Underbelly

I have a scar on my belly.

It is from the feeding tube I had, at the worst of the cancer treatments, when my throat was so ravaged by radiation even swallowing water was painful.

It's a small, round hole, about four inches above my belly button. It looks like a bullet wound.

Three years ago this hole was punched into my stomach.  It was made to sustain me, to give me life-giving nutrients. Without it the treatment would have been too much for my body to bear.  I hated it then, and I have avoided looking at it ever since.

It's on my soft white underbelly, and it makes me feel exposed, fragile and barely tethered to the world.

So, I ignored it. I filed it away in the mental morass where all the messages my body sends me go, into a dusty, overlooked and overstuffed file cabinet full of uncomfortable truths and feelings.

I prefer to live from the neck up.  I squeeze all experiences through the filter of thought. Emotions - especially the uncomfortable ones - are carefully strained, compared, analyzed and then meticulously explained.

I like my mind. I'm comfortable there. It makes me feel in control.

There are sound reasons to ignore my body. It makes me uncomfortable, what with all its imperfections, cumbersome functions and tendency to betray my carefully constructed illusion of control.

It screams at me to pay attention, particularly my gut. That's where I carry all the really uncomfortable shit: fear, conflict, anxiety, grief and sadness.  My insides curl into a tight, painful ball whenever I experience anything unwanted or uncomfortable, and my brain swoops in and madly begins explaining away.

Turning my focus from the ticker-tape of my mind to my body makes me squirm.

Another uncomfortable truth: the things that make me squirm are the most deserving of attention. My poor, overlooked, ignored body has carried my hardest truths, and it is the gatekeeper to my most vulnerable, authentic self.

And so, with as much compassion as I can muster, I practice turning my attention to the sacred messages it contains.

We are hardwired to protect our soft white underbelly. Exposing it triggers an ancient danger message, which in turn triggers the freeze, fight or flight response.

We aren't running from saber-toothed tigers or woolly mammoths anymore, but our brain doesn't know that, nor does it particularly care.  It responds to any perceived threat like it always has: avoid at all costs.

Addiction, and all forms of escape, are coded into that avoidance message.  There are so many ways to avoid: workaholism, perfectionism, the internet and the numbing effects of alcohol or drugs are but a few of the most beloved ways to hide.

In recovery I can't afford to ignore the woolly mammoths that come lumbering out of the morass. And so, I turn towards instead of away.

In the past, I have turned towards pain with my mind, but not with my body. Facing pain feels a lot safer as a mental exercise.  When I feel the vibrations of hoof beats thundering down the path, the last thing I want to do is unfurl, lie down and feel them come.  I would much, much rather just think about it.

My cancer lived in my body, and the deep fear this experience instilled in me lives there, too. I have written and talked about my cancer experience, but I haven't felt it.  My relapse taught me that what I avoid will, eventually, bring me down.

And so, I place my hand over the scar on my belly. I feel the softness, the vulnerability it contains. I listen to its message.

I feel the truths wash over me: you are deeply, primordially scared, Ellie. You are traumatized by your cancer experience; it plunked your mortality right into your lap, and this made returning to the land of the quotidian very, very hard.  You relapsed over it. You turned and you ran, as hard and as fast as you could.  

And then, this:   You are flawed and imperfect and wondrously alive. This tissue thin skin reminds you of the tenuousness of life, which is a truth whether you had cancer or not. 

I feel a loosening deep inside, a forgiveness, a compassion. I honor what the scar represents, which is another chance, a second umbilical cord that tethers me back to life, instead of away from it.

With one hand over my scar, and one hand on my heart, I feel my strong, steady heartbeat and I let the fear come.  I slip out of the world of the mind, and into my body. Cancer made me feel my body had betrayed me, when in fact the opposite is true. My mind is the only organ capable of betrayal.

That scar? It's not a wound. It's a doorway.

The Hallway

You know that expression, the one that says "God doesn't close one door without opening another one"?

I've never particularly liked it - it felt too much like a Band-Aid over a bullet hole, like plastering a bumper sticker over an openly bleeding wound.

Of course it's true, like most over-used sayings.

The part that isn't mentioned, though, is the hallway.  The one I find myself standing in right now,
one door firmly shut behind me, but the new door remains out of sight, at the other end of a shadowy journey I can't define.

I spend a lot of time by myself. I can't drive, and so I leave the house only with help, and only when necessary.  It's amazing how much of my identity was wrapped around the woman-who-did-stuff.  I used to go non-stop, all day - rushing to and from appointments and errands and business engagements and housework, and making dinner, and activities ...and, and, and.

What I have learned is the vast majority of all that rushing around was unnecessary.  Life just felt more comfortable when I didn't stop moving.  I would never simply sit and think, or pray, or breathe.  When I did these things the feelings would start to come -the fear, anxiety and uncertainty I felt at the core of my being - and so I'd go someplace.  Like Target. Or Michael's. Or Stop & Shop.  I would lose myself in the mundane hum of normalcy, mindlessly pushing my cart up and down aisles, making hundreds of tiny decisions so I could avoid thinking about the bigger ones.

What happened, when I stopped - well, let's get real .... when I was forced to stop - was all the feelings came to the surface.  I could no longer dodge the reality of my fear.  I don't numb it from the inside-out with alcohol, and I don't numb it from the outside-in with labels I affix to myself to validate who I am.

I am slowly peeling away all those labels, and its scary.  I pick away at their sticky edges - Wife, Mother, Writer, Daughter, Blogger, Alcoholic, Cancer Survivor, Sister, Friend.

Every major way I defined myself has changed.  I no longer lose myself by slipping into the characters I assembled to feel better about myself through your eyes. 

