So many of you have written to check on Evan and myself, that I am, to use my favorite word, verklempt. Thank you. Thank you for caring, and for sending out positive thoughts, prayers and words. To save a bit of time, I am writing this blog for updates, since so many of you have asked, and I may have skipped a few messages for lack of time.
I had to take some time to process Evan's last chemo because it hit me hard. Way harder than I expected. And it's not "about me" because my focus is my child, but I had to really work through some things that bubbled up afterwards.
The last chemo was a strange and uncomfortable day. Things went routinely and didn't. There was a definite rush in the air, as the Cancer Center was full, since the hospital was changing ownership two days later. Remember the nurse with the son who won't speak to her? She was Evan's nurse that day, and she began again to talk about her son. It made me sad on many levels, because I am sure her son has no idea she is in such pain about this. Yet it was also comforting, as it is part of the routine. She sticks the IV in Evan's arm, and talks about her son not speaking to her. Evan will look over at me and shake his head slightly, reminding me that this would never happen,
I went to work in the midst of his treatment as I usually do. I sat in my car and cried. Literally sobbing, seemingly out of nowhere. I drove to work in tears, and as I went through the morning routine, I was seized with panic. I did some very energetic clearing work, uttering a mantra, "no more bad things will cross our paths". I scrubbed and cleaned and sprayed harder than I ever have as I came to the point of screaming. I calmed down eventually, and realized all my feelings over these last six chemo treatments had accumulated all at once, and I had to get it out of my system. I remain thankful for the privacy that I had.
When I picked Evan up, it was a rushed time, as there was supposed to be a celebration of his completing chemo. The nurse seemed disappointed I didn't show up with a cluster of people, but this journey has been really the two of us, and so it should end that way. He rang the bell, with that, "I'm doing this for you and that damn phone of yours, mom" look, and we both rejoiced. As he was putting on his coat, the nurse asked me if he was really only 25. Yep he is, I said cheerfully, I was there! Trying to lighten the mood. She had this incredulous look and told me how mature and what an old soul Evan was, both of which I have heard before, many times. He has seen some things, I said with a wink, not really trying to make light of his health, but also acknowledging how he affects people.
The weeks since then have been for recuperating. I'm eyeing his follicles for new growth, trying not to hover, annoying the heck out of him asking pointed questions about his health. This chemo hit him harder than the others, and I have been told that is fairly common.
So, what's next? He has a scan in March and another visit with his hematologist. Life beyond that is a sort of LimboLand, not my favorite place to be, but there is an overlay of hope and joy that this part is over. Evan recuperates, gets back to creating a life here in Asheville, and I try to pick up pieces of my life that got put aside when this journey began. I want to hear the word remission and feel that it will be the case for the rest of his life. I want to see him clamber up mountains again, and have some energy, build a life he is happy with, and make plans without worrying so much. Who am I kidding? My worrying is genetic.
Simple things are ever so sweeter nowadays, so my usual "forge ahead" style is not gearing up. I don't think it's a coincidence that my word for 2019 is "unfolding". That is the exact word for this year. It is unfolding. His life, his recovery, the time, events. Thanks again for being on this journey with us. You have no idea how many times I felt despair, and it would be dissipated by the sweetest texts, messages, and photos. The mail, the presents, the gift cards, the donations. It all helped.
If you'd like to continue to help, please do me a favor. Tell the ones you love that you love them, and don't let little things cloud your love. Communicate. Be happy. And know you are loved by me and my family for all that you did.
Sunday, February 17, 2019
Tuesday, January 1, 2019
Word for 2019: Unfold
One of my best friends and I started a tradition a few years ago for New Year's: instead of resolutions, we would come up with a word to define our year. It's very satisfying to find a word that fits your outlook for the year, and it feels lighter to not have resolutions or massive plans weighing on the spirit.
2018 was quite the year for many of us. It was a year of pain and happiness, of joy and heartbreak. There was travel, events, celebrations, and adventures. There was terror, panic and worry. Underneath it all, my word for that year (flourish) kept me going. I ended the year surrounded by love, Evan on the way to recovery, and a stronger sense of self than I have ever had.
So, without any delay, here is my word for 2019: (drum roll, please) Unfold. Yes, unfold. I have spent the past week preoccupied with what I want to manifest and create in 2019 and was drawing a blank. These past few years have been satisfyingly sweet with what I have manifested, and this year was no different. I am definitely confident in my power to manifest, but the thing is, I have to figure out what exactly I want to appear. In the past, it's been easy. Usually something creative, some sort of inner work, love, relationships, more learning. Next year? A complete blank. I want to do so much and at the same time, so little.
