Ramble On

I haven't posted here in a while - at least for me, it's a while.  A few weeks feels like an eternity in the blogosphere.

I unplugged (for the most part) since my last post.  It wasn't as hard as I feared it would be. I didn't realize how the constant stream of emails, FB messages, etc. was impacting my mental health.  It all got to be too much.

We went to the Florida Keys as a family - we haven't been away just the four of us on a vacation like that in, well, ever.  I had no idea how I'd do - wallowing in my kids, only peeking at social media periodically like a junkie sneaking a quick fix.  Very quickly, my Internet World felt far away indeed.

I closed my jewelry stores for the summer.  I haven't done that since I opened my first store in 2008.  I knew it was the right decision when I clicked into "vacation mode" with nary a second thought.

I don't really know how to describe how I've been feeling lately. Over my birthday (44 on July 4th) I had what amounts to an emotional and physical collapse. All the stresses of the past months - heck, the past two years - came flooding in. I missed my Dad terribly. I thought a lot about how on earth we got through the past year and a half with his death, my cancer, and all the day-to-day pressures of life.

In part, I realized, I got through it by throwing myself into work. My non-profits - The Bubble Hour, Crying Out Now, Shining Strong -- in addition to my jewelry and Arbonne businesses.  It only took a day or two of stepping away for me to see that I was, indeed, running from and not towards. 

It's baffling, really, because I adore everything I do. As I've written about before, I can't imagine my life without all these things in it.  I didn't stop from the moment I opened my eyes in the morning until I closed them at night.  I spread myself too thin, but I did it willingly. Happily, even.

I don't know yet what will have to give.  I am giving it until the fall to figure it out.  My kids are thriving, and I'm grateful for that.  It's odd to contemplate giving up something that I've worked hard to build.  When I started ANY of the things I do, including this blog, I couldn't ever have imagined the places they would take me, the people they would bring into my lives.  Even my Arbonne business - young though it is - has already brought me SO many gifts.  And some much needed income.

I've decided to let it go - let the Universe direct me where I'm meant to go.  If I don't over think - if I stay out of my own way - I know the answer(s) will appear.

I'm heading to Chicago tomorrow, to the big blogging conference, BlogHer.  It's making me nostalgic; this is my fourth BlogHer, and it seems only yesterday I was heading to New York for my first one.  I remember the dizzying pace of that conference, wanting desperately to be in the middle of all the action.

I could care less about the middle, now, and ironically letting go of needing to be there has swung it around my way. I was chosen as one of twelve Voices of the Year to read a post in the "heart" category at the big community keynote on Friday night, in front of over 3,000 people.

When I saw my first Community Keynote I remember thinking "man, I'd love to be up there someday", but it was for all the wrong reasons, although I didn't realize that at the time.  I just felt so small there among all these well-known bloggers whose words and lives were such a big part of my life.

I hated feeling small.  I was just getting started, chomping at the bit to get the word out there about One Crafty Mother, Crying Out Now and my jewelry.

Now I know you can't force these things.  You can't just dive into the spotlight, or charm your way there.  

But now that the spotlight is swinging my way, I'm ambivalent.  This is not to say I'm not grateful - because I am very honored and humbled to have been chosen.  I think I'm ambivalent because I no longer crave the center of attention.  I think this is growth, but it's tinged with a feeling of undeservedness (now I'm making up words).  This isn't compliment fishing, or false modesty.

I think I simply feel kind of done.  Maybe reading at the Voices of the Year will be my going-out party.  I don't know yet.  We'll see.

If you're going to BlogHer, especially if this is your first time, be sure to come to the Serenity Suite, hosted by my good friends Heather and Maggie.  Read Heather's post HERE for a list of who is hosting.  The Suite locations are Sheraton-1287 and McCormick-921A (one in both locations as this conference is in two locales).  I will be hosting there as much as I can.

Every year someone - or more than one person - comes in feeling small, alone and questioning why the heck they are there.  Nobody is small in the Serenity Suite.  My favorite memories from last year's conference happened there.  So please, come on by and say hi. 

 I will leave you with a picture of a dolphin kissing me, because I can't think of any more words.

Roots

We're limping over the finish line - school finally ends today.  Greta is no longer in elementary school - this fall she heads to middle school.  Finn is reading chapter books and eager to start second grade. 

They are growing up.

I usually feel ambivalent about the last day of school - carrying a nervous pit in my stomach about how on earth I'm going to keep up my hectic work schedule with them home full time.

Not this year.

I'm tired.  I have so many exciting things happening with my non-profit, with my jewelry businesses, with my Arbonne business.  But I'm stretched too thin, and everything is suffering. 

The things I usually do to tend to the soil beneath my own feet - yoga, exercise, meetings, cancer group - have taken a back seat to my schedule.  We all know if you don't care for the roots of a plant it starts to wilt, and my flower is wilting.

I can't imagine giving up any of the things I'm doing - I love them all, and they all fulfill important needs for me financially and spiritually.  But I can't keep this up.

I have decided to put my Etsy shop - Shining Stones - in hiatus for the summer.  If you are still waiting on an order, no worries, I'll get it to you.  But once I have cleared my decks there I'm putting it in vacation mode for two months.  I have to, and I even kind of want to.

I'll keep Two Little Birds Studio open, with the caveat that it may take a couple of weeks to complete any orders. 

I need a break.

Really exciting things are happening for Shining Strong - we're partnering with a world-class addiction rehabilitation center here in the Northesast.  Gosnold on Cape Cod, where I got sober as did two of my very best friends and countless others that mean so much to me. If you go to their website (follow the link) and scroll down you'll see Shining Strong is listed as a partner.   We have big ideas, big plans, to bring the stigma of addiction out into the light and help people know they aren't alone.

I want to focus on that.

My Arbonne business is growing by leaps and bounds - I'm building a team of incredible women who are changing their lives by building their own Arbonne businesses, and it's exciting. I want to be there to help them, too.

I need to be able to exercise, go to yoga, go to recovery and cancer support group meetings.  Those things fill my soul, make it possible for me to make it through the tougher times.

And things haven't been all that easy this month.  I miss my Dad so very much.  June 11th was the anniversary of his death, two years now, and as these exciting things happen I find myself thinking "oh, I can't wait to tell Dad!" only to have the heart stopping realization that he isn't here to tell.  I still have a lot of processing to do.

My anxiety is back.  Not constantly, but enough that it's sapping my energy.  I know it is because I'm not tending to my roots. 