Now, when I push the cart up and down the aisles, I don't feel like I fit anywhere, and it's uncomfortable.  The Moms I talk to jostle about, clutching their car keys and dashing off to the activities I can no longer take my kids to.  They talk about the husband I no longer have.  The family dinner I am no longer preparing.  Planning the family vacation I no longer go on. 

All of the major relationships I have in my life are changing, evolving. I have taken a giant step back from everything that used to define me, before.  My work. My family. My marriage. My social life. My writing.

I long, sometimes, for the way my life used to be, before the weight of all those self-affixed labels crushed me.  When my biggest problem of the day was how to fit it all in - get one kid to soccer and the other to CCD and get to the grocery shop and start dinner.  When my brain was so crammed with my To-Do list - my businesses, my family, my husband and friends - that I didn't have to think about myself.

I know I can't go back there.  I know this hard stop is in my life for a purpose.  I squirm in the silence, in the calm.  I'm great in a foxhole.  It's the lulls that scare me.

I suffer when I resist the reality of what is, as opposed to what was or what might be.  I am in the most pain when I scream and kick against all those closed doors, those maladaptive coping mechanisms - my people pleasing, my co-dependency, my self-medicating with alcohol or work.

I can't even hide from myself in my marriage anymore.  I am not Mrs. Anybody.  I am just me.  

When I can let go, when I can just stand still in this dark hallway and just be, I feel fleeting moments of peace. 

I am mourning the loss of the blueprint, though.  The one I so carefully drafted for how my life was supposed to look, like a perfect holiday card.  The one that made me feel as though I was in control of my destiny, although of course I never was.

I don't have any blueprint anymore.  Every pre-conceived notion I had - every label - is torn and tattered.

Now I stand alone, peeling back the labels, feeling naked and vulnerable without their papery armor.  I stand shivering in the Damn Hallway, waiting for God to crack open the next door.   So far, He hasn't.  He is making me wait. 

He is making me put up boundaries, ask for help, sit with myself awhile.

And so, I do.


 

On Simplicity, Serenity and Struggle

I find myself in a tug-of-war.  I love writing in this space, and I miss it.

Following the chaos of my relapse(s) and subsequent 90 days of treatment, I vowed to take a break from living my life so publicly.  I have been doing serious thinking about the role blogging plays in my life, in my recovery.  I have more questions than answers.

I still receive numerous emails from people who identify with my story, have been helped in some way by my words. People offer bits of their own struggles, their own triumphs, and it comforts me, makes me feel less alone. 

I don't have regrets, because despite everything I continue to believe that being open brings more gifts to me than being closed. When I share some of my vulnerabilities with the world, the blessings I receive back are beyond measure.  I am long past worrying about judgment, censure or sideways glances on the soccer field.

This blog has been, in large part, about my addiction and recovery story. But I also wrote about motherhood, creativity, advocacy, balance and family.

The past six months have shown me that I do not need to share all the intimate details of my journey. Some things are meant for the sacred intimacy of real-life: family, close friends and recovery people.  

I have focused on living a quiet, simple life. I stepped away from the day-to-day of running Shining Strong, I took a hiatus from my jewelry businesses and from blogging.

My main focus has been on self-care and my family.  My kids are my priority - after my recovery, of course, because without my recovery I will lose everything.

I find myself in an in-between space. There are lots of changes happening in my life, and I ache to write about them.  But it's not just my story to tell.  What I say here impacts my kids, my husband, my family.  

Because I have shared my struggles here, I am stopped often - even from people I barely know - who look me in the eye and ask me, in a heartfelt manner - how are you?  

I don't know what to say anymore.  I am someone who shares; I find comfort in connecting with people.  I want to be truthful, but I find myself uncharacteristically speechless.  

I struggle with the balance between what is private and answering authentically. It feels shallow simply saying, "I'm fine!  And you?"

So what to do about here?  In the land of One Crafty Mother?  I realize, looking back, that I have never been untruthful or misleading here.  I have written as authentically as I could.  But there is a kind of safety in crafting words to describe my life to the unseen masses.  It's the parts I didn't even have access to myself - the pain, the depression, the grief and anxiety - that got me in the end. Writing is powerful, but it can allow me to skip rocks over the really hard stuff, even as I believe I am digging deep.

So here is what I can say:  I am okay. I have an incredible relationship with my kids, and for this I am beyond grateful.  My recovery is solid. I am able to live in acceptance and surrender and keep it in the day, with lots of prayer, meditation and support.  

Recently I re-opened my online jewelry shops, but I haven't been marketing them aggressively. Like sinking into a hot bath, I am slowing reintegrating into creating again.  It feels good.  I am writing a lot on the side, away from the public eye. It is healing.

I am smack dab in the middle of a fantastic recovery community; I reach out for help.  I stay active, present and involved.  I lean into my feelings, and share them face-to-face with the unbelievable support network I have right here in front of me.

I am also not okay. My husband and I are separating. I won't get into the details, because it isn't my story to tell.  It's our story. It will always be our story, no matter what happens in the end.  We are working together with love and respect for each other, and that's a lot.  That isn't to say it's not hard - man, is it hard, but I find that anger, resentment and fear block my contact with God.  It's simpler to live in compassion and faith. Well, maybe not simpler, but certainly more serene.

I know that God's got us, that we need to row the boat but that He is steering. I know I will learn and stretch and grow. 

Our little family has been through a lot in the past three years, and a lot of it revolves around my issues: the death of my Dad, my cancer, my depression/anxiety, my relapse, my absence during my treatment.  And now our separation.  

I find myself waiting for things to settle down, for life to return to normal again.  I find myself grappling for a foothold, wanting to shake answers out of the Universe because I want to know, dammit, what is going to happen.  

When I do this, when I live in the land of expectation, I suffer.  When I pry my white knuckles off the steering wheel, surrender and ask for help, I am calm and steady.  I know now that this is the only power I have over anything: how I metabolize my world.   

I have the power to let go.  

