Middle School Heart

She stands nervously in front of the mirror, my newly minted middle schooler, and fiddles with her
hair.

Today is Spirit Day at school - the kids are encouraged to wear the school colors - blue and yellow - in a show of school solidarity.

My girl has taken it one step further, and applied temporary hair color, adorning her dark brown locks with streaks of yellow and blue.

"Is it too much?" she asks.

"No, it looks great!" I reply, trying to strike that balance between supportive and overly-chirpy.

"It's not enough, is it?"

This goes on all morning.  She pops into the bathroom repeatedly to double check the too-much-not-enough-ness.

She is stepping outside her comfort zone.  These little sprays of hair color are so much more than that. This is a girl who doesn't like any form of attention, preferring to blend as much as possible into the sidelines.

As she waits for the bus in the driveway, I sit in my designated spot on the porch, hidden by a bush.  She wants me there, but doesn't want anyone on the bus to see that she wants me there.

Change.

As the bus rumbles just up the road, she spins around one last time, "Are you sure it looks okay?" she yells, her eyes wide.

I yell, "It looks great!"

"SHHHHHHH!" she replies.

It's a tug of war, change.  That fine line between uncomfortable and familiar feels like a tightrope. One misstep and you fall, and then everybody sees.

I think most of us are hard-wired to think people are looking at us, don't you?  When we're slipping our toe just a click over the comfort line, it feels like we're wearing a flashing light on our head.

In reality, nobody is really looking. They are too busy wondering if their own light is flashing.

The other night we spent an hour discussing the plan for changing before gym. This is new, and mandatory.  Everyone must change into gym clothes before class, and back into school clothes after.

She squirms with discomfort. "Will there be changing rooms?  What if they're all full? What if I can't get changed in time?"

I can only nod with understanding, remembering vividly the anxiety of the locker room change.  I tell her that I would sometimes duck into a bathroom stall or shower to avoid detection.

She asks me if it gets any easier, and I think for a moment.

"Not really," I reply.  "Even grown-ups worry about standing out."

She smiles.  "So it's not just me?"

That's the crux of it, isn't it?  We all want reassurance that it's not just us. 

Last night at her middle school orientation the parents all crammed into the smallish desks, fidgeting.  We glanced nervously at the white board for our list of instructions, not wanting to get it wrong. There are forms to read, a letter to write to our kid.  As we scribbled away, the teacher roamed around the room, talking about his teaching style, while he bounced an over-sized ball. He went to toss the ball to the woman sitting across from me, and she cringed and shied away.

"See?" said the teacher.  "Nobody wants to stand out. Your kids feel the same way.  I'm here to help them step out of their comfort zones a little."

We giggled nervously, and then the loudspeaker pinged with an announcement, and everyone paused to listen.  "Will the driver of a Blue Jeep Commander, license plate blabbity-blah, please report to the office?"

"Oh," said the woman next to me, "how embarrassing for that person".

That person was me. I had parked on the side of the road like many others, but for some reason my car was being singled out.

I didn't want to put up my hand. I wanted to shrink below the desk and turn invisible.

"That would be me," I joked, and everyone swung their head to look at me.

As I gathered my things and slunked out of the classroom, I thought about how some things never change.  How that tug-of-war between "look at me" and "go away" never really goes away.

I scurried out of the school, ran down the school driveway and up the road, and saw a police car with flashing lights and an irate woman standing right next to my car.

She didn't like that I parked in front of her house, and called the cops, threatening to tow my car.

I apologized as reasonably as I could muster, swallowing the not-so-graceful response that was at the tip of my tongue.  I couldn't face walking back into that classroom, so I sheepishly drove home instead.

I struggle with it, too, that tug of war. I want to wave the flag and support the things I feel strongly about. I want to crow about recovery from the rooftops, how amazing it is, how the discomfort is totally worth it.

But when all the heads swing in my direction, I shrink up, try to make myself smaller.  Ninety-nine people cheer me on, but I focus on the one dissenter.  I give more credence to their criticism than I do to everyone else's praise.

It's human nature. Go-away-come-here-look-at-me-stop-staring.

Watching my daughter wrestle with her bravery this morning, I felt my middle-school heart beating in my chest.  I may have grown up, but my heart is still looking for the bathroom stall to hide.


I remind myself that I already know what the inside of a bathroom stall looks like.  My life would be so small if I stayed there.

I'd rather step bravely into the world with blue-and-yellow streaked hair.

 If she can do it, I can do it, too.

Almost

Four days ago she looked up at me with those big brown eyes, so much like my own, and said, "there's something wrong with my brain, Momma".

I leaned down, pressed my forehead against hers, and closed my eyes.  "There is nothing wrong with your brain, sweetheart. It's your anxiety talking to you. I know just how you feel."

A sob hitched in her chest and a tear rolled down her cheek. She was slumped on the front porch, hair falling around her face. She's been through a lot in the past few weeks, poor kid. My heart breaks for her, even as my own anxiety ratchets up in my chest.

"Will it ever go away?" she asked, quietly.

I hesitated. I have struggled with anxiety since I was about her age - 10 years old.  I'm almost 44, and it's still a monkey on my back.  What to say?  That this may be a lifelong struggle? That there are so many tools at her disposal, but that her brain is hardwired this way?  That it's not her fault? 

In the end, I opted for the simple truth.  "It will get so much better. I promise."

She worries about just about everything, from missing the bus to something falling out of the sky and squashing her flat.

She wants to be perfect, obsessing about homework and grades, twisting herself up into a tizzy over the simplest of things.

It's hard for me to know what to do; it's so close to me.   I self-medicated with alcohol because of anxiety for so many years.  My gut grows cold at the thought of my daughter slipping into the same fate.

It's hard to know where the line is, between truthfulness and reassurance.  I aim for the "not asked, not answered" philosophy, attempting not to give her more than she can absorb.

But she's an old soul, this kid, and she can absorb a lot.

A few weeks ago she fractured her foot, requiring crutches and a boot.  A few days later she had a suspicious mole removed, with the scary diagnosis of "moderate to severe indication of melanoma".  Over the past two years she weathered the sudden death of my father and my own battle with cancer.

She's too old for platitudes now. I can't simply tell her everything will be okay, because she knows I can't guaranty that.  My Mom Superpowers dim as she grows older, my very-much-human skin showing through that shiny veneer of All-Knowingness.

A few days ago the stitches were removed and the "all clear" was given on the suspicious cells.  It was almost melanoma; we caught it in time.  The boot came off yesterday.  Her smile is coming with more frequency, and I realize how much I've missed it.