Then, after some daily meditation, it struck me. Actually, it struck me after the clock struck midnight, and the new year began. Why not let things unfold? It's perfectly fine to have goals and plans, and it's perfectly fine not to. It may be new territory, but at the same time, my deities and Universe "team" have never let me down. Yet.
So, I stepped into the new year, full of unknowing. And it feels strangely wonderful. I do have some vague plans, but some things have changed and shifted in a way that I know I am on a new adventure. A la Bilbo Baggins, I am going into the Great Unknown. There are a few constants that will keep me on track as the year unfolds (see what I did there?) Evan's health, meditation, writing, hopefully more yoga, community, ritual, love and hopefully a bit of travel. I got a Moon Signs date book so that I can follow La Luna ever more closely, and align myself with her power. I know she helped me last year, and I want that to continue.
So, for you, I offer this wee challenge: what's your word? What word resonates with you? What will you bring into 2019? I can't wait to see all of our words in action.
2018 was quite the year for many of us. It was a year of pain and happiness, of joy and heartbreak. There was travel, events, celebrations, and adventures. There was terror, panic and worry. Underneath it all, my word for that year (flourish) kept me going. I ended the year surrounded by love, Evan on the way to recovery, and a stronger sense of self than I have ever had.
So, without any delay, here is my word for 2019: (drum roll, please) Unfold. Yes, unfold. I have spent the past week preoccupied with what I want to manifest and create in 2019 and was drawing a blank. These past few years have been satisfyingly sweet with what I have manifested, and this year was no different. I am definitely confident in my power to manifest, but the thing is, I have to figure out what exactly I want to appear. In the past, it's been easy. Usually something creative, some sort of inner work, love, relationships, more learning. Next year? A complete blank. I want to do so much and at the same time, so little.
Then, after some daily meditation, it struck me. Actually, it struck me after the clock struck midnight, and the new year began. Why not let things unfold? It's perfectly fine to have goals and plans, and it's perfectly fine not to. It may be new territory, but at the same time, my deities and Universe "team" have never let me down. Yet.
So, I stepped into the new year, full of unknowing. And it feels strangely wonderful. I do have some vague plans, but some things have changed and shifted in a way that I know I am on a new adventure. A la Bilbo Baggins, I am going into the Great Unknown. There are a few constants that will keep me on track as the year unfolds (see what I did there?) Evan's health, meditation, writing, hopefully more yoga, community, ritual, love and hopefully a bit of travel. I got a Moon Signs date book so that I can follow La Luna ever more closely, and align myself with her power. I know she helped me last year, and I want that to continue.
So, for you, I offer this wee challenge: what's your word? What word resonates with you? What will you bring into 2019? I can't wait to see all of our words in action.
Wednesday, December 19, 2018
Last Visit to CancerLand for the Year
Numbers take on meaning when you are counting chemo treatments. Never have I been so fond of the number four, as Evan finished his fourth treatment. He had scans done, more endless poking of his poor veins, but the results are positive. We got to see the scans side by side from October (was it really only October he got diagnosed? Feels like years). And there is much improvement. The lymphoma is reduced in size, and all signs point towards remission.
I was slightly shocked to learn that he has checkups with the doctors for five years after his chemo is finished. Five years? "You are stuck here in Asheville now!" I gleefully told him. Not really, he can go elsewhere, but I have to find my wee amusements where I can,
With a slight sense of elation, we went to the Cancer Center for the last chemo treatment of the year. He has gained his weight back, which is always a happy thrill when they weigh him. I take nothing for granted anymore, always watchful and observant, to make sure he is okay.
We got the same nurse as last time, and she remembered him. As she started the IV (he doesn't have a port, because of his blood clots), she told him she had a son a year older than him, who had married a rich girl. The new wife had him cut all contact with his family, and she and her husband were grieving. This revelation, so early in the morning, her sadness, the scariness of chemo all made me burst into quiet tears. I could not even imagine.
As she walked away, Evan looked at me and said, "No worries, mom, I would never do that to you. Who else would live in my attic?" Family joke: my retirement plan is to live in Evan's attic. With our dark sense of humor, it spins off into horrible scenarios a la Mrs. Rochester in Jane Eyre, where I am upstairs, and Evan throws up portions of meat to keep me fed, and I create meat puppets, and all sorts of scary and hilarious things. Yes, we are that kind of crazy family. These scenarios horrify my eldest son, but Evan and I do enjoy beating that joke to death.
In the meantime, I am grieving for the fellow mom nurse. That could not and would not happen to my sons, and I would so set that future wife straight. I leave Evan to finish his treatment, go to work to start the day, and end up buying her a present of hand-rolled beeswax candles from the shop because I feel so terrible for her.
