This week is hard.
I'm trying to find the words for where I am right now but I'm at a loss.
The memories of three years ago haunt me. They feel more real right now.
Three years ago.
It feels like an eternity and a second at the same time. It feels like forever ago that I last got to hug my mom. It feels like ages since I heard her voice. And at the same moment I cannot believe everything that has happened since I lost her. All the moments she hasn't been here to share. And I still reach for my phone to call her on my way home at night.
And I get angry. So so so so so so freaking angry that she got robbed of these moments. That I got robbed of these moments. And sad. And tired.
I'm not going to tie this post up with a pretty bow. Find some big life lesson or attempt to have insight into my emotions. Sometimes you just need to be mad. And sad. And tired.
Yeah, this week is hard!
Showing posts with label Breast Cancer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Breast Cancer. Show all posts
Monday, April 30, 2012
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Emily's Question
I recently wrote this post over at Merelymothers. Emily left a comment and asked me to write about how I got through the toughest times and if I have any tips or ideas for facing such a loss. Emily shared that her mom has been diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimers Disease.
Emily, if you are reading this, first let me say that I am so sorry that you and your mother have to face this. And thank you for reaching out. Loss is such a hard and lonely process. It's so very personal and no one will ever experience loss the exact same way you will.
I cannot begin to understand the emotions you are feeling. The loss of my mom was, in comparison, sudden and unexpected. It was acute on every level. I didn't have a long time to to think about what was to come. To play the future over in my head. I can only imagine that the anticipation of what is to come is overwhelming and all encompassing.
I think it is important to put out there that I am by no means an expert in grief and loss. Personally, I don't think I have necessarily faced the loss in my life all that gracefully. I don't think that I have done it right. So I feel completely unqualified to be giving advice. But I have spent an enormous amount of time reflecting on where I am and where I have been and there are some lessons I learned and some things I have worked on that I will share with you. These may (or may not) resonate with you or anyone else who has faced loss but they come from my very personal grieving experience.
Be kind to yourself. This is something I have struggled with in life. I have always been very critical of how I handle situations - I was the same way (and still am) when dealing with grief. It is OK not to be OK. It is OK to give yourself the space and time to deal with your emotions, what ever they are, in the moment. Don't judge your process - because remember, grief and loss is personal. It is your journey, don't compare it to anothers, don't expect to follow a prescribed path.
Take care of yourself. Physically. Grief and loss is hard on your system. It will wear you down. Exhaust you. Eat. Sleep. Even at the worst of times, things felt more manageable after a good night of sleep.
Take care of yourself. Emotionally. I am a huge (HUGE) proponent of therapy. There is nothing to be ashamed of in getting professional help. A good therapist will be able to help you verbalize and navigate your feelings.
Everyone else around you will be grieving and dealing with loss too and they will not deal with it the same way you do. I remember when I lost my mom all I wanted was to reach out and to latch onto someone else. I wanted someone else to love me the way my mom did. I wanted someone else to understand me the way my mom did. My first realization was that no one else around me was capable to doing that because they were processing the loss of my mom as well. They were stuck in their grief. The second thing I realized is that you can't avoid grief simply by replacing the lost love. There is no replacement.
Similarly, I had to give space for others that are grieving. It's not a pretty process. People facing loss are necessarily selfish. Their whole being is encompassed with how the loss is affecting THEM. I found that my capacity and the capacity of those around me to truly understand how others were affected was simply not there. It is so easy to get into the "I loved her more" "I miss her more" "the loss is the worst for me" game. When you feel yourself going there, or see someone else going there, take a step back. Those feelings are real, but they can be hurtful. Grief is hard enough without it being a competition.
Embrace small moments of happiness. Oh, I remember how guilty I felt when I first felt joy after losing my mom. I remember how hard it was to reconcile grief and joy. But those small moments of happiness are so important for the healing process. They start as tiny little glimmers. Don't ignore the glimmers.
Sit in the grief. Don't run from it. It will find you. Cry. Cry hard. Cry ugly. I had to hit the bottom to start climbing back up. And I hit it time and time again. It's OK!
Grief for me has been a two step forward, one step back process. Slow progress. I start feeling like I am coping and things are much much better just to fall down again. It happens. It happens a lot. I think it's OK.
Something my therapist told me (remember I'm a big fan of those guys): I may have lost my mom but she lives inside me. She is part of me. And because I carry her with me she lives on. As long as I love her, she lives on. As long as I continue to be the person she raised me to be, she lives on. There are days that sounds like such bull shit. But on other days I have found immense comfort in that.
And I'll end with this - I have found it simply amazing just how strong the human soul is at the moment it feels the weakest.
I have only now started to be able to connect with the experiences others have had with grief and loss. I have only now begun to see little ways this awful terrible thing has made me stronger and more resilient. In a millisecond I would give all that strength and resiliency back to have my mom here but I guess what I am trying to say is even though it feels like it never will - it does get better. Even though it feels like you never will - you will laugh again. Even though it feels like you can't do it - you can. You will. I did. I am.
Emily, if you are reading this, first let me say that I am so sorry that you and your mother have to face this. And thank you for reaching out. Loss is such a hard and lonely process. It's so very personal and no one will ever experience loss the exact same way you will.
I cannot begin to understand the emotions you are feeling. The loss of my mom was, in comparison, sudden and unexpected. It was acute on every level. I didn't have a long time to to think about what was to come. To play the future over in my head. I can only imagine that the anticipation of what is to come is overwhelming and all encompassing.
I think it is important to put out there that I am by no means an expert in grief and loss. Personally, I don't think I have necessarily faced the loss in my life all that gracefully. I don't think that I have done it right. So I feel completely unqualified to be giving advice. But I have spent an enormous amount of time reflecting on where I am and where I have been and there are some lessons I learned and some things I have worked on that I will share with you. These may (or may not) resonate with you or anyone else who has faced loss but they come from my very personal grieving experience.
Be kind to yourself. This is something I have struggled with in life. I have always been very critical of how I handle situations - I was the same way (and still am) when dealing with grief. It is OK not to be OK. It is OK to give yourself the space and time to deal with your emotions, what ever they are, in the moment. Don't judge your process - because remember, grief and loss is personal. It is your journey, don't compare it to anothers, don't expect to follow a prescribed path.