This morning there were no tears.  She spun happily in the driveway, waiting for the bus, prattling on about a video they are shooting at school... a "Harlem Shake" spin-off.  She gets to wear an Afro wig.  She finds this infinitely hysterical.

Glimpses of the little girl that still resides in her shine through, and I'm grateful.

Almost melanoma. Almost a young woman. Almost.

But not quite.

Turn The Page

When the doctor told me that we were having a boy, my heart flipped in excitement and trepidation.

A boy to balance out our little family: one of each.

Greta was five when he was born, and I naively thought I had the "girl thing" down pat. 

But a BOY?  It seemed so foreign to me even though Greta was tomboy-ish; she loved dinosaurs and reptiles and fishing and getting muddy.  She never played with dolls, preferring instead to make up elaborate imaginary games with her Littlest Pet Shops.  Eschewing Polly Pockets and Barbies, she would play vet, or draw pictures bursting with color and story.   I never ceased to wonder at the power of her imagination.

Would a boy be different?  Would we be up to our ears in Legos, trains and toy cars? Would our long afternoons coloring and reading be replaced with building robots and smashing things into bits?

It turns out Finn, just like Greta, defied stereotype.  Thank God.  He is a complex, nuanced little character, full of sharp edges and puffy-heart kindness.

We dutifully purchased a train set, and gratefully accepted armloads of hand-me-down Legos.  They sat in the play room gathering dust for years before I realized they weren't ever going to be played with.  Christmas stockings brought Matchbox cars and action figures that were half-heartedly played with for one afternoon before being discarded.

It took a while to realize the stereotypes of what girls and boys are supposed to love is grossly, even insultingly, simplified.

Finn loves science kits - the grosser the better. He wants to be an artist when he grows up, and spends hours doodling, his tongue sticking out in concentration.  He plays dress up - sometimes in Star Wars costumes, sometimes in Greta's old princess dresses. It never makes any difference to him.

He's pig-headed, as stubborn as the day is long.  Try to correct or criticize him and you're in for a dissertation about all the reasons you're wrong.  When the storm clouds part, he will curl up in your lap like he's still tiny, nuzzle his face into your neck and tell you he loves you.

He wears his heart on his sleeve, this kid. Cruelty of any kind effects him deeply.  He loves playing with girls, he says, because they don't "try to be right all the time".  I refrain from explaining the concept of irony to him.

He loves gleefully, passionately and with reckless abandon.  He's never embarrassed by grand displays of affection.  I try not to dread the day this quality disappears.  Maybe it won't, but I worry it will be pushed down under layers of teenage cool-ness or angst.

He received a little spiral bound notebook as a gift recently, and announced he was going to keep a journal.  He dutifully wrote in it the first night: "this weekend I went skiing at Loon and I had a good time".    After studying his handiwork, he ripped the page out and crinkled it up.

"I'm going to make a journal about you and Dadda," he announced to me.  "Don't look."

The next morning he came downstairs grinning from ear to ear.  "You can read my notebook if you want," he said. "Just wait until I'm at school".

So I waited, impatiently, for the yellow bus to drive away.  I came inside and found this on the cover of the notebook (started on the back, because you can't write on the plastic front):

"Love, Caring, Happy, Nice"

The first page revealed this: 

 "This is just the start turn the page"

This is the first entry:

 

"Today my mom and dad wher being the best mom and dad in the world"

Oh, my heart. 

Raising kids is full of endings and beginnings.  I find I mourn the endings more than I value the beginnings: when he lost his front baby teeth or when he stopped holding my hand in public, for example.  To me these seemed like innocence lost, the beginning of his pulling away from me. 

But they aren't just endings.  They are the beginnings of the next thing.

Turn the page.

Cancer: One Year Later. A Year In Pictures

Almost a year ago, I wrote this about the day I found out I had cancer.

Tomorrow, November 14th, my daughter goes back to school after her tonsillectomy, exactly one year from the day I had my tonsillectomy and the doctors found the tumor.

The Universe has a strange sense of humor, sometimes.

Last November 14th, I had four days left of blissful ignorance of not-knowing.  In my heart, I was pretty sure I knew, but there was still the chance my heart was wrong.

So, a year ago I was living out my last pre-cancer days, and it's got me thinking about how my life has changed.  How I've changed.

I say my last pre-cancer days, because I understand, now, that even if I stay in remission for the rest of my life, that I am forever changed by the diagnosis.  Cancer is no longer a death sentence, thank God, but it is a life sentence, of sorts.  Because once you've had cancer you are never the same again.

I looked back over the past year and a huge part of me didn't understand how we got through it.

Then last week I was searching through some pictures - looking for photos for Finn's birthday video - and I found some memories I had forgotten about. Things that at the time I swore I'd never, ever forget.

There was the one taken the day I had my feeding tube put in:

I was scared and feeling about as low as I had during the whole cancer ordeal that day.  I was on the verge of tears, full of fear, and my cell phone beeped that I had a message.  Heather and some amazing friends had put together this video for me. It arrived - quite literally - just exactly when I needed it




There was a picture taken of my neck at the worst of the radiation:

I remember I chose not to post this at the time it was taken, because even I didn't want to acknowledge how badly I felt (the white bits are pieces of a compress I had on it to cool it down).

As I found myself staring, awestruck, at this picture, I remembered exactly how I got through it.

I was supported by so many people - friends who brought meals, gave rides, the unflagging support of my mother, even in the early months of adjusting to life without my Dad.  Steve's steadfast and loving presence, constantly asking: what can I do? what do you need?  Help from amazing, loving babysitters that took care of my kids just like I would have. Maybe even better.

And then, of course there were the kids.  Their certainty that I would be okay, because I had to be okay, fueled my strength to fight when I could, and let go when I should.  They were constant "you can do it" cheerleaders. Kids have such a pure way of processing difficulty, and it rubbed off on me, helped me fight the battle one moment at a time.

There were some pictures of the little notes Greta would leave me in my prayer box, to lift my spirits and give me strength during the worst of days:

Finn and Greta, with the help of a babysitter (Hi Lindsey if you're reading this!) made a pillow case with their picture on it, and colored it with loving messages and words of hope

Lindsey and the kids also put together a scrapbook to cheer me up:

When Lindsey went back to college, I was scared that everything was going to fall apart, because she left just as my treatments were getting really tough.  But the Universe was still smiling on me, and along came Nikki, who was just as fabulous as Lindsey and cared for the kids every afternoon for weeks:

Nikki and the kids

And then there was "the chart"; a spreadsheet Steve put together (complete with graphics) to track my medications, my mood, my pain scale, my food intake and my, er, regularity (yes, that is a poop giving a thumbs up you see there in the upper right hand corner):

I still have the cards of support and encouragement I received from friends and family.  I read through them every now and then, when I'm having a moment of doubt, or fear, before a doctor's appointment or a scan, and I remember that I didn't get through cancer.

