Failed Pregnancies, Fear and New Babies in Arms - TRIGGER WARNING

***Submitted by S

TRIGGER WARNING:  this post is about pregnancy loss

I don’t want to talk about being pregnant. 

My pregnancies were not particularly enjoyable experiences. I don’t want to talk about the swelling, the hip pain, or the hemorrhoids; the nausea, the enormous boobs, or the constant fatigue.

I don’t want to talk about the fear of loss, of how it felt to have my tiny baby swish inside me, while being afraid that something might pull us apart.

I don’t want to think about my friend's baby who died late in pregnancy when his umbilical cord wrapped too tightly around his neck, or of the babies who simply fall out through a weak cervix, too young to survive.

The three pregnancies my husband and I lost all happened very early- around week five. The doctor referred to them as “failed pregnancies,” and not miscarriages.

Two of these happened before our first child, Emberly, was conceived, and were for me more about the loss of the title of “mother,” than the actual loss of a child. For the small window of time that I saw two lines on the stick, I had the potential to become something great.

And then that potential was gone, washed down the toilet.

When I was pregnant with Emberly, part of me didn’t want a baby shower. I was afraid that something bad might happen. I didn’t want to have a room full of gifts that I might have to return, reminding me of how close I had come.

The part of me that held onto hope was bigger, though, and I did have one. Afterward, I set up the crib and put away the baby things. 

One friend had brought me some scented pouches that I put in Emberly’s closet. When I think about this time of waiting, with my swollen belly and the hope of new life kicking inside me, I see an empty room, sunlight filtering through the windows, a crib just waiting for a tiny newborn to take up residence, and I smell the warm and powdery sweetness of those pouches.

Emberly came. When the doctor handed her to me, wet, with a towel wrapped around her, she looked right at me. I touched her tiny purple fingers, and rubbed the rough towel against her soft skin to wipe off some of the wetness. I looked into the eyes of my daughter, and in that moment, became a mother.

Later, I birthed a son, Breckin, and became a new kind of mother. 

I have three sisters and no brothers, so I imagined having a boy would be difficult or strange. So far, it isn't. Breckin didn't look into my eyes, but he did started nursing the night he was born, and he and I were able to bond in a way that Emberly and I hadn't.

I didn’t want to talk about these struggles, but I think I needed to. 

They brought me to where I am- a place that is so wonderful, and irritating, and all-encompassing, and that makes me vulnerable to so much more loss- yet that I wouldn’t leave for anything in the world. 

I am a mother. 

And that is something I want to talk about.

I Hear You - A Call for Help From NJ in The Wake of Hurricane Sandy

"We are in the affected area of NJ hard hit by Sandy. Could use a post if you have any with encouraging words for those of us struggling not to drink during this extremely trying time. Any words of reflection and encouragement would be most helpful to us who feel like we are on an island floating in the tumultuous waves of uncertainty. Many of us are insulated from the news reports that are depicting the reality we are living. I am in an area that still has no power and am a nurse who has been working around the clock to provide care at a level 3 trauma center. I manage a level 3 intensive care Neonatal ICU. We are still in crisis mode since last week and don't see an end in sight. It even feels good just to vent here to someone who understands"

Her words come to me through the vast expanse of the internet, sitting in my Inbox today.  Though she is only a few states away from me, she may as well be on another planet.   I close my eyes and try to imagine my house surrounded my mud, water and debris, and having that be the least of my concerns; the top priority, of course, being the safety and well being of my family.

I can't imagine it.  I can't imagine family treasures lost to floods. I can't imagine a week without power and no end in sight - the spoiling food, the pets, and where do you sleep?  How to keep strong for your children when you're full of fear yourself?

I can't imagine the sights and smells and sounds she's experiencing in the NICU.  Where the smallest of the small struggle to exist even in the best of circumstances.  I can't imagine that weight on my shoulders.

I'm touched by her words that it helps to vent to someone who understands, because my words of advice and/or encouragement seem so small in the face of all this hardship.

But then I realize she's reaching out to me as a sober sister.  This part I do understand.  How do you stay sober when the world is pressing down on you, making you suffocate with boredom or responsibility or tragedy? 

Because a drink is the only way to hide from yourself, to lift the burden of being in your own mind, even temporarily.  

This part, I understand. I think most of us do, and not just alcoholics, either.  Normal Ordinary Regular People (whom I fondly call "NORPS") drink, a lot of the time, for that same little release.  That whoosh of freedom from mental anguish, stress, anxiety or boredom.

When you're sober, this particular mental trap door is no longer an option for you.  Because if you're a surrendered alcoholic, you know you won't stop at one and then you won't be of any use to anyone, least of all yourself.