On Fear, Ego and Gratitude. With a Cameo by Queen Latifah.

I used to think that what made me different from everyone else was my fear.

Fear of just about everything - not fitting in was at the top of the list. I didn't realize what a fruitless goal fitting in actually is, because the bar is always moving.  Am I supposed to be fashionable like her? Brave like him? Popular like them? Athletic? Thin? Soulful? Smart?

Like a chameleon, I would shape shift to fit in with whoever I was talking to, while a silent ticker tape ran in my head: does this person like me? Am I fitting in? 

It's exhausting.

I was afraid of rejection, abandonment, vulnerability.  I thought that if I didn't look like I had my shit together that everything would fall apart. I believed that people loved the version of me I had shown them, and that if they knew about the vast emptiness inside me, if they knew about the fear, they would run for the hills.

Automatically, anything that came from deep inside me was rejected as inadequate.

I filled this hole inside me with anesthesia for so long.  Motherhood scared me, so I numbed it out with wine. Crowds of people scared me, so I numbed it out with a false extroverted persona.   I was simultaneously afraid of being ignored and being recognized.  Nothing -and I mean nothing - was ever good enough.

Enough. There's a concept. Having enough. Being enough.   For a long time, I defined "enough" from the outside in ... and not surprisingly the feeling of having enough or being enough eluded me.

What I didn't know is that everyone is afraid, whether they know it or not.  We're conditioned to hide it, to appear put together, sure of ourselves.  Social media exacerbates this phenomenon -- you don't see many Facebook updates about how bored, messy, afraid, angry or resentful we are.

I'm still afraid a lot, except now I don't have my anesthesia.  Facing fear naked is, well, scary.  Sobriety robbed me - gradually - of the ability to fake it, to appear fine when I'm not.  Little by little, I began to recognize that my fear of life was incredibly selfish, ego run rampant.  The world simply doesn't care about my fine-ness as much as I'd like to believe it does.

Cultivating the courage to be open, vulnerable, was the key to freedom from fear, it turns out, but when I began blogging, dumping my imperfections and fears out on the page for the world to see, I was terrified.  I would walk through the supermarket convinced I knew what everyone was thinking about me:  there she goes, the alcoholic. I'm so glad I'm not like her. 

How self centered is that? 

Little did I know that being open and vulnerable would bring people in, not send them away.

I went to the blogging conference BlogHer in Chicago this past week.  As I wrote about in my last post, I was feeling fear and unworthiness about reading a post of mine at the Voices of the Year community keynote in front of thousands of people.  My old nemesis fear was riding shotgun, fueling my fear-based ego:  you're unworthy of this, people will mock you, ignore you, talk behind your back. You're not as good as the other readers, not as important a blogger. 

Sitting behind the stage, waiting for my turn to read, I was lost in self, in fear.  Every cell in my body screamed at me: you're SMALL.

So I prayed.  I got out of my own head. I looked around at my fellow readers and felt such joy for them, and it hit me: what's wrong with feeling joy for myself?  

Gratitude overwhelmed me as I prayed:  I get to have this amazing experience. It doesn't define me in any way, it's just a really amazing thing I get to do. 

Living closed off in fear is so much harder than living open and vulnerable.  So many amazing people have come into my life - people I used to peek at from my self-perceived sideline and think: wow, she's got it all together.  Now some of these people are good friends - soul mates, even - and we are broken and beautiful together.   I try to fill that emptiness inside me with acceptance - first of myself, then of others.  Jealousy or resentment let me know that fear is taking control again.  Feelings of unworthiness make me examine my ego, tell me that I'm closing off instead of opening up.

When I took the stage that night I felt only peace and gratitude.  I took a deep breath and read my piece as though I was the only person in the room.

Reading "Behind the Veil"

Because that's who I write for:  me.

Of course, this was pretty awesome, too:

Queen Latifah emcee'd the Voices of the Year

How To Do Anything.

My daughter is learning to write. Not just I-can-spell-things-correctly, but really write.

Her awesome 4th grade teacher has them writing all the time. About anything and everything. He knows that the more you do something, the more you'll drop self-doubt and fear.

She padded up to me a few nights about with an essay she had written.  I knew she was proud of it, otherwise she would never have shown me, but she downplayed it when she asked me to read it, saying, "this isn't very good, I don't think."

On her face eagerness and trepidation fought it out.

I've learned not to be overly enthusiastic in my responses to practically-no-win situations like these. If I chirp, "It's amazing! Perfect! There's nothing not to like about this!"  her chin trembles and she says - every time - "you don't like it."

If my response is too moderate - not enough chirp - the trembling chin appears and she says "you don't like it."

So I read it with my own share of trepidation, not about whether or not it's good, but how to help this kid believe in herself, to understand that it's all about the effort, not the outcome.

I gave her a smile and said, "I really like it. Especially the beginning. It really made me want to read more." 

She beamed.  "That's called an engaging beginning. It's important because it's the first thing someone reads so you don't want it to be boring."

"Sometimes I write my beginnings at the end, after I've finished the rest of it," I said.  "Or I'll just write a boring beginning and make it more interesting after I've finished it."

