When your best friend has cancer; Long distance love

A few weeks ago, I posted about what to do or say when your best friend learns she has cancer. It seemed that many people read and took those words to heart, and I want to make sure that it is clear: I am speaking from hindsight. Much of this I got wrong. I wasn't really very good at it, but I tried to pay attention and learn from my mistakes. 

When you live five hours away, it's hard to give advice for the everyday. Impossible really. Susan was so lucky to have a strong church community, school community, blogger community, and some really awesome friends who organized her meals, her childcare, and her transportation when needed. She also has the most amazing husband, parents, and in-laws who stepped in. The only things I know about supporting your friend in person when they are in cancer treatment are these:

• Don't show up sick. Don't show up if you've been sick in the past week. Don't show up if anyone in your house is sick. Germs are the absolute worst thing to bring them.
• When you want to help - have an idea. Don't call and say, "Let me know what I can do to help." They shouldn't have to think about it. If you have a skill or an opportunity, then step in and do something. Don't put it off on your friend to think up something for you to feel useful.
• And please - don't say that her problems make you rethink your own life or make you feel badly for having less life threatening problems. It's annoying to be the barometer of how much someone else's life sucks.

If you live five hours away, it's easy to think that you are useless, and that's not true. In fact, it's a little easier for you to be that person with whom your friend can still be "normal." When you aren't seeing the treatment first hand, it's a little easier for you to be the one who can still call and ask for help with your uncontrollable three year old. 

You can be the one who still needs her. And trust me, she needs to still be needed.

It felt selfish to me - to call and cry to her about my problems. What I learned though, was that in crying to her about my problems, she knew that I still saw her as my friend, Susan. Not my friend with cancer. 

Again, it's about living. The more you focus on the cancer with your friend, the more the cancer takes over. She needs people to still be who they were with her so that she can still be herself. If the cancer is terminal, then you both know it's going to take her life in the end - don't let it take her being while she is still here and breathing.

There will be times when you want to know what is going on with her treatment, and that is alright. Tell her that you would like an update when she is ready to give you one. Remember that she needs time to process information from the doctors and to go over it with her family. She will tell you want she needs you to know in her own time.

Living apart doesn't mean that you never see each other though. Get in the car, on a plane, or on a train and get there. This is the one area where I don't recommend trying to maintain the norm. Get there. Every chance you have to see her that you don't take will be time that you regret. Trust me on that one. Get there every single chance that you can. Take your children with you so that they can know her. Spend time with her children so that they can know you. Be friends with her partner - after all, you chose the same person as the bomb diggity. Of course, I already adored Susan's husband, so that last one was easy, but you get the point.

The phone line only goes so far. Make your choices wisely. Sacrifice. Get there. Because if you are life long best friends, then you may be one of the only people she feels like she can stay in her jammies around. She knows that if she needs to nap, you will amuse yourself or wash the dishes. She knows that she doesn't have to be strong around you - that you can and will handle her pain and her sorrow - because it's what you do for each other.

You won't be doing anything for her that she hasn't done for you all along - it's just in the context of cancer now.

When your best friend has breast cancer

It's October. Tis the season for everything pumpkin and oceans of pink vomited upon every product known to mankind.

It's October. Tis the season for me to think about Susan twice as much everyday and remember the one equation my astrophysicist best friend taught me that I actually understood:

ACTION > AWARENESS

There isn't much that I can add about what you can do during October that hasn't already been said. Susan said it best, of course, and new voices are rising all the time to remind us that living with breast cancer isn't made any easier by us posting the color of our bras on Facebook or not wearing a bra on October 13. 

What I can add is something for the friends of women living with breast cancer. It's something that I've wanted to write about for years now, but I realized that I wasn't really that great at it, and certainly didn't have enough knowledge to fill a book.

I can tell you what I did wrong, and maybe think of something I got right.

In the beginning . . .

