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.

WHAM. Done.

The therapy. It is tough. I'm often left all thought out, cried out, and tired out before I can open this page and begin to write.

But it's helping.

I'm supposed to be making connections. That's my long term homework. It's a hard assignment for me.

There are reconnections that I'm enjoying, and some that I'm not so much. It's good to get back to a friend you drifted from unnecessarily. A good friend.

But connections are hard for me. Trust is hard for me. Depending on someone is hard for me.

All I really want in life is to feel like I matter to the people I care about. It sounds simple, right? But it's not. There is this widely held notion that I cut off relationships with a cleaver. Just put them down on the chopping block and WHAM. Done.

It's partly true. I did call my ex-husband on Valentine's Day and tell him it was over. A seven year marriage. WHAM. Done.

But it's not like I didn't talk until I was blue in the face before that. It finally got to the point where if I felt like I was any less important, I would just drown.

I do try and tell people what I want or need. I do try and communicate. I think in the past, I've been too worried about pleasing people and not coming off as pushy or demanding. I think that I poorly communicated and then would just finally break. I also think that I had expectations far above what they should have been and then just plowed ahead to make my life meet them, whether the people around fit into them or not. Ahem, pushy.

It's just that there comes a moment when I can't stand one more ounce of pain and disappointment and I break. I lash out at what I see as the cause of the pain, and I break free of it. Not ideal, I know. It's how I have survived so far.

That isn't going to happen with Kevin. I know I matter to him. He shows me. He listens to me. He talks to me. We fight hard. We love each other harder than we fight. It is quite obvious that I am important to him.

And now there are children. There is mattering to someone, and then there is being a mother. There is no kind of being needed like the being needed of being a parent.

These holes I have are being filled. I know that I have to fill them myself too. I have to start mattering enough to myself, whatever that means. Or maybe it's that I have to give myself the right relationships to know that I matter.

I have spent the past several years feeling guilty that I didn't feel sorry enough for broken relationships and things people mistakenly blame on me. I'm done with that. I don't feel guilty. I'm not sorry. I'm incredibly happy. I have finally done what was right.

Just in case I needed affirmation on the decision that I'm done shouldering guilt and letting myself assume that I'm just an asshole - I had a dream.

I was in my old house. There were a lot more rooms than when I actually lived there, and they were full. Every room was full of people I was trying to take care of. I was roaming from room to room just letting people down because I hadn't been able to get whatever food they wanted or they were cold or they wanted a different view or whatever. I ended up back in my living room, drinking and crying when new friends walked in. It was Liz and her husband. They had come down from Brooklyn because they heard I had a great place to stay. She handed me a tissue while her husband went into the kitchen and got some more beers. Then, she looked around and said,

"Shit, Marty. Your old friends suck."

Harsh, I know. But dreams, at least my dreams, are often extremely exaggerated. The sentiment is there, though. It's time to make connections. Connections that I won't feel the need to WHAM and run from. It's way past time.

Deliberately

I'm not going to lie. 2012 sucked giant donkey balls. 2011 wasn't that much better.

Declaring that 2013 is going to be better just seems like a dare to the universe to whack me even harder than ever. Not something I want to even tempt.

So, I will declare only what I know will happen.

In 2013, I will turn 40. There won't be any complaining from me. I feel good. I'm lucky to get to turn 40. 

In 2013, Christopher will start kindergarten. I don't know where, and I don't know that I'm altogether alright with any of it. It causes me more anxiety than I would like to admit.

In 2013, Colin will start at Arts Together. I'm happy we have two more years to be there.

In 2013, Mallory will start her last year of high school. So we have one starting preschool, one starting kindergarten, and one starting her senior year. 

In 2013, Kevin and I will have been married for seven years. How is that even possible?

There are goals I have for 2013. I want to keep the house neater. I want to be in the 140's before I'm 40. I want to have my the way I eat when I'm counting points become more natural for me - have it not be a diet, but just the way I eat. I want to sew more. Write more. Play more. Sing more.