As I go pick Evan up after treatment, he looks weary but glad it is over. I go find the nurse, busy with another chemo, and give her the present. It's her turn to cry and she hugs me tightly. Cancer is insidious and scary, but it also puts into laser focus what is important: family and relationships, love and caring. I have no idea what her name is, but I love her fiercely, and I sent out some admonishing vibes for her son, wherever he may be. Life is short, so especially in this season, so hug the ones you love, and never take them for granted.
Our visit to CancerLand seemed a bit routine this time, but we were also filled with gratitude. Evan has had some of the best care, the most wonderful doctors and nurses, and I am so thankful he is here where I can take care of him. Only two more visits in the new year, and then he moves into what they call Survivorship. A bit of an odd word, but I will take any word as long as it leads to remission. That's my favorite word of all. As Winter Solstice approaches, my ember of hope is growing, reaching for the sun, blooming as the days begin to grow longer. His last chemo treatment is at the end of January. They have a bell there that you ring when you finish treatment, and all the nurses join in and clap at this accomplishment. I so cannot wait for that moment. It keeps me going in the darkness of this Winter. I hope the light shines bright for all of you as the year winds down.
I was slightly shocked to learn that he has checkups with the doctors for five years after his chemo is finished. Five years? "You are stuck here in Asheville now!" I gleefully told him. Not really, he can go elsewhere, but I have to find my wee amusements where I can,
With a slight sense of elation, we went to the Cancer Center for the last chemo treatment of the year. He has gained his weight back, which is always a happy thrill when they weigh him. I take nothing for granted anymore, always watchful and observant, to make sure he is okay.
We got the same nurse as last time, and she remembered him. As she started the IV (he doesn't have a port, because of his blood clots), she told him she had a son a year older than him, who had married a rich girl. The new wife had him cut all contact with his family, and she and her husband were grieving. This revelation, so early in the morning, her sadness, the scariness of chemo all made me burst into quiet tears. I could not even imagine.
As she walked away, Evan looked at me and said, "No worries, mom, I would never do that to you. Who else would live in my attic?" Family joke: my retirement plan is to live in Evan's attic. With our dark sense of humor, it spins off into horrible scenarios a la Mrs. Rochester in Jane Eyre, where I am upstairs, and Evan throws up portions of meat to keep me fed, and I create meat puppets, and all sorts of scary and hilarious things. Yes, we are that kind of crazy family. These scenarios horrify my eldest son, but Evan and I do enjoy beating that joke to death.
In the meantime, I am grieving for the fellow mom nurse. That could not and would not happen to my sons, and I would so set that future wife straight. I leave Evan to finish his treatment, go to work to start the day, and end up buying her a present of hand-rolled beeswax candles from the shop because I feel so terrible for her.
As I go pick Evan up after treatment, he looks weary but glad it is over. I go find the nurse, busy with another chemo, and give her the present. It's her turn to cry and she hugs me tightly. Cancer is insidious and scary, but it also puts into laser focus what is important: family and relationships, love and caring. I have no idea what her name is, but I love her fiercely, and I sent out some admonishing vibes for her son, wherever he may be. Life is short, so especially in this season, so hug the ones you love, and never take them for granted.
Our visit to CancerLand seemed a bit routine this time, but we were also filled with gratitude. Evan has had some of the best care, the most wonderful doctors and nurses, and I am so thankful he is here where I can take care of him. Only two more visits in the new year, and then he moves into what they call Survivorship. A bit of an odd word, but I will take any word as long as it leads to remission. That's my favorite word of all. As Winter Solstice approaches, my ember of hope is growing, reaching for the sun, blooming as the days begin to grow longer. His last chemo treatment is at the end of January. They have a bell there that you ring when you finish treatment, and all the nurses join in and clap at this accomplishment. I so cannot wait for that moment. It keeps me going in the darkness of this Winter. I hope the light shines bright for all of you as the year winds down.
Wednesday, December 5, 2018
A Year: A Love Letter to Asheville Raven & Crone
Today marks the day I began to work as manager of the shop in Asheville that changed my life for the better. It's a "metaphysical book shop" as I describe it to some, a "witch shop" to others, and I love the reaction when I say the latter. It's a community center, it's a place of respite, and it's a place I am happy and proud to work, with a vision of a community that stretches far beyond the physical location on Merrimon Avenue.
I first walked into the shop when I moved to Asheville a few years ago. Excited to find something so interesting so close to where I lived, and geographically challenged, I got in my car only to find I could easily walk there. It is literally across the street and down a bit, and there I was. I walked through the door and realized it was a special place, more of a community center than mere store or shop. Soon I spent lots of time there, attending workshops, and buying so many things that I joked HR would set up a direct deposit of my paycheck straight to the store.