I want to throw myself into this summer without feeling pulled in ten different directions - physically here but mentally absent.  My kids deserve that.  I deserve that.

We have trips planned for most of July - visits to see family, a trip to the Florida Keys, and then I'm going to Chicago for the blogging conference BlogHer.   I want to be present for these things.  I am beginning to understand the affliction of workaholism.   I know my scales are not balanced. 

I will take the summer to regroup, re-prioritize.  I have to.  

It's hard, though, when all the dreams you've had start to gain momentum at the same time.  I don't mean "poor me" hard, I just wish I could space it out more, so I didn't have to pick and choose.

It's only been a year since my last major surgery - the neck dissection that removed 23 lymph nodes and hopefully the last of my cancer.  

I think I'm overdosing on feeling good.  I'm SUCH an addict.  If a little is good, more is better, right?

Wrong.

Back to basics for me: family, self-care, longer stretches of time (heck, ANY stretches of time) where nothing is planned.  Lazy summer days burying my toes in the sand with nothing on my mind but what to read next.

I hope.

I hope I can do this.  If I struggle with a more balanced pace, I know I will have to do some serious re-evaluating of whether I'm running towards, or running from. 

I'm calling myself out, here, for those days when I'd rather manically check emails than go to the beach with my kids.  For the times I drag my laptop with me on vacation and spend more than a few minutes checking in.  For when I am in the middle of a perfectly good summer day and my mind is anywhere but in the present moment.

I want to be in the present moment.  I am concerned I may have forgotten how.

We will do The Bubble Hour podcast every other week during the summer, so my co-hosts and I can have some breathing room.  We don't want the quality of the shows to suffer simply because we feel the world will stop revolving if we aren't live on the air every week.  Of course it won't. In between live shows we will air re-broadcasts of some of our most popular or helpful shows.

I hope you are enjoying a peaceful summer - even if you work full time, I hope you're able to find that breathing space, and time to tend to your roots. 

-Ellie

Pinwheel

My Dad had a trailer.

Not just any trailer. The bottom half of an old Jeep.

I can't remember my childhood without the presence of this trailer, which he lovingly (and constantly) restored.  He painted it a cheery red, built custom wooden sides and a removable back. 

Growing up, it feels like just about every fall and spring weekend I'd be bouncing around in the back of the trailer as we bumped through the land surrounding our house doing yard work, a wild grin on my face.  Riding in the red trailer was a treat.

It came with us camping, fishing, canoeing.  It was packed with kids or bikes or beach gear, pulled behind a never-ending series of Jeeps. 

Two years ago  my Dad died suddenly from an infection.  He had had his spleen removed seven years earlier because of cancer, but had been in remission and otherwise healthy since the surgery.  On June 11, 2011 he woke up feverish, and was in the hospital just a couple of hours later fighting a losing battle with sepsis, because he no longer had his spleen.  It all happened so fast.  One night he was healthy, happy and very much alive.  By the end of the next day he was gone.

I'm still struggling to wrap my head around his physical absence in our lives.  I think I always will.

His spirit is everywhere, though. 

Very early this morning I cradled a cup of steaming coffee in my hands as I watched my husband putter in our driveway with the red trailer; it now resides with us. I don't say it's ours, because it doesn't feel like ours. It feels like we're simply the next caretakers, my husband pouring as many hours as my Dad did into it, polishing the tires, patching up rust, painting faded spots. 

We were heading to the PMC Kids Ride for Cancer.  Greta and Finn sponsored a team that raised over $1,000 for Dana Farber's Jimmy Fund.  The sun was just peeking over the treetops, sending sparkling rays through the dissipating early morning mist. 

I could practically see my Dad standing there, baseball cap planted firmly on his head, fanny pack full of all the gear we'd need for the ride strapped around his waist (first aid kit, map, band-aids, bug spray, mole skin, sunscreen) and nodding with approval as Steve strapped down the bikes and the kids piled in the car.

We arrived at the beautiful park where the ride was held, jostled into helmets, filled water bottles, and secured our riding tags.

The kids were bubbly, excited, chattering a mile a minute.  The day was spectacular - after a couple days of torrential downpours and steaming hot weather, the day was clear, warm and sunny.  Everyone was smiling, happy to be outside on a gorgeous day raising money and awareness for such a worthy cause.

Finn looked heavenward, sporting his Dartmouth tee shirt (my Dad's - and my - Alma Mater) and mohawk helmet with pride:

We named their team "Team Going Strong" in memory of my father (my maiden name is Strong) and in honor of my remission.   A team shot pre-race:

Team Going Strong

They lined up in their designated groups - the boys riding the one mile "Crusader" loop, and the girls riding the 4 mile "Challenger" loop:

One by one, they pushed off, each wearing a huge grin. 

Cancer makes families feel so powerless, but today?  Today was all about hope.  And empowerment.  These kids knew they were making a difference, and it showed in their faces.

Afterward they played games for little plastic prizes, ate free ice cream, bounced in the jumpy house - a celebration full of chocolatey smiles, painted faces and laughter.

A good day.  A great day.

As the kids played, I quietly slipped away to the pinwheel garden.  Riders could make pinwheels honoring people - surviving and not - who had fought cancer.  The bright pedals spun in the sunshine. 

With a silent prayer, I added my Dad's pinwheel to the garden.   The kids called him PopPop, after the funny sound he made with his mouth that made them laugh:

There was also a pedal for me, currently - and oh so gratefully - in remission from cancer.

My Dad gave tirelessly to all the communities he served: charities, schools, towns and churches.  He dedicated much of his time to helping make this world a better place for all people, especially those less fortunate than he was.

This is his strongest legacy to us all - this message of hope and giving of ourselves.  Today, his spirit lives on in my family - my children - as we celebrated life and honored those who have come before.

I miss you, Dad.  Every day. You are so very loved.

Shining Strong - Working Towards My Dream

Of course it is probably premature to talk about this.

Of course I'm going to anyway.

My father (who died suddenly in June of 2011) brought me up to always try to give back to any community I serve, as he did for those he served (and they were plentiful).

I've written about my creative explosion, the coming together of several creative projects that I realized recently will always share a common goal, whether it is a website (like Crying Out Now) or an internet talk show/podcast (like the Bubble Hour) or even One Crafty Mother, or an income producing businesses like Shining Stones, the soon-to-be launched Two Little Birds Studio, and my book Let Me Get This Straight.