I want to be more present in my life in 2013. Aware of my children and their needs. Aware of my husband and his needs. Aware of my friends and their needs. And of course, aware of myself and my needs. 

It's so easy for me to just get stuck in my head. It doesn't take much for me to curl up like a pill bug and roll into my little hole. I'm going to let that be alright if it happens deliberately, but I'm going to try not to let it happen with me unaware.

In 2013, I will try to live deliberately, making thoughtful choices in my body, my mind, and my soul.

It's not a resolution. At least, not a New Year's resolution. It is a goal. One that my whole life has been leading up to. I think I have the tools to reach it finally. 

I guess we will see.

Nurse nurse

He slips into my room in the middle of the night. Or in the very early morning. Either way you look at it, I'm still in a deep sleep.

I know he is there even though he doesn't make a sound other than his breathing. He stands at the side of my bed and waits for me to lean over the edge, scoop him up under his arms, and lift him into bed with me.

Most nights, he slips into the crook of my arms and falls right back to sleep. A few nights ago, he quietly asked, "Nurse nurse?"

He is almost three. During the day, he couldn't be bothered with nursing. There are bad guys to fight, dogs to chase, costumes to wear, cars to race. He doesn't have time for the "nuh-nuh's." When I put him down for a nap, he usually likes to nurse to sleep. I let him, and then I slip out of his bed and back downstairs to get some work done.

Only, lately, he has been too busy to nap. No nap, no nurse nurse.

So a few nights ago, he asked, I obliged, and we rolled over onto our sides and scooted into position for a little side lying nursing. I barely even woke up. I don't know how long he tried. All I know is that the next thing I hear Colin saying is,

"Mama? I really want for the milk to come out."

Then my heart broke just a little bit.

My last baby. My last nursling. And the end just snuck up on us.

It's alright. I knew it wasn't going to last forever. I've sold the cloth diapers. The crib and the toddler bed are long gone. Cups don't automatically have lids snapped on them before being given over to the small people. Booster seats have replaced convertible car seats.

It's been a long time coming. He's almost three. I love who he has become in his three years. He is smart and funny and I wouldn't trade him in for a newborn for anything.

But, just, ooooph. It's just a little bit hard to be letting him go. My baby.

The weight of it all

Back in April, one of the things I decided to do in the healing process was to take better care of my body. To not take my health for granted and to celebrate aging.

Because, you know, some people don't get to. Age, that is.

I stopped dying my hair so that I could watch the grey come in, and I actually kind of like it. It's interesting. I started getting waxed regularly, which is another story for another day. And towards the end of April, I joined Weight Watchers.

There has never been a time in my life where I needed to lose enough weight to do something like join Weight Watchers. That was part of the reason it took me so long. I didn't want to admit that I needed to do something I considered drastic.

I set a goal of 35 pounds by September 9, 2012. That's tomorrow. And unless I lose seven pounds in my sleep tonight, I didn't quite make my goal. However, I'm pretty happy with the 28 that are already gone. I even bought a two piece to take on our trip. I'm not going to look 18 again in it, but that's not the point.

The point is, I'm going to look like a 39 year old mother of two and look extremely happy in it. And I'll be praying that my boobs don't fall out of it in the pool. Because let's just get it out there that the girls haven't joined in the dieting quite as much as I had hoped they would.

Yesterday, I had to weigh my English Setter, Aja, to get a prescription filled for her. I stepped on the scale without her and then stepped on again with her. As I put her down, I realized that I was putting down all of the weight I have lost since having Colin in 2010. Losing it gradually kept me from appreciating just how much better I feel. Picking up Aja and getting to set her back down again made the weight loss pretty tangible in an instant.

The best part of finally joining Weight Watchers isn't actually the weight loss. It's that I finally feel like I've learned to eat right. I've cut out at least 80% of the sugar I used to eat, and I feel so much better. I've added back more fruit and vegetables than I've ever eaten, and cut out the carb laden snacks and dinners. I've learned to make decisions about what I eat - that everything I put in my mouth is a choice. A choice that will be in line with my desired lifestyle or out of line with it.