At the time, I worked in sales, but the heartbeat of a different life kept calling to me. Through vision board and manifesting, I made one of my dreams come true, and was able to present a paper on Sylvia Plath in Belfast, and spend a few weeks there. I knew I would not be able to return to the life I led once I did this. I took a deep breath, a leap of faith, and jumped. I resigned, and planned to cobble together some part-time jobs while I figured out what I wanted to be when I grew up (a familiar scenario).
Sometime during that magical month of November or a bit before, Lisa Anderson, the shop owner casually mentioned "I wish you would come work at the shop." I literally caught my breath, because it seemed like a dream job, and had never even thought to look there for work. Long story short, I did, and it has been one of the best jobs I have ever had. I owe Lisa so much, and she is the best employer/friend/life coach I have ever known. You should all be so lucky to have a Lisa Anderson in your life.
What a year it has been! I walked through the door of the shop on December 5, 2017 as manager and began a year of so many things that it seems like much, much longer. I am proud of what's been accomplished: so many amazing events and workshops, customers from all over the country, vending at two wonderful venues (Mystic South and Goblin Market), gathering local artists and friends who make lovely items that literally fly off the shelves because they are unique and useful. We have a family of staff members I'm so happy to work with, as they bring their unique talents to the shop to create an experience that goes beyond mere shopping. And when my youngest was diagnosed with lymphoma, the shop rallied around us and created an Evan fund, to help with expenses as he deals with the effects of treatment. There is a word beyond thankful, and it resonates with me daily.
My favorite part of each day? When the door opens, the bell jingles, and a customer stands there, breathing deeply, followed by that happy sigh. They know this is a special place, a respite, an experience. So much to look at, so many items that help, so many beautiful objects to enhance their life. It's not just teas, candles, herbs and incense. It's a place to just be. To have a cup of tea, grab a shopping basket, and peruse all the multitudes of treasures we have. It may seem that I took a drastic left turn in doing this for work, but it really is part of a common theme in my life: to help others, to try and make the world a better place through my daily job. I am happy to say I followed a dream, and am living it. Here's to the first year of what I hope is many at Asheville Raven & Crone. Come visit!
I first walked into the shop when I moved to Asheville a few years ago. Excited to find something so interesting so close to where I lived, and geographically challenged, I got in my car only to find I could easily walk there. It is literally across the street and down a bit, and there I was. I walked through the door and realized it was a special place, more of a community center than mere store or shop. Soon I spent lots of time there, attending workshops, and buying so many things that I joked HR would set up a direct deposit of my paycheck straight to the store.
At the time, I worked in sales, but the heartbeat of a different life kept calling to me. Through vision board and manifesting, I made one of my dreams come true, and was able to present a paper on Sylvia Plath in Belfast, and spend a few weeks there. I knew I would not be able to return to the life I led once I did this. I took a deep breath, a leap of faith, and jumped. I resigned, and planned to cobble together some part-time jobs while I figured out what I wanted to be when I grew up (a familiar scenario).
Sometime during that magical month of November or a bit before, Lisa Anderson, the shop owner casually mentioned "I wish you would come work at the shop." I literally caught my breath, because it seemed like a dream job, and had never even thought to look there for work. Long story short, I did, and it has been one of the best jobs I have ever had. I owe Lisa so much, and she is the best employer/friend/life coach I have ever known. You should all be so lucky to have a Lisa Anderson in your life.
What a year it has been! I walked through the door of the shop on December 5, 2017 as manager and began a year of so many things that it seems like much, much longer. I am proud of what's been accomplished: so many amazing events and workshops, customers from all over the country, vending at two wonderful venues (Mystic South and Goblin Market), gathering local artists and friends who make lovely items that literally fly off the shelves because they are unique and useful. We have a family of staff members I'm so happy to work with, as they bring their unique talents to the shop to create an experience that goes beyond mere shopping. And when my youngest was diagnosed with lymphoma, the shop rallied around us and created an Evan fund, to help with expenses as he deals with the effects of treatment. There is a word beyond thankful, and it resonates with me daily.
My favorite part of each day? When the door opens, the bell jingles, and a customer stands there, breathing deeply, followed by that happy sigh. They know this is a special place, a respite, an experience. So much to look at, so many items that help, so many beautiful objects to enhance their life. It's not just teas, candles, herbs and incense. It's a place to just be. To have a cup of tea, grab a shopping basket, and peruse all the multitudes of treasures we have. It may seem that I took a drastic left turn in doing this for work, but it really is part of a common theme in my life: to help others, to try and make the world a better place through my daily job. I am happy to say I followed a dream, and am living it. Here's to the first year of what I hope is many at Asheville Raven & Crone. Come visit!
