Nine-year-old Danny said to me while I was tucking him into bed tonight, “I can’t imagine you bald.” That is because he was 18 months old when chemotherapy took my hair, and he has absolutely no memory of my cancer. I love that.
Just Hope Hidden in the Woods
Just Hope is hidden here.
I know it appears that I live in the freezing wilderness of some northern state. I do not. I live in Florida. I just happen to get cold very easily, so my coat, scarf, and gloves come out when the temperature drops to what I deem chilly. Today, the 50s were chilly, so I bundled up on our trek into the woods, so my boys and their cousins could hide my just-assembled geocache.
Joey and cousin Tori hide the Just Hope geocache.
My family is new to geocaching — a free real-world outdoor treasure hunt that allows players to locate hidden containers, called geocaches, using a smartphone or GPS. We’ve been out maybe four times, and already, we love it. That’s why I decided to fashion my own box of goodies, which, of course, is breast-cancer themed. The contents of my Just Hope geocache include cancerspot.org stickers, a logbook and pencils, some trinkets for sharing, and a note that reads as follows:
Congratulations—we “hoped” you’d find this cache, and you did! Way to go.
OK, here’s the deal on this one: The mom in our family was diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of 34 back in 2004. She is still surviving (yay!), and she has been blogging about it ever since the start of her horrible yet wonderful journey (yes, there have been some good moments along they way). We hope you’ll take a sticker and visit her blog—leave a comment if you do to let her know you stopped by—and our wish is that you will find there some speck of hope or inspiration.
Until we hear from you, be well—and happy continued geocaching!
Oh, please sign our logbook, too, and if you leave a trinket, feel free to take one!
Just Hope has been submitted to Geocaching.com, and when it is approved as a worthy geocache, it will be featured on an online map so that treasure hunters can track it down. If you happen to be one of those hunters, we “just hope” you find it.
Thrilled to Watch Him Grow
Who is 5 feet 6 inches tall and 122 pounds? My just-turned-12-year-old child. He is 1 inch shorter and 12 pounds lighter than me. If he follows the same fast track he’s been on since birth, he should be about 6 feet 5 (give or take an inch) as a full-grown dude. That sorta scares me. It also kinda thrills me that I get to see this kid almost pass me by because when he was 3, and I had breast cancer, I wasn’t sure I’d see it happen.
Cancer Creeps In
Danny does not love to read. He complies if we boss him into it, but he rarely takes the initiative to pick up a book and dive into a great story. He does like to read with me, though, and, so, I have made it my mission to help him get lost in the written word.
Today, we read aloud on the front porch (John secretly snapped this pic) from our own copies of the same book, and this is how it went: Danny read one chapter, I read three chapters (they are short), Danny read another chapter, I read two more, and so on. This back and forth is what keeps him engaged, and the joy for me is that I get to listen to my 9-year-old boy read aloud, which is magical; I love how he uses his voice to narrate the pages, how he reacts to suspense, how he asks me questions to clarify what’s happening. The book we’re currently reading — The Tiger Rising — is filled with powerful messages that are such super teaching topics, and I am thankful for the dedicated time with Danny to discuss what author Kate DiCamillo covers in her gripping paperback; there is bullying, sorrow, anger, friendship, loss, even cancer.
It was Danny’s turn to read when the word cancer appeared in Chapter 16.
“How did your mother die?” she asked suddenly.
Rob sighed. He knew there was no point in trying not to answer. “Cancer,” he said.
Danny shot a look my way, and our eyes locked. Cancer. The word always inspires a reaction in our family. I am sure it always will.
We stopped reading shortly after the cancer mention. Danny’s attention had worn thin, and he was ready for dinner. Tomorrow starts his school Read-a-Thon, though, so we will hit our books again before long. I can’t wait to learn more about Rob and the caged tiger he has been hired to feed, the tiger Rob’s friend Sistine wants to set free because it’s not nice to keep animals in cages. I hope Danny can’t wait, too.
Letter to a Little Girl
I just wrote a letter to a 9-year-old little girl who will begin year-long chemotherapy for a brain tumor that could not be completely removed via surgery. I am sending her (along with the letter) a pair of comfy, cozy, fuzzy socks because they helped me when I was sick. Suddenly, though, my illness at age 34 does not seem as important as hers at age 9. And also, why must today deliver such sad news?
I Wrote a Letter
That video “Parenthood” character Kristina made for her kids — I did that. Well, I wrote a letter; it was essentially a goodbye message written when I was sure I would not survive cancer. I wrote to John, too. My boys never received their letters. Thank goodness!