So I DO understand. She's triggered, and looking around at the ruins of the life she knew before the storm make the reasons not to drink become smaller and smaller.  She's asking me to remind her why a drink is a bad idea, or how to get through this sober.  Because that's what we do for each other.

There are the more commonplace (some say trite) words of advice like "this too shall pass" - all bumper-stickery and can only serve to aggravate and enrage someone in the throes of wanting a drink.  Because when you're in the grips of a craving, it feels like it will never pass.  When you're in the grips of tragedy, it feels like life will never be set right again.

And maybe it won't ever be the same.  Maybe you're sailing toward a new normal, one you can't begin to envision right now. One where you rolled up your sleeves in the face of tragedy and did your best.  Your sober, present, anxious, stressed and sometimes victorious BEST.  You didn't hide in a drink, because you're needed.  By strangers and family alike, you're needed, and that's part of what makes you want to hide.

So I'm here to say I HEAR YOU.  When the rest of the world wants something from you, all I want for you is to get through this moment, and then the next, until the moments pile up, the waters recede and life slowly pieces itself back to its new normal.  If you disappear in a drink, you may never come back. You'll recede with the flood waters, little by little, until you're barely recognizable to yourself.

When this passes - and it WILL pass, no matter how frustrating it sounds at the moment - you will look back with pride, sorrow and peace of mind that you DID it. You got through.  Sober.  You're out there fighting more than one battle - you're fighting the elements and the lack of power and the darkness and the water and keeping young babies alive, and you're fighting your demon at the same time.

I think that makes you the bravest person in the world at the moment.  I hope that's what you need to hear. Because I can't do any more than tell you I think you are incredible - truly - and an inspiration to every single person out there batting back their urge to drink without flood waters around there ankles. 

Take a deep breath, my sister, and be proud. I am proud of you. We are all rooting for you, and everyone standing shoulder-to-shoulder with you during this difficult time.

I. Hear. You.  And you have inspired me in ways mere words can't express.  

Thank you.

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.

My Guest Post at Women Heal: An Online Alliance

"I am currently in recovery from two chronic, life altering diseases that if left untreated are always fatal.

Always."

..... to read the rest of my guest post please go on over here.

~~~~~~~

Today I'm honored to be a guest poster at the newly founded WomenHeal: an Online Alliance, which has one mission: to create a safe space where women can collectively encourage growth and healing for themselves, each other and the world.   

So please head on over, read my post, and while you're there please consider donating (there is a tab on the site that tells you how) to help Christa and her team build this amazing site.  Even a little makes a big difference, and as they quote on their site: 

"A few years ago, the Dalai Lama said, 'The world will be saved by the Western woman.' Let’s prove him right."

Even if you don't donate, sign on up for their Twitter and Facebook pages - they are building something really special here, and we need to help them spread the word.  I'm honored to be part of it in some small way.

~~~~~

On a side note - there will be no "Truthful Thursday" tomorrow, because my daughter is having her tonsils and adenoids out.  Please keep her in your prayers.  Thank you.

FULL DISCLOSURE:  I was not compensated in any way - monetary or otherwise - to do this post. I just like to be part of amazing things.

Snapshots From Before - Back Into Life

***This post is dedicated to all the people struggling in those first few days/weeks/months of sobriety.   It is also part five of my Snapshots from Before series.  Click on the link to read the first four in the series.

We pull into the driveway, my little family and I; the kids are chattering on about all I've missed.  Finn is almost two, and his burgeoning vocabulary makes me misty eyed.  I've only been away thirty days, at an inpatient rehab, and yet he seems like a different kid.

I don't want to get out of the car, but as Steve unloads my bags Greta, who is five, tugs at my arm.  "Come in, Momma! I have so much to show you!"

The dog goes nuts as I walk in the door, wiggling, barking, wagging her tail madly.  You wouldn't be so happy to see me if you knew what an awful person I am, I think.

Finn holds shyly onto my hand as Greta prattles away. I try to listen, but it's all too much. I gaze around my living room, kitchen, and wonder: how the hell am I going to do this?

Over there is the cupboard where I stashed my wine.  Over there is the recycling bin, the source of so much angst and worry that the piling-up bottles would be counted, causing almost daily trips to the dump.

I see the wine glasses, which used to hang on a wooden rack near our fridge, are gone.  In their place are coffee cups.  It makes my heart break into a million pieces with sadness.  Then gratitude. Steve has done his best to clear out all vestiges of his alcoholic wife.  But I know he can't clear out the inside of me, where she rages on, still.