Take care of yourself. Physically. Grief and loss is hard on your system. It will wear you down. Exhaust you. Eat. Sleep. Even at the worst of times, things felt more manageable after a good night of sleep.
Take care of yourself. Emotionally. I am a huge (HUGE) proponent of therapy. There is nothing to be ashamed of in getting professional help. A good therapist will be able to help you verbalize and navigate your feelings.
Everyone else around you will be grieving and dealing with loss too and they will not deal with it the same way you do. I remember when I lost my mom all I wanted was to reach out and to latch onto someone else. I wanted someone else to love me the way my mom did. I wanted someone else to understand me the way my mom did. My first realization was that no one else around me was capable to doing that because they were processing the loss of my mom as well. They were stuck in their grief. The second thing I realized is that you can't avoid grief simply by replacing the lost love. There is no replacement.
Similarly, I had to give space for others that are grieving. It's not a pretty process. People facing loss are necessarily selfish. Their whole being is encompassed with how the loss is affecting THEM. I found that my capacity and the capacity of those around me to truly understand how others were affected was simply not there. It is so easy to get into the "I loved her more" "I miss her more" "the loss is the worst for me" game. When you feel yourself going there, or see someone else going there, take a step back. Those feelings are real, but they can be hurtful. Grief is hard enough without it being a competition.
Embrace small moments of happiness. Oh, I remember how guilty I felt when I first felt joy after losing my mom. I remember how hard it was to reconcile grief and joy. But those small moments of happiness are so important for the healing process. They start as tiny little glimmers. Don't ignore the glimmers.
Sit in the grief. Don't run from it. It will find you. Cry. Cry hard. Cry ugly. I had to hit the bottom to start climbing back up. And I hit it time and time again. It's OK!
Grief for me has been a two step forward, one step back process. Slow progress. I start feeling like I am coping and things are much much better just to fall down again. It happens. It happens a lot. I think it's OK.
Something my therapist told me (remember I'm a big fan of those guys): I may have lost my mom but she lives inside me. She is part of me. And because I carry her with me she lives on. As long as I love her, she lives on. As long as I continue to be the person she raised me to be, she lives on. There are days that sounds like such bull shit. But on other days I have found immense comfort in that.
And I'll end with this - I have found it simply amazing just how strong the human soul is at the moment it feels the weakest.
I have only now started to be able to connect with the experiences others have had with grief and loss. I have only now begun to see little ways this awful terrible thing has made me stronger and more resilient. In a millisecond I would give all that strength and resiliency back to have my mom here but I guess what I am trying to say is even though it feels like it never will - it does get better. Even though it feels like you never will - you will laugh again. Even though it feels like you can't do it - you can. You will. I did. I am.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
And Just Like that I'm Right Back Where I Started
I am going up to NJ next weekend to help clean out my Mom and Dad's house.
Honestly, since my mom died it's so hard to be there.
And despite how well I think I'm doing on a day to day basis I feel myself slipping as the weekend gets closer.
This is hard to write because I feel so guilty for feeling this way. I feel like I should be in a better place by now. And I worry that these feelings will hurt my family's feelings which is the last thing I would want to do.
My anxiety is taking over. The weight of what needs to be done to get my parent's house ready to sell is suffocating. I know I need to do it. I know I need to be there. It's just so hard. Three years later it is still so hard.
And As I was walking today I realized that it was just about three years ago that I raced up to New Jersey to be with my mom as she lost her battle. And it's all too real, too close, too raw.
It's always been hard - going home. This time seems especially hard. Maybe it's because I'm starting to feel better. Maybe it's because I have found a way to find a sense of peace. Maybe I have held New Jersey at a distance to protect myself. No, I definitely have held it at a distance to protect myself. And to go back there will bring those feelings back -- the feelings that I have been able to move past for the most part. The thought of slipping back into the grief, the sadness, the anxiety, the helplessness has already exhausted me.
Am I my own worst enemy for anticipating this? Why can't I just go? It's one weekend. I get to see my dad and my brother and the rest of my family. Why can't I just embrace the good? Why am I letting the anxiety seep in? I hate that I feel this way. I hate that I put this off until I can't put it off any longer. I'm so frustrated with myself. I feel like such a baby!
How is it that I feel the loneliest and the most isolated when I am there? I feel the most vulnerable when I am in the place that holds the best memories of the past, the place where I am surrounded by those that have always loved me. I miss feeling like I am going home. I miss feeling like I am safe. I hate that I can't get back there.
Honestly, since my mom died it's so hard to be there.
And despite how well I think I'm doing on a day to day basis I feel myself slipping as the weekend gets closer.
This is hard to write because I feel so guilty for feeling this way. I feel like I should be in a better place by now. And I worry that these feelings will hurt my family's feelings which is the last thing I would want to do.
My anxiety is taking over. The weight of what needs to be done to get my parent's house ready to sell is suffocating. I know I need to do it. I know I need to be there. It's just so hard. Three years later it is still so hard.
And As I was walking today I realized that it was just about three years ago that I raced up to New Jersey to be with my mom as she lost her battle. And it's all too real, too close, too raw.
It's always been hard - going home. This time seems especially hard. Maybe it's because I'm starting to feel better. Maybe it's because I have found a way to find a sense of peace. Maybe I have held New Jersey at a distance to protect myself. No, I definitely have held it at a distance to protect myself. And to go back there will bring those feelings back -- the feelings that I have been able to move past for the most part. The thought of slipping back into the grief, the sadness, the anxiety, the helplessness has already exhausted me.
Am I my own worst enemy for anticipating this? Why can't I just go? It's one weekend. I get to see my dad and my brother and the rest of my family. Why can't I just embrace the good? Why am I letting the anxiety seep in? I hate that I feel this way. I hate that I put this off until I can't put it off any longer. I'm so frustrated with myself. I feel like such a baby!