The mission of all these endeavors is to provide support, community, resources and comfort to women struggling with addiction or alcoholism, or simply looking for a safe place to explore their drinking, or to provide income to support these endeavors.

So I created a new website/organization with the goal of creating a not-for-profit that will be the umbrella organizations to all the endeavors.

I did a lot of soul searching when I was laid up with cancer; I had a lot of time to think.  As I've written about recently, it gave me this overpowering feeling to do something with my life, and not to aggressively wait for it to come to me, to take action, do my best and be ready for ANY outcome.

I can only do the next right thing, get advice from loved ones and professionals (which I'm doing) and hope that this dream will become a reality. I know it may not work, and I know it's a heart-dream because I'm okay with trying and failing with this project WAY more than I'm okay with not trying at all.

I've been afraid to start plenty of new ventures for fear of failing, but not this one.

There will be way more to come about Shining Strong, and it will take months to get all the pieces in place.  But I can get the footprint out there on the internet, get the infrastructure in place so if and when it becomes and official non-profit I am ready to go.

I'd be honored if you'd check out the brand spanking new website here, (be kind, grammarians, spell-checkers and designers .. it is in its infancy and is only barely ready for viewing).

I also created a new facebook page, and if you'd come "like" it, it would make me really happy.  :)  If you're up to it, it would be awesome if you'd follow the brand-new Twitter Page, too.  It's very lonely there at the moment.

I dedicate all of this in honor of the legacy of my father, who instilled in me - with my mother right beside him, doing the same, only I'm lucky enough that she is still here, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with me and cheering me on - the importance of giving back, especially when someone has given freely of themselves to you, like the women (and men) in my recovery community do for me every day.

I love you, Dad.  I hope you're up there smiling.

The Ghosts We Knew ~ Absorbing Tragedy and Finding Gratitude

I'm not talking about it much. I don't even think I'm actively thinking about it much, but I know I'm more profoundly effected by last Friday's CT tragedy than I'm even letting myself understand.

I sat down to do a holiday post - some funny anecdotes, cute things the kids have said, how Finn still fervently believes and I think Greta knows-but-doesn't-want-to-know.

I couldn't write a word. My head was full of all those people facing this season without their kids.

And I felt scared right down to my bones.

I'm personalizing it a little bit, I can't help it.  Losing my Dad last year brings up all sorts of stuff when sudden deaths hit (not to say this is the same - it isn't - but it's one of the "cage rattling" experiences where you realize life turns on a dime).

This time last year I had just started chemo and radiation and I have so much to be grateful for. SO MUCH.

But still, those families in CT won't leave my mind. I'm praying a lot; even when I don't even realize it.

So I didn't set out to do a "sad" post about loss. It just came.  Anyone who has ever lost a loved one knows what I mean about holidays being a little harder. I start imagining the parents of those children and my brain kind of shuts down - SLAM - and then on some odd level I feel unworthy of happiness. Even though I know that's selfish fear talking, I can't help it.

I'm holding my kids extra tight, praying extra hard, wishing I could have assurances that none of us are ever granted.

So tonight I leave you with this song my Mumford & Sons (please listen - it's gorgeous - but you may want a tissue handy) called "The Ghosts We Knew".  Here are the lyrics, and then down below is a widget where you can listen to them as you read.  Send some prayers to those suffering this year. Wallow in all you have, and hug your loved ones tight.

The Ghosts We Knew, by Mumford & Sons:

You saw my pain, washed out in the rain
Broken glass, saw the blood run from my veins
But you saw no fault no cracks in my heart
And you knelt beside my hope torn apart
But the ghosts that we knew will flicker from view
And we'll live a long life
So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light
Cause oh they gave me such a fright
But I will hold as long as you like
Just promise me we'll be alright

So lead me back
Turn south from that place
And close my eyes to my recent disgrace
Cause you know my call
And we'll share my all
And our children come, they will hear me roar
So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light
Cause oh they gave me such a fright
But I will hold as long as you like
Just promise me that we'll be alright

But hold me still bury my heart on the cold
And hold me still bury my heart next to yours

So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light
Cause oh they gave me such a fright
And I will hold on with all of my might
Just promise me that we'll be alright

But the ghosts that we knew will flicker from view
And we'll live a long life

On Shavasana, Stones, Memories and Giving Thanks

I go to an awesome yoga class at the Cancer Support Community near my house.  Due to factors outside my control (Greta's tonsils, a hurricane and my own bronchitis) I hadn't been in a month.

I practically sprinted to class.

At the end of class, we prepared for Shavasana (where you get as comfortable as you can, listen to calming music and meditate).  Gail, our teacher, passed out little flat stones we placed in between our eyes or on our heart, dimmed the lights, and turned on some classical music.

Immediately, my heart jumped into my throat; Pachelbel's Canon in D floated through the room, and I was transported back to my wedding day. My Dad walked me down the aisle to this song.

As I listened to the music, every sense felt electrified.  I could smell my Dad's scent: an Old Spice, manly-yet-fatherly smell. I felt the muscles flexing in the crook of his arm, as I held on for dear life (I was so nervous/excited my knees were shaking).  I tasted a small salty tear on his cheek, even though he was smiling from ear to ear, as I planted a light kiss on his cheek and he placed my hand in Steve's.

Tears started rolling gently down my cheeks; I was grateful for the darkened room.  I miss my Dad so much, and as the holidays approach he's on my mind even more.  Thanksgiving in particular, I think, because I miss his steadfast presence at the head of the table, his strong back carving the turkey with antique utensils used by his own father.  Last year at Thanksgiving we were reeling from my cancer diagnosis, and to be honest I barely remember any of it.  I know I was grieving, but I was also terrified and absorbed in my imminent treatment, so the grief was numbed by fear.

This year, the grief feels loud and pointy.

I lay on my comfy mat, with the cool stone pressing its comforting weight between my eyes, and I cried for a minute or two.  Then I prayed. Instead of indulging too much in my grief, I honored him as best I could.  The tears dried up, and I found myself with a tiny smile at the corners of my mouth as Gail turned the lights back up, slowly, and brought us to a sitting position for a reading.

I was blown away by what she read, and after a year of hardship and blessings, it seemed like she was reading it just to me.  It's called, simply, "Be Thankful", and the author is unknown:

Be thankful that you don't already have everything you desire. 

If you did, what would there be to look forward to?

Be thankful when you don't know something, 

for it gives you the opportunity to learn.