The past few months have been about laying down the weight I've been carrying and making decisions that are beneficial to the life I want to have. That is, of course, only a little bit about dieting, and a lot about moving forward. But I probably didn't have to tell you that, did I?

Whims. Grace. Luck. Acceptance.

It began on a whim. August always makes me long for change. Summer isn't welcome anymore at my house. There are coughs and colds to keep us from the pool. Friends are traveling. Sister is busy with summer reading and band camp. Every morning, the boys pelt me with,

"Can we watch TV?"

Yes.

"Do I get to go to school today?"

No.

"Where is Daddy?"

Work.

"Can I have some yogurt with cereal on it?"

Yes.

In writing, the words are neatly spaced and quiet. In person, all questions overlap each other in rapid fire succession. No matter how I dodge them, one always manages to graze me, causing me to lash out, growling at them to just give me a minute.

I always want something to change in August.

With the beginning of preschool (finally!) this week, I am now getting dressed everyday, which is new for 2012. It is my change in August so far. I will get up, get dressed, and leave the house everyday no matter how sad I am or how lonely I feel. There is life to be lived.

Back to my whim. My whim was school. Being one to detest school, I was delighted to finish college and never look back. Now I'm almost 40 and wondering what I want to be when I grow up. But I don't want to decide on a whim.

So much of my life has blown in and out with the changing seasons and a shrug of, "Why not? What else am I going to do?" I've fallen into opportunities by tripping over a little talent, a little more skill, and a lot of luck. Fall finds me dragging a Fender Rhodes into back alley night clubs, and by Summer, I'm arranging for the symphony and playing for a little crowd of 10,000.

There is no grace to what I accomplish. I stumble into success much like I run into walls or fall over trying to zip my boots.

This time, I want to plan. I have this desire to make goals and figure out a graceful way to reach them. Saving the whims for trips to the park or a mid morning doughnut date with my littles, I would so much like to reach 40 with a plan in place.

Or, if not a plan for graceful entry into my midlife, then I would like to reach 40 with the peace of accepting my midlife just the way it is. Maybe that is goal enough.

It won't because she was sweet

My Aunt May is dying. She is 94 years old and has been in a nursing home for a few years. She is the last of the Carter siblings for whom my oldest son is named. She is a fireball. She is strong. She is smart. And now, it is her time to go.

Over the past few years, I've experienced death in many different ways. My grandmother had Alzheimer's and experienced a very slow and difficult decline. She was the first family member or friend that I lost. I was sad but not destroyed.

My other grandmother, Honey, moved to California with my parents when she was around 90. I didn't get to see her much or talk to her in her last years. She was 97 when she died. She died in much the same way that her sister, my Aunt May, is going. She was just worn out of living. Again, I was sad - I lost a great champion in Honey. She believed that I was as close to perfect as God ever made, and I loved her dearly for her belief in me and the strength she taught me.

Next to go was my grandfather. He was one of my dearest friends. It was the first loss that sent me to the floor, knees buckled, tears streaming, and actual physical grief coming forth with no way for me to control it. He told me that he didn't want to go just days before he died. I didn't want him to go either. I was pissed off at God for a long time even though Granddaddy was 94 when he died. It wasn't exactly a surprise

Then, my daddy got sick. So very sick. Parkinson's and dementia took him slowly and cruelly. He died in February of 2011, and I felt relief. I felt relief for him and for my mother who was his primary care giver in spite of her ongoing battle with ovarian cancer. I missed my daddy for a long time before he died. I mourned his death, and I still miss him now, but again, I managed.

What came next was completely different. 364 days after my daddy died, my best friend, my soul sister, my person, she died. Gone. Left this world. Left her husband, her kids, her parents, her brother, and her friends. Some days I'm so angry. Most days I'm just sad. Often it feels like we are all just kind of standing still, holding our breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Susan is gone. What happens next?

What in the world are we all supposed to do now?

It's like that when someone young dies. You don't exactly make long term plans with your daddy who has a degenerative disease or with your 97 year old grandmother. But with your best friend of decades? You plan things. You plan trips. You plan things for your boys. You plan retirement. You dream together because you are peers. I can't imagine the plans that she had with her family.