How is it that I feel the loneliest and the most isolated when I am there? I feel the most vulnerable when I am in the place that holds the best memories of the past, the place where I am surrounded by those that have always loved me. I miss feeling like I am going home. I miss feeling like I am safe. I hate that I can't get back there.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Seeking Inspiration
A couple of weeks ago I spent some time adding new bloggers to my twitter feed and daily reading list. One has cancer, one's sister died, one is a recovering addict, one is a struggling single mom, one's husband is on deployment. The list goes on.
As I thought about this the other day my initial reaction was - gee Amanda, you seem to be spending a lot of time reading about other's misfortunes. And I contemplated stopping. Was I looking for others who felt despair? Was I comparing my struggles with their struggles? Was I looking for a reason for my heart to ache?
I really wasn't sure why I was spending so much time with these strangers and their "problems." I even downloaded a book last night written by a man who lost his mother, wife and 4 year old daughter in a horrific car crash.
But as I was reading through my list of current favorite blogs this morning I realized something. These are not blogs about despair, or the depths of human sorrow, or raw pain These are blogs about overcoming that despair and sorrow and pain. These are blogs about digging deep into your soul and facing some of the hardest moments. These are blogs about resiliency and hope and faith. These women and men are putting themselves out there, exposing their most vulnerable moments and sharing little glimmers, little moments of truth, little moments of strength.
When I first lost my mom I was too overcome with grief to even hope to find glimmers of truth or strength. I was too jaded to have hope or faith. But now, now I'm searching. The wounds are not as raw. The grief isn't as palpable. And I'm searching to connect. To connect to others' journeys. To see the good that has come out of grief and loss and pain. To know that there is something beautiful that can blossom from devastation.
Lately, I've been grappling with how to bring meaning to my mom's death. How to honor her in my daily life. How to not let her presence in my life, and now lack of presence fade into the past, become an "event" in my life. I'm scared that by moving past the devastation, that all encompassing grief, that I'm moving past her. And I struggle with finding a way to hold her in the present. I don't have an answer for this. I've done grief and despair for a long time. But I don't know what comes next. I don't know how to do the next phase (whatever that phase is).
I think this is why I'm drawn to the lives behind these blogs. I think this is why I keep seeking out others who have faced difficulty. I need to know how they do it. I need to see how they do it. I need their inspiration And their moments of wisdom and truth are helping me navigate my way into whatever lies ahead.
As I thought about this the other day my initial reaction was - gee Amanda, you seem to be spending a lot of time reading about other's misfortunes. And I contemplated stopping. Was I looking for others who felt despair? Was I comparing my struggles with their struggles? Was I looking for a reason for my heart to ache?
I really wasn't sure why I was spending so much time with these strangers and their "problems." I even downloaded a book last night written by a man who lost his mother, wife and 4 year old daughter in a horrific car crash.
But as I was reading through my list of current favorite blogs this morning I realized something. These are not blogs about despair, or the depths of human sorrow, or raw pain These are blogs about overcoming that despair and sorrow and pain. These are blogs about digging deep into your soul and facing some of the hardest moments. These are blogs about resiliency and hope and faith. These women and men are putting themselves out there, exposing their most vulnerable moments and sharing little glimmers, little moments of truth, little moments of strength.
When I first lost my mom I was too overcome with grief to even hope to find glimmers of truth or strength. I was too jaded to have hope or faith. But now, now I'm searching. The wounds are not as raw. The grief isn't as palpable. And I'm searching to connect. To connect to others' journeys. To see the good that has come out of grief and loss and pain. To know that there is something beautiful that can blossom from devastation.
Lately, I've been grappling with how to bring meaning to my mom's death. How to honor her in my daily life. How to not let her presence in my life, and now lack of presence fade into the past, become an "event" in my life. I'm scared that by moving past the devastation, that all encompassing grief, that I'm moving past her. And I struggle with finding a way to hold her in the present. I don't have an answer for this. I've done grief and despair for a long time. But I don't know what comes next. I don't know how to do the next phase (whatever that phase is).
I think this is why I'm drawn to the lives behind these blogs. I think this is why I keep seeking out others who have faced difficulty. I need to know how they do it. I need to see how they do it. I need their inspiration And their moments of wisdom and truth are helping me navigate my way into whatever lies ahead.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Unwelcome Memories
It's been a while since a memory has snuck up and smacked me across the face.
It use to happen all the time. I think it was my brain's way of processing something that it never imagined having to process.
What on earth are you talking about Amanda?
When my mom got very sick I rushed home to be at her side. We didn't know how long she had. Hours? Days? No one really knew but we knew it was BAD. Very very bad. I spent the next 2 weeks at her side in the hospital. There were some good days. Days with progress. Days where she was with us and laughing. Good moments. Moments where hope broke through. But there were so many more bad moments. Moments I would replay over and over and over and over again in my head.
I could smell the hospital for months. I would wake in my bed having spent most the night thinking I was sleeping in a chair next to my mom. My brain wouldn't let it go. My brain tormented me with images and words and sounds and smells I never wanted to think about again.
But eventually it did give me a break. It did let go. And those memories flooded my senses less and less and less.
Now, it is rare that my mind goes back to the hospital unless I have willed it to. It's rare that it catches me off guard. Very rare. But when it does it can knock me off my feet.
This morning I was in the bathroom straightening my hair. Something I do every morning. Nothing was unusual. Nothing was special or unique about today. It's not an anniversary of anything. Just and ordinary Friday morning getting ready for work.
Then bam - I'm sitting in the hospital lounge surrounded by my family while the oncologist helped explain why it was time to move my mom to hospice. We had already made the decision but I had asked the oncologist to come make the case to my family. I knew I wasn't strong enough to answer why we made the choice. To look my family in the eye and tell them it was time. I needed someone else to do that heavy lift. I needed someone else to convince them it was the right decision.
And I was stuck there. I was stuck looking around the room at the people I loved as we had this awful conversation. I was stuck looking at the hospital cart with the coffee and cookies the nurses provided for us -- for this awful conversation. I was stuck looking at that ugly hospital furniture that was somewhere between sky blue and mint green and just UGLY. I was stuck curled up on one of those chairs hugging my knees to my chest and crying.
Matt came upstairs and the sound of his footsteps broke through and I was free. Blotchy faced, teary eyed but free. I've found myself going back there today. To that moment and wanting to know why? Why did that moment surface? Why did my brain go there this morning?