WE did.

That's how cancer changed me the most. I evolved from someone who had to fight all her own battles, be in control of as much of her life as she could (even though I would have sworn to you on a stack of Bibles that I was not this way), to someone who was humbled and grateful for the all the love and support.

I admit, I fought it at first.  I didn't want to be the sick person, who couldn't care for her family, cook a meal or drive herself.

Once the pain and fatigue kicked in full force, though, I was overcome with gratitude.  There is NO WAY I could have gotten through everything without all the support.

One last picture, taken last Thanksgiving. I knew I had cancer when this was taken, but that week we had heard the words "treatable and curable", and so we were filled with hope, despite the underlying fear.  I look into our faces and part of me thinks: thank God we didn't know what was coming.  But another part me looks back and thinks:  you have no idea, yet, how many people love you and your family. You don't appreciate, yet, how lucky you really are.

Today, I do.  I know how lucky we are.  I live more in the moment than I ever have, even though it took a boatload of fear, anxiety and resistance to get there.

I think this quote sums it up well:

Seven - A Birthday Video for Finn

He came running up the driveway yesterday, after getting off the bus, his backpack bouncing behind him.

"MOMMA!"  he yells, a big grin on his face. "I GROWED!"

I embraced him as he chattered on excitedly, "I used to be the second tallest in the class, and now suddenly today I'm TALLEST!"

This doesn't surprise me. At 6 years and 364 days old, he weighs over 50 pounds and is over 4 feet tall. He wears a size 3 shoe.

Long gone are the days of his cute little accent, where Rs were Ws.  We called it his Boston accent.  I miss it.

He is quick with a smile and a joke, and seems to make friends wherever he goes.  It doesn't matter if we're at church, the supermarket, the playground or just any old store, he always whispers to me "look over there, Momma, I know her!"  For all of his gregariousness, he's shy.  Kids rush up to give him a hug, or a hello, and he giggles and hides behind my legs.

Despite his size, he's still a snuggle-bug. He manages to curl up all 50" of himself into my lap and rest his head on my shoulder with regularity.

He inherited his impishness from his Dad, and his love for shortcuts from his Mom.  He is the King of "it wasn't me!".  I can literally catch him in the act of doing something wrong, like putting his feet on the dinner table, and he'll peer at me over his grimy bare toes and say with as much innocence as he can muster, "I'm NOT doing it, Momma!"

He has a huge heart, always looking out for a kid who seems nervous, shy or anxious. He's loyal and reliable, always quick to give people the benefit of the doubt.

He loves to laugh.  This morning I wished him a Happy Birthday, and he told me about a dream he had last night where he opened a huge present and it was a box full of gold.  Then he threw his head back, laughed and said, "but that's not likely to happen, is it?"

Yesterday he said, with a sly grin on his face, "There's some sort of smell situation going on in this house, and I'm trying to get to the bottom of it."

I wondered, when he was born, if I'd be able to raise a boy with as much confidence as I raise Greta. Well, at least I got her, even when my parenting skills feel rusty.

But it turns out I get him, too.  He wears his heart on his sleeve, so quick to love and laugh, and I feel like he's the one teaching me, most of the time. How to take things in stride, not make more of anything than I need to.

He loves to rub my arm and say, "Everything's okay, Momma.  I promise."  I look into his big, grinning face and I know he's right.

Everything is just the way it's supposed to be.

Happy 7th Birthday, Finn.  We love you to pieces:

On Being The Mom

"Okay, Mom," chirps the nurse, "here are your scrubs; you can go change there, with Greta, and meet us in the prep room shortly".

We're up early (5:45am) for Greta's tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy, which is taking place back at the very same hospital where I had my cancer related surgeries over the past year.  It's one of the best hospitals in the world, and for this I am grateful, but the flashbacks are still startling.  

I help Greta into a cute hospital johnny with 'tired little tiger' written all over it.  She is quiet, contemplative, but doesn't seem nervous. 

I pull on my blue scrubs and she giggles. "Doctor Mom," she says.

Trying to keep the atmosphere light, but realistic, I prattle on about what she should expect. The "rolling bed" (stretcher) and the bright lights of the Operating Room.   How the scariest part is lying on the operating table waiting for the anesthesia to kick in.  How it feels like you just blink your eyes and it's over.  

"Okay, Mom," she whispers. I can tell the nerves are building, but she's handling them like a champ.

"Are you ready, Mom?" the nurse chirps again.  "Let's get her onto this comfy rolling bed and head on down to the OR."

Only one parent is allowed to scrub up and go into the operating room. Steve waits in the same waiting room he sat and waited for me, three times.  We picked me to accompany her because I know the drill so well, but I have to work hard to keep my poker face. 

There is a slight delay before they can wheel her down the hall, so we stand there for about five minutes - Greta on the stretcher and me silently holding her hand.  I hear a sniff and look down to see silent tears running down her face.

"It's okay to be scared," I say, leaning close.  

She nods.  

"I was scared at this point, too, so I remembered that I was in the best hospital in the whole world for operations on ears, noses and throats.  People come from all around just to have surgery here."

She wipes her eyes. "Even Egypt?"

"Yes, even Egypt," I reply.

"What about Transylvania?" she quips, and I look down to see a sly grin on her face.  My heart swells at her bravery, and how she uses humor to deflect fear, just like her Momma.

Eventually we roll on down the hall, and I can feel her shaking a little.  Doubts creep into my mind; is this surgery really necessary?  I know in my heart it is, but now that we're here I want to say never mind.  Having had my tonsils out so recently, I know what recovery is like (albeit easier for kids) and voluntarily putting my kid through pain feels a bit barbaric to me at the moment.

"Okay, Mom," says the anesthesiologist.  "I need to speak to you over here for a sec."   

It occurs to me that I've been addressed exclusively as 'Mom' for the past hour.

I'm the Mom.

When did I become the Mom?  Suddenly it seems impossible that I'm in charge. Of anything, letting alone electing to let my kid have surgery.  

"She'll roll her eyes back and convulse a bit when the anesthesia kicks in," she explains. "That's totally normal."

My stomach does flip-flops. I want to run from the room.  I don't know that I can do this. I know I will, but I don't want to.  

"Once she's under you can take her stuffed animal and go to the waiting room," she explains.  "Don't worry, Mom. You're doing great."