Be thankful for your limitations,

because they give you opportunities for improvement.

Be thankful for the difficult times.

During those times you grow.

Be thankful for each new challenge, 

because it will build your strength and character.

Be thankful for your mistakes.

They will teach you valuable lessons.

Be thankful when you're tired and weary,

because it means you've made a difference.

It's easy to be thankful for the good things. 

A life of rich fulfillment comes to those who

are also thankful for the setbacks.

Gratitude can turn a negative into a positive.

Find a way to be thankful for your troubles, 

and they can become your blessings.

I was holding the stone in my hand, feeling how it had warmed from my body heat, when Gail mentioned there is a word on each stone.  

My word made me smile, given that tomorrow is Thanksgiving.  My stone said:  INDULGE.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.  May your life be filled with the richness of gratitude and love.

-Ellie

Spiky Shadow

Some days I wake up with a hole in the middle of me; my brain a tangled, jangled mess of thoughts and nerves.

 Image found here

Usually it passes after a while, but it dogged me today like a spiky shadow, a hollow feeling topped with edginess, like a scooped out cake frosted with thumbtacks.

My head was pounding; it felt like I was hungover.  Ironically, feeling hungover is a trigger for me, because my former hangover cure was a drink, of course.

The day is spectacularly gorgeous; clear blue sky and fluffy white clouds. Apple cheeked kids playing in soccer games, parents cheering on the sidelines. Finn played in his very first soccer game today, and while I cheered along side everyone else, I could feel that itchiness crawling across my scalp.

They told me this may happen, I thought, as I tried to pinpoint what was wrong. The chemo has kicked me into a chemically induced menopause, or pre-menopause, or something.

I know, though, that it is something deeper, something darker. I don't want to deal with deep and dark, so  I take a nap and wake up feeling edgier and itchier than before.

At 6pm the kids start whining for supper.  I shoot Steve a helpless look. He raises his eyebrows at me and suggests I take a walk while he feeds the kids.   He can feel it, the edgy darkness, and he knows I'm struggling.

I don't feel like a walk; the sun is starting to set and I'm coming up with excuses in my head like contracting the EEE virus or being abducted by weirdos in a carpeted van, even as I'm pulling on my running sneakers and strapping on my iPod Nano.

I eschew my usual workout play list "Run, Ellie, Run" for something more soulful.  This isn't a power walk; this is a 'shake the cobwebs' walk.  So I click over to the play list "Keep Coming Back", crank up the volume and head out the door.

As I round the first corner, into a wooded area, I'm hit with the scents of changing seasons: citronella, freshly mowed grass, wood smoke and the faintest tinge of decaying leaves.  The air has a bite to it that wasn't there a week ago. The sun is sinking low on the horizon, although it isn't yet 7pm.

I close my eyes and inhale deeply, and I'm instantly transported back to my childhood. For me those smells carry the promise of new beginnings: the clank of my locker slamming shut, the sound of leaves crunching underfoot, the smell of a new pencil eraser.

Sometimes I have a hard time identifying emotions, especially tough ones like anger, sadness or regret.  But the scents in the air hit me like a brick wall and I know what it is, this dark thing that has been crawling around inside my head all day:  I miss my Dad.

It is a gorgeous fall day, and all these new beginnings are happening and he isn't here.

My iPod plays the opening bars to "Windows are Rolled Down", by Amos Lee, and I have to stop, sit down for a moment and breathe deeply to keep from crying. He wrote this song about the loss of a close friend.

Look up child, 
The world is born.
Shoe's untied,
And your soles are worn.

I'm sitting in a cemetery, of all places. I always cut through the cemetery on my walk, usually so absorbed in the infectious beat of Flo Rida that I don't give mortality a second thought.

I think about how I walked through this same cemetery with my Dad, two weeks before he died.  We strolled passed the ancient graves, quietly, each thinking our own respectful thoughts of the deceased.

Window are rolled down,
Sun is setting high.
Window are rolled down, 
I'm fixing to die.

I shake my head clear of these maudlin thoughts, and think of his beaming smile, of the bandanna he tied around his neck for his frequent power walks, of the walking stick he used to truck up steep hills and trails.

It brings a smile to my face, and I walk on.

Is it what you'd dreamed it'd be?
Are you locked up in this fantasy?
Oh, these miles that have torn us apart,
My new found faith, and my broken heart.

I pass a gaggle of pre-teen girls, practicing back bends in their front yard, their lithe bodies stretch impossibly.  A group of young boys ride by on their bikes, casting furtive looks their way.  The girls pretend not to see, but their giggles betray them.

As I head into the final stretch of my walk, to the opening bars of Phillip Phillips' "Home", I feel lighter, freer. The sun has all but set, and the warm yellow lights glowing from the windows of my house soften my heart, clear the final strands of cobwebs from my jangling brain.

Home.

The Unchecked Box

When I was about 10 years old, I read a book by Lois Lowry, called A Summer To Die.

In the book the protagonist describes her 10 year old sister's battle with cancer.  Leukemia, I think.  I remember gripping the sides of the book in fear, wanting badly to put it down, look away, but unable to force myself to do it.  I had to know - does she die?

She died.

And my life-long fear of cancer was born.  When I was twelve I had some stomach pains and spent a week barely functioning, convinced I had stomach cancer.

Even as I grew into adulthood, cancer terrified me. If I saw someone bald, someone clearly sick, I had to look away. I never read about cancer stories; I did everything in my power to avoid thinking about it.

My friends would tease me, because every little ache and pain I had was - in my mind - a symptom of cancer. It became kind of a running joke: oh, there goes Ellie, she has cancer again.

Even when my father was diagnosed with Lymphoma (which was a 'watch and wait' kind of cancer and a splenectomy successfully put him into full remission for seven years - he never had to have chemo or radiation) I didn't really think of him as a cancer patient.  Maybe because he didn't look sick - ever. He never lost his hair. He didn't lose weight.  When his spleen got enlarged they removed it and that, we all thought, was that.  His sudden death last June (because he didn't have a spleen to fight back an infection, which led to sepsis) still didn't feel like a cancer death.  Or, perhaps, I was too scared to think of it that way.

Then, last November, it happened.  My lifelong fear: I got cancer.

I expected to fold up like a lawn chair, give into the fear.  That didn't happen.