And so I wrote it down. Because over the last couple of months I have discovered that if something is bouncing around inside my head, writing can help set it free. Writing can help put it to rest.
Maybe one day I'll understand why my brain does this to me. Maybe one day I'll have a better way of coping with it. But for today I'll just write.
It use to happen all the time. I think it was my brain's way of processing something that it never imagined having to process.
What on earth are you talking about Amanda?
When my mom got very sick I rushed home to be at her side. We didn't know how long she had. Hours? Days? No one really knew but we knew it was BAD. Very very bad. I spent the next 2 weeks at her side in the hospital. There were some good days. Days with progress. Days where she was with us and laughing. Good moments. Moments where hope broke through. But there were so many more bad moments. Moments I would replay over and over and over and over again in my head.
I could smell the hospital for months. I would wake in my bed having spent most the night thinking I was sleeping in a chair next to my mom. My brain wouldn't let it go. My brain tormented me with images and words and sounds and smells I never wanted to think about again.
But eventually it did give me a break. It did let go. And those memories flooded my senses less and less and less.
Now, it is rare that my mind goes back to the hospital unless I have willed it to. It's rare that it catches me off guard. Very rare. But when it does it can knock me off my feet.
This morning I was in the bathroom straightening my hair. Something I do every morning. Nothing was unusual. Nothing was special or unique about today. It's not an anniversary of anything. Just and ordinary Friday morning getting ready for work.
Then bam - I'm sitting in the hospital lounge surrounded by my family while the oncologist helped explain why it was time to move my mom to hospice. We had already made the decision but I had asked the oncologist to come make the case to my family. I knew I wasn't strong enough to answer why we made the choice. To look my family in the eye and tell them it was time. I needed someone else to do that heavy lift. I needed someone else to convince them it was the right decision.
And I was stuck there. I was stuck looking around the room at the people I loved as we had this awful conversation. I was stuck looking at the hospital cart with the coffee and cookies the nurses provided for us -- for this awful conversation. I was stuck looking at that ugly hospital furniture that was somewhere between sky blue and mint green and just UGLY. I was stuck curled up on one of those chairs hugging my knees to my chest and crying.
Matt came upstairs and the sound of his footsteps broke through and I was free. Blotchy faced, teary eyed but free. I've found myself going back there today. To that moment and wanting to know why? Why did that moment surface? Why did my brain go there this morning?
And so I wrote it down. Because over the last couple of months I have discovered that if something is bouncing around inside my head, writing can help set it free. Writing can help put it to rest.
Maybe one day I'll understand why my brain does this to me. Maybe one day I'll have a better way of coping with it. But for today I'll just write.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Strong Like Bull
I'm working on a fun post with lots of past pics of the boys, but damned if I can get it lined up right. I'll be soliciting Matt's technical expertise to find a way to make a pretty post with pictures.
So instead of sharing my boys in pictures today I am going to share something else with you.
If you knew my mom well, you knew she had this saying that she would use when she was facing something tough. She'd use the same saying when I was struggling with something. She would say "Amanda, you can do this (or I can do this) because you and I, we are strong like Bull."
It's one of the first things that comes to mind when someone asks me to describe my mom.
Strong. Like. Bull.
So when I came across Jen's blog a couple of days ago I was immediately moved to share that mantra with her.
She is brave. She is strong. She is a beautiful and honest writer. She is inspiring.
I couldn't decide if I wanted to share her blog here because I worry about being all "wah wah wah Debbie Downer" but I've read her posts every day and I don't walk away crying from sadness but instead, I end up crying because what she says is so beautiful and truthful so full of grace and hope and everything I want to be.
So please take a few minutes and head on over to the Anderson Family Zoo. Share a little love with Jen. If you're feeling really generous offer some assistance.
I think you'll agree with me, Jen is, most definitely, strong like bull!
So instead of sharing my boys in pictures today I am going to share something else with you.
If you knew my mom well, you knew she had this saying that she would use when she was facing something tough. She'd use the same saying when I was struggling with something. She would say "Amanda, you can do this (or I can do this) because you and I, we are strong like Bull."
It's one of the first things that comes to mind when someone asks me to describe my mom.
Strong. Like. Bull.
So when I came across Jen's blog a couple of days ago I was immediately moved to share that mantra with her.
She is brave. She is strong. She is a beautiful and honest writer. She is inspiring.
I couldn't decide if I wanted to share her blog here because I worry about being all "wah wah wah Debbie Downer" but I've read her posts every day and I don't walk away crying from sadness but instead, I end up crying because what she says is so beautiful and truthful so full of grace and hope and everything I want to be.
So please take a few minutes and head on over to the Anderson Family Zoo. Share a little love with Jen. If you're feeling really generous offer some assistance.
I think you'll agree with me, Jen is, most definitely, strong like bull!
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Thank you!
Ya'll I made my minimum tonight.
After only 3 months I have hit the $2300 mark.
And I couldn't have done this without the support, both financial and personal of my donors. Thank you for reaching into your pockets and hearts to support this effort. Thank you for listening to me and sharing in my goal to eradicate breast cancer. Thank you for honoring my mom's memory.
I am overwhelmed.
This week was emotional, the build up to Will and my mom's birthday. I thought I would be drained but your support has provided me a spiritual boost that has solidified my drive. We MUST find a cure. We must stay focused. We must no loose site of the goal. There will be a day when we no longer have to fund raise. Where we no longer have to walk for a cure. And together we are on our way.
I'm not stopping at my minimum. I have doubled my goal. $4600 here I come.
Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you!
After only 3 months I have hit the $2300 mark.
And I couldn't have done this without the support, both financial and personal of my donors. Thank you for reaching into your pockets and hearts to support this effort. Thank you for listening to me and sharing in my goal to eradicate breast cancer. Thank you for honoring my mom's memory.
I am overwhelmed.
This week was emotional, the build up to Will and my mom's birthday. I thought I would be drained but your support has provided me a spiritual boost that has solidified my drive. We MUST find a cure. We must stay focused. We must no loose site of the goal. There will be a day when we no longer have to fund raise. Where we no longer have to walk for a cure. And together we are on our way.