"You can re-write your beginnings?" she asked, her eyes wide. "That's cool!"

~~~~~

I've re-written so many of my beginnings. In recovery, people often say "you get to write your own endings", and I do love that concept, but to me it's more like re-writing your beginning.  Because we don't have that much control over our endings, although we love to feel like we do.  It's the beginnings that we have control over.

Putting a foot forward onto a new path is terrifying. We squint our eyes, desperately trying to see over the horizon.  It's much easier to venture onto a brand new path if we know we'll be successful.  Or safe.  If we are certain there will be laughter and joy and peace along the way.  We believe there will be hardships - bandits hiding in the bushes, mountains to climb, potholes to fall in. It's easy to believe in the obstacles. Where we struggle is with the unavoidable uncertainty that we don't know where it will lead.  All we really know is what the path looks like right under our feet. 

Here's the truth: there will be both. There will be bandits, and potholes and seemingly insurmountable obstacles. Maybe some of these obstacles won't be surmountable, and then - gulp - you'll have to start on yet another new path to get where it is you're heading.  There will be smooth, pebbled paths, beautiful vistas and rest stops, too.  That's life.

Sobriety is like this. So is fighting cancer. Or losing weight. So is starting a new business venture or sending a kid off to the first day of school. Or college. Or anywhere.  We want to run ahead, smoothing out the path, shooing away bandits and hacking easy paths around mountains.

We want someone to guarantee our own success, too. No matter how old we are. We want our own path-smoother.

We don't need a path-smoother, though.  We need a walking buddy, or a stranger on the path who hands us water or offers a place to rest.  Those people can be found in the most unexpected of places, too, if we're looking.

Cheerleaders are great to have - all "sis-boom-bah!" and "you can do it!", but we also need a few navigators, people who have walked the path before, or who aren't afraid to tell us we've lost our way.

I've been lost many times. I've doubted myself more than I haven't.  It was in the stumbling that I figured out that I wasn't on the road meant for me.

More than a few people have said to me when I am talking to them about losing weight, or getting sober, or starting a new venture or fighting cancer, 'that's easy for you to say, you did it already."

But I haven't.  I'm just doing.  To lose weight I had to be overweight. To be sober I had to be drunk. To start a business I had to have nothing. To beat cancer I had to have cancer.  I'll gain weight, my sobriety will wobble (or fall), my businesses fail, my cancer will lie in wait, or go away.  I don't control any of that. I haven't written the endings to any of these things, yet.  Just lots and lots of beginnings.

Wherever you are in life, whatever you are facing - sobriety? weight loss? a move? a divorce? starting (or ending) a business venture? - the path is long and twisty, and your choices are few: lie down and give up or take the first step.

That first step? That's you, writing your own beginning.

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.

Hope for Calle - We Will Never, Ever Give Up

Let me  introduce you to Calle.

Caroline (Calle as she is known to her friends) was very excited to start kindergarten, but she began the school year by coming home very tired each day, but then most of her classmates came home the same way. She started exhibiting some varied symptoms - squinting to see, slurring a bit, falling more often than usual and having drastic mood swings. 

Her mom took her to a few doctors who all agreed that these symptoms were simply due to the fatigue from her new kindergarten routine. One afternoon in November, Calle was in her dancing class and began to have trouble standing up. Her parents rushed her into Boston Children's Hospital where they immediately ran some tests including an MRI.

In the wee hours of the morning, Calle's parents were brought into a room where they found several doctors waiting to speak with them. They were completely unprepared for what they heard next. 

The MRI clearly showed the cause of Calle's problems. Calle was diagnosed with DIPG (Diffuse Intrinsic Pontine Glioma) which is an inoperable malignant brain tumor located at the brain stem. Calle's dad asked the oncologist how bad this diagnosis was and the answer he received was "the worst". DIPG is a disease that affects children usually between the ages of 5 and 9. The life expectancy is less than 1 year and the survival rate is 2%. Calle's prognosis is quite dire, but thousands of people (from so many places!) have been continuously praying for a miracle.

This Sunday, June 9th, is the PMC South Shore Kids Ride for Cancer.

Many of you are familiar with the Pan Mass Challenge, where teams ride bikes across Massachusetts to raise funds and awareness to fight cancer. 

The PMC South Shore Kids Ride is a way kids can participate in raising awareness and funds, too - except they don't ride across the state to do it!  :)   The ride is in Hingham, MA, at the Wompatuck State park.  There are several loops kids can choose to ride, depending on their age and ability.

We have put together a team for Calle - called, of course, Team Calle.  If you are local and have a kid between the ages of 3-15 you can sign up to ride for Calle.  Her Aunt Sharon is Team Captain, and her brother Connor is riding.  We are putting this team together without much time - because of extenuating circumstances we were only able to form the team on Friday.  PLEASE - if you're local - sign your child up to ride for Team Calle.  Registration is only $25.  The ride starts at 9am, but riders need to be there to register by 8:15am (keep reading to see the link on where to register).

Connor is riding the "Challenger" loop (4 miles), but when you register you will see other options for your child to ride (easier and harder - the only loop that allows training wheels is the "Toddler" loop).

If you can't ride but want to donate - all funds go to Dana Farber's Jimmy Fund - there is a page on this site just for Team Calle, and you will see a place to click to donate or click on "join this team" to sign your child on to ride for Calle.   To view the link to Calle's page, click HERE.

Most people are touched by cancer directly or indirectly at some point in their lives.  Kids, especially, can be left feeling powerless in the face of this disease. 

But this day?  This day is all about how they CAN help, how they CAN make a big difference.  Please, please register your child to ride if you're local, and donate if you're not.  

You can also register to volunteer (they are desperate for Route Guides) by clicking on this link HERE.

Here is a video made for Calle - you can also read more about her story at the website Hope for Caroline.





We will never, ever give up.