It's not like I can just avoid bars, I think.  My house was my bar.  I drank in secret, in my kitchen, or with stolen sneaky glasses from hidden stashes.

I have to learn to live, sober, smack dab in the middle of ground zero of where I did my drinking.

Although I am 31 days sober, I was at a rehab for the first 30, so this feels like day one.  Day one around all the things that triggered my drinking in the first place.  Number one on the list is the crippling shame and guilt, and I feel it coming over me in waves so strong I want to curl in a ball on the floor.

Instead I plaster on a smile for Greta and Finn and let her lead me around the house, pointing out just about everything.

"And this is my favorite blanket - but you probably 'member that, right?" she asks, looking up at me hopefully.

"Of course I do," I say, bending down to kiss her forehead.

"Because before sometimes you forgot stuff," she says without a hint of anger in her voice, which somehow makes it worse.  I feel the knife of guilt twist deep in my gut.

The tendrils of temptation tickle my ankle, start to slide seductively up my leg.  A drink would make the guilt go away, my disease whispers.  Just wait a while and say you want to go to the grocery store.  Then you can buy one bottle, just in case.  You don't even have to drink it.

You've been down that road, so many times, and look where it got you, Ellie, says a new voice.  My Recovery Voice.  I've only just found her. Every now and then, before, she'd peep up a with a weak protest:  -this is no way to live - but my Disease Voice always won.

This time she sounds stronger, more determined.  This surprises me, because I feel weak, ashamed and on the verge of crumbling.

There is something else new, though, something deep in my gut.  A certainty.  The knowledge that I am an alcoholic, and that if I have one drink I don't control what comes next.  My counselors at the rehab call it surrender.  I cling to this knowledge like a drowning woman.

The anxiety I feel is almost crippling. I was told it would get worse before it got better, that I just had to learn how to feel the bad stuff and get through it without a drink for a while, and then my brain and body would remember how to get through the tougher emotions without my bottle shaped anesthesia.

My husband slides his arm around my shoulders, the first contact we've had since he picked me up.  Our marriage is held together by the thinnest of filaments, based on our love for our kids and what we remember of our marriage Before.

I want so badly to be the woman I was Before.  The one who always liked to drink, but who could stop after a few (albeit usually a few more than everyone else).  That woman was Fun. She didn't have Anxiety.  She could go for days without a drink, even though she was really, really looking forward to the weekend.

Why couldn't I have stayed Her?

It's like when you see a photograph of yourself and notice the fine lines and wrinkles that weren't there before.  The image on the paper doesn't match up with the image of yourself in your head.  It happened so gradually, this process of becoming an alcoholic.  It snuck up on me.  I wish I had been paying more attention.

Maybe if you pay attention now you can drink like a normal person, my Disease Voice says.

I sigh, but then I realize there is a sly grin on my face, because I have come to expect Disease Voice's antics, now that I've surrendered.

"Yeah, RIGHT," says Recovery Voice. "Because that worked out so well for you the last four hundred times."

I'm getting better, I realize. If I can just stay away from one drink for one day. For one hour.  To get better all I have to do is NOT do something.

I ask Steve to drive me to a recovery meeting that night, because I don't trust myself to drive to the meeting and not the liquor store.  He smiles, knowing what a milestone that is for me.

I learned I'm going to have to feel worse before I feel better. Having to ask for a ride because I can't trust my own brain doesn't feel like progress, but I know deep in my heart how much courage that takes.  It takes so much more courage than falling into a drink.

I want to be brave.  Even though I don't know if I want to be sober - because I don't know who that woman in the picture is, yet - I know I want to be brave.

Greta shuffles into the room carrying a board game - Chutes and Ladders.  I have never played this game with her sober, before.  Board games are a trigger, I realize, as I plunk down to play, a knot in my stomach. But then I look at her smiling face as she says, "Momma, you go first", and I think:  brave.

I roll the dice and land on a ladder. A good sign.

Aftermath - Truthful Thursdays - TRIGGER Warning

TRIGGER WARNING:  This post is about suicide, so if you feel this may be a trigger for you - for ANY reason - please know in advance this is a first hand account of someone who lost a loved one to suicide and don't read it if it will be too hard.

***Submitted by Kathryn, who blogs at This Could Get Ugly

In a meeting, my phone rings.  

I see it's my oldest son and I push "silent", I'll call him back shortly.  He calls again as we're wrapping up, I joke, let me go call my son back, he probably needs money.  I text him "Text me, in a meeting".  

He answers "Call me please". 