I'm not stopping at my minimum. I have doubled my goal. $4600 here I come.
Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you!
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
It's an Emotional Week
The emotion of this week just hit me.
Excitement over the celebration of the life that came crashing into my world a year ago. It's hard to believe that my Will is going to be one. That he is straddling the line between infancy and toddlerhood. My baby is so quickly following in his brother's footsteps and becoming a little boy.
And grief over a celebration that will never be . . . God I miss you mom!
Bittersweet.
Excitement over the celebration of the life that came crashing into my world a year ago. It's hard to believe that my Will is going to be one. That he is straddling the line between infancy and toddlerhood. My baby is so quickly following in his brother's footsteps and becoming a little boy.
And grief over a celebration that will never be . . . God I miss you mom!
Bittersweet.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Be Your Own Best Advocate
A few weeks ago I posted about my first mammogram. I never got a call back. I never got the letter they promised if everything was fine. After about two weeks I called my OB/GYN, Dr. P. They had never received the report either. She called me back a couple of hours later and read the report to me. "A normal mammogram with the appearance of a small mass in the right breast." How is that normal? I asked. I was told the radiologist believes it is likely a lymph node. Oh, Ok.
I hung up the phone. I was left unsettled. Normal with a mass? Likely? Hmmmm. None of that sounded nearly definitive enough for me. I called my primary for a second opinion. She reiterated what the report said. Said I was young. Just go back in 6 months.
Normal with a mass. Likely. Young. Still none of this sat well with me. I recognize that my history makes me sensitive to this, but isn't that why I'm being screened so young in the first place? My wonderful mother in law told me to pursue. Gave me the push I needed. Another call to Dr. P resulted in her recommendation to visit the Hoffberger Breast Center at Mercy Hospital.
I showed up in Baltimore sheepish. Feeling like maybe I was wasting people's time. Maybe my anxiety is getting the better of me. I mean, a Dr. told me it was normal. Not just one Dr. but two and a radiologist.
That's where I met Barb. Barb is a R.N. at the Hoffberger Breast Cancer Center (which I will say is one of the nicest and friendliest Dr. offices I have ever visited). Barb walked into the exam room and I was instantly drawn to her. She had the best qualities of my mom and the best qualities of my mother in law all mixed into one person. Who wouldn't be drawn to her?
She asked me about why I was there. She asked me about my life. She asked me about my babies. She asked me about my mom - not just her breast cancer but about who she was. She took a full and complete history. She offered her arm when I got emotional. When I asked if I was being silly for being concerned, she assured me. Told me that I have to be my own best advocate. That if something doesn't sound right than I have to push for the answers. She said she would do the same thing. Then she told me something that finally put my mind at ease. She said, "sweet heart, you don't have to worry anymore. You have an advocate in me. And together we will find all the answers we need!"
After the exam we met in her office where she showed me my films (a novel idea huh?). She showed me the small spots that the radiologist wrote up in his report. She confirmed that she is nearly positive they are benign but that I am young and I have babies and I have a history so for her "nearly positive" isn't good enough.
She worked with me to find a state of the art imaging center that has a specialization in breast cancer and takes my insurance. She called the care coordinator while I was in her office and asked her to take care of me (which she has!)
I'm scheduled for follow up tests in a week. I'm sure everything in the end will be fine, but I needed to know. I needed something better than "we think" and "you're young."
Through all of this I have had a number of friends comment that they would have felt the same way but likely followed what their Doctors originally told them. They would not have wanted to challenge their doctor. That was my first inclination too. But I write this today to say that you and ONLY you are your own best advocate. Don't settle for answers that leave you with questions. Keep asking. Keep pushing. Take your health, your life and your care into your own hands. No one else is going to do that for you!
I hung up the phone. I was left unsettled. Normal with a mass? Likely? Hmmmm. None of that sounded nearly definitive enough for me. I called my primary for a second opinion. She reiterated what the report said. Said I was young. Just go back in 6 months.
Normal with a mass. Likely. Young. Still none of this sat well with me. I recognize that my history makes me sensitive to this, but isn't that why I'm being screened so young in the first place? My wonderful mother in law told me to pursue. Gave me the push I needed. Another call to Dr. P resulted in her recommendation to visit the Hoffberger Breast Center at Mercy Hospital.
I showed up in Baltimore sheepish. Feeling like maybe I was wasting people's time. Maybe my anxiety is getting the better of me. I mean, a Dr. told me it was normal. Not just one Dr. but two and a radiologist.
That's where I met Barb. Barb is a R.N. at the Hoffberger Breast Cancer Center (which I will say is one of the nicest and friendliest Dr. offices I have ever visited). Barb walked into the exam room and I was instantly drawn to her. She had the best qualities of my mom and the best qualities of my mother in law all mixed into one person. Who wouldn't be drawn to her?
She asked me about why I was there. She asked me about my life. She asked me about my babies. She asked me about my mom - not just her breast cancer but about who she was. She took a full and complete history. She offered her arm when I got emotional. When I asked if I was being silly for being concerned, she assured me. Told me that I have to be my own best advocate. That if something doesn't sound right than I have to push for the answers. She said she would do the same thing. Then she told me something that finally put my mind at ease. She said, "sweet heart, you don't have to worry anymore. You have an advocate in me. And together we will find all the answers we need!"
After the exam we met in her office where she showed me my films (a novel idea huh?). She showed me the small spots that the radiologist wrote up in his report. She confirmed that she is nearly positive they are benign but that I am young and I have babies and I have a history so for her "nearly positive" isn't good enough.
She worked with me to find a state of the art imaging center that has a specialization in breast cancer and takes my insurance. She called the care coordinator while I was in her office and asked her to take care of me (which she has!)
I'm scheduled for follow up tests in a week. I'm sure everything in the end will be fine, but I needed to know. I needed something better than "we think" and "you're young."
Through all of this I have had a number of friends comment that they would have felt the same way but likely followed what their Doctors originally told them. They would not have wanted to challenge their doctor. That was my first inclination too. But I write this today to say that you and ONLY you are your own best advocate. Don't settle for answers that leave you with questions. Keep asking. Keep pushing. Take your health, your life and your care into your own hands. No one else is going to do that for you!