Instead, during the fight, during treatment (as awful as it was - and it was awful) I wasn't scared. I'm good in a fight. I'm scrappy, and I follow instructions well.  I knew I had a world-class team of physicians, and they were optimistic, so I was optimistic, too.  It was all about getting through the grueling treatment.  Finishing chemo and radiation was the total focus of my world.  Even in the pain, I felt full of gratitude, and grace, and my priorities were instantly aligned for me. I appreciated the small things that usually went overlooked.  This is the gift of cancer.

It wasn't until I was given the "all clear" that I folded up like a lawn chair.

I spent two days crying, almost non-stop. I couldn't function, sleep or eat, I was so paralyzed with fear.  That was four months ago.

The past four months have been their own journey - different from treatment, but scary all the same.  I realized that all of my attention had been focused on the fight. I wasn't thinking about after the fight - I just wanted to get there.  In my mind, if treatment was successful, I'd get to check off the cancer box: did that. DONE.

What I learned is that the end of treatment is the beginning of another journey into my new normal.  I learned I don't ever get to check off the cancer box.  Just like recovery from alcoholism -  I don't ever get to check off that box, either.

The fear that came after treatment was my denial - my fighting the truth of my new normal with every cell in my body.  I didn't want it to be true - a lifetime of wondering if it will come back.

When I stopped struggling against that truth and reached out for help, the fear got better. I joined a cancer support group.  I started therapy with someone who specializes in cancer patients.  And I'm writing about it, here.

Through talking about it with other patients and survivors, I learned that trying to get rid of the fear is impossible. I need to find a way to accept it, lean into it, even.  The more I push it away, the bigger it gets.

I have my first set of scans next week. A whole day of doctor's appointments, check-ups.  I admit that I'm scared, but I'm learning to embrace the fear as normal. I am only human; of course I'm scared sometimes. I'm a cancer survivor.

It's like when I crave a drink. Of course I crave a drink sometimes.  I'm an alcoholic.

Trying to be stoic about it, or a super-hero, gets me nowhere.  I'm told by others that have walked the path before me that I'll get used to my new normal as time goes by.  The appointments will be less scary.  I trust that this is true, because I see the grace and strength in them, and it's something I want for myself.

Just like with early recovery from alcoholism; I trusted the brave women who had walked the path before me. They told me it would get better, and even though it felt like it never, ever would - it did.  I believed because they believed.

I will believe the graceful, brave, amazing cancer patients and survivors - that it will get easier - until I can believe it myself, and I'm getting there.

Day by day.

Dad - One Year Later

Yesterday was a hard day.  Today is too.

A year ago my father died unexpectedly of a blood infection, related to having his spleen removed years before when he successfully beat Lymphoma.  If you are new to this site and you want to read about that day (I can't bring myself to write about it again) click here.  

Instead, I want to write about a conversation I had with my six year old son last night.

I tried not to let them see me cry during the day. I kept unexpectedly breaking out into tears. I'm pretty sure they saw me anyway at times.   We were at the beach; it was a sparkling blue day, and his spirit was everywhere.  This is the same beach I grew up on with him, searching for minnows to use as bait, fishing for flounder out of his trusty aluminum boat, which is now our boat.

I did my best to think about his spirit; his aliveness.  The one year anniversary of his sudden passing is full of little knee dropping moments of something close to horror.  The things I saw that day, the memories I wish I could wipe from the screen.

By 6pm I had had it, though.  I wasn't feeling well, my throat still hurts a lot, I couldn't eat much all day, and I collapsed into my bed in a ball of self-pity and tears.  And missing Dad. Missing him SO MUCH.

I didn't hear the bare feet pad into the room, or sense someone climb into bed next to me; that's how hard I was crying. Only when Finn started to rub my back did I realize someone was there.  I thought it was Steve, so I didn't curb my crying. Then, a couple minutes later I hear his little sing-song voice say, "It's okay, Momma," and I rolled over to see his deep brown eyes staring into mine; my own eyes in this little-boy face looking back at me.  

"Do you miss PopPop?" he asked.

"Yes, Bud.  I do. I miss him a lot."  And, because I couldn't help myself, and I know he's only six and this is unfair but I was so desperate for love and attention I said it anyway:  "It's been a long, hard year, and I'm feeling sad about having to go through all of it without my Dad."

He nodded sagely, his wisdom belied only by the careworn paw print blanket thrown cavalierly over his shoulder.

"Maybe now that da cancer is over, at least for now, it will help," he stated.  Not a question, a statement of fact.

I nodded, rubbing my face with a Kleenex and trying to pull myself together.

"But, PopPop is in heaven, right?  So that's not sad." 

All I could do is nod.

He was quiet for a bit, his head on my shoulder, still rubbing my arm, when he said, "when I go to heaven I'm going to shut my eyes, because I'm afraid of heights."  Another pause.  "But not that it will really matter, though, because it will just be my spirit, right?"

I nodded again.

More silence, and then this bombshell, said in the quietest of quiet voices:  "How do we know heaven is real?  What if it's just dark?"

I sat up, and in my most authoritative voice said, while stroking his hair, "Buddy, we know heaven is real because heaven is love.  Think of all the people that loved PopPop, right?"   

He nodded, listening intently, his blanket now crammed in his mouth for comfort.

"Heaven is being surrounded by all that love. All the people who came before you, and all the people still here on earth who love you.  It's beautiful.  It has to be, because it's LOVE."

He thought for a moment, and said, "And God is dere, right?" 

"Yes," I said. "God is there, and he is love, too."

He nodded again, thinking it through.  "Does God let you down for visits, do you think?  I'm the last in the family, so I'll probably be the last to die, and it will be lonely here without all of you."

"Oh, Finn," I said, pulling him in tight, "by then you'll be a Dad and have a family of your own.  It goes on and on and that's what makes it so beautiful.  There is no end."

He smiled.  "But I still hope dere are visits.  Maybe we don't even know about them.  Maybe he sneaks down in the form of a bird or a butterfly and just watches." 

"Yes," I said, "that would be nice. And sometimes I feel his spirit really strongly, so I know he's here, cheering us on.  It's just hard because I'd rather have him - his body, his person, here.  But you can talk to PopPop whenever you want to.  Just close your eyes, and picture his face and say hello.  I bet he can hear you.  I bet he can."

And with that he scrunched up his eyes and fell back on the pillow, silent, talking to my Dad.

I miss you, Dad, with all my heart.  You are in our hearts and minds all the time.   We love you.

Dad and me, circa 1975.