What do you do with all of those plans?

I know I have to let it go. I have to send it down the stream.

It's just not that easy.

*******************************************************
Kevin and I made a trip down to Georgia for him to meet my relatives there. They are awesome people, and I wanted him to spend a little time with them. His favorite story to tell from that trip is about meeting Aunt May. We got to talking about my grandmother, May's older sister, and her nickname, "Honey." Kevin asked Aunt May why we all called my grandmother "Honey," and Aunt May replied without a moment's hesitation,

"Well it won't because she was sweet."

I love that woman. Thank you, Aunt May, for all you did in helping raise my momma to be the woman she is today. I wish you peace and comfort.

Because they get it

I only met Susan one time. We were at the Type-A-Mom conference, and I had my baby with me. Susan got down on the floor with her and started to play. It was so cool.

"Ah," I say. "You must be @mamadweeb."

This is how is was this past weekend without Susan. I could not sit with her. I could not hold her hand. I could not laugh with her until we both cried.

But she was everywhere. Everywhere.

I remember walking into the Serenity Suite and finding Susan laying on the bed with her hands folded on her chest. She was sleeping, and I was thrilled that the Suite was being used so perfectly. I took out my phone to take a picture, and she opened one eye big just enough to give me the stink eye. The stink eye, and permission to go ahead and snap a picture.

"I remember this. It was right before she was to go speak on a panel. She needed to rest so badly. She laughed about that picture you took, Maggie. She told me about it."

I sat in the Serenity Suite and clutched my tissues as story after story as told from the other perspective. And I realized more and more all weekend long that she had told me every single bit of it.

It's not just that she wanted me to know because I couldn't be there with her that year. It is because every moment of her time at those conferences - no - every bit of human interaction at those conferences meant something to her. She loved people. She loving meeting you. She loved seeing your babies.

****************************************************************
Thursday afternoon, Amy and I were in front of the American Cancer Society's Hope Lodge, a place where cancer patients can stay for free while receiving long term treatment. We were about to go in for a reception honoring the #morebirthdays campaign and also honoring Susan.

We stepped onto the sidewalk, and I felt the panic rise all the way from the tip of my toes. In pulses, it moved through my abdomen, calling up my recently finished lunch, made its way to my throat, closing it tightly, and finally tried to escape through the tears welling up in my eyes.

I stopped. Amy stopped. She waited on me. Calmly. Patiently. It didn't take that long. I called up the techniques I've been learning in therapy the past few months, and in few deep breaths, I could move again.

That was how it was at BlogHer without Susan. Without Susan, but with friends who understand.

****************************************************************
Friday morning, the first panel I attended was Blogging for the Love of It. Bon was the moderator. She was one of the first bloggers I started reading in 2006 as per the advice of Susan. We love Bon, and Susan had the privilege of meeting her in D.C. one afternoon. Bon's posts were often a conversation topic for us, and Bon has been a tremendous support to me over the past year.

Walking towards the front of the room to hug Bon, I lost it.

Big, ugly, gasping, sobbing, tears. It came without warning and without being able to stop. I cried on her shoulder (great way for her to have to start her panel), and then excused myself to find some tissues.

With cocktail napkins in hand, and Sarah by my side, I began to pull it back together. Sitting in that session, I realized, this was going to be it. This weekend would be the weekend where I could cry freely because people would get it.

And so I did. I cried when I needed to or felt like it. Jean reminded me that it was okay. Kristen held my hand. Jess cried with me. Amy waited with kindness.

And they understood why I miss her like I do.

The tiles we painted in Susan's memory at the American Cancer Society.

They will be complied into a mosaic by Darryle Pollack, and hung at ACS in NYC or Atlanta.

Next. Take two.

I am back.

The city did not swallow me whole. The conference did not eat my lunch. The women did not drain the life out of me.

Cliche. That was all just cliche.

I know what I need now.