Routine Scan is an Oxymoron

I lie on the cool plastic table, head strapped down,  an IV piercing my arm.  Moments later the contrast dye courses through my veins, bringing with it the now-familiar feeling of burning throughout my core.

"Hold still, don't swallow," chirps the pleasant voice over the sound system.

What is it about someone telling me not to swallow that makes me NEED to swallow?

The CT scan machine clicks and whirs, and I slide slowly through its dilated eye.  Usually I close my eyes, but today I opened them, observing with an odd detachment the lens zooming by, photographing my insides slice by slice.

This machine is here to help me, I think, repeating the mantra over and over.

I'm at the hospital for my 6 month head and neck CT scan.  "Routine Scan" it's called, although for anyone with cancer there is never, ever such a thing as a routine scan.

More clicks and whirs and I slide slowly out of the machine.  As always, I scrutinize the technician's face for any sign of trouble.  Is her brow a little furrowed?  Maybe she just has gas.  She is a pro, though, and quickly smiles and tells me to head on up to my doctor's office for initial results.

As I sit, and sit, and sit in the dreading head-and-neck oncology waiting room, I peruse my fellow soldiers.  Many of them are in obvious discomfort physically - raw sutures, drainage bags, yellowed bandages, missing parts of ears and jaws and necks.

Some, like me, look normal, and I know their discomfort is tucked neatly away on the inside.

After fifteen minutes of waiting, I am thoroughly convinced there is a team of specialists hovered around my scan slides, scratching their heads and saying, "we've never seen it spread this fast before ... you did say you got all the cancer?"

Five more minutes and I'm a certifiable wreck, although I'm a pro at this now, too, so you'd never know it by looking at my face, which reflects only boredom.

Finally I'm called into the office, and the doctor doesn't waste any time to say the scan looked good.  My shoulders fall about a foot, released tension flowing off me in waves.  He tells me the scans still need to go to radiology for further screening and to call next week if I haven't heard from him.

My shoulders inch up just a tad -- not quite scott free, but almost.

He scopes my nose and my throat and feels the scar tissue on my neck.  I still have no feeling down the whole left hand side of my head and neck where the surgery was.  He tells me this is "routine".

Snapping off his gloves he says, "Looks good.  We'll have another routine scan in 6 months, but I think this time we'll include your chest area, just to be sure."

I nod mutely, swallowing the "WHAT DO YOU MEAN? JUST TO BE SURE OF WHAT?" that threatens to burst out of my mouth.  He means just to be sure there isn't any cancer there.  Why belabor the point?

I cast one more glance around the waiting room as I schedule my next appointment.  It has filled up some -- a woman on a stretcher, her young son holding her hand.   A woman with both eyes bandaged shut.  A man with oxygen flowing in through his nostrils and half his jaw missing.

My fellow fighters.

To us, there is never going to be another "routine" medical exam again.  Ever.   I lean into this knowledge, resist the urge to run away from it, screaming.

It's just how it is, now.  Unroutine is our new routine.

On Living.

This story touched me so much I have to share it here.

Please watch this video when you have 25 minutes to focus, listen and absorb.  And you may want to have tissues at the ready.

But this kid? He's going to teach you about living, not dying.

"Try and make people happy.  Maybe you have to learn it with time, maybe you have to learn it the hard way, but as long as you learn it, you're going to make the world a better place".

~Zach Zobiech 

As as person in long term recovery from cancer and alcoholism, I have my share of days where I shake my fists at the heavens and ask, "why me?"

Those are not good days. I have zero control over the fact that I have these two life long diagnoses.  Sometimes I get filled with fear, anger and regret.  I wallow in self-pity.  

And when I get this way?  I'm more miserable.  Little by little, I'm learning to lean into the hardships - actually, more than that - I'm learning to embrace them.  I learn so much more from my difficulties.  Without them, I wouldn't have most of the blessings I have in my life today.  And I have so many blessings. 

I'm at a point now where I can say that I'm grateful for cancer. I'm grateful for alcoholism.  Because without these experiences I would forget to treasure life.  

Of course this doesn't mean I treasure every second of every day.  I don't think anyone can do that, can they?  But instead of playing the no-winner game of "what if?" or "why me?", when I'm able to lean into emotional pain, to wrap my arms around the Suffering Me and tell her I love her ... then I'm not owned by pain (thank you, Courtney, for our conversation last night that gave me this beautiful image).  It simply becomes part of what makes me, well, me.

Thank you, Zach Zobiech, for your light, your life and your example.  

You live on and on and on in all the people you touched.  Including me.

Zombie Cells and An Old Soul

I struggle with how much I can write about my kids.  They are 10 and 7 now, and while they don't object to me talking about them on the blog, yet, when something scary or sensitive comes up I don't really know where the line is.

When Greta was grappling with anxiety I posted about it, once, and received so much support and helpful advice, that my heart-gut wants to post about what is going on with her now.  But my heart-gut also says it's not my story to tell.

My mind has gone around and around and I've decided to write about it, because it's on my heart and I need to share.

Greta had a suspicious mole removed from her back a couple of weeks ago, and now it's come back as "abnormal cells with moderate to severe indication of melanoma".

GULP.

We're getting lots of advice from her dermatologist and friends about exactly what this means, how concerned we should be.  We know for sure she'll have to go back and have more removed, the usual procedure for anything suspicious.

But the "M" word? For my 10 year old girl?  It makes me want to curl up in a ball and ask someone else to be the parent.

Apparently this is genetic - not sun exposure. When she was 3 days old she developed a large mole and the pediatrician looked at me gravely and said "you're going to have to watch her skin closely ... this isn't usual for such a young baby".

So I'm crazy about sunscreen, sun shirts, doing everything in my limited power to protect her.

But DAMMIT. There is only so much I can do, of course.

Hopefully the silver lining will be that she will checked regularly, her whole life, and this will mean nothing scary can get out of hand.