A Letter To My Father

I lost my Dad suddenly on June 11, 2011 due to complications from an infection.  As we approach the one year anniversary of his death, I find myself wishing, desperately, that I could talk to him.  I keep thinking:  a year ago today, he was alive and we were doing such-and-such.  I can't talk to him, but he is constantly on my mind. So I decided to write him a letter.  (And just so this post makes sense, my maiden name is Strong).

~~~

Hi, Dad.

I don't know that you can read blogs from heaven.  If I had my way, you could.

I miss you.  I took a walk yesterday - it was a stunning, clear blue-sky day -  and I passed through the cemetery in our town.  It made me think of another clear blue-sky day almost a year ago, when we walked through this same cemetery together, after the Memorial Day parade, pensive, reading gravestones.

Who would have thought that less than two weeks later you'd be gone?

We've had quite a year.

I'd like to believe that you know, somehow, what is going on in our lives.  Did you know I had cancer?  I think maybe you did, because I felt your presence. A lot.

Remember our family motto?  I think we stole it from the Kennedys, but that's no matter:   When the going gets tough, the tough get going? 

Well, Dad, we got going.  We did it. Together, we made it through. You would be so proud of Mom.  She was a graceful, gentle warrior, constantly by my side.  She was so strong.   We all were.  We got that from you.

I would think of you a lot when I had chemotherapy.  Hours just sitting, looking out the window at the view of Boston. I thought about how you beat cancer.  It gave me strength.

We're Strongs.  Damn straight.

Now we're on the other side of cancer, and life feels bright, shiny - almost surreal.   The other day Greta was talking to me earnestly about something, but I couldn't hear a word she said.  I couldn't take my eyes off the realness of her, how present she was, how beautiful.  I felt such a strong tug in my heart I almost cried.

That happens a lot these days.

Did you feel this way? When they gave you the "all clear"?   I wish I had asked you.  I wish I had asked you so much more about your own cancer journey.  I had no way of knowing I would be facing my own trial, in the not-so-distant future.

Sometimes, I find it hard to trust the diagnosis. Are they SURE?   Did that happen to you?

Mostly, though, I feel a gratitude so profound it almost hurts. It almost hurts to look at my life, at how blessed I am with my strong, healthy family, a roof over our heads and unbelievable friends.  How did we get so lucky?

I want to wrap my arms around everyone, pull them close, keep them safe and warm.

Finn crawled in my lap the other day, for no particular reason, and murmured:  I love you, Momma, you're so warm. 


I squeezed him tight, inhaled his salty boy-scent and told him I loved him, too.  Those words seem way too small for the love I feel, though.

I guess that's the gift surviving cancer gives you, if you let it.  The gift of lucky. The gift of blessed.  The gift of gratitude.  The gift of present.


I don't think too much about the future these days.  Partly, because I'm still a little scared.  I'm reeling from the one-two punch of losing you, then getting cancer.  It's hard to trust the quiet, but I'm trying.   I feel moments, now.  Individual moments that pass in the blink of an eye, but feel like they last so much longer to me.  Because I can taste them.  I can feel them.

It's so much easier this way.  Moment to moment. The bigger picture is just too much, you know?  And we have so little control over it.  For me, fear lives there, in the bigger picture.  So I'm staying here, in the moment, where it feels safe.

I love you.

-Ellie

P.S. - I keep listening to this song, because it sums up how I'm feeling better than I can.  Check it out, you'll like it: 

How I Am Doing

For the first time, possibly ever, I am struggling to write, to care enough to type out a few words about how I'm doing. Or perhaps more accurately - how I'm not doing.

I'm recovering from the surgery just fine.  The doctor removed what was left of the lump and the surrounding lymph nodes.

I'm waiting to hear back about the results:  was it just "rubble"?  Was there active cancer contained in the rubble that was successfully removed? Or do I still have cancer?

I'm sorry to report that I'm not handling this waiting very well.   I've had it.  I'm tired, sore and my soul is weary.  I pray all the time but it feels like I'm going through the motions.  I sleep and read a lot, because when I'm awake or aware I'm so clenched with worry I can barely function.

I wasn't going to post until I had the results, but I've gotten so many "are you okay?" messages that I knew I had to at least check in.

So I'm okay, but I'm not.

I think I'm going to have to get used to living this way.

I don't know what happens if I still have cancer. My doctors, smartly, refused to talk to me about it in detail.  Getting my mind to stop awfulizing is next to impossible.  This is my trial, I guess, the thing that I must go through so I can learn how to live with more faith, with more hope.   Even if I make it through this one, there will be many, many more tests, many more waiting periods in my future.

I wish I had rosier words for all of you.  I wish I was handling it with poise and grace all the time, instead of retreating to my bed with my book and a fair amount of tears.   I'm finding that I really, really miss my Dad, too.   He had seven years of tests and waiting for results, and I could really use his strong arms around me, and his wise words to guide me.

But that's not the reality.

So I stretch and grow and cry and learn and breathe and try to keep it in the moment.

Tightrope

The kids run ahead of me, clattering up the walkway to my Mom's house.  I trail behind, laden with bags of presents, an ache in the middle of me.

"Happy Birthday, Greta!" my Mom chirps from the doorway, bending down for hugs.

This moment is always hard.

I can see him there, in my mind's eye, standing behind my Mom and grinning his big, proud grin.  

"Hey there, kid" my Dad would say, and give me a wink as he wrapped me in his strong embrace. 

But, of course, he isn't there. 

The absence of him seems impossible, because in my mind and heart he's everywhere.

My Mom and I exchange a hug and a smile; behind the real joy in her eyes I see the sadness, and a silent acknowledgment - I wish he was here, too - passes between us.

Finn scampers away, digging around for toys and snacks.  On the table in the living room is a colorful pile of presents, and Greta flashes me a big grin. 

As my Mom and the kids chatter - how is school, what's your favorite subject, do you like riding the bus - I breathe deep, let the emotions come.   

I picture him standing in the kitchen, "El, can I get you a cuppa?" he'd say, bringing out mugs for coffee.  Then he'd give the kids a mischievous glance and make that funny sound with his mouth, the one that makes them collapse into giggles.

I need this private indulgence, this ghost landscape of what would have been.   I carry memories in my heart, take them out and roll them through my mind like glittering treasure, and through the ache they comfort me.

We move through the day, go through all the usual motions, balancing the profound feeling of loss with happiness, like tightrope walkers.  We're figuring it out as we go along, eyes locked straight ahead, because if we look down we could lose ourselves to the sadness.

As Greta rips into her gifts, Finn slips silently into my lap and leans his head on my shoulder.  I stroke his spiky hair, and place a little kiss on the top of his head.

After a moment, he buries his head into my chest and whispers, "Momma?  I miss PopPop."

"Me too, buddy.  Me too."

