red shoes

Usually when I write words flow like a river, or wine. It's usually fast and furious. I've been trying to decide how to write this post for a couple of weeks now and I'm struggling to find the words.  365 days. 8,760 hours. 525,600 minutes (if you love musical theater you sang this one a la RENT). That's how long it's been since I started this blog ; a blog I wish I never had to start. When I started this blog I thought I would be writing a much different story though, than the one I'm writing today. Maybe I'll write a book some day and call it "What to do when your Mom is going to die and then doesn't ." Catchy title, no?  The last year has been a blur. It has flown by and it has crawled by like molasses in the middle of winter. We entered a dichotomy a year ago. Split between life and Mom's diagnosis, treatment, disease. Everyone is a year older now. We are more settled in our South Florida home. The kids are 9, almost 7 and creeping ...

There's an ugly cry coming. I can feel it. It's crept up a few times and I've managed to fight it off, but it's coming. And it's going to be Ugly. It has been two weeks since Mom's surgery. We didn't really talk much about the surgery beforehand. I don't think anyone wanted to address our fears head on or talk about the 'what ifs' so we just didn't really talk at all. The only reason that was okay was because we have done a lot of talking in the last 333 days. 333 days. That's how many it's been since our world stopped spinning; since cancer started to manipulate most of our thoughts and consume our emotions. Three hundred and thirty three days. For 333 days we have all woken up and our first thought was immediately 'Mom is dying.'. For 333 nights my Dad hasn't slept; lying awake paralyzed with fear of losing his best friend. For 333 days my Mom worked tirelessly to find doctors; the right doctors. She worked her finge...

When I was 14 I had an anterior-posterior spinal fusion. I've got some rods and some screws in my back. It was a big deal back then. But now? I don't really think about it. My back is straighter thanks to it and I'm stronger because of it. Before my surgery my mom had t-shirts made and sent them to friends and family all over the country. "Corey's Healing Squad". They were purple. Everyone had one and mine appropriately read 'Captain'. Even my surgeon had one. I was online yesterday, designing shirts for my family. "Bubbles' Healing Squad" they were going to say. But somehow a shirt didn't seem like a strong enough way to support her. Mom's having surgery. It's less than 2 weeks away. It's invasive and scary and the recovery will be long and painful. But it's the best option she's got. See, they live in Cancerland. And it's dark and lonely and scary and she doesn't feel well. Because chemo sucks. So s...

I'm hiding. Ok, maybe I'm not hiding, maybe I just didn't tell anyone where I am. I've sucked down half a cup of coffee and have moved onto something with bubbles and orange juice because it's Mother's Day. Two of our kids have a cough that rivals that of a 70 year old chain smoker. One of those two is licking snot off of her own face. And then the third kid is upstairs in bed with the second migraine in a week. The first one landed us in the ER last weekend. Not this one. Not today. Not on Mother's Day. Mother's Day. It's a strange day. On one hand you want to celebrate it by sharing it with the people who made you a mother. On the other, you want to run away and hide in a hotel, maybe on a beach, definitely without the ones who made you a mother (but I swear I love you). See, those people who made me a mother? I share every single day with them. There are no days off. I have not peed alone in 8 years. There is no break. Mothers think about their ...

That was my name in my senior AP Spanish class (pretty sure it was the only AP class I ever took). Esperanza. Pronounced with a 'th' sound for the Z because that's how they do it in the motherland. Esperanza means 'hope'. Hope is a funny thing. Funny isn't the right word. Hope can be wonderful. And cruel. And unforgiving. Hope gives us a moment to breathe. It lets us relax a little. It gives us the possibility of peace again.  Hope enables us to get some rest, to return to life a bit, to check back in with things that don't really matter. But then just as quickly as you've checked back in, hope can disappear. Like a rug pulled out from underneath you. Like that magic trick where the waiter pulls the table cloth out from underneath all of the dishes without breaking a single dish. Only this time all of the dishes are shattered and you've got red wine on your white dress.  Suddenly, you're back to panic and sleeplessness and doing only what mat...

I've been thinking about this post for a long time. How to write it so that it accurately portrays how I feel without making it sounds like I'm thankful for cancer. Because I'm not. I hate cancer. I hate that this may be my last birthday where my mom calls me and sings. I hate it a lot. But in some ways cancer has been a gift. That sounds so weird to say, to type. It's not a gift like something you want that someone you love gives you. But maybe a gift in the sense that it's changed some things for the better. At least in me or for me. Sure it's ripped out my guts and caused more pain that I've known and I would happily return it, no questions asked. But that's not an option here. We can't give cancer back. There are parts that I wouldn't return though. Mom and I have always talked on the phone a lot. Most of it just chatting or calling about an idea or something random. Conversations post cancer feel different. Even if we talk about nothin...

Yes. She does. Kids are intuitive. They are smart. They know more than we give them credit for. Once the dust settled and once we knew what Mom was facing, we had to make decisions about the kids. About how we would talk to them about Bubbles being sick. My immediate instinct was to shelter. Pretend like they didn't notice my red, swollen eyes and constant tears. 'Mommy are you sick?' 'I'm not sick I just don't feel well.' Keep them little. What they don't know can't hurt them. And that C word. DO NOT UTTER that C word. They know what cancer is. They understand it makes people sick and some people live and some don't. No one say Cancer. I talk a lot about how I'm not sure I'm grown up enough to handle what we are facing. I, of course, know I am. I know that I'm emotionally and physically equipped to handle almost anything, I just don't want to. Our kids, they aren't. And by sheltering them in my 'Mommyshieldingsuperpro...

I got a new table. Not just any table. See, I didn't need a new table and I wasn't looking for a new table. But I got a new table. A magnificent, perfect, fabulous coffee table for our family room. It matches the mantle we had built, it has everything we would have been looking for in a table, if we were looking for a table. And best part? I got it at Homegoods. You totally want to see the new table now, don't you? Anyway, I was at Homegoods, I went for frames and maybe a lamp. And I walked in and saw it. Immediately I walk around it, and take a few pictures and text them to Mom. When she doesn't respond in 90 seconds I call Mom. She is equally as enamored with said table. "Buy it! Don't move from it until they mark it sold! Don't leave that spot!"So I did a little jig, got the table, and frames and a lamp. I got home and we Facetimed about the table which was now in it's new home. About how amazing it is and what a deal it is and ohmygosh we cou...