I step over and hold Greta's hand as they slip the mask over her face and start the flow of cherry-flavored anesthesia.  She's awake longer than I thought she'd be -- first looking uncertainly at me, then blinking slowly, and then her eyes roll back and she gives a shudder.  

And she's out. 

Logically, I know she's going to be okay.  But witnessing that makes it seem like she just died right in front of me.  

"She's just fine, Mom," says the nurse.  "We'll be out to let you know how it went shortly."

I grab Bushy the Dog and head out to the waiting room.  On my way back down the hall I think of the parents with chronically ill kids who have to do this all the time. I think of how much better Greta will feel when this is all over and she's healed, how much better she will sleep.  I grope for gratitude, because I can feel myself slipping into a selfish kind of fear.  

Everywhere I look are memories of my own ordeal, and I have to remind myself that was my ordeal, not Greta's, and today is about her, not me.

Fifty minutes later I'm next to her in the recovery area as her eyes flutter open.  

"When will the operation happen?" she asks, and I smile and tell her I said the same thing when I came out of anesthesia.  

"It's all over, and you did great," I tell her.  "All the nurses said so."

She clutches Bushy in one hand and my hand in the other as she drifts in and out of sleep. 

"Good job, Mom," says the nurse.

I'm the Mom. I'm her Mom.  I get to be her Mom.  

I am so lucky.

A Little Something

It's a gorgeous, sunshine-y  day; I've got the windows rolled down and the radio turned up, and I'm singing along to U2's Beautiful Day at the top of my lungs.  I'm heading into Boston for two doctors appointments:  a routine check-up with my head and neck surgeon and then on to my oncologist to get the feeding tube out.  Finally. I'm thrilled about this milestone and my spirits are soaring.

I even mange to eat a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich on an English muffin on the way in.

Life is good.

For once, the long wait at the head and neck surgeon's office doesn't bother me, because I'm not anxious, not waiting for test results, not thinking about anything except being tube-free in approximately two hours.

Finally, he comes in, asks me the usual questions and then starts poking around in my mouth.

"Has there been a spot that has been bothering you in your throat?" he asks. "More than usual?"

I think for a bit, and reply "well, there is this one spot on the left that has always hurt more than the rest of my mouth.  But I wouldn't say it's worse.  It's not better, either.  I've gotten kind of used to it, I guess."

His eyebrows knit together and he gets out his ultra-bright light, magnifying glasses and the scope.  My stomach does a little flip-flop.

"Hmmmm," he says, unhelpfully.

Then he looks at it some more, calls another doctor in to look at it, and by now I'm shaking and sweating; trying to make eye contact with him over my stretched-wide-open mouth is hard.

Finally, he sits down next to me, and exhales a little sigh that I've come to dread.

"I'd like to biopsy that," he says, shaking his head slowly.  "It's probably nothing, but I want to be sure.   We have to put you under for that, briefly, so you'll need to schedule a ride, but it's a day procedure.  You can't get the feeding tube out today, I'm afraid.  In case we do find, you know, something, you'll still be needing that tube."

I gape at him in a stunned silence.  This was not part of today's plan.  Today he was supposed to tell me how awesome my scar looks, give me a fatherly pat on the back and send me on my way to get the tube out.  Now we're talking about somethings?

A nurse comes in to give me a pre-procedure check-up and blood work, and they tell me someone will call to schedule the biopsy shortly.  I beg him to make it as quick as possible, because the waiting is hard for me.  

My voice sounds very far away and business-like to me; there is no note of the hysteria I feel welling up inside.

I make it to my car before I burst into terrified tears.


This is what cancer does to you; it never goes completely away, even if you remain in remission for the rest of your days.  There will always be tests, knitted brows, scans and waiting.  Always.

I clench my fists and shake my head back and forth and sob and sob.  I know I need to accept this, surrender to it, but for now I'm angry.  I'm pissed.  And I'm really scared.  What if they find cancer? What then?  I can't do it anymore, I just can't.