Friday, November 9, 2018
A Visit to CancerLand
First of all, thanks to all for the responses, messages and more from so many people regarding my youngest's diagnosis. You are all with me in spirit and I feel the love daily. So does he. It is a surreal and comforting experience, for which we are both very appreciative.
I've realized this whole journey with him is similar to going to another country. We have our passports stamped with CancerLand. It was always out there, and I never really visited before, except for a brief foray with my brother-in-law. He was diagnosed with cancer when he was young, and being his sister-in-law, although I loved him fiercely, put me in a slightly removed state, as I wasn't "immediate family". Hell yes I was, but that is a different story.
So going through this with my own child is a whole different world. This is visceral. Yes, he is an adult and I don't have to be "the mom" when he makes decisions or they deal with his treatment plan. I am present, and I give opinions and I guard him just as fiercely as ever, but this is really his life. Yet, when I see him sleep, and gaze upon his shorn, beautifully shaped skull, I am always and forever his mommy and time and age doesn't matter.
I realized we were in CancerLand when he was going through his second chemo treatment the other day. The first one was in the hospital, and a different experience, a different set of emotions. This time it was a little more relaxed, as we knew the drill. He was dressed in his comfy shark pajama bottoms and flannel shirt, and the nurses used familiar language with all the chemo treatment they were about to put into his veins. He doesn't have a port because of his blood clots and his arms are scarred from the many, many times they put IVs into him these last few months. He will recover, but my heart will not. It hurts every time they stick something into him. I have to restrain myself from launching at them because no one will harm my child, but I have to let them, because it's medical.
The difference in CancerLand is that we have different language. We talk endlessly about bodily functions, and medicine is everywhere, and everything is monitored. How much does he eat, how much water does he drink, you have to keep up with protein. I struggle to keep the outside world present, and talk about normal things, but then it goes back to the CancerLand Language. It's okay, people are nice there. Whew, are they nice. The nurses talk to me like we are best friends, and they gaze on him fondly as if he is their child. I can see why, as most of the inhabitants of CancerLand are elderly. Yet there are other inhabitants there. The pharmacist, who literally bounces on by, who I learn had cancer when she was pregnant and is now in remission with a soccer playing 13 year old daughter. The scheduler who had an 11 year old with cancer, and that 11 year old is now in college. Time is like a rubber band with CancerLand stories. Backward, forward and in the present, all at once.
I sit gazing out the window as the chemicals drip into his veins. I know this is for his health, but this is all foreign to me. Me, who is not on medication, is fairly healthy and only has to deal with a stiff heel and some aches here and there. I know my day is coming, and my youthful health may not remain. That's off in the future, though. For now, I sit there slightly baffled as to how we got into this country of CancerLand. It's fine, they feed us there, and the drinks are usually water. We have to keep hydrated. I am with him on this journey, but I feel like a tour guide who doesn't really know this place very well.
Hours drift into each other, as he goes through each IV bag, four in total. My phone lights up with supportive messages. People so want to help, so I let them know when things like chemo are happening so they can direct their lovely energy towards his healing. I know without a doubt it helps. It all helps. He sleeps while the drugs drip into his arm, and I am relieved he is relaxed enough to do this. I sleep like a log yet never feel rested, so I stumble through each day. All that matters to me is that he sleeps and gets rest.
My phone lights up again. At that moment, a lovely friend in Ireland is lighting a candle for my youngest. The timing is no coincidence. As he tells me, there is no coincidence in faith. And there isn't, is there? Faith keeps us going on this journey, because otherwise there is darkness. That moment helps, as do the many others. All piled on top of each other in a huge glowing mass of love that envelops us both. I never feel alone, because I feel all that loving energy. All the time.
The treatment ends, and we stumble back towards our car and home. I feel a happy thrill because he is walking in and out of the Cancer Center. For many visits, he was in so much pain, he had to be in a wheelchair. I will never take his walking for granted again. Ever.
We go home, oddly refreshed and exhausted at the same time from our visit to CancerLand. Our passports have to be stamped four more times before his journey there ends. I know his journey will end and we may never visit there again. As in most journeys, I focus on the good moments of the visit, not the disasters. This journey was good, but I am glad it is over. Until the next visit in three weeks.
I've realized this whole journey with him is similar to going to another country. We have our passports stamped with CancerLand. It was always out there, and I never really visited before, except for a brief foray with my brother-in-law. He was diagnosed with cancer when he was young, and being his sister-in-law, although I loved him fiercely, put me in a slightly removed state, as I wasn't "immediate family". Hell yes I was, but that is a different story.
