. And my heart was full, because in these saucers and goblets are the stories of US. 

One day I will give it all to her, and I hope she feels her roots in them wherever she may be in life. If something were to happen, and it were all gone, no problem. I get it. They are things. But for now, as a girl who wasn't  given many opportunities to plant roots, I'm so very glad I registered for the Fine China. 

It's September 16th...

And our Halloween decor is out. Judge if you must. The girl looked at it and said, "Oh, Mommy! All of these decorations sure make my heart smile!". Mine too. Glitter runs through our veins. My poor husband. 

Oh! And this morning, right after I put the Halloween wreathe on the door? A black cat trotted up to my front porch. He knew. But then Myles almost ate his head off, so I'm pretty sure he won't be back. But he was totally sensing my holiday spirit for about 10 seconds. Sorry, black cat.