Monday, January 16, 2012
Another Milestone
Today I did something most women my age have not done . . . I had my first mammogram.
Because my mom was diagnosed at 47 doctors had long recommended that I start early screenings at the age of 30. When her breast cancer metastasized the doctors insisted upon it. However, I have been pregnant or breastfeeding for the last two years and this is the first week since my 30th birthday that I was allowed to be screened. I made the first appointment available.
Since I am one of the first of my friends to have a mammogram let me demystify it for you. It's NO BIG DEAL. After a long (very long) wait in the radiology waiting room I was called into the back. Asked to change out of my shirt and bra and put on a hospital gown. I was taken into a room where I stood in front of a large machine with two plates. The technician positioned each breast, one at a time, between the plates -- squeezed and took a 3 second image. She reangled the machine to get a cross-section image and repeated. There was no pain. There was barely enough time for discomfort to register. She sent me to go change back into my clothes and off I went
A couple years ago I would have been embarrassed, modest. But let's be honest - after two children all modesty is gone and more people have probably seen my breasts than I care to aknowldege.
The actual mammogram was the easy part. Now comes the hard part. Waiting to get the all clear from the radiologist.
I have a fear -- actually I don't think that is the right word. I have a feeling that I will, one day, face breast cancer. Maybe it is my anxious tendencies, but deep down, I feel this is a battle I will face. So while some women may go into their screenings with the expectation of getting an "all clear" I went into today's screening with the expectation of their being a problem. This is why my mom hated it -- I'm sure. This is why she put off her mammograms. The fear that something would be amiss.
All that being said, early detection is what gave my mom the chance to live many years after her first diagnosis. So unlike my mom, every year I will make an appointment for my yearly mammogram at the first opportunity because every second counts in the fight for your life!
Because my mom was diagnosed at 47 doctors had long recommended that I start early screenings at the age of 30. When her breast cancer metastasized the doctors insisted upon it. However, I have been pregnant or breastfeeding for the last two years and this is the first week since my 30th birthday that I was allowed to be screened. I made the first appointment available.
Since I am one of the first of my friends to have a mammogram let me demystify it for you. It's NO BIG DEAL. After a long (very long) wait in the radiology waiting room I was called into the back. Asked to change out of my shirt and bra and put on a hospital gown. I was taken into a room where I stood in front of a large machine with two plates. The technician positioned each breast, one at a time, between the plates -- squeezed and took a 3 second image. She reangled the machine to get a cross-section image and repeated. There was no pain. There was barely enough time for discomfort to register. She sent me to go change back into my clothes and off I went
A couple years ago I would have been embarrassed, modest. But let's be honest - after two children all modesty is gone and more people have probably seen my breasts than I care to aknowldege.
The actual mammogram was the easy part. Now comes the hard part. Waiting to get the all clear from the radiologist.
I have a fear -- actually I don't think that is the right word. I have a feeling that I will, one day, face breast cancer. Maybe it is my anxious tendencies, but deep down, I feel this is a battle I will face. So while some women may go into their screenings with the expectation of getting an "all clear" I went into today's screening with the expectation of their being a problem. This is why my mom hated it -- I'm sure. This is why she put off her mammograms. The fear that something would be amiss.
All that being said, early detection is what gave my mom the chance to live many years after her first diagnosis. So unlike my mom, every year I will make an appointment for my yearly mammogram at the first opportunity because every second counts in the fight for your life!
Thursday, January 12, 2012
My Mom's battle - My War
Tuesday night, my teammates girlfriends and I attended the Susan G. Komen 3 Day Get started meeting. I think we all walked away moved and energized by our mission to make a difference in the fight against breast cancer. Committed to waging war against this enemy! I also walked away, having heard the very personal stories of women battling for their life and those that lost. One particular story so closely mirrored my mom's that I almost lost my breath. As I listened to the story of this mom's struggle I was moved to tell my own mom's story.
A warning to close friends and family -- this may be tough to read. It was torture to write.
This story does not have a happy ending.
In early 2001 as I was getting ready to complete my final year of College I got a call from my mom. I don't remember the words she said. I only heard breast cancer. I can still feel the lump in my stomach. I can still feel the panic rising. I know she comforted me -- because that's what mom's do -- they make you believe that everything is going to be alright even when they face fear and uncertainty. They give you what strength and courage they have to carry you forward. My mom was 47.
The doctors moved quickly scheduling a lumpectomy. The date was set. It happened to be smack dab in the middle of my spring break. A trip planned with my new boyfriend (now husband) to Disney World. I wanted to cancel. She insisted I go. A mom -- encouraging me to move forward with my life even when she is facing a threat to hers.
I went on the trip. Matt will tell you I was a mess. Anxiety and nerves and guilt and fear. I couldn't have been very fun to be around. I can still tell you exactly where I was standing when my mom got out of surgery. My cell phone (it was a rather large contraption in 2001) rang while I was standing at the stairs leading up into the overhang for Big Thunder Mountain. Reception was bad -- we let the line pass us by so I could talk to my dad. The news -- mom was out of surgery. It went well. Looks like they got it all.
Relief.
Tears.
Smiles.
Chemo, radiation and years of hormone therapy followed. Her hair thinned. She went into early menopause. She hated how tired she was, how sick the treatments made her. But she looked that big ugly beast cancer square in the eye and she beat it. She repeated "I think I can." She told the cancer she hated it. She told the cancer she was stronger than it -- strong like bull. She told the cancer she had more to do. She told the cancer she was in control of her life! Through it all she was brave, she was strong, she remained the center of our family. She remained the unwavering friend. She became my hero!
In 2006 she celebrated her 5 year survival date. I began to breathe easier. Not worried that cancer would jump out from its hiding spot. She hated her yearly mammogram. I think she skipped a few -- the fear of the other shoe dropping would get the better of her. But year after year, they would come back clear.