I need to find the quiet space of this empty white box before I take in your Instagram pictures, before I throw in a few quips on Twitter, and before I snoop through Facebook. For this is where I find myself, and all other places are where I find you.

I need to find myself.

BlogHer was huge. I loved it that way. Sometimes, it is easier to find your space in a huge crowd than in a smaller crowd. The odds are more in your favor that you will find like minds.

The last BlogHer I attended was in San Francisco. There were about 800 people there. I had a six month old in tow. I was a mess in more ways than one. Private parties were apparently all the rage that year, and I had been so out of touch that I had been invited to almost nothing. I felt so lonely when everyone I knew got on that bus and went to a party at someone's house without me.

This year, I was also invited to almost nothing. The difference was, I didn't notice. There were so many people there and so many different things to do, I didn't notice. Either that, or I'm just older now, and I really have found my own feet, my own voice, and my own way in this community.

There is that.

In the sessions, I liked the fact that when the discussions turned to monetization, and they always did, I never heard anyone say that you shouldn't. That you were selling out. In fact, I don't know who these people are who say that. Personally, I don't think they exist.

What I did hear, mostly in my own head, was that you should do what you do in the way you like to do it. What I didn't hear and should have said more clearly when I did try to say it, was that if you want to make money at blogging, you have to work at making money. No one is going to read your blog, love it, and hand you some huge advertising deal. You have to sell yourself or find someone to sell you for you.

I'm not interested in that. I know how hard it is to get someone to pay you well for your artistic work. I have one art form for which I insist on being paid; I don't need another one.

I am interested in becoming a better writer. A writer who actually edits, takes notes daily, and crafts a post instead of pounding out some thoughts and hitting publish.

I am interested in sewing. I love it. I want to make things out of fabric. Which is a weird thing to just say, but it's true.

I am interested in music. Of course. I want to get up in that beautiful recording studio Kevin has been pouring his soul into for the past six years. I want to compose, sing, play, record, mix, and finish music.

The plan in my head was for this BlogHer to be my last hoorah. I really did think I was done with this space and needed to close up shop. It couldn't have turned out more differently.

Spending time with my tribe just reminded me that I love it here. I love this space. I love the people I have met because of this space. I love what this space provided for me and Susan. I love blogging. I blog for the love of it.

So that's what I'm doing here. I'm still just rambling on, but with more focus than I have had in awhile.

It feels alright to be back.

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.

Next

What am I doing here? Not blogging, that's one thing.

I'm healing. Still hurting. Mostly living. Getting help. Finding help for my heart and my boys. Swimming. Working. Sewing. Cooking. Losing weight. Chauffeuring. Vacationing. Hiking. Trying to reconnect with people I adore and miss and have been shutting out.

Considering what comes next.

Nothing makes me miss Susan more than opening blogs. I'm not sure I want to do it without her anymore.

And yet, in a few weeks, I'll be flying up to New York City to attend another BlogHer convention.

What exactly am I doing?

I miss writing. But more than that, I miss knowing that she's reading.

The work at hand

I honestly don't know how it can possibly be May already.

There are friends I have not seen in four months. New babies I haven't met yet. Phone calls I haven't returned. Emails I've ignored. Recitals I've forgotten to attend. This fog, this haze, has consumed me now for almost three months.

And yet, I'm better.

I guess me realizing how disconnected I've been is part of the being better. We can thank my patient, loving family and my awesome therapist for that.

Susan isn't coming back. My grief isn't going away. I have to find a place for both of these, and I'm getting there. Slowly.

If you knew Susan at all, even "just online" (which we all know she valued tremendously), then you know that one of the beautiful things about here - what drew people to her - was how she made you feel about yourself. She was selfless, kind, and even in her scientific socialness, she was a wonderful friend.

Now. Imagine that person was your best friend for years and years and heaped that love upon you like she did even her "just online" friends. Now. Imagine that love a million times stronger.

That's what is gone from my life.

The wake up call in therapy has been that I value myself so very little, and I spent a good part of my life surrounding myself with people who didn't value me either. Susan always valued me; she valued every living creature (I say as I shamefully admit I flushed a bully algae eater fish without a second thought because he was being a jerk to the other fish. Woosh. Goodbye.).