~~~~~

This post is part of Heather of the Extraordinary Ordinary's link-up, Just Write, where we free write about our ordinary and extraordinary moments. Learn more about it here, and then click here to join in.

Where I've Been, And Where I'm Going To Be

I can't believe I have only posted four times in July - less than half as often as I usually post.

It's not that I don't have a lot going on, or that there is nothing to say.  It's more like I'm taking an existential pause, keeping things as simple as I can, taking each day carefully and cautiously.

My Dad died six weeks ago.  It feels like a long time ago and the blink of an eye at the same time.

I'm still grieving, of course, but with each passing day my grief shifts, evolves.   Little by little I'm accepting that he is gone.  The sudden nature of his death makes it hard for my brain to process that he isn't here anymore.  It's not denial, exactly, because I know he is gone.  It's just that my brain can't handle keeping that information in the forefront of my brain for very long.   It is as if my brain thinks he is simply away somewhere, and that someday soon this business of him being gone will be over.  Every now and then it hits me - the full force of my grief - and I have to breathe deep, cry a little, or call a friend to talk about how I feel.

It is as if my brain is feeding me grief bits at a time - smaller, more manageable bites that I can process little by little.

I think this is healthy.  I think it's normal.  But I have never been through this before.  I'm just taking it as it comes, feeling my feelings, sitting in the discomfort and pain, and absorbing the moments of gratitude and peace as best I can.

One of the things I am most grateful for right now is the gift of creativity.   I spend hours making jewelry - elaborate beaded patterns that transfix my mind, my spirit, and usher me away from sad, from grief.  

Here are some of my favorites (click on the links below to view in my Etsy shop):

 

Shimmering Silver Squares Bracelet

Turquoise Dream Bracelet

Lovely Lavender Faux Sea Glass Bracelet

I made a bracelet to remind me to keep it in the day, that each morning is a chance to start over, that no matter how bad I feel in any given moment, that it will pass.  I wear it to remind me to keep it in the day, carry gratitude in my heart and not lose myself to fear:



Just For Today Bracelet



~~~~

On another note, I'll be heading to BlogHer '11 in San Diego on Wednesday.  I will be spending a lot of time in the Serenity Suite (click on the link to hear more about it from my good friend Heather), so if you're going to BlogHer please do come by and say hello.

Onward.

Doppelganger

I've gone quiet, and I have gotten lots of emails from people asking if I'm okay.  Thank you for checking in; I will never cease to be in awe of the power of the connections I've made through this blog.

I am okay. I'm doing better than last week, and each day brings a little more healing, a little more perspective.  I haven't been posting because I don't have much to say, and writing about smaller, everyday things feels odd to me. 

I keep waiting to want to post about something else: family, recovery, life. There is certainly a lot to say. But just like there are moments where I can't understand how the world just keeps on going without my Dad in it, I have a hard time finding the right time to switch gears, stop writing about grief and loss when those two things are dominating my world at the moment. 

Not writing about it feels like saying good-bye, and I don't want to say good-bye, even though I know I have to.

So I will start with something small.  A silly thing. 

Who is who?  One is me at eight years old, and the other is Greta, yesterday:

Surfacing

Grief is like being underwater.

One moment you're swimming along effortlessly, your strong strokes slide through the surface of the clear blue water.

Then without warning, you're sinking.  Down, down, into the silence.

You hang there, weightless and still, and you wait.

You know that right above you, shimmering just out of reach, people move about their day, unaware of this silent world-beneath-the-world.

But you?  You are in a state of suspended animation, without even the rush of air filling your lungs to distract you.  All you hear is the steady beating of your own heart; its rhythm is the antidote to the sadness:  I'm.  Still.   Here.

It's nice, in the quiet.  Here you are invisible; safe in your cocoon of grief where nothing can reach you.  Out there in the world light and sound are jarring, rudely poking their noses into your consciousness as you tiptoe from one moment to the next. Out there you have to Smile and Move On.  Here you can simply be.

How odd, you think, that grief is comforting.  Wrapped in its tight embrace you have permission to drop away from the mundane needs of everyday life, to not cope for a while. 

You don't want to let go of the silence, the calm, the reverie.  When you're here you can close your eyes and imagine the world as it felt before.  

But you can't stay, no matter how much you want to.  You are only a visitor here.  Your lungs begin to twitch, aching for air, and you know you have to return.

Taking one last long look around, you smile.  Good-bye.

You tilt your face upwards, and with a few strong kicks of your legs you feel the sun on your face, and hear the sound of your children's laughter from the shore.  "Come see, Momma!"  they shout. 

And you do.  You go see.  

You surface.

For Dad

**This is the eulogy I wrote about my father; I read it at his funeral yesterday.  It is hard to describe how full my heart felt to see almost five hundred people come to his funeral to honor his memory. 

I love you, Dad, and I miss you more than mere words can express.

~~~~~

I have an enduring image of my father.

We’re on a family hike, Mt. Moosilauke, perhaps. There were many family hikes, but my Dad’s outfit never varied. He’s wearing a red “crusher” hat, a blue bandana tied around his neck and wielding a walking stick he fashioned out of “perfectly good” wood he found in the forest. A folded map pokes from his back pocket, and his pack is stuffed to the hilt with anything we could ever possibly need for our climb: a green water canteen, moleskin, more maps, a compass, band-aids, bug spray. And, of course, Gorp – a concoction of granola, peanuts and M & Ms

I’m about ten years old, and it feels like we’re never, ever going to get to the top. My sister and I moan and complain, stopping more than necessary to drink water and pick the M & Ms out of the food bag.
My father is undaunted, patiently leading us on, pointing out the blue trail markers blazed on the trees. “The trick,” he says, “is to pace yourself. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other and before you know it, you’ll be there.”

And, of course, we do get there, slowly but surely, and as we hit the summit Dad breaks into a smile. “Isn’t it something?” he says, as we gaze out over the peaks of New Hampshire’s White Mountains. And yes, it really is something.

This image stays with me because it encapsulates so much about what it was like to grow up under his loving, patient, steady guidance.