So going through this with my own child is a whole different world. This is visceral. Yes, he is an adult and I don't have to be "the mom" when he makes decisions or they deal with his treatment plan. I am present, and I give opinions and I guard him just as fiercely as ever, but this is really his life. Yet, when I see him sleep, and gaze upon his shorn, beautifully shaped skull, I am always and forever his mommy and time and age doesn't matter.
I realized we were in CancerLand when he was going through his second chemo treatment the other day. The first one was in the hospital, and a different experience, a different set of emotions. This time it was a little more relaxed, as we knew the drill. He was dressed in his comfy shark pajama bottoms and flannel shirt, and the nurses used familiar language with all the chemo treatment they were about to put into his veins. He doesn't have a port because of his blood clots and his arms are scarred from the many, many times they put IVs into him these last few months. He will recover, but my heart will not. It hurts every time they stick something into him. I have to restrain myself from launching at them because no one will harm my child, but I have to let them, because it's medical.
The difference in CancerLand is that we have different language. We talk endlessly about bodily functions, and medicine is everywhere, and everything is monitored. How much does he eat, how much water does he drink, you have to keep up with protein. I struggle to keep the outside world present, and talk about normal things, but then it goes back to the CancerLand Language. It's okay, people are nice there. Whew, are they nice. The nurses talk to me like we are best friends, and they gaze on him fondly as if he is their child. I can see why, as most of the inhabitants of CancerLand are elderly. Yet there are other inhabitants there. The pharmacist, who literally bounces on by, who I learn had cancer when she was pregnant and is now in remission with a soccer playing 13 year old daughter. The scheduler who had an 11 year old with cancer, and that 11 year old is now in college. Time is like a rubber band with CancerLand stories. Backward, forward and in the present, all at once.
I sit gazing out the window as the chemicals drip into his veins. I know this is for his health, but this is all foreign to me. Me, who is not on medication, is fairly healthy and only has to deal with a stiff heel and some aches here and there. I know my day is coming, and my youthful health may not remain. That's off in the future, though. For now, I sit there slightly baffled as to how we got into this country of CancerLand. It's fine, they feed us there, and the drinks are usually water. We have to keep hydrated. I am with him on this journey, but I feel like a tour guide who doesn't really know this place very well.
Hours drift into each other, as he goes through each IV bag, four in total. My phone lights up with supportive messages. People so want to help, so I let them know when things like chemo are happening so they can direct their lovely energy towards his healing. I know without a doubt it helps. It all helps. He sleeps while the drugs drip into his arm, and I am relieved he is relaxed enough to do this. I sleep like a log yet never feel rested, so I stumble through each day. All that matters to me is that he sleeps and gets rest.
My phone lights up again. At that moment, a lovely friend in Ireland is lighting a candle for my youngest. The timing is no coincidence. As he tells me, there is no coincidence in faith. And there isn't, is there? Faith keeps us going on this journey, because otherwise there is darkness. That moment helps, as do the many others. All piled on top of each other in a huge glowing mass of love that envelops us both. I never feel alone, because I feel all that loving energy. All the time.
The treatment ends, and we stumble back towards our car and home. I feel a happy thrill because he is walking in and out of the Cancer Center. For many visits, he was in so much pain, he had to be in a wheelchair. I will never take his walking for granted again. Ever.
We go home, oddly refreshed and exhausted at the same time from our visit to CancerLand. Our passports have to be stamped four more times before his journey there ends. I know his journey will end and we may never visit there again. As in most journeys, I focus on the good moments of the visit, not the disasters. This journey was good, but I am glad it is over. Until the next visit in three weeks.
Monday, October 22, 2018
Creating the New
For a while now, I've been getting readings that my life would change dramatically in the Fall of 2018. Silly me, I thought this meant romance, travel or creative endeavors, but instead, it was more life altering than anything I could have imagined: my younger son has been diagnosed with Anaplastic Large Cell Lymphoma. Of course, it's a rare type, as he is anything but usual. Always has been. I joke he is aging in reverse like Benjamin Button (he just turned 25) or that he is doing his best to age me (in the hospital, they thought I was his sister, wife, friend, anything but mom). Humor is how I cope with things, and you will know I am okay because I still crack jokes.
This is a scary journey. It is beyond difficult for me to watch my son in unrelenting pain. Me, who can't even handle a paper cut, and who asked for drugs immediately during childbirth. I have been in awe of the grace in which he has handled this. A diagnosis has given us focus, and has brought into sharp relief all that matters: family, love, friendship and purpose. All else is noise and falls away.