After ten minutes or so my sobbing slows to hiccuping sniffles, and I take a deep breath and start my car.  On the ride home I stare at my fellow drivers, wonder what they're thinking about.  Dinner? A big meeting the next day?  Someone honks and gives me the finger because I'm driving too slowly, lost in thought.  I gape at him - you think that's important? Being late?

~~~~~

When the kids get off the bus and pile through the door a few hours later, backpacks, papers and shoes flying in all directions and chattering away about their day, I feel that old urge to run and  hide.  Don't love me, I think.  I have a something.  I may always have somethings. I'm damaged goods.

"Hey Ellie, do you know what?" (that's Finn's latest thing, calling me Ellie).   He runs up and throws his arms around my legs.  "You're awesome and I love you!!'

My heart sinks and tears come to my eyes as I say, in what I hope is a convincing cheerful voice, "You know what, Finn? You're awesome and I love you, too!"  I manage a smile, listening to Greta going on about her day.

This is my new normal.  I can fight it, or I can accept it.  Those are my only two choices. I know which way is easier, more peaceful, but man sometimes it's hard to accept something you desperately don't want to be true.

"Oh, Momma!!!" Greta exclaims.  "Let's see your tummy!  You got the tube out today!!!"

I give her a small smile and explain that I didn't get it out because they are still checking something in my neck and I may still need it if they have to do more procedures.

Her face falls.  "Is that bad?  That's bad, isn't it? How bad is it?"

"It's not bad or good or anything, yet.  They are just going to do some tests and then we'll see what the next steps are.  I'm trying to tell my brain not to think about it until I know more, because worrying doesn't get me anywhere."  I pray I sound convincing.

"Just like when I worry about Spelling Challenge at school?  You always tell me to tell my brain not to worry about how I did until I get the test back.  That worry is just a waste of time."

"Yes," I smile.  "Just like that."  

 I slip upstairs to my room and get on my knees. Take it, please, I pray.  Can you carry this for me for a while?  Because I can't.  I whisper this over and over until I feel a little lighter.

I make my way downstairs to fix a snack for the kids.  My hands still feel a little shaky, but I feel better.  More present. More free. Less angry. Almost accepting.  Almost.  I'm getting there.

Love, Fear, Courage and Faith - What Cancer Does to a Family

I never intended this to become a cancer blog, any more than I intended it to become a recovery blog when I first started it to be a jewelry blog four years ago.

It won't always be a cancer blog, but cancer - like active alcoholism - is a totally absorbing, all consuming thing.  Everything in my world - literally everything - revolves around having cancer.  The kids' schedules, my husband's schedule, my schedule - nothing can be set in stone until my treatment logistics are pinned down.

And that's just the practical part of having cancer.

The emotional part is the real all consuming thing - for all of us.  The kids having to make adjustments to my weakened state, learning to be more self-sufficient, being brave about new sitters and going on play dates at school friends' houses they have never been to before.  Getting rides from Mommy friends of mine that they know, but haven't driven with before.  Any one of these things would have been a big deal Before Cancer.   After Cancer they are learning to adjust on the fly, because they don't really have a choice.  I am so proud of both of them, bravely extending their horizons, stepping almost daily outside of their comfort zones, managing their fear of my illness along with all these new things.

My husband is working so hard - both at his job and here at home - he is parenting the kids most of the time, and being a care-taker for me, all while managing the regular day-to-day business of full time job.   He amazes me every day at the patience he shows the kids, even when I know he is stretched to his limits.  He asks me over and over, what do you need?  What can I get you?   He is a strong shoulder for me to cry on when I need to, even as he tucks his own worries away he strokes my back and tells me everything will be okay. He looks out for ways to make my life easier - a laptop table next to my bed, cleaning out cabinets to make things more accessible, finding just the right thing to cheer me up.

Cancer impacts the whole family, on every level.

I struggle to come up with things to write about that aren't cancer related -- but those thing don't exist in my world at the moment.  My thoughts are consumed with managing symptoms, pain, sleep, medications and trying to keep fear at a healthy arms' length away.

I have been stripped down, emotionally, to an almost child-like state.

I think back to where I was a year ago - preparing to fly to the Blissdom Conference in Nashville, meet up with friends, speak on a panel, network and try to spread the word about Crying Out Now.  I had recently met my weight loss goal of 65 lbs, and was generally feeling on top of the world.

These days there is no room for dreams, for ego, for thinking about building my business or networking.  Those days will come again, I believe, but at the moment they feel long gone.

These days it is all about "what did you eat today, hon? Anything?"  "How is the pain?" "When did you last take such-and-such medicine?"

And then my least favorite: "Have you, you know, gone today yet?" (like with children, bowel movements, or lack thereof, are a hot topic.  Sorry if that is over sharing, but the doctors are concerned and I'm concerned, so the whole family is involved in finding foods that will help Momma GO.)

So maybe I'm more like a potty-training toddler.

My thoughts are so centered around me, not in an egotistical way at all, it's just there isn't room for anything else.  I go into the kids' bedrooms at night to kiss their foreheads while they sleep and my heart aches; there is so much I don't know about their day-to-day life right now.  Their worlds are held safely in the hands of my Mom, my friends, and sitters.

I'm still grappling with fear, too, although it is so much better than it was.  Stripping my life down to its barest essentials meant that a lot of my former day-to-day fears were stripped away, too. They almost make me laugh, the things that I worried about Before Cancer. Things like not measuring up, trying to fit in, neuroses about why so-and-so seems upset with me, or so-and-so hasn't called in while.  Those petty concerns about keeping up with the other Moms, being successful in business and raising kids - doing it all, and doing it all well - they seem very, very far away.

These days I live in a nearly constant state of deprivation.

I can't eat, I can't drive anymore, I can't talk easily on the phone (or at all, because of the pain), I don't have the energy to do much of anything.  Deprivation does funny things to your mind. First it drove me nearly insane, as I struggled against it. I fantasized about my old life: about exercising, about biting into a cheeseburger, about going to the grocery store and piling food into my cart, about meeting up with friends for breakfast, or a night out.

Slowly, slowly, I am adjusting to my new normal, and now I don't think much about those things anymore. There isn't any point; it only brings misery.  I have tucked myself into my little nest of a world, and I'm waiting it out.  I know there are things - important life lessons - I will learn through this experience, especially coming on the heels of another tough life change: losing my Dad so suddenly in June.  I had barely begun to process his death when the cancer came along.  I've decided to put all the Major Life Lessons on a shelf, though, for a while. I don't have to figure this all out now. I just have to put one foot in front of the other, keep my heart and mind as open as I can, and get from one end of the day to the other.

And then I have to get up and do it again the next day.  But I'll think about that tomorrow.

And, of course, my "what if I get cancer someday" obsession -- a fear I carried with me my whole life like a nasty, heavy piece of baggage -- now that it's part of my daily world, it isn't nearly as scary as I imagined as I cultivated my fear-fueled obsession with disease.  Because we adapt, we do, in astonishing ways.

There is an issue with the lump on my neck; the one that holds the tumor inside. Last week it got bigger, and then a LOT bigger, and the doctors and nurses tried to downplay it, but I speak fluent non-verbal communication among doctors and nurses now and I knew they were concerned.  There was talk of doing a CT Scan to see what is up, but that wouldn't change the treatment protocol at all, so it was decided to stay the course.  And the lump is getting smaller again, slowly.  Hopefully it will continue in this direction.  The doctor yesterday basically (again, in doctor-speak) prepared me for the idea that I will very likely need surgery to remove the lump after chemo and radiation are done.

"And if we find there are active cancer cells in the lump after we remove it?" I asked.  I am not afraid of answers anymore. I do not stick my head in the sand.  I want to know. Sometimes I don't even recognize myself when I hear myself speak to doctors

"Well, then we celebrate that we took it out and didn't wait to see if it would shrink," was his guarded reply.

I decided not to press it, because I know he doesn't have a crystal ball, he doesn't know why tumors behave the way they do.   He did tell me he had one other case like this, where the tumor just wouldn't shrink, but when they removed it after treatment was done it was just "rubble" - no cancer.