Back at my desk, I call my boy.  "Mom, I don't know how to say this any other way.  Dad shot himself."  So calm, he's so calm, not true, that's not true, who told you that, WHO TOLD YOU THAT?  He's on his way to his father's house, no don't come, I'll call you, don't come, I'm fine, I'll call you mom.  

The phone drops from my hand.  

Coworkers rush to my side, lay their hands on me as I sob helplessly, I can't speak, can't tell them, what's wrong, what's wrong, oh my God please let him be alive but I know he's not alive, I know it in my heart that is broken, broken for my son and for his father who lost the battle with the demons in his brain.  

For how alone I know he felt at the moment he pulled the trigger and left us awash in grief and regret, why didn't I know this?  Why didn't you call me, you always called me when you needed to talk oh god why didn't you call me this time?  

I spoke to him on Monday, now it’s Wednesday and he’s dead. 

Watch my son go from a boy to a man in the space of hours.  It falls to him to plan his father's funeral because his stepmother can't, she wants him cremated immediately with no goodbyes.  This cannot happen, his father needs to see him, his mother, his sister...we need to see him.  We need to send him off.  We need to gather and weep and mourn and so he will stand up and say "My father will have a funeral", and she will agree.  She's devastated, I understand the impulse to put this behind her but it's my son and his grandfather I'm thinking of now.  

Have I been a good enough mother to my son, have I helped him grow into a young man who can deal with his father’s suicide and the aftermath, the death arrangements?  I don’t see him cry, ever…did I teach my son not to cry?  Please God let him not feel he has to hold all of this inside, don’t let my son be like his father who never projected any emotion but anger into the world until it literally killed him.  Please don’t let him be a man who can’t stand to deal with the emotions of others, he doesn’t let his friends come to the funeral because he doesn’t want them fussing over him, doesn’t want to deal with emotion.  Cannot go up and comfort his grandfather as he weeps over his dead son’s body in the coffin.  

“No, Mom, I can’t do it, I can’t handle the crying.”  Maybe my job as a mother isn’t done, or maybe I didn’t do it right.  My heart clenches…my boy is not whole.  His father is dead.  I want him to have the gift of grief, of breaking down in uncontrolled, cleansing  tears when it’s called for.  I can’t give him this…I can rarely give it to myself.   It’s so hard to accept that maybe it’s just who he is, that he still has growing to do as a man, and that my shame is perhaps misplaced.  He is not just me, he’s his father, too, and himself.  I could not bear to go to funerals at his age, as we get older we realize what a necessity it is despite the pain and awkwardness and crying people everywhere.  

The days pass in a twilight of unreality, a cloak of sadness.  Wake up every day, thank God I can sleep but the problem with that is waking up every day to knowing that my friend, my son's father, is dead...yes, it's still true.  Every day a new problem for my son to navigate, it falls to me to help him with his father's funeral and I gladly do it, I wish I could take this burden off of him but I have no standing, no authority...I was not his wife.  I will not do anything to cause her further pain and so I tread carefully between his father's family with whom I am still close, and his wife.  Sit with his 10 year old daughter, my son's half-sister, while they go into the funeral home to make plans...hold her while she cries, "I don't have a daddy anymore!"  

No baby girl, but your daddy loved you so much, he had  a smile in his voice every time he said your name, he was so proud of you, so proud, your daddy loved you and you will always have him, he's just gone away now but you have him.  

Smile at her questions, children are so honest.  "Were you married to my daddy?"  No, baby, your daddy was only ever married to your mommy. "Why does J (my five year old) live with you and not us?"  

He has a different daddy than you and your brother, he lives with his daddy and me.  Heart....broken.  I know if he could see this, the devastation of his children, he would not have done what he did, he loved these kids so much.  I know he couldn't see anything but the pain he thought was all that was left of his life.  This hurts my heart as much as his being gone from us now, why didn’t I know this?  Things run through my mind that I could have done, why didn’t I go to his job and make him go to the doctor, why didn’t I take him to the hospital, why didn’t I call his wife and ask her what was wrong with him, he seems depressed.  Why why why? There are no answers to any of our questions, and there never will be.  

We get through the days, we say our goodbyes.  His sister and I read poetry at his funeral.  My son gives his father a beautiful eulogy.  I am so very proud of my son, and almost unbearably sad that he has to do this. 

We are driving in the car on Tuesday, the first day we have alone since all the family has departed, he wants to show me the apartment he’s going to move into soon.  I can’t think right now about how it will feel when he doesn’t live here anymore, I’m too raw with grief over his father to contemplate how that will feel and anyway I know that it’s all part of the same thing.  I can’t cling to him now because of this, he needs to make his own way in the world. 