But I don't WANT that for my kid, Universe.  We've spent the past year and a half in Cancer Land. I'm always going to be a denizen of that realm, and it's taking me a long time and a lot of hard work to come to terms with it for myself.

Please, please, may my daughter never have to live there, too.

This doesn't mean she has cancer or she'll ever get cancer.  My Mom heart soars into terror, knowing how aggressive melanoma is, even as I realize I'm overlaying my own traumatic past year and a half over her. She's not me. I know this.  But if I could jump in front of this bullet for her - even it's a rubber bullet that will only bruise her - I would.

This doesn't help her anxiety, either.  She's too intuitive, too nuanced, to believe my reasonably voiced assurances.  "This could be bad, right, Momma?" she asks, tears flowing down her cheeks.

"It's not anything right now, sweetie," I answer.  She asks more about cancer, and I try to make it simple.  "Cancer is a really scary word, I know," I say. "But all cancer really means is cells that change, and cells change for all different reasons.  And you have strong cells in your body that fight off that bad cells, too.  You are young and healthy and you don't need to be afraid", I say, convincing myself as much as her.

She is quiet a moment, and then she says, "Like Plants vs. Zombies?  The video game? I have some Zombie cells and the Good Plant Cells are fighting them off but sometimes they can't get them all and then they have to take the Zombie cells out?"

After my own stunned silence I say, pushing back tears, "Yes.  It's exactly like that".  Oh, my wise old soul little girl, I don't say.

Some prayers our way would be appreciated. I'm working on keeping my feet planted firmly on the earth, not letting the awfulizing cycle of bad-scenarios take up too much space in my head. 

This morning I watched her sprint like a gazelle down the soccer field, brown ponytail flying behind her, a big smile planted on her face as she lined up a seemingly impossible shot and BAM! -- she scored.   She high fived and hugged her team mates and looked over at us with a grin. There she is. I think.  My girl.  So vibrant and strong and full of life.

And today?  Today things are good.  If we stay in today step by step we'll work through this, like we always do.

The Faces In The Waiting Room

The doors to the elevator whoosh open, and the familiar scents and sounds of the 11th floor Head & Neck Surgical Oncology ward assault my senses. The piney-sweet smell of hospital cleaning fluids, tinged with something vaguely rotten, make me crinkle my nose.

Next to me a woman about my age lies on a stretcher, her neck swathed in bandages and a large surgical drain dangles out of a hole near her collarbone. I unconsciously finger the small white round scar left from my own drain, many months ago.

I tick back in my head and think: how long ago was that me lying there on a stretcher? A few minutes of pondering and I realize it is one year to the day - to the minute, actually - that I had completed the neck surgery that removed a stubborn lump of what we hoped were dead cancer cells and 23 of my lymph nodes.

I shudder, remembering the crippling fear and pain of those days. Waiting anxiously to hear if they got it all, lying helpless in the hospital moaning in discomfort.

One year. Whoa.

The orderly pushes the woman towards me, and I see soft tears quietly streaming down her cheeks. I yearn to grab her hand and tell her this is the worst part.  But maybe it isn't. Maybe she won't be lucky like I was and they couldn't get all her cancer.  I shoot a silent prayer her way, and turn the corner into the head & neck surgical oncology waiting room.  I'm here for a routine check-up, but my stomach is flip-flopping with butterflies. I haven't been here since Christmas, and have been having odd twinges of pain, some difficulty swallowing and increasing dryness in the back of my throat.  I don't know if this is normal or not.

The waiting room is a stark reminder of the ravages of head &  neck cancer. A man with most of his lower jaw missing writes a note to his wife on a little whiteboard. A woman struggles to speak to the receptionist through the hole in her throat.  All around me are people covered in bandages - over eyes, ears, necks and even entire heads.

I look down at my hands, wishing with all my heart I could be somewhere else.  I read yesterday that Roger Ebert's throat cancer came back, and I'm a nervous wreck.

I've been feeling good lately - physically, emotionally and spiritually.  I'm building my new Arbonne business, alongside my thriving jewelry business, and I wake up with a spring in my step every morning, eager to tackle the day.  If you had shown me a picture of my life today when it was me on that stretcher, I would not have believed what I saw.

I have gained all my weight back, and then some, but am working it down again with exercise, yoga and a 30 day fit kit program from Arbonne.  My veins course with healthy vitamins, supplements and proteins.  I have more energy than I can ever remember having.  I feel like I don't belong here, but I do.  I'm still a Cancer Person.

At the end of my treatment I remember thinking: I can't wait until cancer is firmly in my rear view mirror. Here I am, a year later, and I've learned something: cancer is never truly in your rear view mirror.  It's more like a shadow passenger in the back seat, mostly quiet and I think it may have gone, and then I'll hear a faint cough or shuffling of feet and I'll think:  oh yeah.  Cancer's back there.

I'm finally called into the exam room, and the doctor cheerfully asks me how I'm doing. My feet swing madly back and forth as he peers down into my throat, feels around with his gloved fingers, and mutters things like hmmmmm.

Hmmmmm is officially my least favorite sound.

I'm too scared to ask what he sees, and silently let him complete his exam.  He scribbles notes in my folder for what seems like ages, then snaps it shut and turns to me with a smile and says looks good!

A follow-up appointment that will include a CT Scan is scheduled for the end of May.

I rush out of the hospital and into the fresh spring air, feeling like a prisoner on a 10 week reprieve.

Driving home, I think of the faces in the waiting room, wondering what news they are getting today.  I realize I'm always going to be a face in that waiting room - my doctor says he'll follow-up with me "until he retires". He's in his late 40s.

I turn up the radio, roll down the windows and sing along as I drive down the highway.  Cancer settles into the back seat, hunkers down and goes quiet. At least for now.  

For Lisa

When someone is close to death it is easy to canonize them.

Nobody is a saint, of course. We're all flawed humans, full of fault lines.  It has always been my opinion, though, that the light shines brightest through the cracks.

She is dying.

I don't even want to type those words, still clinging to the fruitless hope that maybe it's not true.

But it is, and if there is one thing she has taught me, it's that acceptance brings peace. 