Steve heard "rubble"; I heard "only one other case."   So the fear thing is a work in progress, but I've come a long way.

Tomorrow (thankfully) the feeding tube goes in - I don't know if it will be overnight procedure or not, but they will have to put me under general anesthesia to place it in.  My throat is too far gone for me to be awake, even under conscious sedation.

I am hoping the feeding tube helps me get some strength back - I'm lucky if I get 800 calories (all liquids like Ensure or Carnation Instant Breakfast) into me during the day.  I should be having, in my compromised state, closer to 1800 calories.  So I hope the tube helps with the healing and the energy.

The kids are calling it my "belly button straw", which makes me laugh even as I dread having one at all.

This print can be found in the Etsy shop RococcoLA
I wasn't paid or compensated in any way to promote it. I just love it.

Thank you for being here, reading.  Your comments and support help me SO MUCH.  Being able to write through this has been healing for me.  As hard as they are, I want to remember these cancer days, too, because there are so many moments of breathless beauty and bravery, and I want to capture those, along with the pain and the fear.

It's bringing my family closer, even as I feel like I'm drifting away. Writing helps me not lose sight of how my kids, my husband, my Mom, and my friends - OH my friends - are carrying me when I don't always feel like carrying myself.

So thank you.  Thank you so very much.

Halfway There

I am halfway through.

While I am grateful for this milestone, the halfway mark appears to have brought with it the kind of pain that the doctors and my fellow tonsil cancer survivors have been talking about.

It didn't build gradually, getting a little worse each day. Somehow, the pain slammed in the back door yesterday afternoon, after my radiation treatment, put its feet up and has made itself at home.

It settles over all my emotions, thoughts and words.  It cloaks everything in a kind of prickly haze. It makes me squint my eyes, like I'm looking into the bright sun.  The kids' images and voices come to me through the pain, as if from afar.  I nod and try to smile; I don't want them to know how much I hurt.

Talking is impossible today.  Some days are worse than others, and I'm hoping today is just a bad day and that I will have a good day, soon.

The medication helps some, but there is only so much it can do on days like today.

My world is becoming so small, like a pinprick.  I don't go anywhere anymore; I'm not driving.  I can't speak on the phone comfortably.   My universe revolves around getting to treatment and back.  I walk wide-eyed through the halls of the hospital, marveling at the pace of everything, mutely taking it all in.

I don't feel well enough to read, even.   I think the only reason I can write is that it soothes me, like a balm on a fiery burn.  Writing about the pain makes me feel at arm's length from its bite, at least for a while.

Cancer treatment is such a bizarre thing.  I read a quote that said something like:  "treating cancer is like trying to rid a dog of  fleas by beating it with a stick".    Every day cancer patients willingly, even eagerly, submit to more pain and discomfort, because we know the pain is chasing away the disease.

But on days like today I wonder how on earth I'm going to get radiated 16 more times.

The other odd thing about the pain is that tomorrow I could wake up and it will be lighter, like a fog dissipating in the bright sun.  There doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to it.  It comes and goes as it pleases.

I just realized this is my third post in a row about pain.  Clearly, it dominates my little world at the moment, but it isn't the only thing.

There are moments of such tenderness, too.  Yesterday, I was lying on my side on the couch, spent and exhausted, trying to summon enough energy to go upstairs.  Finn walked up to me and started rubbing my back, ever so gently, and asked, "Does this help, Momma?  Does this make you feel bettah?"  When I told him it did, the smile that burst forth on his face was priceless.

It's hard for the kids to see me sick, but it is bringing out the caregivers in them, teaching them that they can make a difference - a big one - to someone who is suffering.

And after one of the longer, harder afternoons I've had so far, last night there was another message from Greta waiting for me in my Prayer Box:

Spiritual Airlifts

I feel like I'm surfacing from the bottom of a shallow pool - not from the bottom of a deep lake or pond or something, because I've been right there beneath the surface of the water, able to see and hear all that is going on around me, but unable to be part of much of anything.

I can see you out there, shimmering away in your busy, busy world, running from one thing to the next, chatting on phones, tapping away on your devices.  I don't feel part of that world anymore, but it's okay.  Just the thought of rushing anywhere makes me too tired

There is a freedom in this kind of tired.

When I was kind-of-sort-of-tired-but-not-totally-tired I was way more frustrated; I had that nose-pressed-against-the-glass feeling, like I should be out there participating but just can't.   Now that I'm full-on-bone-weary-tired I'm happy to let go, to lie down and rest.  I don't have the energy for anything else, anyway.

I'm about halfway (well, almost halfway) through treatment, and the honeymoon phase of this is over.  The reality of what I'm up against plunked into my lap last week, wiggled around, and made itself comfortable.

I am no longer driving myself to treatment, because it's too tiring to sit up that long.  My appetite has all but disappeared, and I can't taste anything anymore.  Except for COFFEE.  I can still taste coffee - thank God for small miracles.  I'm down about 16 lbs in two weeks.   The ulcers/sores in my mouth make it impossible to eat anything solid (although in a fit of desperation and determination last night I sent Steve out for a cheeseburger from McDonald's and damned if I didn't nibble that thing half to death) so I'm on a liquid diet.

The feeding tube will go in this week, and now I'm actually looking forward to it.  My body craves nutrition.

I spend most of my time sleeping, or reading.   I don't get on the computer much these days, and I'm way behind in responding to emails.  If you sent me an email in the past week and haven't heard back - I'm sorry. I'm here, shimmering beneath my pool of water - and I'll slowly work my way through them.

I didn't set out to give a laundry list of all my symptoms and struggles, though.  Although it does feel good to get them off my chest.  And maybe it will make what I really wanted to talk about more powerful, because what I wanted to talk about was how overwhelmed and amazed I am at the generosity that surrounds our family.  It is hard to admit that you need help - at least it is for me - and I balked at the idea of needing people for the first couple of weeks.   I'm over that, now.  We need you, and we are so very grateful for all your help.

To all of you who bring meals to our front door step - THANK YOU.  I'm usually coming home from radiation around 6pm, dog tired and weary, and to walk in and see my family sitting around the table eating a nutritious meal means so much to me.  The mommy-guilt part of being sick is tough  - all the things I can no longer do -and your delicious meals do more than feed my family - they feed my spirit.

Thank you for all the cards, notes and emails.  I read them all, sometimes again and again.  I can't respond to every one of them, but they matter to me.  They matter a lot.

Thank you for the Amazon gift card - so many of you contributed to keep me up to my ears in books (and apps!) for my Kindle.  Thank you for the Grocery Delivery gift card - we used some of it this week and it was a life-saver during a particularly difficult time.

Thank you to my incredible Mom, who is steadfastly by my side during treatment, keeping me company, coming to my house to watch the kids so Steve and I can sneak off to a movie.  The other night she came armed with her favorite recipes and putting them in my blender.  She knew it was difficult for me to to smell the delicious meals coming into my house and not be able to taste/eat them - so she blended them, one by one, into delicious soups.  They are so good; even the kids like to eat them.

All of your generosity keeps my little family trucking along, keeps their lives as normal as possible during this less-than-normal time.

My friend Sean, and his lovely wife, Sue, came by a few weeks ago with a Prayer/Hope Box.  I have known Sean for over fifteen years now - we worked together back in the 90s and have remained friends ever since.  Sean and Sue have been through their share of health struggles, and their unwavering faith has always been inspirational to me.

It's a pretty bejeweled cigar box, and inside they filled it with inspirational Scripture and Psalms. I take them out and read them when I need a boost, when I'm feeling at the end of my rope and my own faith is wearing thin.  This morning, I pulled this from the box:

Be strong and courageous;

do not be frightened or dismayed, 

for the Lord your God is with you

wherever you go

 Joshua 1:9   

Sean encouraged Steve and the kids to put messages/pictures in the box, too.  When his wife was ill, he would put tickets to things they would do together when she felt better, along with messages of how much he loved her.  

The box sat on my bedside table, forgotten by everyone but me, I thought.  

The other night I had a bad reaction to some medication and was throwing up for most of an evening.  The kids were still up, and Steve got them into bed as I was retching in the bathroom.

When I finally stopped dry heaving and made my way - slowly - into my bedroom, I saw the Prayer Box sitting on my pillow. 