One night, your best friend calls you on the phone. She has a three year old and a five month old. You are pregnant with your first child. Conversations had turned from babies to breast cancer over the past week because her mother-in-law had just been diagnosed and was about to start treatment. With you being the child of a breast cancer survivor, she turned to you to answer questions about helping a family member and dealing with telling the children. 

Only this night, she says, "In my internet research about breast cancer, I found something. Something called Inflammatory Breast Cancer." 

"I've never heard of it," I reply.

"I think I have it," she says slowly.

Here's where you can go right or wrong. 

Wrong thing to say, "Oh, Sus. There's no way you have breast cancer. You have no family history. You're breastfeeding. You're only 34. I'm sure it's just mastitis."

No. Don't do that. Don't dismiss a friend's concerns. Don't slide down a tear filled slope of worry with them, but don't dismiss them. EVER.

Right thing to say, "Wow. That must be scaring you. Have you made an appointment to have it checked? Do you need me to go with you?"

Listen.

Support.

Encourage.

After the initial diagnosis . . .

There will be a diagnosis. A diagnosis is not answers. Let me say that again. The diagnosis creates more questions that you can ever imagine. It does NOT provide answers.

Your best friend will tell you the diagnosis even before she has fully processed the news fully herself. There will be silence on the phone. Stay in it. Stay with her.

Wrong thing to do next is pepper her with questions, "What will they do? Is there treatment? Have you told the kids?"

A question you could ask are, "Do you need me to come?" 

Right thing to do next is possibly cry with her. Calmly. It might be to curse. It might be to apologize for saying the wrong thing the day before. You won't know exactly until you - 

Listen.

Support.

Encourage.

The thing is, with a diagnosis of Inflammatory Breast Cancer in particular, everything about what you thought you knew of the future is gone. The appointment you thought would give you answers, the one where you get your diagnosis? That appointment only turns everything into uncertainty.

Living in uncertainty is one of the hardest things to ask someone to do. 

Asking a billion questions of someone living in uncertainty is never helpful. Don't do it.

Something right I learned along the way was to ask in the first couple of minutes of our conversations, "What do you want to talk about? Life or cancer?" 

Most of the time, the answer was "life."

Because really, what your best friend with a new cancer diagnosis wants more than anything? Is to live. 

So do it. Live with her.

Listen.

Support.

Encourage.

Loving her isn't enough

Last night I dreamed that Momma and I were shopping. We were in some hip little downtown area, very much like Asheville, and we were in stores like specialty olive oil and dried herb shops. Places you wander leisurely through, wondering how they stay in business, but enjoying the window shopping.

Momma was strong, beautiful, vibrant, and we were having so much fun.

They were shops I had been in before, because the employees knew me. I introduced Momma to each one of them, and they showed her things that I had mentioned to them reminded me of her. It was very much how I often shop, "Oh, Momma would like that."

********************************************

She is on heavy duty chemo again, Momma. It isn't as easy this time around, not that it was ever easy. But it is easy to forget how much harder a weekly injection is than a daily pill. Especially easier to forget when you aren't there.

The boys made her cards. I made her a minky eye pillow with dried lavender in it. She called me when she got it and gushed about the cards. I was proud of my boys. Then we talked about the pillow and how she could heat it or cool it to use on her eyes or head.

She said, "That's so nice. Elizabeth always puts a cool rag on my head with I'm throwing up, so I'm sure I'll be able to use this."

And in that moment, I failed her. Here is your silly eye pillow, when you need someone holding your hand, wiping your mouth, helping you get to the bathroom or bucket in time. I made you a PILLOW. A scented pillow to help you want to throw up even more.

Next week, I'll be with her. I'll get to do those things, but only for a week. It's ultimately not my responsibility. Or is it, and I'm shirking it?

I'm long distance loving her with dreadfully out of touch care packages. Loving her doesn't seem like enough.

The Hubble Collection

Something spectacular happened today.

LympheDIVAs released a new line of sleeves in memory of Susan. They are sleeves designed using images from the Hubble Telescope - The Hubble Collection.

Not only are they a perfect tribute to her, they are beautiful. Really gorgeous.