I get it now. Get, as in understand, not have adopted fully and graduated from all further therapy. I get that I have to start here. Deep within me. I have to realize that I wouldn't have had a friend like Susan if there wasn't something valuable about me.

Find the way to love myself. Sounds so trite and textbook doesn't it?

Maybe, but it's my calling now. Because when I can do that for myself, I can teach my children to do it to, and I want that very much. I want my children to know how valuable they are.

So much work to do. So so so much work.

Two months

I can't do this.

Every time I come to write, it's because I can't do the happy anymore. Then, when I get a chance to write, I can't stop thinking about the people whose feelings are hurt because I miss Susan so much. As if that makes them less important to me. It's stifling me.

I can't do it. I can't not write about it. I can't carry it with me. I can't hold it in and keep acting like it's alright now.

Yesterday, we were at a birthday party and someone that I've met several times before but don't really know (yet) said, "I'm sorry about your friend." She knew the news because she read Susan's blog.

I was so happy to have Susan come up in a conversation. It felt amazing to run into someone who was thinking about her too.

I think that's why I still go to Twitter and do a search on @whymommy. I still stop by her blog and see if there are new comments. I still check the Whymommy Love Fest page on Facebook. It helps to know that people still think about her. Because I still think about her everyday. Time after time everyday.

***************************************************************
The house is almost finished. About a week after Susan's service, we started a major remodel on our house. Walls came out, and steel beams went in the ceiling. Floors came up, and new ones went down. There was so much painting. I thought the painter was going to just go all Murphy Brown on us.

The painter commented one day about how often Colin says, "Why?" Because, believe me, it is often. He then commented that I always seemed to have an answer for him. I don't, but I certainly try.

"Why, Mommy?"

That's where Susan got her handle. She loved loved loved that her children asked, "Why?" and she strove to always outlast them. She wanted them to be completely done with the chain of "Why" without her ever having to say, "Because I said so."

I try to live up to that. I fail. A lot. But I try.

**************************************************************
We have a new dog. Every time there is loss in my life, I tend to prowl around Petfinder, looking for the perfect pup to fill the hole in my heart. Yes, I know. It won't work. But dogs were just another thing that Susan and I had in common. We both love dogs and have been foster homes to English Setters and Beagles, and have adopted needy pups into our homes to become loving members of our families.

However, I really have been wanting a small dog, and the boys have too. They need to learn that not every dog is a 100 pound docile Labrador who will let them poke, push, ride, and sit on him. They need to learn to be gentle with animals, and Christopher really wants a dog that will sleep with him.

I found a tri-colored Dachshund through a rescue group in Wake Forest called A New Leash on Life (who were fabulous, by the way). After a couple of weeks, Kevin finally agreed to let me submit an application to adopt him. The only problem was that he turned out to not be good with small children, only older ones. So, they suggested Macy.

"She's a wonderful dog. A Chihuahua mix."

Um, no thank you. No Chihuahuas for me, please. But, I knew not to just turn her down flat, so I went to the website to check out Macy.

It's like my Chelsea come back in Dachshund form. I don't think there's a lick of Chihuahua in her - I think she is American Eskimo and Dachshund. It doesn't matter though. Just check out these babies.

First is Chelsea:

And here is little Macy Moo:

Not identical, but enough alike that it's really eerie.

She's fitting in very nicely. She and Gibby like to chase the squirrels together. She likes to sleep in the bed, but with me and Kevin and not Christopher (yet). She is a big cuddle pup, and it's doing wonders for my heart right now.

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.

Do it

It feels like the interwebs are telling you goodbye. I hate it. Selfishly, I hate all of the virtual hugs and kisses and last words of how amazing you are. It's making my heart explode with the hot air from the screaming I'm holding inside. The screams that I choke back every time my mouth opens.

STOP. I will not do it. I will not say goodbye. Not here. Not online. NOT NOW.