With tears in my eyes, I opened the lid, and saw this: 

A note from Greta that says: "Cancer has the word 'can' in it."

She knew I was having a rough night, and she remembered the Prayer Box and added this note all on her own.  She was still awake, so I tiptoed into her room and gave her a big hug.  

"Thank you," I said. "Your note was just what I needed.  I feel so much better."

She beamed.  "I'm sorry you're sick, Momma," she said. "But I know you can do it."

And I can; with all of you to help me along - all your prayers, generosity, words of support, encouragement and advice.

I can.   

Storytellers

In the midst of all the new, scary things that are going on in our family these days, nothing makes me smile like my kids' made up stories.

Finn, in particular, is quite the storyteller these days.  Sometimes he recounts his dreams (most of them involving the Elf on the Shelf lately), sometimes straight from his imagination, and lately he has been making picture book stories ....  they tend to run on the long side, so I've spared you about a ten minute chunk and showed you two short highlights from the beginning and the end of the "Apple Spaceship Story".

Here's Finn:



Now imagine this goes on for about ten minutes longer, before we move into the big finish:




Greta has a new story, too - narrated (in her jammies) here for your viewing pleasure.  A very short tale of jellybeans run amok:




It's the simple things that matter most - simple moments, simple stories, simple smiles. These are the gifts my kids give me, every day.

Giggles and Grace

Greta is nine.

NINE.

Long gone is our chubby cheeked little baby; she is growing into a young woman, full of giggles and grace.

This is for you, sweetheart.  We love you.   HAPPY BIRTHDAY:



Song is "Whole Wide World, by Mindy Gledhill. Thanks to Heather for introducing me to this song; Greta and I love to sing it into our hairbrushes...

Caterpillars

I was doing okay until we hit the shoe section.

We're back-to-school shopping with the other procrastinators; school starts tomorrow.  We pick through the remains of school supplies, lunch-sized snacks and new outfits.

Greta had a growth spurt over the summer; she grew more than an inch in one month, and she needs
new shoes.  We steer the overflowing cart into the kids' shoe section, and begin hunting through pink sandals and glittery sneakers.

Not one pair of shoes fit.  Not the kid size 3.  Not even the 4s. 

We end up in the women's section - the women's section - and find a pair of size 5 1/2 clogs that fit just right.

Greta sashays up and down the aisle, a hand on one hip, a proud smile plastered across her face.

I feel like an old hand at this back-to-school stuff, so I didn't think I was going to be emotional about school this year.  But somehow, right under my nose, she has blossomed into a striking young woman. 

She flicks her hair over her shoulder and does a little spin.  "What do you think, Mom?"  When did she start calling me Mom?  What happened to Momma?

I manage a smile, and a quick nod. "Perfect," I choke. 

This long-legged beauty, with a hint of a womanly curve in her hip, is my little girl. 

In the car on the way home, she prattles on about the usual things, then grows quiet for a moment before saying, "I'm a little nervous about tomorrow.  Not a  LOT nervous, but I have the caterpillars-in-my-tummy feeling. It's kind of like a happy-nervous, I guess."

I tell her I remember the feeling so well, how the scent of a new pack of pencils made my stomach churn with nervous anticipation. 

We get home, unload the school supplies, and Greta sets about packing her backpack for tomorrow. 

Finn shuffles in the room, dragging his careworn blanket in one hand and his brand new backpack in the other.  "Will you help me wif my backpack too, Momma?"  

Oh my God, I think with a start, my baby is getting on the bus.  Somehow this milestone - my youngest starting Kindergarten - has been relegated to a mental back shelf, lost in the shuffle of Second Child Syndrome.  He curls up on my lap with a contented sigh, and rubs my arm distractedly.

"Are you excited to start big-kid school?" I ask. 

"Sure," he says. 

"Are you nervous?"

He is quiet a moment., "No," he says, "Sissy told me all about it.  And my fwiends will be there. And I have the same teacher Sissy had, and she's willy nice."

I rock him gently in my lap, and I think about how it's another beginning, having both my kids in school.  Sending Greta off to school every year was cushioned by Finn's presence, of having a child around most of the time.

When they were small, I pined for this moment, for the freedom of unencumbered days, for the chance to focus on me again - my goals, my career, my identity.

Now that it is here, I'm ambivalent.  What is this next chapter of life going to look like?  I am contemplating a job that would accommodate mother's hours but get my head back in the working game.  It hasn't been formally offered to me, yet, but the possibility exists that I will re-enter the work force sometime in the near future. 

Closing my arms around Finn, I inhale his earthy boy scent and think about how I feel about it all.

I have the happy-nervous, caterpillars-in-my-tummy feeling, too.  

Awkward Birds

"Mom? Will you brush my hair?"

The question takes me by surprise; usually if I come within four feet of her head with a hairbrush, Greta runs away screaming.

"Sure, honey," I reply, smiling.  "I love it when you let me play with your hair."

We sit thoughtfull for a few minutes, while I work out the summer snarls. She loves to wear it loose and flowing around her shoulders, but it's so long now it tangles quickly.  In the summer it's a battle that isn't worth fighting, the please-lets-cut-your-hair-no-I-won't-I-hate-how-I-look-in-short-hair fight we have dozens of times during the school year.

"Do you know why I want you to brush my hair out?" Greta asks, quietly.  "Because I want to look like the teenagers on those posters."

My stomach gives a little tug of fear.  "Which posters?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral.

"The ones in Target?  In the shampoo section?  Their hair is so shiny. And wavy. Why isn't my hair wavy?"

I know the posters she means; they are all over the store. Oversized homages to perfection: teensy women in bikinis in the bathing suit section, dewy complected women in the facial cream aisle. And shiny-curled teens in the shampoo section.  I caught her staring at those posters the last time we were there, while I perused the wrinkle creams.  She gazed intently at the beaming teenagers, with their full heads of bouncy waves, before running her hand self-consciously through her own hair. 

The irony that my daughter was being drawn in by those posters while I searched in vain for a cream that would instantly take ten years off my face didn't escape me, but I left it alone.

"Your hair is beautiful. What's not to love about the Chocolate Waterfall?"  I say with a smile, using our pet name for her hair, which falls - stick straight - all the way down her back. It is an impossible deep, rich, dark brown.

"It's just that is doesn't have any curls," she pouts.  "How do those Target girls get such pretty curls?"

We have the same talk we've had before, about how she is perfect just the way she is, but I can tell that I'm losing the battle to peer pressure and glitzy media campaigns.   It breaks my heart a little to know that as young as eight, girls are already picking apart their own bodies, holding themselves up against unattainable perfection.

It makes me afraid.  Lately, as she steps out of the shower, Greta will stick her belly out comically far, and ask "What would you say if my belly looked like this?  Would you tell me I'm fat?"

Fat isn't a word we have ever used in our house. Even during my diet, we carefully avoided the f-word. I try my best not to let her see me gazing critically at my own body.  I never let her hear me disparage my own looks.  But who am I kidding?  I fall for the same ideals she does.  Why else would I spend so much on wrinkle creams?

She will run her hand over her impossibly tight, muscular belly, and tell me her stomach isn't as flat as so-and-so's.  

I swallow my fear and ask her what she means.  "My friend Melissa talks about how fat her tummy is all the time.  But her stomach is smaller than mine, so I must be fat, too?"

Oh, God, I think.  It's starting. 

"I want to show you something," I say.  We sit down at my laptop and Google "air brushing before and after".  Her mouth drops open as she points and says, "LOOK!  They made her neck longer!  And her boobs are bigger! And her butt is smaller!" 

It's a slippery slope, though.  Even as I part the curtain and show her what goes on behind the scenes to create images of perfection designed to make us feel badly about ourselves so we'll buy more product, I'm showing her that the world values long necks, big boobs and small butts.

"Do you think these women look better like that?" I ask.

She stares at the pictures for a while.  "No," she says, firmly. "They look too skinny. And like big, awkward birds or something."

"We'll have to keep talking about this," I say.  "Women spend a lot of time thinking about how they look. I do it sometimes, too. Instead of appreciating all that is beautiful about our bodies, we pick it apart. I hope you will keep talking to me about how you feel about yourself, even if you know I'm always going to tell you you are beautiful just the way you are."

She nods. "Is that why you always say that?  Because you want me to be happy about myself, and not sad?"

"Yes," I smile. "There are all these images our there that just aren't real, and it makes me sad that they can make us feel like somehow we aren't beautiful because we don't look like something that never existed in the first place."