For every sleeve and gauntlet purchased from this collection, LympheDIVAs will make a donation to Crickett's Answer for Cancer, a cause very dear to Susan's heart.

Here's what Josh from LympheDIVAs had to say about it:

"In 2010, Susan Niebur of ToddlerPlanet arranged a discussion between LympheDIVAs, manufacturers of medically correct and fashionable compression garments for lymphedema, and the 501(c)3 charity Crickett’s Answer for Cancer. These two organizations with similar geneses quickly realized the potential of a partnership and established a working relationship to help provide lymphedema sleeves and gauntlets to those who could not afford them. LympheDIVAs has donated thousands of dollars worth of garments to Crickett’s Answer for Cancer, but that is not enough. When Susan Niebur passed away last year, LympheDIVAs wanted to honor both her memory, her fight and her legacy and design a sleeve in her honor that would give back to Crickett’s Answer for Cancer."

I know that a LympheDIVA sleeve isn't something that all of us need, but it's something that if you DO need it, then it's very important. So, I hope that you will help me spread the word about these new sleeves. Every woman who needs one deserves for it to be this beautiful.

More than anything, it's a beautiful way to honor Susan's memory, and nothing makes me happier than when people remember and honor this woman I love so much.

Thank you, LympheDIVAs.

Aren't they stunning?

Something's gotta give

Maybe I've told this story before, maybe not. As Christopher's birthday cupcakes sit baking in the oven, I can't help but tell it again.

It was time for a party. Susan's youngest was turning six. She called me up, like she did whenever cupcakes were in order, and asked me to tell her how to make buttercream frosting from scratch.

Real moms make the frosting for their child's cupcakes. From scratch.

Or something like that.

I start in with my "You let your butter get room temperature . . ."

Wait. You mean it sits out of the fridge? On the counter?

"Yes. It's fine. I promise. I would probably use two sticks. When it's soft enough, put it in your mixer and start to cream it. Watch it - when it's getting fluffy, then start to add your powdered sugar."

How much powdered sugar?

"Oh, I don't know. At least three cups. Probably four. Just keep adding it until you get the consistency you like."

Oh please. There has to be a recipe. Do you mean you are just making this up? You can't just make it up. 

"Alright. Hold on. I'll find a recipe."

So I did. I looked up a recipe and gave her exact measurements for the butter, powdered sugar, and vanilla extract. Then, I got to the milk.

"It says 2-6 tablespoons of milk."

Silence.

"Susan? You okay?"

SERIOUSLY? There is a big difference between 2 and 6 tablespoons of milk. This is a RECIPE. It's supposed to have MEASUREMENTS.

We laughed and laughed. Always the scientist. Always the artist.

She didn't end up making the frosting. She was just too tired. Within a week, she went into hospice care. And then we all know what happened.

I can't help it. When I make cupcakes, I can't help myself. Laughing at her frustration over my shoddy instructions. Crying over the fact that she didn't get to make the frosting.

*************************************************************
Something has got to give.

I have more to write about. Colin is hilarious. Christopher is thriving. My momma was just here for a wonderful visit.

It's just when I'm in this space, I can't help but keep coming back to Susan.

Maybe I need a change. A fresh start. A new design. Maybe just a whole new blog.

I don't know. I know it's alright to miss her. I know it's alright to be happy and to be sad all at the same time.

But dang. I'm ready for my fingers to write about something else. Such is the downfall of free form, rambling blogging.

Metastatic Breast Cancer Day

Today, October 17, is Metastatic Breast Cancer Day. Only one day out of the whole month of Pinktober is dedicated to metastatic breast cancer, which is technically, the only breast cancer that kills women. If you die because of breast cancer, then you die from breast cancer that has turned metastatic.