Raw October — Day 18 (It Could Be Worse)
Raw October: raising breast cancer awareness — one fact, figure, feeling, and photograph at a time.
I wrote the following post in August 2008. At the time, I had survived cancer for a little longer than 3 years.
Joey’s new mantra: It could be worse. He uses it to excuse his questionable behavior — like when he was playing at the dinner table recently, waving his arms all around like we tell him not to do, and he knocked over his cup of milk. “It could be worse,” he announced after locking eyes with my frustrated gaze. Not exactly my preferred response — “I’m sorry, mom, I know I shouldn’t have been horsing around, and it won’t happen again” would have been my pick—but hey, the kid is 7. How much can I expect, really? Besides, he’s right. It could be worse.
Sometimes Joey is wise beyond his years. The kid always gives me something to think about. Once Joey told his dad about the grandfather he never knew (he died before Joey was even born): “Don’t worry that your dad can’t see you anymore. He’s in the sky now and the clouds are his eyes.” He told me 3 years ago that cancer is “medicine and love.” Pretty good way to sum it up — I got lots of medicine and lots of love. I’m not sure in hindsight that I’d describe it much differently.
It could be worse. I keep thinking about this and realizing Joey is right on with this perspective.
Back to cancer.
I found a lump — early. It could have been worse. It could have spread. It could have been larger.
I had a lumpectomy. It could have been worse. I could have had a mastectomy.
I had chemo, and it made me sick. It could have been worse. My cancer could have been so bad chemo wouldn’t have worked.
I was hospitalized twice during treatment. It could have been worse. I could have been hospitalized three, four, five times.
I had radiation, and my skin burned slightly. It could have been worse. My skin could have been left sizzled and scorched. I could have been in pain. I wasn’t.
I had more drug therapy. It could have been worse. I could have been a non-candidate for the treatment (Herceptin), which could be the very thing saving my life.
I went to counseling for more than 1 year and took an anti-depressant, too. It could have been worse. I could have denied these forms of help and could be battling depression and anxiety at this very moment. I’m not. I’m happy.
I could go on and on, but I think you get my drift. I hope you get how this applies to your life, too. Try this next time you’re down in the dumps — tell yourself: It could be worse. See if it makes a difference. It does for me. And Joey, too.
Raw October — Day 11 (Happy to Say I’m Surviving)
Raw October: raising breast cancer awareness — one fact, figure, feeling, and photograph at a time.
The other day, 11-year-old Joey asked me, “Mom, are you so happy when you say that you have survived cancer?” I told him I am so happy when I get to say that, although I usually say I’m surviving cancer, not that I’ve survived it because to have survived would imply there is a cure for cancer, and, sadly, there is not. Still, to be a surviving the disease is a pretty great feeling.
Raw October — Day 8 (Magic of Music)
Raw October: raising breast cancer awareness — one fact, figure, feeling, and photograph at a time.
This boy was 3 years old when I was diagnosed. He shaved my head; told me my bald head, cap, hospital mask, and IV pole made me look like an alien; and revealed just recently that he has no real memory of breast cancer. This boy is now 11 years old, and I am so very thankful that I am alive to witness the magic of his music.
Raw October — Day 3 (Interview With Joey)
Raw October: raising breast cancer awareness — one fact, figure, feeling, and photograph at a time.
Joey was 3 years old when I was diagnosed with breast cancer; now, he’s 11. I recently asked him some questions regarding his awareness about the disease. Here’s what he said:
Me: How old were you when I got breast cancer?
Joey: 5
Me: How old was I when I got breast cancer?
Joey: Wait, let me think, 33 or 34.
Me: How did you feel when I got breast cancer?
Joey: Nothing really because I don’t remember it.
Me: What do you know about my breast cancer from what others have told you?
Joey: That it was stage I, that you lost your hair, that you had to have chemotherapy or something, that you had red and blue lines drawn all over your stomach or boobs — what was that for, anyway?
(I told Joey that the red and blue lines were from permanent markers; they were used to line up the machines at the very start of my radiation treatment.)
Me: When I say the words breast cancer, what do you immediately think?
Joey: Cancer in your breasts, in the tissue.
Me: What is breast cancer?
Joey: It is a disease that starts at stage I and goes to stage IV, and stage IV is the worst.
Me: Do you know anyone else who has had it?
Joey: No.
Me: What do you think people should know about breast cancer?
Joey: That you can die from it.
Me: Do you know what happens when I go see doctors?
Joey: They check your boobs. Hey, do the doctors get to see you with your shirt off [Joey laughs]?
Me: What would you say to other kids whose moms have breast cancer?
