red shoes

There's always a let down after Christmas. The house feels empty and stark without the decorations and the most amazing, most gigantic, most fabulous tree ever (it's now left for kindling at the curb). New toys have found new homes and the garbage men have earned a raise after tackling our trash pile. Everyone has gone back home. It's no longer acceptable to pour a glass of wine at 2 in the afternoon (or so they say). It's kind of sad. Even sadder this year I suppose. In the days and weeks following Mom's diagnosis I found myself wondering how I would go on every day when all I could think about was that I am going to lose her. And there still aren't many minutes that go by that I don't think about her, or it.   Then I started thinking about the how.  How do we 'celebrate' the holidays knowing that they will likely be her last? How do I balance utter sadness, devastation, and true fear with the magic and excitement and joy of three kids on Christma...

Have you ever lost your phone? Like actually lost it? It's mild panic. What if school calls me (which they never do, but they might)? What if I miss a text from someone who needs me urgently (which no one does)? What about that email with shipping confirmation for that stupid Hatchimal that everyone is dying for this Christmas (totally scored one the day Halloween on the shelf at Walmart... she hasn't even asked for it but she's getting it anyway)?  My Dad lost his phone this morning in an Uber car on the way to the airport in Birmingham. They were in Birmingham for what was a modicum of hope. I actually said last week 'I mean, all of the doctors have said the same things... so I can't imagine this one will be different.' But saying it and believing it are different. We had hope. We hoped that the people at UAB would have some magic unicorn rainbow pill she could take and we could be done with this nightmare. We had a little hope. That hope is gone. At best we...

Back in the day, when I blogged about life I used to write "observations and revelations". It was an easy way to share thoughts, random or otherwise. In the spirit of Red Shoes I'm going to now call them "knots and loose ends" or "heels and flats" or something creative like that. So I give you the first edition of Knots and Loose Ends/ Heels and Flats: Thanksgiving Edition. A couple days before Thanksgiving Mom's oncologist gave her permission to stop taking the oral chemo in anticipation of a chemo transfusion this week. Don't have to tell her twice. She wasn't dizzy, she had energy, she was Mom. It was wonderful. If you haven't watched your husband and brother lower a turkey, zip tied to a broom stick, into a fryer, you haven't lived. If you haven't eaten the skin off a freshly fried turkey, you also haven't lived. I was not vegan this weekend. I used up my 10% of my 90/10 rule for the month. Our family has such ...

I started decorating. Not my usual MO but I love how the house feels with Christmas decorations up. I love the warmth of the lights. I love the peaceful feeling of the season. Plus it's giving me something to focus some energy on. Cause I'm a pro at being vegan now, obviously.  So I have a mantle conflicted. On one side it says "gobble" and on the other, there's a silver metal Christmas tree. Whatever. So much of my Christmas stuff has Mom stamped all over it. I have these carolers, it's a little boy and a little girl. They're probably almost as old as I am. And they are holding sheet music, singing (they don't actually make noise). They're my favorite. They're Mom's favorite. All of my garland came from Mom. My nutcrackers came from her. Dining room table centerpiece, hers. I haven't gotten out the ornaments yet but I know what's in those boxes. Years of ornaments from Mom. Photo frame ornaments from Mom. Then I looked around t...

Yesterday was wonderfully, magnificently, amazingly, magically, fabulously, normal. So normal I cry now thinking about it. It was so normal Mom and Dad came and watched Cannon try to learn to play lacrosse and then checked out Emerson's dance moves on the soccer field. And then we ate delicious Mediterranean food from this local place with so many options for us newbie vegans, it's amazing. Dad played War with Emer and Finn threw her food to the dog. We shared a bottle of good wine. We watched the opening sketch of SNL. Hurricane Finley threw her sippy and shattered my wine glass on the brand new couch. It was that kind of normal. The normal that lets you forget that she's sick. It's those times I cherish. I cherish all the times actually. But those times, where we can be us and be together and keep the elephant in the other room for a few minutes or more, those warm my soul. So, thanks Yesterday. I really appreciate it.

Initially, and even beyond initially, treatment wasn't really an option. Mom isn't a good candidate for surgery because her tumors are substantial in size. And chemo is a brutal battle she has fought before and isn't willing to fight again, at least not the same way, given the recurrence rates of ovarian cancer. So she's almost a week into what I am calling 'chemo-light'. It's a very small dose of a very toxic drug. This is a trial period to see if she can tolerate it. If it doesn't make her sick, if her body doesn't revolt in response to the pill that she's not even supposed to touch with her skin (but put in her mouth?!?!) then the doctor will double the dosage. This is one of six oncologists she has seen for opinions. But this guy is also a palliative care doctor. And he's willing to work with her. He understands here paralyzing fear of chemo again, he knows the cards are stacked against us, but he's willing to try. And use baby st...

It's been a month. It seems like an eternity and a blink all at once. A month ago our lives were changed, forever. It sounds dramatic. Uber dramatic actually. But it's true. None of us will ever be the same from this journey. Wherever it leads will change each of us. I've learned that my Mom is more stunning than ever. She's always been pretty. She's got a Carly Simon-esque smile that has always lit up a room. The years have been kind to her and she's aged gracefully. But lately when I look at pictures we take, she looks absolutely gorgeous. It's like I can see her spirit shining through. It warms me. Brings me peace. I love seeing her happy. I've learned that none of us can do this alone. There have been serious sob-fests in the last month. Ones where your legs buckle underneath you and you can't breathe. Those kinds.  They take 'ugly crying' to the next level. If you're alone when one of those hits, it's even worse. Misery loves...