Metastatic Breast Cancer is what took Susan in February. Metastatic Breast Cancer still needs awareness, I think. So today, and every October 17 from now on, I'm going to send you back to her blog to read this:

"I am a woman with metastatic breast cancer.  My cancer was first detected as inflammatory breast cancer nearly 4.5 years ago, although I’ve also had invasive breast cancer, Paget’s disease, and recurrences as the cancer spread to lymph nodes under my left arm (2010), to lymph nodes in the center of my chest (New Year’s 2011), and then to my bones in March 2011.

Metastatic breast cancer means that cancer cells have spread from my right breast to other sites, made themselves at home, and reproduced so many times that now each cell has become a mass of cells detectable by today’s x-rays, CT scans, PET scans, and MRIs.  I have those tests frequently now, to determine how well my current treatment is proceeding, whether the cancer is progressing or held at bay, and when we should change treatments to something that might be more effective.  Last week’s tests and scans showed that there is still cancer in my neck, spine, ribs, and hips.  The blood tests had been showing a reduction in the total load of cancer cells in my body, but as the numbers slowed to a standstill, they agreed with the increasing pain in my hips, left ribs, and neck, one that agrees with the scans; we will have to change treatments."

Please. Please click over and read the rest of Susan's post at her blog, Toddler Planet.

BlogHer 2012

Some time last fall, Susan and I had a crazy idea. I don't remember who said it first, nor does it really matter - what with us being of the same mind as we were.

"Let's go to BlogHer in New York. Let's do it. 2012."

We bought our tickets at the super earlybird rate and started making plans for our trip.

Honestly, I was done with BlogHer. It was too big for me. This is my little space, and not many people join me here. I'm fine with it just the way it is. I enjoyed BlogHer the years I had gone in the past, but I didn't feel the need to return.

However.

Susan shone at BlogHer. She was totally in her element. There was this myth that she concocted in her mind that I was the popular one in high school. One glance at the two of us in a crowd like BlogHer, and you would know there was no truth to that whatsoever. She owned the room when she entered. Confident. Friendly. Brilliant. Beautiful. Everyone noticed Susan.

I wanted her to feel that one more time. I wanted to make sure that she got to be in her element again come August. So I bought the ticket with my heart and ignored my head telling me it was fancy.

We made plans to have a handicapped accessible room because there was a strong chance she would be in a wheelchair. We made plans to be in said room a good bit of the time because there was a strong chance she shouldn't be around crowds. We made plans to cart in our own Diet Coke because BlogHer always ends up in a Pepsi place. And Diet Pepsi? No thank you. We don't do Diet Pepsi.

Then came February 6, 2012.

My first thought was to sell my ticket. She was the only reason I was going. But I put it off, and by the time I really started thinking about it, something inside me said, "Just go anyway."

So I am.

I'll be heading to New York City on Thursday morning. It will be three days with women who knew Susan and some women who know me. I don't know what to expect. I don't know if it will be hard, or if it will be healing.

It might simply be fun, like the weekend we just spent with Curt, Widget and Little Bear. There was sadness lingering, but we enjoyed being together so much that the sadness didn't prevail. I think Susan would have been proud of us.

So yeah. While the posts and tweets about clothes and shoes and swag fly by, if you think about it, say a little prayer for me. If you are there, please say hello to me. I tend to disconnect when the sorrow hits, and it's likely that you'll see me just standing around. Quiet. Glazed over. I'll be the one people tweet about as "aloof" or "snobby." But you know the truth.

I'm just wishing my heart had been right this time. I'm just wishing I was tackling this weekend with Susan.

LympheDIVAs and Liz Lange. In memory of Susan.

Yesterday, yet another of Susan's legacies came to fruition.

Susan connected Crickett's Answer to Cancer with LympheDIVAs, helping provide beautiful and necessary, but expensive, compression sleeves to cancer patients needing them.

It didn't stop there though. Of course it didn't. This is Susan I'm talking about. She then brought Liz Lange, who you might know best for her maternity line in Target, into the mix. Liz agreed to design a sleeve to be sold by LympheDIVAs with the proceeds to benefit Crickett's Answer to Cancer.

A couple of days before Susan died, we spoke about the sleeve. She was so proud of making that connection and helping women in need obtain the compression sleeves they so desperately needed.