People always talk about "fighting" cancer, and I struggle with that imagery.  Cancer isn't a fight, not really.  A fight implies that there is an eventual winner. If the cancer wins in the end, does that mean the person lost?

I don't think so.

Cancer doesn't really end, ever. Even those in remission for years - decades, even - are never able to put cancer completely behind them.  Every ache, pain or twinge brings you right back to the precipice. Every doctor's appointment is a stark reminder that you are irrevocably different, now, permanently flagged as more endangered than your average patient.

The irony of being a patient doesn't escape me.  So much about cancer is about patience.  You wait for appointments. You wait for test results. Even in remission, a part of you is always waiting for the cancer to come back.

So what do you do? Fold up in fear?  Sometimes you do.  The only way through is to feel the knife blade of fear, stare it straight in the face and say: I'm moving forward anyway.

She moved forward. She did it with light, grace, humor and determination.  And acceptance. Boatloads of acceptance.

In my cancer support group we find a safe place to raise our fists to the heavens and say I'm so done with this.  We all nod in commiseration, wipe away tears of frustration, and then we move forward.  Together.

What she brought to us was a grounding grace, a notebook stuffed with information about her latest treatment as she stoically kept right on going, one foot in front of the other.  When one chemo stopped working, they tried another. And another. When it spread to her brain they did brain radiation.  When her lungs filled with fluid into the hospital she'd go for another procedure. When her heart weakened, they pulled back on treatment, only to start up again when she grew stronger.

She talked to us about all of this with peaceful determination. It took me a long time to figure out how serious her cancer is because she was so present, so calm.

I wasn't there for the early years after her diagnosis. I'm sure she fell apart at times, raised her fists to the heavens.  By the time I came into the picture, though, what I saw was acceptance. And with that acceptance came peace.

She celebrated her recent 50th birthday for an entire year. She travelled a lot, squeezing trips in between treatments. She laughed - oh, how she laughed.

She didn't teach me a thing about dying.  She taught me about living.   About moving forward no matter what, about accepting the seemingly unacceptable.

She didn't fight.  She simply kept going, no matter what, with acceptance and grace.

She is the bravest warrior I've ever met, and I will carry her light with me, always.

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.

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 Real Gifts of Christmas

This time last year I had just started chemo and radiation, and I probably would have been more scared if I knew what was coming, but I didn't, and that was a blessing. I ate and I ate and I ate because I knew that was coming to an end, and all in all it was a great Christmas.

I think.

I don't remember much.  Clearly I was in some kind of shock.  But there are pictures of us all smiling, so it must have been good.

There were Christmases I didn't remember because I drank too much, unable to entertain or enjoy life without a glass of liquid courage.

I am a sober woman now, and don't need alcohol to enjoy the holidays.

This Christmas I'm taking it slow and easy, enjoying every moment I can, trying not to get too stressed about work, or presents, or what to feed people, or if my house is perfect, and I'm mostly doing a good job.

My life is good. I am grateful.  I am in remission from cancer, I am sober, and my kids have stars dancing in their eyes.

I take a deep breath in, and let it out slowly.  Out with my breath goes stress, grief and fear.

I breath in deeply again, and in comes peace, joy, acceptance and serenity.

My yoga class instructor always ends with a meditative reading.  I'll share it with you, because it helps me put my heart where it needs to be. I can give these gifts because I am still here, and I am sober. And OH so grateful:

On the first day of Christmas, I gave to my true loves: The gift of my Undivided Attention.
On the second day of Christmas, I gave to my true loves: The gift of Enthusiasm.
On the third day of Christmas, I gave to my true loves: The gift of Creative Energy.
On the fourth day of Christmas, I gave to my true loves: The gift of Simple Seasonal Pleasures.
On the fifth day of Christmas, I gave to my true loves: The gift of Tenderness.
On the Sixth day of Christmas, I gave to my true loves: The gift of Good Cheer.
On the Seventh day of Christmas, I gave to my true loves: The Gift of Beauty.
On the Eighth day of Christmas, I gave to my true loves: The gift Communication.
On the Ninth day of Christmas, I gave to my true loves: The gift of Surprise.
On the Tenth day of Christmas, I gave to my true loves: The gift of Wonder
On the Eleventh day of Christmas, I gave to my true loves: The gift of Peaceful Surroundings.
On the Twelfth day of Christmas, I gave to my true loves: The gift of Joy.

Peace to you and yours this holiday season.

Love,

-Ellie

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

In Which I Behave Badly

I take a deep breath and try to calm myself.

It's one of those Sundays where everything seems to collide in just the wrong way. Both my husband and I are very busy with work. The kids are full of holiday craziness and visions of sugarplums and dancing about asking to decorate the tree, go shopping for presents, make a gingerbread house, play a game.

Our internet crashed. Actually it crashed right in the beginning of a movie date my husband and I desperately needed on Saturday night. We were all snuggled up under a blanket in front of a roaring fire and - ziiiiiiiip.  No more Meryl Streep and Tommy Lee Jones working on their marriage in Hope Springs.

It was only 8pm, but it was the final straw for me, and I went to bed. Sometimes that's the only way to end a day that is two steps forward and three steps back.

I have a confession to make (Mom - I'm sorry), but I can't stand decorating for Christmas. I love the end result, of course I do, but I'm not at my best schlepping boxes up from the cellar and wrangling with lights and my "is the tree straight" obsessed husband.  I simply don't enjoy it.  I don't  know how this happened, because my Mom is, hands down, the best Christmas decorator ever. No joke.

There, I got that off my chest. Feel free to criticize me all you want; it's just my truth.

Having to decorate becomes especially difficult when we're all so busy.  I think about priorities, how we're always going to be busy, and try to wrench myself back into the moment, but then I sneak off to finish a few orders and my printer breaks.

How do I handle this?

I have a complete and total foot-stomping tear streaked tantrum.  We're talking Toddler Tantrum.