There have been achingly beautiful moments. The quiet of his breathing when he falls asleep. The care with which the nurses handled his many needs. The hugs they gave me in the hallways as fellow moms. My Mom Mode had been hibernating, and has been brought roaring back in full force. I am in Mama Bear mode (the bear is my spirit animal, go figure). Alert for everything, wanting the best for him, keeping an eye on my eldest, ready to stand guard over the two of them until I can't anymore.
I am no martyr. Being a mom is the core of me, and my children are my North, my guiding star. I do what any other mother would do, and know no other way.
I have been overwhelmed with the love and care of friends and chosen family, near and far. I have felt their love envelop us, and repeat their written messages as a mantra when I need distraction. This is a long journey, but so many have it so much worse. I repeat gratitude daily for the little things. It helps.
I can't believe cancer has touched our life. Yet it's also no surprise, as cancer touches everyone, it seems. It is insidious and cold. But it will not win. It.will.not.win.
Magic still enters my life, as it always does. Yesterday, I had my aura photographed. I resisted for a while, joking that it would probably photograph black, so what's the point. Yet something compelled me to do it, and what happened next even surprised the photographer. Most people see red or orange when they can see my aura, yet the photograph revealed a different color: chartreuse. The description for that color was as follows: Energy, sparkle, creator from joy, explosive creator, bubbly energy, The Healer. I felt immediate peace. I am in my Mom Mode, and the healing is what I need to be focused on these next few months. The photographer said she rarely sees that color, but I wasn't very surprised. My child has a rare lymphoma and it's up to me to help him, with whatever healing gifts I have.
So my focus for the next few months is taking care of him and my work. I have canceled all my workshops and events, and am keeping my writing to what I can handle, which is the bare minimum. This forces me to be in the moment, a practice I have been cultivating for years. It helps. The next five minutes, the next few moments, the next few breaths. It makes the rest less scary. Last night, as he was not feeling well, I rubbed my son's back. Underneath I felt a very strong core. My senses have been on hyper alert, so I lingered there to make sure of what I was experiencing. It was there. I know he will overcome this, and his prognosis is good. My life has certainly changed, and definitely not in the way I expected. His life is being transformed, as is mine. The lessons we will both learn will no doubt enhance us in many ways. Our story is one of many who go through similar and worse, and the journey continues. Thank you for reading. And for caring.
This is a scary journey. It is beyond difficult for me to watch my son in unrelenting pain. Me, who can't even handle a paper cut, and who asked for drugs immediately during childbirth. I have been in awe of the grace in which he has handled this. A diagnosis has given us focus, and has brought into sharp relief all that matters: family, love, friendship and purpose. All else is noise and falls away.
There have been achingly beautiful moments. The quiet of his breathing when he falls asleep. The care with which the nurses handled his many needs. The hugs they gave me in the hallways as fellow moms. My Mom Mode had been hibernating, and has been brought roaring back in full force. I am in Mama Bear mode (the bear is my spirit animal, go figure). Alert for everything, wanting the best for him, keeping an eye on my eldest, ready to stand guard over the two of them until I can't anymore.
I am no martyr. Being a mom is the core of me, and my children are my North, my guiding star. I do what any other mother would do, and know no other way.
I have been overwhelmed with the love and care of friends and chosen family, near and far. I have felt their love envelop us, and repeat their written messages as a mantra when I need distraction. This is a long journey, but so many have it so much worse. I repeat gratitude daily for the little things. It helps.
I can't believe cancer has touched our life. Yet it's also no surprise, as cancer touches everyone, it seems. It is insidious and cold. But it will not win. It.will.not.win.
Magic still enters my life, as it always does. Yesterday, I had my aura photographed. I resisted for a while, joking that it would probably photograph black, so what's the point. Yet something compelled me to do it, and what happened next even surprised the photographer. Most people see red or orange when they can see my aura, yet the photograph revealed a different color: chartreuse. The description for that color was as follows: Energy, sparkle, creator from joy, explosive creator, bubbly energy, The Healer. I felt immediate peace. I am in my Mom Mode, and the healing is what I need to be focused on these next few months. The photographer said she rarely sees that color, but I wasn't very surprised. My child has a rare lymphoma and it's up to me to help him, with whatever healing gifts I have.
So my focus for the next few months is taking care of him and my work. I have canceled all my workshops and events, and am keeping my writing to what I can handle, which is the bare minimum. This forces me to be in the moment, a practice I have been cultivating for years. It helps. The next five minutes, the next few moments, the next few breaths. It makes the rest less scary. Last night, as he was not feeling well, I rubbed my son's back. Underneath I felt a very strong core. My senses have been on hyper alert, so I lingered there to make sure of what I was experiencing. It was there. I know he will overcome this, and his prognosis is good. My life has certainly changed, and definitely not in the way I expected. His life is being transformed, as is mine. The lessons we will both learn will no doubt enhance us in many ways. Our story is one of many who go through similar and worse, and the journey continues. Thank you for reading. And for caring.