I'm pretty sure I just graduated from high school or maybe college. Either way, I'm not old enough for this sometimes. This is the shit grown ups deal with. I can't possibly be a grown up. I'm 35. And a half. Been married for almost 12 years and have three kids. And a dog. Somehow though, my Mom being sick reduces me to 10 years old some days (mostly on days that end in Y). Today is one of those days. It's ovarian cancer. Still stage IV. Doesn't matter how many times I hear that, it still stops me dead in my tracks. Makes my arms and legs feel numb. My Mom is not going to survive this. This isn't one of those cancer battles where we wear ribbons and walk around a track and cheer her on and then celebrate and use words like remission. This one is different from that. And I can't change it, fix it, control it. There's literally NOTHING I can do. I mentioned before that Mom changed her diet when she learned more about what cancer feeds on, what he...

It's horrible and gut wrenchingly terrible and wonderful at at once. My brother is here. The original four were together last night. The OG, Original Gangsters. It was like we were whole again. We need to be whole so badly right now.  There was some news from doctors yesterday. None of it good, none of it that we didn't already know, but every time you hear it it's like being mowed down by a boulder. The cancer is rare and aggressive and it could be coming from a few places. We knew all of that. And the surgery is rough and it comes with chemo. And if it's all successful, that gets her 5 years, maybe . 50% of people get 5 years after enduring the surgery and the poisoning. Then it comes back. And you die. The other 50% don't make it 5 years. So first you have a horribly invasive surgery where they basically scrub your organs, then they poison you. You lose your hair, throw up constantly, have mouth sores and steroids and all of these horrific side effects she...

Kind and brave. That's what I tell my kids every morning before school. Be kind and be brave. Lately I've been on the receiving end of the 'be kind' portion of that mantra. "Be kind to yourself, Corey". I'm trying. We have these amazing kids. But along with being amazing and smart and adorable and funny and pretty much perfect, they're kids. And they can be assholes on occasion. Usually I can take those moments in stride. Usually when someone rolls their eyes when I request that the let the dog, who has been outside barking for five minutes, inside I give them the look and they know. The Mom look. It's a furrowing of the brow and a pursing of the lips that says 'don't mess with me, I am one step away from losing IT'.   I learned that look from my Mom, by the way. Usually if one of them wants to argue about helping with the trash or doing homework before they play iPad, it's an easy fix, there's no yelling and no one loses ...

My Mom taught me to always write thank you notes. Hand write them. Consider this handwritten. Dear Hurricane Matthew, We owe you a thank you, for a lot of reasons. We now know how to prepare for a massive hurricane. For four days we were warned of your impending arrival, a gig I know well having spent a decade in television news. Comparisons were made to Andrew. "Matthew will be the largest hurricane to hit Florida in 10 years". Even the natives were restless. But we were ready dammit. When you see video of lines at the gas station, or empty grocery shelves, it's real. It was so real in our suburban oasis in South Florida. But thanks to you Matt, we know how to close our hurricane shutters. We know when the lines start at the gas station and when the grocery stores run out of water. We now have the things we need should a hurricane hit next week. Provided we don't drink the bottles of water or spend the cash. So that's cool, thank you. Also, thank you fo...

Every morning I wake up and for a half a second I hope this was all just a horrible nightmare. It's not. But that half a second of hope is nice. We don't have a lot of hope right now. We have a lot of hurt.  We have three kids. Three different times we have welcomed miracles into the world. And each time there's this wonderful sensation that the world stops turning. That it's just me and this new, delicious smelling, beautiful creature we created, and Dan. The three of us inside this magical bubble where nothing can hurt us or bother us. Each time we are able to forget that life is going on outside of our little magic bubble, just for a little while. It's this wonderful respite and time to reflect on how lucky we are. Then the bubble pops, you realize life hasn't stopped for the rest of the world and you've got poop on your hands. But you still have this amazing creature to get to know and love and nurture.  10 days ago my family moved into a bubble. It...

I didn't write yesterday. I wasn't feeling it. I wasn't really feeling anything. I was just numb. Emotionally and physically. I cried a lot less than I had in the week prior. I think maybe it was my body's way of giving me a reprieve from the searing pain we have all been in for the last 7 days. There's no manual for this. For coping with a death sentence. I want to pretty much spend every waking moment with my Mom. I want to soak all of her in, savor every second, hang on every word. I want her to share every bit of knowledge and experience and wisdom she's been holding back (although if you know  her, there's probably not much she's held back.). I want to eat big meals and drink bottles of wine and dance and sing and laugh. I want my brother to be here with us. I want us to all sit around a table and laugh until we cry about the tube socks he wore when he was 4 or about me pooping in the bed after my spinal fusion because Dad couldn't get me up o...

I love to write. But I hate why I'm writing.  What follows is the running journal I've been keeping since my Mom was given a devastating diagnosis on September 23, 2016. I plan to use the blog as a platform to share information but mostly to share our journey.  September 23, 2016 It's Friday. I live for Fridays. We just moved. Three kids, a dog. Husband too.  It wasn't a far move but it might as well be Africa. Everything is new. New people, new streets, new grocery store, new gym, new school, new life. And I left behind my people. MY people. So I live for Fridays because my person, my lobster, my main man is home from work for a couple solid days. There's another set of hands, more adult conversation, I live for Fridays. Started off like any other. The book fair at the new school is next week. I volunteered to set up, do some heavy lifting, get to know some other moms. Scholastic Books has it down. They ship these giant containers on wheels and you open t...