Steve calmly steers me upstairs and tells me to lie down, take a few breaths, and come back down when I have composed myself, like I'm some kind of child.  Oh. Wait. Yeah.

I lie in my bed and stare angrily at the ceiling. It's too much, I think.  All the little details and permission slips and school performances and activities and play dates and homework and running a small business, and... and ... and ......

I close my eyes, stubborn tears still squeezing out from behind my squinched up eyelids.

One year ago I was gearing up to start chemotherapy and radiation. One year ago I would have done ANYTHING to have these petty little problems that aren't even problems.  I just have a terrible attitude because I want attention. I've been working my you-know-what off lately and the hamster wheel never stops and I just want someone to say "GREAT JOB, MOMMA!".

Now I know how Finn feels.  Sometimes bad attention is still attention.

I place my hands over my heart and count its beats; a trick I learned in my cancer support group, and in yoga.  I feel my life blood pulse through my fingers, and with each beat I say a little tiny prayer:  thank you.

Once my tears have dried and my heart and mind are back in the moment - this moment right here - I head downstairs, feeling blessed. Finally.

Sometimes The Universe Smiles

Please read to the end of this. There is a song you HAVE to hear. Plus this is kind of a cool story.

I have written several times about how much I adore Brene (pronounced "Bren-nay") Brown's writing and speaking, and how it has changed my life.

No joke.

Her TedX Houston talk went viral in 2010, when my blog was still in its infancy.  Watching this video was transformative for me, because I knew that writing vulnerably was helping me heal, and there was clear response from readers telling me it was helping them, too.

At that time I was writing about alcoholism and recovery, and I had no idea what was coming down the road: a weight loss journey of over 65 lbs that caused me to take a hard look at myself in uncomfortable ways, the sudden death of my father, and a tonsil cancer diagnosis.

I cannot put into words how cultivating the ability to try to be vulnerable and open about these difficult periods of my life saved me.  I truly trace it back to watching that video of Brene Brown bravely standing out in front of what she though would be a few hundred Houstonians, and ended up being the whole. entire. world.  She's a researcher - a PhD, not cut from the cloth of your average "inspirational speaker", and I don't  believe it was her intention to be inspiring.  She was simply sharing her experiences in a way she found interesting from a data perspective, and more importantly how it impacted her personally.

I identified with that, strongly.  I didn't set out on this blog to inspire anyone. It helped me to write about it, and if my words helped others that was a by-product, not an intention.

I had no idea where it would all lead, which I'm discovering is kind of the point. Trust your gut, talk to trusted friends, pray or meditate about it, do the next right thing and let go of the outcome. Pry your white-knuckled fingers off the damn steering wheel and take it moment by moment.  Most of the time it won't go where you planned, and that's likely a good thing.

Yesterday I went with my Mom to the MA Conference for Women, which was full of incredible speakers, including Deepak Chopra, Kristin Chenoweth, Arianna Huffington, Brene Brown and many more inspiring women.

There were also incredible round tables, and I got to sit and absorb advice from someone I admire greatly, who I'm getting to know as a friend, too,  Morra Aarons-Mele from the Mission List and Women Online. I admire her drive, heart and spirit so much, and she has a LOT to offer women everywhere.

I wrote recently how my mother wanted me to give a copy of my new book Let Me Get This Straight, to Brene Brown at the conference.  First of all, I thought she was out of her ever-loving mind, because how was I going to just "run into" Brene and shove my book in her face?  Not my style.  It felt arrogant and self-promotion-y and I'm so star-crossed about Brene I wasn't sure I'd get two words out of my mouth without crying or laughing like a lunatic, or something.

My Mom's response was "you just made me read this book Daring Greatly by Brene and now you won't do it?"

I knew she was right, but still didn't bring a copy of my book with me to the conference because I'm a big. fat. chicken.

My Mom, however, brought a copy, so when Brene sat down to sign books there I was about 10th in line with a copy of her book to sign for me, and my own little Charlie Brown book clutched in my hand (with an inscription by me telling her how much her work means to me).  Even as she signed a copy of her book for me I had no idea that the words, "And, if it's appropriate, can I give you a copy of my book?  It exists because you taught me how to be vulnerable, to Dare Greatly, and I'm eternally grateful".

Here's the thing about Brene Brown:  she is so totally not full of shit.  She gave me the most genuine smile, looked me dead in the eye, and said "I'd love a copy.  Thank you."

And then my Mom snapped a pic of one of the best moments of my life.  No joke:

Brene Brown holding my book! I'm giddy with Fan-Girl-Ness!

To me, this is the power of women coming together to support each other- even if she never reads it - she made me feel so good, and honored how much courage it took me to overcome feelings of inadequacy and rampant "who do I think I am's".   I will always be grateful to her for that.

At a wonderful cancer support group I go to called Women Moving Through Cancer (for people in remission) we talked this week about our dreams. Where do we want to take our lives? How do we want to make our mark?  I instantly though of Brene Brown. I think a LOT of us want to be Brene Brown.   I just want to embody her genuine spirit, her bravery, her willingness to share pieces of herself to help us all be a little braver, a little vulnerable, and share our experiences - no matter what they are - so we all know we're not alone.

Then the group leader asked us where we were in achieving our dream, our footprint in life.  It hit me that I'm  actually there, right now, and I don't have to be a world famous speaker or have a million readers (or any readers) to make that kind of impact.

Neither do you.

If we all come together as women (and men) and honor each other's vulnerability, bravery, truths and experiences, we're making the world a much less competitive, fast-paced, winner-takes-all kind of place.

Thank you, Brene, for planting this seed in me.  I'm having fun watching it grow - it has very little do to with me and everything to do with doing the next right thing and letting go of the outcome.

Beautiful things happen that way.  And sometimes?  Sometimes the Universe smiles.

The conference ended with a performance of "I Was Here" by Kristin Chenoweth of this gorgeous song.  I insist you listen to it. Please. It left me (and my Mom) in tears.  The good kind.