In 2009 my mom fell ill shortly after the New Year with what appeared to be a nasty flu. It knocked her down for weeks. After numerous visits to the Dr. and finally an admission to the hospital she was getting a full work up. Her liver enzymes were out of whack which led to an ultrasound and a diagnosis of severe cirrhosis of the liver. More tests and a biopsy. A call from my mom telling me it was cancer. Metastatic disease. Her breast cancer had metastasized to her liver. I fell apart. She put me back together. A mom!
The oncologist was optimistic. Gave her and me hope. Talked about a long life. Multiple rounds of chemo and tests followed. I made appointments with John's Hopkins and Sloan Kettering. Appointments my mom would never make. Less than three months later my mom was admitted to the hospital. Unresponsive. Her liver was failing. We were aggressive with her meds which brought her back to us for a few short days. Days my family and I lived in the hospital breaking every hospital protocol. Days where her friends and family put life aside to spend with her. I let her share my news with everyone -- I was 8 weeks pregnant.
During those days we protected her. It was my decision. I didn't want her to be scared. I didn't want her to know that she was losing her battle. I wanted those days to be filled with love and laughter. For her last days to be as full as possible. Maybe I was wrong to do this. I still question this decision. Maybe I should have let people be honest with her. Let her say goodbye. Let her leave on her terms. I couldn't! I wouldn't! Deep down I believe she knew -- I took weeks off of work, her family flew in from all over the country. This wasn't normal. But it was my turn. My mom always protected me. Comforted me. Calmed my fears. In her last days I knew I had to do this for her.
Her liver Dr. scolded me. He wanted me to let her go peacefully, stop medical interventions. Stop her drugs. It was too late he said. I wasn't ready to give up. She wasn't either. We're fighters -- strong like bull!
We tried one more round of chemo. Hoping it would start reversing the tumors that had taken over her liver. We planned a Derby day party with hats and virgin mint juleps. We never had the party. The chemo was too much. Her liver was too weak. She slipped back into unconsciousness. It would be her last round.
The night before she died I laid in bed with my mom. Holding her too me and told her that we would be OK. That I would be OK. I told her if she wanted to she could let go. She didn't have to fight anymore.
On May 5, 2009 my mom lost her battle to breast cancer. She was surrounded by family who held her hands while she took her last breath. Who told her it was OK to go while her heart beat for minutes after. The nurse told us she had a strong heart -- of course she did!
My mom may have lost her battle but the war isn't over. Her fight mattered. Her story matters. I walk because I can. I walk because she can't. I walk to win her war.
Note: I am walking in the Susan G. Komen 3 Day in memory of my mom.
A warning to close friends and family -- this may be tough to read. It was torture to write.
This story does not have a happy ending.
In early 2001 as I was getting ready to complete my final year of College I got a call from my mom. I don't remember the words she said. I only heard breast cancer. I can still feel the lump in my stomach. I can still feel the panic rising. I know she comforted me -- because that's what mom's do -- they make you believe that everything is going to be alright even when they face fear and uncertainty. They give you what strength and courage they have to carry you forward. My mom was 47.
The doctors moved quickly scheduling a lumpectomy. The date was set. It happened to be smack dab in the middle of my spring break. A trip planned with my new boyfriend (now husband) to Disney World. I wanted to cancel. She insisted I go. A mom -- encouraging me to move forward with my life even when she is facing a threat to hers.
I went on the trip. Matt will tell you I was a mess. Anxiety and nerves and guilt and fear. I couldn't have been very fun to be around. I can still tell you exactly where I was standing when my mom got out of surgery. My cell phone (it was a rather large contraption in 2001) rang while I was standing at the stairs leading up into the overhang for Big Thunder Mountain. Reception was bad -- we let the line pass us by so I could talk to my dad. The news -- mom was out of surgery. It went well. Looks like they got it all.
Relief.
Tears.
Smiles.
Chemo, radiation and years of hormone therapy followed. Her hair thinned. She went into early menopause. She hated how tired she was, how sick the treatments made her. But she looked that big ugly beast cancer square in the eye and she beat it. She repeated "I think I can." She told the cancer she hated it. She told the cancer she was stronger than it -- strong like bull. She told the cancer she had more to do. She told the cancer she was in control of her life! Through it all she was brave, she was strong, she remained the center of our family. She remained the unwavering friend. She became my hero!
In 2006 she celebrated her 5 year survival date. I began to breathe easier. Not worried that cancer would jump out from its hiding spot. She hated her yearly mammogram. I think she skipped a few -- the fear of the other shoe dropping would get the better of her. But year after year, they would come back clear.
In 2009 my mom fell ill shortly after the New Year with what appeared to be a nasty flu. It knocked her down for weeks. After numerous visits to the Dr. and finally an admission to the hospital she was getting a full work up. Her liver enzymes were out of whack which led to an ultrasound and a diagnosis of severe cirrhosis of the liver. More tests and a biopsy. A call from my mom telling me it was cancer. Metastatic disease. Her breast cancer had metastasized to her liver. I fell apart. She put me back together. A mom!
The oncologist was optimistic. Gave her and me hope. Talked about a long life. Multiple rounds of chemo and tests followed. I made appointments with John's Hopkins and Sloan Kettering. Appointments my mom would never make. Less than three months later my mom was admitted to the hospital. Unresponsive. Her liver was failing. We were aggressive with her meds which brought her back to us for a few short days. Days my family and I lived in the hospital breaking every hospital protocol. Days where her friends and family put life aside to spend with her. I let her share my news with everyone -- I was 8 weeks pregnant.
During those days we protected her. It was my decision. I didn't want her to be scared. I didn't want her to know that she was losing her battle. I wanted those days to be filled with love and laughter. For her last days to be as full as possible. Maybe I was wrong to do this. I still question this decision. Maybe I should have let people be honest with her. Let her say goodbye. Let her leave on her terms. I couldn't! I wouldn't! Deep down I believe she knew -- I took weeks off of work, her family flew in from all over the country. This wasn't normal. But it was my turn. My mom always protected me. Comforted me. Calmed my fears. In her last days I knew I had to do this for her.
Her liver Dr. scolded me. He wanted me to let her go peacefully, stop medical interventions. Stop her drugs. It was too late he said. I wasn't ready to give up. She wasn't either. We're fighters -- strong like bull!
