red shoes

I sit down to write on this blog and the other one I have pretty often. I rarely hit publish. So that's where I've been. Somewhere between sharing and not sharing, I'm in draft mode. I think I'll hit publish on this one.  My Mom is  NOT  a loser. I came across this article yesterday and immediately sent it to Mom. When someone has cancer everyone wants to talk about their 'fight'. I'm sure I've used the analogy on this very blog. I'm sure I've referred to her as a fighter or a warrior. That was before I knew.  My Mom is  NOT  a loser.  When someone has cancer, and you apply that analogy what happens if they don't 'win their battle'? Because my Mom isn't going to 'win' her 'battle'. Despite multiple surgeries and chemo after chemo after chemo, the cancer is still there. Growing. It's not going to take her today, or tomorrow, but it will take her from us. So does that mean the cancer wins and my Mom...

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...