This is a great day for Susan's work, advocacy, and legacy.

I hope you will help me spread the good news.

April 13

Happy birthday, Susan.

I love you, and I miss you.

Peace that passes understanding

Most days I leave my grief right here. Whether I publish it or just save it for myself, typing out my words enables me to go about my daily life as though I didn't have my heart ripped in half on February 6, 2012.

To the outside world, I appear no more strange than I usually do.

Monday was different. Monday was Circle day. It's the first women's Bible study I have been a part of that Susan wasn't also attending, and often, I would call her on Monday afternoons and we would talk about what had been discussed that morning. Sometimes, I would take notes and send her an email with some verses that made me think of her or something someone said that I thought would be meaningful to her.

Monday was different. Monday was Circle day, and I wouldn't be sharing any of what we discussed with Susan that afternoon. Maybe that is why I was particularly raw that day.

Maybe I was raw because I feel safe among those women.

Maybe I was raw because in reality, it still hasn't been that long since she died.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.

     Matthew 5:9

We started out by talking about what having peace means.

Susan and I had this conversation many many times. What does it mean to have peace when you are a young mother with terminal cancer? How is it possible to find peace when you know you are being robbed of decades you expected to spend with the people you love?

I couldn't help myself, and by the end of the lesson, I found myself in the bathroom sobbing. I'm not a public crier. It's not something I'm usually comfortable with. But among the women in this group, the ones who found me and knew what was going on, I could cry.

It felt safe. And it felt necessary. It was almost as if I needed to say to some part of my everyday life, 

"It's still not okay. I'm still not alright with this. The peace I can make with recent events is fragile and has to be rebuilt daily. Be gentle, world. It still hurts."

And they let me do that. I'm so grateful.

*****************************************************

Susan loathed for anyone to say that a person "lost their battle with cancer." She absolutely and completely hated those words.

This week, as I've thought about peace and Susan, it has occurred to me that to use the words "fight" and "battle" are altogether appropriate, but the idea that cancer "won" is not.

Cancer didn't win anymore than Susan lost. That cancer that was living in Susan? That bitch is just as dead as she is. 

Susan is, however, at peace. There is no more fighting. There is no more anger. There is no more fear. There is no more pain. There is no more sickness.

She has peace. 

She accepted God's will in her life. She fought for as long and as hard as she physically could, and then she made peace.

There is a big difference between losing a battle and making peace with your life.

January 11, 2011

Always 

I don't usually know what to say,
But I always will know how to listen.

I don't know the answers to your questions,
But I will search for you and validate your need to ask.

I won't blow anymore sunshine.
I won't hold back anymore tears.

Because you need to know these things:     
     I know the time will come.   
     I trust your strength.     
     I believe in your family.

And this is also true:     
     I ache with you.    
     We support each other, and we both hurt.     
     We are both angry.     
     We are both scared.     
     Neither of us needs to apologize for it.

Do you know that it is so hard to give to someone like you?     

I want to give everything I can to you, but you - you are always         
     Arms outstretched         
     Searching the crowd         
     Ready to teach, to give, to share.

It's hard to catch you without your arms open to give.
It's hard not to take from you all the time.

That, by the way, was a compliment.

I am the woman who will play it straight with you.     
No more sugar coating from me, I promise.

I am the girl with whom you always played straight.     
     There will never be pompous bags of sand with lit candles in front of my home. In your honor.

You are my favorite one.
The one who restored my faith in lasting friendships, time and time again.

I will stand as strong as I can for you.
Following your example of what a friend really is.

We will be always friends.
Always.

Where it all began

It's like Facebook knows us. On my list of online friends, you are right under Kevin. Because you were the one I talked to the most. I still expect to see the green online dot appear by your name. At first, I wouldn't read the posts people wrote about you. Now I am searching them out, looking for any bit of newness. Something that makes it not be over. I go to Twitter and do a search on your handle and smile at the moms who are thinking of you when their children notice the stars. You are always in the night sky. You are always in nature. You are always with me. I'm going to Mississippi tomorrow. Our place of becoming. I'll drive by your house. By my house. I'll show them to my children. I don't really know why. Probably because you are always with me, and that is where it all began. Instead of where it all ended.