We tried one more round of chemo. Hoping it would start reversing the tumors that had taken over her liver. We planned a Derby day party with hats and virgin mint juleps. We never had the party. The chemo was too much. Her liver was too weak. She slipped back into unconsciousness. It would be her last round.
The night before she died I laid in bed with my mom. Holding her too me and told her that we would be OK. That I would be OK. I told her if she wanted to she could let go. She didn't have to fight anymore.
On May 5, 2009 my mom lost her battle to breast cancer. She was surrounded by family who held her hands while she took her last breath. Who told her it was OK to go while her heart beat for minutes after. The nurse told us she had a strong heart -- of course she did!
My mom may have lost her battle but the war isn't over. Her fight mattered. Her story matters. I walk because I can. I walk because she can't. I walk to win her war.
Note: I am walking in the Susan G. Komen 3 Day in memory of my mom.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Will you join the Army of Women?
I've told you about my philosophy about funding for breast cancer research. And you know that I am participating in the Susan G. Komen 3 Day next October in honor of my mom. But there is another organization that is leading a breast cancer research surge. The Dr. Susan Love Research Foundation's Love/Avon Army of Women.
The Army of Women's goal is to:
Will you please take a moment to join the Army of Women? Women of all ages, ethnicities and risks — whether you have had breast cancer or not — are needed now! It's easy and who knows, one day your contribution could save the life of someone you love. You can visit www.armyofwomen.org to learn more and add yourself to the growing list of women trying to make a difference!
The Army of Women's goal is to:
- To recruit one million healthy women of every age and ethnicity, including breast cancer survivors and women at high-risk for the disease, to partner with breast cancer researchers and directly participate in the research that will eradicate breast cancer once and for all.
- To challenge the scientific community to expand its current focus to include breast cancer prevention research conducted on healthy women.
Will you please take a moment to join the Army of Women? Women of all ages, ethnicities and risks — whether you have had breast cancer or not — are needed now! It's easy and who knows, one day your contribution could save the life of someone you love. You can visit www.armyofwomen.org to learn more and add yourself to the growing list of women trying to make a difference!
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Grief
I wrote this post a couple of weeks ago and wasn't sure if I was going to post it, but I have found that writing things down has been therapeutic for me. It's help me work through some of my thoughts and get them out -- let them go. And if someday someone else reads this and in some way it touches them then it was worth it. So here goes . . .
I didn't read any of the books on loss or grief.
I didn't want anyone telling me that my pain was the same as anyone else's. Or that there was a way to get through it.
It wasn't.
There wasn't.
I lost MY mom.
MY MOMMY!
I was bursting from the inside out. Bursting with anger. Bursting with pain. Sadness, jealousy, fear, pity, anxiety, rage.
I went through phases of never wanting to feel again. Never wanting to love. Because if I didn't feel, if I didn't love then I couldn't lose again.
I frantically reached out for support simultaneously pushing the ones who loved me away. Like a child during a temper tantrum. My emotions were so raw I couldn't contain or control them.
I still have moments. When I'm flooded with emotion so strong I can barely breathe. When despite my best efforts, my eyes well up with tears that escape and stain my face.
I think I'll always have those moments.
The victory is that they are moments. And moments pass. And those moments are surrounded by wonderful moments. Two and a half years later I wouldn't say I'm healed. I'm not. I have a long way to go. But I am healing. The wound is not as big, not as raw.
There is still not a day that goes by that I don't think about Mom. That I don't miss her with every fiber of myself. That I don't long to talk to her or hug her one more time. I don't think that will ever go away.
But time has given me the gift of perspective. I am not the only one who has lost. And others have survived to thrive. To live fully, to love fully. To find joy in the everyday.
I'm getting there.
I didn't read any of the books on loss or grief.
I didn't want anyone telling me that my pain was the same as anyone else's. Or that there was a way to get through it.
It wasn't.
There wasn't.
I lost MY mom.
MY MOMMY!
I was bursting from the inside out. Bursting with anger. Bursting with pain. Sadness, jealousy, fear, pity, anxiety, rage.
I went through phases of never wanting to feel again. Never wanting to love. Because if I didn't feel, if I didn't love then I couldn't lose again.
I frantically reached out for support simultaneously pushing the ones who loved me away. Like a child during a temper tantrum. My emotions were so raw I couldn't contain or control them.
I still have moments. When I'm flooded with emotion so strong I can barely breathe. When despite my best efforts, my eyes well up with tears that escape and stain my face.
I think I'll always have those moments.
The victory is that they are moments. And moments pass. And those moments are surrounded by wonderful moments. Two and a half years later I wouldn't say I'm healed. I'm not. I have a long way to go. But I am healing. The wound is not as big, not as raw.
There is still not a day that goes by that I don't think about Mom. That I don't miss her with every fiber of myself. That I don't long to talk to her or hug her one more time. I don't think that will ever go away.
But time has given me the gift of perspective. I am not the only one who has lost. And others have survived to thrive. To live fully, to love fully. To find joy in the everyday.
I'm getting there.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Beyond the Pink Ribbon
Who does not know what a pink ribbon stands for? The color pink has become synonymous with breast cancer. Throughout the month of October virtually every store and business finds a way to go pink in support of breast cancer education. I would say the effort to educate the public about breast cancer, the risk and the need for regular screening has been a screaming success.
On the other hand we have so far to go in the search for a cure.
It is my belief that as a community we need to shift our focus from education to research. Cutting edge research that will one day find a cure for this horrific disease.
That is why I am so proud that 75% of funds raised by The 3-Day go to ground-breaking research focused on decreasing breast cancer incidence and mortality over the next decade.
On the other hand we have so far to go in the search for a cure.
- Every 3 minutes one person in the U.S. is diagnosed with breast cancer
- More than 1.4 million women are diagnosed with breast cancer a year globally
- Every 69 seconds a woman dies of breast cancer
It is my belief that as a community we need to shift our focus from education to research. Cutting edge research that will one day find a cure for this horrific disease.
That is why I am so proud that 75% of funds raised by The 3-Day go to ground-breaking research focused on decreasing breast cancer incidence and mortality over the next decade.
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