The first thing we do when we get in the car is turn on Third Eye Blind, the self-titled album.  He says “I’ve been playing this every day, it’s got me through ”.  Feel my heart lift that my son has found comfort and release the same way that I have these last few days, listening to our favorite music.  I tell him that I wanted to play this at his dad’s funeral but we both know the family wouldn’t have understood.  

My poor, lost friend. 

I am left wondering what I missed, what happened, what I could have done.  I feel so guilty that I didn’t know you would do this, that the conversations we were having were your way of saying goodbye, not asking me how to change things you had so much regret about.  My guilt at not being able to keep you from leaving this world...I don’t know what to do with that.  None of us put the gun in your hand, but I feel like I should have KNOWN.  And I feel shame that whenever I think about how you died, I feel not only the loss of you, and the loss our son is experiencing, but also a deep gratitude that you didn’t take anyone else with you; that you were just a suicide, horrible enough, but thank God not a murder-suicide.  I can’t help those feelings but they make me feel so small. 

The ache I feel for how you left us, for how you couldn’t see any other way, will stay with me as long as I live.  I will watch over our son, and your daughter.  

I will say your name every day, hoping that one day you’ll answer.  

On Waiting. And Zigging. And Zagging.

I spend a lot of time waiting.

At the kids' doctors or dentist appointments (we seem to be having a lot of those these days), or in line at the grocery store, or in the kid pick-up line, or standing on my stoop in the morning waiting for the bus to come.

I wait for someone to return an important call, or email, impatiently checking my phone or computer as though that person has nothing better to do than to respond to me.

I wait for that elusive clump of free time to open up so I can fold laundry, tidy up, wash the dishes, vacuum.

And in my new normal I spend a lot more time than I ever had in waiting rooms at my various doctors' offices.

I wait in the head and neck surgical oncology room.  I wait at the imaging center for CT scans or MRIs.

I wait at my oncology psychiatrist's office.  I wait at my radiologists office.

I wait at my regular oncologist's office.

In each of these waiting rooms I bear witness to all stages of the disease of cancer.  I see the woman who is all skin and bones and no hair,who needs help walking to the radiation room.  She is is smiling.

I see the impatient businessman who is clearly in remission, waiting for his 'routine' check-up.  He is huffing and puffing and checking his watch.

There will never be anything 'routine' about these visits to the waiting rooms, let alone to the doctors' offices themselves.

My mind wanders, as I try not to openly stare, peeking out of the corner of my eye with a fake disinterested look on my face.  There is a man covered in bandages; his whole head wrapped tightly, including under his chin. A drainage tube comes out of his nose.  He is holding hands with his wife and looking very, very scared.

I think about how life can zig while you're busy zagging. How fragile it all is.  I wonder what he was doing when he first figured out something was wrong, when his life zigged instead of zagged.

I think about how I am different, now. How these waiting rooms fill me with a kind of awed respect - for the patients fighting with all they've got.  For the doctors and nurses in the trenches all day,every day, delivering news that changes lives.  All the time.

It's odd to experience such a mix of gratitude and fear at the same time.  On good days the scales tip more towards gratitude. Actually, I mostly feel gratitude.  The fear still pokes its nose under the tent, now and then, but I'm learning to flip that fear into faith.

I remind myself that life was always precious, always precarious, even before cancer.  How we're all floating on a little raft on the open ocean, it's just that when life is zagging along the way you expect it to you don't notice how precarious, how precious, it is.

It's only when it zigs that you look down and think 'Holy shit, I'm floating on a tiny raft in the ocean and the world is suddenly very scary".

I realize this seems like an odd way to comfort myself, to think about how it has always been a tenuous miracle that we're here at all.  Kind of like backing into gratitude, I guess.

But that's what cancer does. It makes you stop taking anything for granted.  Instead of feeling victimized ('why ME?') I realize I'm no different than anyone else, it's just that I'm very aware of my little raft, of the fact that life could zig - or zag - at any moment.

I'm grateful to know this, now, to have metabolized how precious it all is into the core of my being.  Even when it comes to my kids.  Especially when it comes to my kids.  That's a tough thing to face, you know?  That they are on their own little rafts and I'm just paddling alongside, doing everything in my limited power to keep them safe.

So as I wait - in line, at doctor's offices, for that email or call that I think will change my life, for the Next Big Thing - I stop and I breathe.  I'm sitting smack dab in the middle of the Next Big Thing.  Each moment I'm in is important, because it's leading to that next moment, and the next, sweeping  me along on this joyful, scary, graceful, tenuous, precious and precarious ride we call life.