You made me promise you to never tell you that it was "alright to let go." At the time, I felt like that was unfair and one of the hardest things you could ask of me. To see you suffer, to see you in pain, to know that you are hurting so - to ask you to hold on, to demand that you try something else, to know that I was telling you the right thing to do was keep living.

It was almost too much.

But it wasn't. It isn't. And I get it now.

You will never stop living. No matter what pain you are in, you will continue to live. Until you don't.

There is no battle or fight. There is only life. Your life will in all likelihood be shorter than mine. I don't want it to be, but it is what it is. You are not losing though. You are not giving up. You are living, and I will never tell you to do anything but that.

I get it now.

So I tell you publicly what I have been telling you privately for five years now, "Keep living. As long as God gives you breath and life, keep living."

Coming out of the dark

I haven't written much this year, and in a way, that tells you all you need to know. I've turned inward a little too much I suppose, but it's what I've needed to get through the day to day.

To be honest, I haven't had a whole lot of positive things weighing on me. I feel like the house is too dirty, the boys watch too much TV, we eat out too much - all of the things I'm supposed to be taking care of, I feel like I'm not good enough.

I'll have spurts of competence. There will be weeks when I'm really good at keeping up with a meal plan, finishing the laundry, and staying on top of all the bills. Then, I'll sort of drift off into some place where my family and friends can't find me. Some place where I try to heal myself.

The other day, when I was having my annual at the Birth Center, the nurse told me she really wanted me to add in some therapy to my Zoloft prescription. I told her that right now was not the time for talking. Right now was the time for getting through day to day. If I had to talk about it too? Well, forget it.

Sounds all doom and gloom, doesn't it? It's not. There is just a lot of sadness mixed in with the happy. I have a lot to be happy about, and you can consider that the understatement of the year.

So, my goal for the rest of 2012, is to write about some of those things. I know for a fact that I need to find my way out of my shell, and if I'm not going to talk my way out, then I can certainly start writing my way out.

I've got 17 days left and many more than 17 things I could list. This should be easy, right?

She'll be coming around the mountain

Momma comes tomorrow. Ever since last Thursday, I've been going through my days thinking, "This time next week, Momma and I can do [this] together."

To say I'm excited is an understatement.

It will, however, be the first time I've been with just Momma.

There will be the freedom to do whatever we want to whenever we want to without having to worry about Daddy as a prisoner to Parkinson's.

There will be the emptiness of not getting to sit with him. Not getting to see Christopher snuggled up next to him. Not being able to introduce him to Colin as a full on toddler and the funniest member of the family.

To say I'm heartbroken is another understatement.

I want to see my daddy too. Ever since February, I've been here, just like always. I haven't lived in the same state as my parents for twelve years. It's not like I saw them all the time. So for me, it's been easy to just imagine that Momma and Daddy are carrying on like they always were, and that I would see them again soon.

Tomorrow, I will see Momma. Just Momma. I'm so happy she is coming. I'm so happy that we will get to spend just us time. It's going to be awesome. It's just that it's going to be sad too.

I wish she had gotten here two days earlier to enjoy the leaves. She loves the colors of fall. Tonight, it will rain, and most of the leaves will be gone.

Today, a cooler arrived UPS. It contained her chemo for the next 10 days. Kind of surreal.

Tonight, I'm admitting that I always did the obsessive house cleaning for my daddy. Momma will have clean sheets and clean floors, but beyond that, I promise nothing.

Christopher has been waiting for tomorrow for what seems like forever. There seriously hasn't been a day that has gone by since I told him Nana was coming that he hasn't asked when she would get here. He is so very very excited.

We all are.

Bonus: tomorrow is her birthday.

Mirror mirror

It's humbling when you realize that your three year old is a pretty good mirror of your own behavior.

Tuesday morning, I was struggling to get the boys up and dressed and out the door on time. It was 8:00, and Kevin was still sleeping. I had not asked him to get up. I had not set an alarm for him. I had not told him that I needed help.

With both boys half dressed, squealing, running in different directions, and throwing off the half dressed that I had accomplished thus far - I almost snapped.