Threading it back together

When I had my first miscarriage in 2006, I grieved here on this blog. I poured my sorrow out through my words so that I could leave the pain here and try to get on with daily life.

It worked for me.

This time, I'm publicly grieving for my best friend. I'm laying out the pain, the utter agony, of losing the person I have had holding my hand through life for 25 years. Here are the pieces of my heart, shattered for you. Tread lightly among my words, for they are threading those pieces back together again.

Today, more people I actually see in real life sometimes read my words. I run into them, and I feel weird for smiling. I feel awkward for not breaking down into a puddle of tears. 

The thing is, by laying out the grief here, I am better able to pull myself together in real life.

Susan understood that. 

At BlogHer in 2008, she spoke on a grief panel. Most of the bloggers on the panel had blogged about personal illness or loss. Susan described what it was like to blog so personally about her cancer diagnosis and treatment while still maintaining so much privacy for her family. At some point in the session, I mentioned that I blogged to leave it behind me for the day. 

There is no point to that paragraph, other than the fact that it has been on my mind all day.

I am fine out in public. I have to be. It is my nature to smile, laugh, and make inappropriate jokes. 

The only time I am not fine is when I have reason to say the actual words out loud, "My best friend, Susan, died last Monday." Actually saying it out loud always get me. Hell. Just typing it makes me cry. Somehow, that very concrete admittance of the obvious just sticks in my throat. I know that not saying doesn't mean it didn't happen. I just hate saying it.

So I grieve here. Where I can wallow and hurt and cry and gnash my teeth. I will hit publish, be comforted by the wisdom and compassion of so many people who take the time to share it with me. Then I will close the laptop, get up, and go on with life.

It's far from fair, but doing anything any differently won't change the fact that she is gone.

For Susan

1. His Eye Is on the Sparrow
2. 
   
3. Why should I feel discouraged, why should the shadows come,
   Why should my heart be lonely, and long for heav’n and home,
   When Jesus is my portion? My constant Friend is He:
   His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
   His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.
   • Refrain:
     I sing because I’m happy, I sing because I’m free,
     For His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.
4. “Let not your heart be troubled,” His tender word I hear,
   And resting on His goodness, I lose my doubts and fears;
   Though by the path He leadeth, but one step I may see;
   His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
   His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.
5. Whenever I am tempted, whenever clouds arise,
   When songs give place to sighing, when hope within me dies,
   I draw the closer to Him, from care He sets me free;
   His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
   His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

~Civilla D. Martin

December 9

Dear Susan,

We started our blogs as a way to keep up with one another better. Everyday life was preventing us from talking as often as we liked, and the visits were far too scarce. Now though, I find myself unable to keep up with it because what I really want to say - what I would normally share with you personally - are things that you don't need to hear right now.

I'm going to miss you so much.

I was making gingerbread cookies this morning and planning our visit next week in my head. I have crafts to bring for the boys, cards to address with you, a copy of The Help, and I've been mulling over the best way to get your house to smell like Christmas. I've decided on a pot of Trader Joe's Pear Cinnamon Cider simmering on the stove top.

Doesn't all of that sound divine? Except that as soon as I ran down the list in my mind, my stupid brain added, "Because this is her last Christmas. I want it to be as perfect as possible."

Dammit. I try so hard to never think like that. You have taught me so much about living right now - right this very moment - and not worrying about when your last one will be. I've needed that. But it's a hard habit for me to break.

I started going through old pictures last night. I thought I might bring them with me next week, but then I decided that we aren't those people anymore, and we are living in the present. Right? But man, your hair was so long and gorgeous.

I'm sure we'll cry together next week. I don't see how we can't. But I promise you that I will remember that my sorrow is not your burden to bear at this point. You have walked with me and held me up through so much in my life.