Joey: I don’t know.
Me: Does breast cancer scare you?
Joey: Yes. Can men get it?
(I told Joey men can get breast cancer but that male breast cancer is not as common as female breast cancer.)
Me: Any final words you want to say about breast cancer?
Joey: I hope I don’t get it. Are you going to put this online?
Raw October — Day 2 (Interview With Danny)
Raw October: raising breast cancer awareness — one fact, figure, feeling, and photograph at a time.
Danny was 18 months old when I was diagnosed with breast cancer; now, he’s 9 years old. I recently asked him some questions regarding his awareness about the disease. Here’s what he said:
Me: How old were you when I got breast cancer?
Danny: 3 or 4
Me: How old was I when I got breast cancer?
Danny: 30 something
Me: How did you feel when I got breast cancer?
Danny: I don’t remember anything that happened.
Me: What do you know about my breast cancer from what others have told you?
Danny: That it was a lump, that you had to cut all of your hair off because it was coming out in clumps, that Joey cut off your hair when it happened.
Me: When I say the words breast cancer, what do you immediately think?
Danny: That it happened to you.
Me: What is breast cancer?
Danny: Cancer that’s on your breast.
Me: Do you know anyone else who has had it?
Danny: Nope. I mean, I’ve heard you tell me, but I don’t know them specifically.
Me: What do you think people should know about breast cancer?
Danny: That you should go to the doctor every couple of weeks to see if you have it.
Me: Do you know what happens when I go see doctors?
Danny: You go into an MRI tube.
Me: What would you say to other kids whose moms have breast cancer?
Danny: I feel bad for you.
Me: Does breast cancer scare you?
Danny: Not really.
Me: Any final words you want to say about breast cancer?
Danny: I didn’t really know anything about it when it happened. You just told me.
Come back tomorrow for Joey’s answers to the same questions.
Thank You, Remission
He was 3 years old when I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Now, he is 11. Today, he graduated from fifth grade. Thank you, remission, for the chance to witness this child’s milestone.
Kids of Cancer Parents Camp For Free
This is so very awesome — a free summer camp run by college students for kids with a parent who has (or has had) cancer. Don’t know a whole lot about the camp, but it’s called Camp Kesum, it’s offered in several states (Florida!), and, well, click on the link, see for yourself, then pass it on!
Thankful
Thankful for Thanksgiving-like weather (yea, the 80s went away!).
A mom who *always* makes the turkey + everything else (my only job is eating!).
Kids who seem to still like me (Danny held my hand at dinner last night).
A husband whose compliments are oh-so-kind (he thinks I hold our family together; I think I’ve got him fooled!).
A sister who would do anything for me (wonder if she would run that half marathon in my place).
Nieces who let me braid their hair (not because they like it, but because I do!).
And so much more.
Like friends and family and love and support and food and home and health and …
You’re getting bored, I know.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Does Cancer Cancel School?
Gotta love how kids keep things light.
Ten-year-old Joey asked me the other day, “If you have cancer, do I have to go to school?”
“Yes,” I told him.
He continued: “If you have a really big surgery, do I have to go to school?”
“Yes,” I told him.
This went on for a few more questions, and, now, I think he knows that he’ll pretty much report to school regardless of my health status. Good try, though!
The Dad
When my hair was growing back after cancer treatment and I had just teeny tiny little bits of fuzz covering my head, 4-year-old Joey said, “People might think you’re the dad!” Same guy who told me while I was hospitalized for chemo complications and was wearing a mask and a hat, “You look like an alien.”
That boy just always knows what to say!
Cancer Collage
Oh, the collages I could make from the cancer pictures gathered throughout the years!
Tori’s Tresses
My niece Tori looked so much better in my wig than I did. Now, many years later, she and I both have our very own hair!
Port Support
My sister and Danny were with me the day I had my port removed. That surgery signified the end of cancer — the means by which all drugs entered my body was taken away. I worried I’d need one again at some point, and maybe I should just leave it there. But I have not required anything of the sort, and that boy in the photo is now 8 years old!
College, Cancer, and Years Gone By
Had John asked me on our first date at Leonardo’s in Gainesville, Fla. what I thought I’d be doing in 10 years, I never would have said, “fighting cancer.” But that’s what I ended up doing, with him (and two little boys) by my side.
It’s been 17 years since John and I first got to know each other at Leo’s, and last night, we reminisced about it over garlic rolls, at the very same table where we sat all those years ago. Didn’t seem all that different. Well, except for Joey and Danny scrounging our food and the fact that we look way old in the hip hangout still populated by spunky college students.