Words seem too small to describe Dad. To us he was larger than life, a steadfast presence, someone who would always be there to help us along the way. He wasn’t one for lectures or finger wagging; he taught us what we need to know about life by living it. And he always, always put family first.

My Dad worked hard, but of course as kids we couldn’t appreciate what he did for a living. What we knew was that he was home for dinner – every night. He would often have to work late into the evening, or head out again for a meeting, but each night he would walk in the door just as we set dinner on the table.

Family vacations were spent camping, hiking, canoeing, skiing or fishing. Dad loved to get off the grid; some of my fondest memories are of our times out at our beach cottage, bobbing around on the sea fishing for flounder. We would spend days together as a family in tents, paddling down rivers, hiking through the woods. Everywhere he went, Dad brought his unbridled curiosity about the world, and his seemingly endless knowledge of all things natural. Even during our eye-rolling teenage years, we would eventually be swept up in Dad’s quiet enthusiasm.

Dad taught us the importance of hard work, responsibility and balance by embodying these values and infusing everything he did with dedication, humor and patience.

He made us want to succeed in life, but it had nothing to do with prestige, pedigree, recognition or prominence, and everything to do with doing our best, giving back and having a grateful heart.

Perhaps the greatest gift my father gave us was to teach us compassion. He gave back – tirelessly – to every community he served. He gave his time – he gave himself – to his friends, family, church, town, school and to the less fortunate. As children we couldn’t appreciate how special this was, of course. As we grew into young adults, however, we began to understand that Dad’s compassion and dedication to giving back were at the very core of everything he stood for, everything he taught us.

Dad preferred to see the good in people, the possibility. He expressed a limitless curiosity in the things that interested us. Whether it was photography, horses or making jewelry, he wanted to know about our lives, who we knew, what we were doing, and would ask thoughtful questions in his own unobtrusive way. When we strayed from the path, got lost through poor choices or circumstance, he was there to gently nudge us back onto the rails - not with judgment, but with love and encouragement.

He taught us how to navigate adversity by playing to our strengths, rather than dwelling on our weaknesses. His motto would not have been ‘I Told You So’, but rather ‘I Believe In You’.

He wasn’t one for grand proclamations or recognition, and so it is possible that this next statement would have made him uncomfortable, but it is true: he was beloved by everyone who knew him. He was respected by so many because he was, himself, so respectful.

I realize I don’t have to search for words to describe Dad. All I have to do is look around this church, at all the people who have come together today from near and far, to honor his memory. Whether you knew my Dad as a colleague, friend, a co-committee member or trustee; whether you knew him from church, school or around town, from the good old days or only recently, you know what I mean about his authenticity, compassion, loyalty, humor and dedication, because he brought his whole self to every interaction, every relationship.

Dad taught us that you get back from the world exactly what you put into it; if you bring light, love and compassion to the world, then you will get light, love and compassion in return. And when you do? You give it right back again.

And so I carry the image of my father ahead of us on the trail, a walking stick in one hand and a map in the other, patiently beckoning us forward, encouraging us in his own quiet way to put one foot in front of the other, until we get to where we’re all going.

And the view from up there? It is really something, I’m sure.

Father's Day

Today was hard, probably the hardest day yet.

Without the numbing effects of shock and disbelief to cradle me, I felt the loss of my Dad profoundly today. 

Father's Day.

It helps me to write in this space.  Someday soon I won't only write about losing my Dad, but for now writing about how I'm feeling gives me some peace of mind.

I get a daily email from Hazeldon, a recovery organization.  I haven't opened one in a while, but today's reflection hit home:

"Grief may be a pathway to our deepest connections.

People often say, "I don't want to burden you with my troubles, you have enough to worry about." Yet sharing our troubles with our partner or close friends lightens our burden and restores our balance. Telling someone our experiences and how we feel about them helps us find and create the meaning that lurks behind them, even though they at first seem only crazy and random. Sharing with others pulls us out of isolation and brings our friends and mate into the circle of our lives.

We may be surprised to feel the knots in our stomachs loosen when we tell our stories and recount our worries or grief. Grief may make us feel more alone than anything. But it may also be a pathway for our deepest connection with each other. When we reach out and talk with our friends or mate, we break down the wall of isolation and build bridges that connect us."

This has certainly been true for me. I am surrounded by loving friends and family, and as I talk to them I do feel the coil in my gut loosen, the knot in my shoulders unclench. A burden shared is indeed a burden cut in half.

And, of course, life trudges on. Today was a beautiful day; the sun was shining in a clear blue sky, and we made our way into the city to honor the other amazing Dad in our lives:  Steve.

I met my mother and brother for a beautiful service at the church where we will hold my Dad's memorial service on Thursday.  It is a big, beautiful old church, one my parents attended together, and praying there brought some measure of comfort and peace.  When they read my Dad's name during the prayers for the departed, I felt a kind of lightness, felt his spirit living on in all of us.

But, oh, how I missed his strong presence at my side.

We prowled around Boston, strolled through Boston Common and took in the sights.

The kids enjoyed a carousel ride, a huge gelato sundae, and a ride on Boston's famous swan boats. 

Their chocolately grins and gleeful ability to live in the moment, as they skipped through the gardens, posed for pictures on statues - all while playfully asking questions - pulled me from my reverie and deep sense of loss for a while. Kids are amazing that way.

We smile a lot, laugh with abandon, hug each other tighter. We muddle through the maelstrom of emotions that buffet us about at random. We mourn, we honor, we love.

How lucky am I to have know two such incredible Dads in my life? One that raised me, and one that is helping me raise my kids.

When we got home, there was the Sunday paper waiting on our front stoop.  My Dad's obituary, even though I knew it would be there, was a jarring reminder of the finality of his death.  

I finally allowed myself to fall apart a little. I went upstairs to our bedroom, crawled under the sheets, and wept.  And then I fell into a deep, dreamless and much-needed sleep.

A couple of hours later, Greta and Finn poked me awake with huge grins on their faces.

"Momma!  You needa come see the show! It starts in three minutes!"

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, took a deep breath, and put a smile on my face. They led me by the hand outside, where Steve was already waiting, and put on an elaborate circus act for us on their swing set.  Finn demonstrated his patented moves:  the "Tangle", the "Bellyflop" and the "Twist".  Greta acted as ringleader, a triumphant smile on her face.  

"TA-DA!" they shouted, as they took a final bow and Steve and I clapped like mad.

And so we trudge forth, our little family, with sadness and gratitude.  And each other.