It's my turn to return the favor.

I love you.

And now I know.

Posts I wrote over the past two months will be popping up. Things I needed to say, but it wasn't the time to say them. This is from December 8, 2011.

My best friend is dying.

Of course, by the time you are reading this, my best friend will already have died because this isn't something I want her to read.

When your best friend is dying, who do you talk to? I mean, she is the one I always called for everything. When my momma got sick, when my daddy got sick, when I got divorced, when I fell in love again, when I got pregnant, when I miscarried, when I need parenting help - always when I need parenting help - I call Susan.

I call Susan for everything. I call Susan for nothing. She is Christina to my Meredith.

This afternoon, I'm coming to grips with the fact that Susan is dying. We've known this for awhile now. It's what terminal cancer means. But Susan is doing a beautiful job of living with cancer instead of dying from cancer. It is Susan who taught me to quit mourning the upcoming deaths of my parents from terminal illnesses and start enjoying the time I have with them more. It is Susan who taught me that a terminal diagnosis is not an immediate death sentence, so love the life you have and live it to the fullest.

I love her.

I miss her today, right now. Not because she is sick, but because she is my best friend and outside of my immediate family, the person I would rather be with above all other people.

I miss her.

The thing is, I am supporting her the best that I can. My sorrow is not her sorrow to bear. She has her own sorrow. When your best friend is dying, you've got to find another shoulder to cry on. That doesn't mean that we haven't cried together - we have. It means that the selfish oh woe is me feelings that I have when I think about losing her - those feelings are not for her ears.

She has enough to deal with without me making her feel guilty for being sick and leaving too too too soon.

My prayers are for pain relief. I tell this to people very matter of factly because on the outside, and out of respect for Susan, I'm not praying for a miraculous healing anymore. I want her to be free of pain. It's that simple.

When your best friend is dying, you want to encourage her to fight as hard as she can, but you have to know when she has had enough. You have to listen more than you cheer. You have to stand by her decisions to treat or to stop treating. You have to be ready to let her go with grace.

I'm trying so hard. I'm trying so hard, but my heart is breaking into a million tiny pieces.

A million tiny tiny little pieces.

And so it is

So you're gone. And I'm doing laundry.

It's so surreal. And so wrong. The mundane things I have to get done today all seem so ridiculous and wrong.

It's a Monday. Colin is at preschool. Christopher and I were at the church in a meeting. I knew that a phone call from your home instead of from your cell phone wasn't a good thing. I didn't answer it. I couldn't. It wasn't fair to Curt to make him leave a message to call him back, but I had to know if it was him, and if he was just telling me that you slept peacefully before I could talk.

"Call me back."

I knew.

I knew this morning when I sat in front of the fish tank. I already felt you missing. Gone. Your fish danced through the water in front of me, and I mourned that you would never see my tank. I am so proud of that tank. Your fish. Your fish live with me now, and I care for them as best as I can. Just like you taught me to.

There are so many things I do exactly the way you taught me to, not the least of which is trying to parent like you showed me.

You made me want to be a mother.

Seeing you blossom into motherhood, knowing what a genius you are, watching as you continued to work and be a fantastic mother - made me want it all too. I wanted a family. You said, "Of course you do." I'll never forget your unwavering belief in me. You knew I would want, and should have, a family.

You always believed in me before I ever believed in myself.

"Of course you can." How many times did you say that to me?

My heart. I don't know how I'll put the pieces back together without you to hold me through it. You always held me through it all. And now, I have to do it without you.

I haven't had to do anything without you since I was 13 years old.

So I sit with those guppies, and I think of you. I try and think how you would get through. But of course, you were always the strong one. I was the flake. You were the rock and I was the willow.

I don't know what I'm going to do without you.

Crickets

Stella said the other day that all the internet was filled with crickets chirping.

It's true.

I know the world is holding their breath with news about Susan. I know that thousands of people care about her, her family, and her well being.

The thing is, this is a quiet time. There are going to be crickets.