Wednesday, September 19, 2018
Rolling with the Punches
Long time, no blog! Apologies, friends. I blog for Patheos weekly, and between work and life, not much is left between. This blog is to catch you up on the In Between. Not that I think you are waiting with bated breath for my next blog installment here, but I do feel an obligation to record what is going on, in between seasons.
When we last left our story, I had finished up a conference or two. It's been a great year of reaping many seeds planted last year. If I write in a harvest metaphor, it's because we are in Harvest Season, and are about to celebrate the second of three harvest festivals in the Wheel of the Year. I take each celebration as a pause, to reflect and review what is happening in my life.
This year is not turning out the way I had thought it would. Not that it's a bad thing, but there have been so many twists and hairpin turns, and almost non-stop planetary chaos. I spend lots of time just catching my breath, focusing on being in the moment, centering and grounding. It has been a challenge, my friends.
My youngest moved to this area and has been dealing with health issues. As a mom, this affects me greatly. It's an excellent reminder to not take health for granted, nor time with your loved ones. He is slowly on the road to recovery, but it has been a challenge on so many levels.
I've written more than I have ever have in my life, on a more consistent basis. I feel like I am finding my voice, and have a wee but lovely following. To say I am grateful about this is an understatement.
I have shed things which no longer serve me, in advance of the trees. It feels scary yet good, to hone in on what means the most to me. It has become my mantra, in a way: family, friendships, work, writing, words, poetry, community. All have woven strong threads in my blanket of life, and symbolizes what remains.
My spiritual practice has deepened, and I am looking forward to strengthening my connection to Brigid via a retreat I will attend next month in Philadelphia. To be out of my usual comfort zone is something I genuinely look forward to, and I can't wait to tell you all about it.
I have been questioning my path, as recently as today, and as always, the Universe delivered. A lovely friend came by and reminded me of my purpose here. Building community, helping, healing, writing, teaching. I am humbled by the timeliness and clarity of the message.
One other thing has been made crystal clear to me: when magic is part of your life (whatever you call magic, or whatever it means to you) you feel a certain sureness and flow in your life. When life seems crazy and off-kilter (as it can be, especially this year) always return to center and do what you do best. Whether it be ritual, candle magic, meditation, honoring your ancestors, communing with your deities or beyond, it will remind you why you're here. And that is very satisfying indeed.
When we last left our story, I had finished up a conference or two. It's been a great year of reaping many seeds planted last year. If I write in a harvest metaphor, it's because we are in Harvest Season, and are about to celebrate the second of three harvest festivals in the Wheel of the Year. I take each celebration as a pause, to reflect and review what is happening in my life.
This year is not turning out the way I had thought it would. Not that it's a bad thing, but there have been so many twists and hairpin turns, and almost non-stop planetary chaos. I spend lots of time just catching my breath, focusing on being in the moment, centering and grounding. It has been a challenge, my friends.
My youngest moved to this area and has been dealing with health issues. As a mom, this affects me greatly. It's an excellent reminder to not take health for granted, nor time with your loved ones. He is slowly on the road to recovery, but it has been a challenge on so many levels.
I've written more than I have ever have in my life, on a more consistent basis. I feel like I am finding my voice, and have a wee but lovely following. To say I am grateful about this is an understatement.
I have shed things which no longer serve me, in advance of the trees. It feels scary yet good, to hone in on what means the most to me. It has become my mantra, in a way: family, friendships, work, writing, words, poetry, community. All have woven strong threads in my blanket of life, and symbolizes what remains.
My spiritual practice has deepened, and I am looking forward to strengthening my connection to Brigid via a retreat I will attend next month in Philadelphia. To be out of my usual comfort zone is something I genuinely look forward to, and I can't wait to tell you all about it.
I have been questioning my path, as recently as today, and as always, the Universe delivered. A lovely friend came by and reminded me of my purpose here. Building community, helping, healing, writing, teaching. I am humbled by the timeliness and clarity of the message.
One other thing has been made crystal clear to me: when magic is part of your life (whatever you call magic, or whatever it means to you) you feel a certain sureness and flow in your life. When life seems crazy and off-kilter (as it can be, especially this year) always return to center and do what you do best. Whether it be ritual, candle magic, meditation, honoring your ancestors, communing with your deities or beyond, it will remind you why you're here. And that is very satisfying indeed.
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