~~~~

Later, we're walking in the mall.  As we pass the Victoria's Secret store, she points to the life-size and scantily clad advertisement hanging in the front window and says, "Look, Mom!!  False Advertising!!!'

Score one for Mom.

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:

The Rules According to Greta

Ah, the world of an 8 year old girl.  Here are the rules if you want entry into her room.  Can you tell she lives with a 5 year old boy?

1) NO eating.
2) NO picking your nose.
3) NO farting.
4) Don't be mean to anyone.
5) You have to like penguins and pie.
6) No parents and boys.
7) No burping.
8) Don't put Finn's BeBe (his saliva-covered blanket) on my bed.
9) No peeing and pooing.
10) No sitting in the little chair.
11) Don't say bad words.
12) If you break three rules you can never come in my room again.
13)  Have Fun!

Beginnings

As I slide the last warm curler from her hair, I step back to admire the long dark brown curls cascading down her back.  A sigh hitches in my throat as I think back to her three year old self, when - desperate for some girly hair to play with - I would scrunch what little hair she had into ponytails that jutted straight off her head.

I sweep up the curls and secure them in a pearly white barrette.  Greta looks bashfully at her reflection in the mirror.   "That looks so pretty, Momma," she whispers.  "Wow."

She juts her chin up and shakes her head.  The curls sway to and fro. 

"You look beautiful," I choke.  

Color blooms in her cheeks and she casts her eyes to the floor, but she is smiling from ear to ear.

We're preparing for her First Communion later this afternoon.   The past few days have been a whirlwind of shopping, cleaning and checklists.   As she steps into her white dress, I take a moment to soak her in.

It goes so fast, I think. 

Two years ago she still had all her baby teeth, and now only one remains, loose and stubbornly jutting forward, refusing to come out.   It mocks me, this last remnant of her babyhood.

She slips her feet into her sandals, and I clip little white fabric flowers into her hair. 

"Let me get a good look at you," I smile.  She spins for me, and the dress swishes around her legs.   This long-limbed beauty before me takes me breath away.

~~~~~

The other night I perched on a stool in a steamy bathroom, quizzing her in preparation for a geography exam while she showered.

"What is the largest mountain range in Europe," I shout over the noise of the rushing water.

"The Alps!" she shouts back.  "Give me a harder one!"

"Name two landmarks in Asia!"

"The Taj Mahal, and the Great Wall of China!"  she replies immediately.  "And the biggest river is the Yangtze!"

Images of her little chubby self splashing in the tub, laughing at the bubbles, flash through my mind.  Now I'm quizzing her on world geography.

She giggles on the phone with friends, dribbles a soccer ball effortlessly past a defensive line and writes in a diary every night.    She pulls her hand from mine when we walk through parking lots, casting her eyes about to see if any of her friends are around.   

She is growing up.

I feel perched at the beginning of something - the next beginning.  There are so many beginnings, aren't there? 

~~~~~

That night, after the ceremony and celebration, I pull her aside and tell her I have a special gift for her.   She rips off the paper to reveal a pretty gold box adorned with handmade paper flowers*.   

"It's a God Box," I explain.   "If you're worried or anxious, or you have something you need help with, or want to pray about, you write it on a piece of paper and put it in the God Box.   It helps God help you."

She runs her fingers over the flowers and smiles.  "Thank you, Momma," she says.   I love that she still calls me Momma.   "Can I put things in there that I'm excited about, too?"

"Of course," I reply.  "You can talk to God about anything."

Later, as I read a story to Finn, she scribbles something on a piece of scrap paper, folds it into a tiny square and places it carefully in the God Box.   "It's something I'm both nervous and excited about," she says.  "Do I have to tell you what it is?"

"Of course not," I reply. 

She smiles.  "I'll probably tell you about it soon," she says.  "But right now it's between me and God."

I'm letting her go bit by bit, I think, but she'll never be alone. 

I lean over and give her a kiss, completing the nightly ritual we have done since she was a baby.   My heart aches for the day when this may change.    I smell her cherry blossom hair and stroke her cheek.

"I'm so proud of you, you know," I whisper.

"I know," she says. 

*God Box handmade by my talented friend Catherine.  Her Etsy shop, Ellis Lynn Studios, is here.

**Black & White photos by my brother, and professional photographer, Rob Strong.