"Kevin! Would you PLEASE get up and help me?!?!? I canNOT do this on my own this morning!" was what I almost yelled at him.

Then, I realized that this was exactly one of the behaviors I was trying to help Christopher modify. When he needs help with something, he struggles alone until he explodes into a frustrated firestorm.

I stopped myself short. I leaned over, kissed him on the cheek, and asked in my nice voice if he could get up and help me with the hooligans.

I've been battling the behavior on the wrong end. While I've been doing better about reacting negatively - I've been helping him calm down, breathe deeply, and ask in a nice voice for what he needs - what I haven't been doing is teaching (and by teaching, I mean modeling) how not to jump straight to frustration in the first place.

With me, it's a personality trait that I've been working on for years. I take everything too personally. It's a form of being self-centered, and I don't like it about myself. If I'm not getting the help I need, it's obviously because that person isn't thinking enough of me and doesn't love me enough and why aren't they putting my needs first ever in their whole life?

See the crazy? It's clearly there. I'm beating it back as best I can.

In the meantime, I have good reason to keep trying to be a better person. It's the little person who keeps turning out like me.

Christopher and I, who work together on using our nice voices, will now be working together to ask for help when we need it. We will ask nicely. We will not jump straight to frustration. And we will be happier people with a happier family.

Humbling, I tell you.

Laryngitis

Avoidance. I grovel in it.

This space sits quietly. Ignored for shinier spaces where I can be shallow.

I pin pretty things.

I post pictures and videos without the conversation surrounding them.

I speak in abbreviated thoughts, never really saying anything.

Here is the place where I am raw. Vulnerable. I end up feeling too deeply. Thinking too long. I haven't been in the mood to share.

Milestones have come and gone without me breathing even the smallest detail about them. Kevin's birthday. First steps and first words. Summer camps and swimming lessons. A small vacation. Our fifth anniversary, and I didn't even post a song this year.

I've lost my voice.

Last Friday night, we had a gig. Bill's voice was almost gone, and he asked me to fill in for him on some of the songs he couldn't sing. We worked our way through the set that night, trading lead and harmonies, singing some in unison, and letting him just sit some out.

On the way home, I realized that I had lost my voice. Gone. I couldn't speak a word. The boys had shared some upper respiratory virus. Between the virus and taxing my voice at the gig, I was rendered silent for days.

I can't lie. I didn't mind much. It was comfortable to be silent in real life for a few days. I came out of it with so much to say, though. I have so much to say - all stored up somewhere inside me.

This year has left me feeling rather drained. Like a virus I just can't shake.

It's taken my voice.

I need to take it back.

Mary

It's Good Friday. We didn't go to church last night, and that always makes me feel off for starting Easter weekend. However, for the second year in a row, we have sick boys on Easter, so we are stuck at home.

To be precise, I'm currently stuck in bed with Christopher, waiting for his fever to start coming down from 103.8. He's miserable, poor thing. Mallory isn't too thrilled with it either since she sits next to him at dinner, and tonight he threw up all over the table. Nothing like vomit as a side dish.

Anyway, Easter. It's the one holiday that Kevin and I have really different memories of from our childhood. He remembers big family get togethers and presents for all the kids. I remember church and a very modest Easter basket, but mainly church.

We are compromising now. The Easter baskets for the kids have a small present in them and some candy, but that's it. And we would certainly go to church if our children could remain well on the date. I'm doubting that is going to happen this year, and I'm really really sad about it.

I think a lot about Mary around Easter now. I guess it has to do with being a mama. I don't think I could have stood by and watched my son take the path that hers did. Before I had my own boys, I didn't really ever consider Mary, and now? I can't seem to stop.

So tonight, I give you one of my favorite Patty Griffin songs. Forgive the misspelling of her name on the video. I put an "i" where there should have been a "y," and seeing as how I've battled that with my own name forever, I'm greatly annoyed. Not annoyed enough to go back and fix it, mind you, but annoyed.

Hope your Easter is filled with renewal, hope, and fulfilled promises of life to come.