Know that Susan is well loved. She is totally cared for. Surrounded by family. Everything she told you in her latest post.

But I can't share her with you anymore. I just can't. Not right now.

The world loves Susan. I'm grateful for the support and friendship and love everyone has shown her. So very grateful. Please forgive me for needing to hold her within my own heart right now. I have to hold on as tight as I possibly can.

Let's all be copycats. Raising money for Cricket's Answer.

A few months ago, there was this emotional disaster. It was my hair that served as the proverbial straw.

Here's the thing. I didn't admit because it is tres embarrassing. You see, there was a picture of a haircut that I took when I chopped my locks. It wasn't Meg Ryan or Julia Roberts.

It was Kristen Chase.

(pausing to die of embarrassment)

I'll be the first one to tell you that I adore her. I've stated many times that hers was the first blog I ever read. But I can also say that I don't want to BE her. Not like creepy stalker BE.

I just liked her haircut.

Of course, on me, it looked like a mullet, but that's water under the bridge.

There is something FAR MORE PRODUCTIVE that I am going to copy from Kristen now. And that is a donation to Cricket's Answer for Cancer.

While we wait for answers, action, movement - wait to be lifted from limbo - I'll collect your comments. For every comment you leave, I'll donate $1 to Cricket's Answer up to $100. I'm pretty sure I can scrape that together in these tight times. It might require me to hit up Craigslist for some random selling of stuff, but I'll brave it.

It's a great cause. Cricket's Answer is teaming up with LympheDIVAs to provide medically necessary, yet not covered by insurance, compression sleeves for the lymphedema that so many breast cancer survivors experience post mastectomy.

$100 will require all five of my readers to make up different accounts and each comment 20 times. It will also provide just one sleeve, but one sleeve that someone didn't have before.

So. You can leave me a comment and send a dollar. Then, you can click over to Kristen and leave a comment and send another dollar. THEN, you could decide to write a post in this same vein and donate your own dollars. You know. If you wanna.

I'll leave comments open on this post until I wake up Thursday morning. I would say something fancy and professional like Kristen, and close them at 12 EST Wednesday, but I think we've established that I'm no Kristen Chase.


Oh, and GO TEAM WHYMOMMY!!!

Lymphedema sleeves for every survivor

After my mom's mastectomy, there were lasting repercussions.The scar that marked where her breast used to be could be hidden by clothing and an expensive prosthesis. The prosthesis wasn't medically necessary, but her insurance covered both the prosthesis and the special bras that she needed to use it.

Lymphedema is localized swelling and fluid retention due to removal of the lymph nodes during a mastectomy. For most breast cancer survivors, this means that her arm swells tremendously throughout the day and that she has to be extremely careful not to burn, cut, bruise, or get a bite on that arm. For the rest of her life.

The arm is the visual marker for my mom. And I guess because it's such a public part of your body, people feel no obligation to not stare or ask invasive questions about why it might be swollen in the first place. My mom's arm couldn't be hidden and kept her from doing things she used to do in the past, like playing tennis.

Sometimes, Momma would wear a dark tan compression sleeve during the day to keep the swelling down. It was ugly, hot, and uncomfortable though. She didn't have the option of LympheDIVA, and I don't know that she would go for it now. But I can totally see her rocking this:

Here's the thing. Even though Lymphedema is a real and debilitating after effect of breast cancer treatment, insurance doesn't cover the compression sleeves.

I know, right? 

My friend Susan has helped joined forces to make sure that women who can't afford them, will have the compression sleeves and gauntlets that they need.

Enter Cricket's Answer to Cancer. Crickett's Answer for Cancer (CAC) is a registered 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization providing free wigs, mastectomy products, and pampering services to women with breast cancer across the US. Now, they will be helping make it possible for every woman who needs a compression sleeve get a compression sleeve.

You can help too. You can donate directly, or you can simply help spread the word. We have done so much for breast cancer through social media. Please join us in this new project that will mean so much to so many women and their families.