"The One About August 8th"

Until now, I have never thought about what I would write on August 8, 2013, or even if I would write at all. That’s probably because I just write about what I’m feeling in the moment, and the moment of August 8, 2013 hasn’t arrived yet. But tomorrow, it will be here. Three hundred and sixty-five days after my diagnosis. Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes, if I remember that song from Rent correctly.

Well, crap. What do I even say about this one year mark? No idea...and now I have that song stuck in my head...in daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cu-ups of coffee, in inches, in miles, in laughter in strife...how do you measure, measure a year? Now I’m just procrastinating.

Until tonight, I never realized how helpful it can be that our culture tells us how to celebrate or commemorate certain annual holidays. All of those smart people before us figured out that we should watch fireworks on July 4th, put gifts under the tree on December 24th, play pranks on April 1st, and dress up in costume and beg for candy on October 31st (or at least, that’s part of the culture that I grew up in). Those geniuses even told us what to do at particular life milestones -- put the tooth under the pillow, initiate the proposal with a ring, escape for a vacation with your new spouse. We know the song to sing on birthdays (although I seriously think we should all lobby for a new one) and … OK, you get the point.

My question tonight is, seriously, what the hell am I supposed to do tomorrow? It’s a day so powerful and so meaningful to me that every time I think of it, I get an immediate rush of adrenaline. It’s also a work day. A Thursday. A summer day. A regular day to most other people. There are no generally accepted rules for August 8th. Perhaps I should just copy from one of my favorite holidays; take out the dozens of hospital bracelets that, for some odd reason, I have kept from the past year and scatter them all over the back lawn. I could invite the neighborhood kids over with their baskets to pick them up. But then again, the plastic bracelets aren't exactly sweet treats.

I’d imagine that a lot people have these sorts of issues, and for many people, they are so much more significant and painful than mine. For instance, in all seriousness, August 7th would have been Ashley’s 27th birthday. How is her family supposed to “celebrate” that? Knowing them, even just a little bit, I'm sure they found a beautiful way to. But I'd imagine that it was horrendously difficult, in small part because there really isn’t much guidance for these types of things.

So what do I want to do tomorrow at this one year milestone? Well, logistically, most of my day is already accounted for. I have work, and our makeshift “Bring Your Kids to Work Day” is tomorrow morning. That means I won’t be alone on the train; I’ll be sitting in traffic in the "HOB" lane with Brian and the kids. Once we arrive at my office and order lots of Dunkin' Donuts, they’ll get a chance to run around the office for an hour doing the little Treasure Hunt we prepared. I can't wait.

After the kids exit (tumultuously, I'm sure), I’ll work and have lunch with some of my favorite people and work some more. At the end of the day, Brian will pick me up and we'll sneak in a dinner-date while the kids eat tacos in Southie. Pretty sweet deal for all of us, if you ask me.

But what about that other time, particularly, my early morning hour? Should I start some sort of personal tradition? Should I sleep as late as possible? Should I get up to write? I have absolutely no idea. I think I'll text Brianne and see if she wants to go for a walk. But she has a new baby and it's supposed to rain. We'll play it by ear (or "by year," as I used to think the saying went).

Maybe I’m giving all of this way too much thought. Or maybe another date deserves my attention. Should I instead celebrate my “One Year Cancer Free Day”? But when is that? December 27th, my last day of chemo? Or since the chemo worked its magic for weeks after that, is “the day” sometime a few weeks later? Or, wait, maybe it's September 12th. Yes! That’s the day the real killer was extracted from my body. But then again, it’s that stupid HER2 protein we need to stop. So tumor or no tumor, Herceptin is the key. So maybe the real "one year" point is the day of my last Herceptin treatment, which isn’t until the end of October. Urgh! Not to sound like a lazy high school kid in math class, but Someone please give me the answer!

Too bad there aren’t any answers. Which makes me think of this A Word A Day quote I loved from this week:

As I grow to understand life less and less, I learn to live it more and more. 

~ Jules Renard, writer (1864-1910) 

I like that quote. It’s a good August 8th quote, no?

But I can’t just rely on a quote. Not tonight. That’d be cheating. Quotes are what I post on my lazy days when I have nothing that is bursting to be written. But there’s so much that is bursting to be written tonight. I just don’t know exactly what it is.

Thinking…Thinking…Thinking…Writing...

I always find it really interesting when people tell me that something I wrote "inspired" them. I wonder what they mean, mostly because sometimes I say the same thing and I don't really know what I mean. I could never ask them, because I'd sound like I'm fishing for a compliment, but really, I'm curious. Did it make them think something like, Well, shit, I won’t complain about my bad haircut anymore. Or maybe, Damn, that sure sounds like it sucks. To be honest, that’s probably how I would respond (internally) if I were on the other end of many of these posts.

Despite that I really do interpret those comments as some of the kindest that I've ever received, until just recently, I would usually respond to them by thinking to myself, How in the world is this impressive? What would be impressive is if I chose this. But this was just thrown on me! So really, I’m just dealing with it. Like someone deals with wiping dog poop off their shoe. But thank you so much, anyways! Lately, however, I've realized something a bit deeper about the "dealing with it" part. No, I haven't come around to thinking that cancer smells like roses. It still just smells like dog poop.

Long before this post, I realized that at some point in our lives, we all have to deal with something awful, something we never would have chosen. Granted, the degrees of awfulness vary greatly, and from my personal experience, I can only understand those degrees that have some hope at their core. I know that I am blessed with that hope and I have the deepest sympathy for people who don't. But even with hope, we can still end up in a dark cave. Alone and shivering with fear.

When that happens, everything we built aboveground crumbles. We can't eat or sleep or work or even carry on a conversation that we'll remember. Breathing becomes an overwhelming chore; laughing a near to impossible one.

It's a really, truly terrible series of moments; watching everything we created so thoughtfully for years fall to pieces. But in retrospect, it's a pretty awesome series of moments, too. Because as cliche as it may sound, that's when we find our foundation, our core, ourselves. We always believed that our family members would hop on planes or drive hours and hours just to sit with us, but in our state of devastated shock, we see them actually do it. Amidst the heap at our feet, we realize once again why our best friend really is our best friend and we see that old friends and new ones care about us just as we care about them.

When everything above the surface falls apart, we see what's beneath it. We realize how safe we feel even while we're bawling into our spouse's t-shirt. We see how brave we can be in front of our kids even if it's all an act. We see how much our loved ones would do to save us; how much we would do to save ourselves.

When we get betrayed by our bodies, we have to start over -- rebuild our relationship with our own cells so that we trust them again. We have to reexamine things that we took for granted; things like our boobs or our ability to have children or our next birthday.

One year ago, both before and after the word, cancer, I was very blessed. The foundation upon which I stood was very solid. I had an incredible support system, a job, good health insurance, access to some of the best hospitals and treatment therapies in the world, a healthy body and mind (except, of course, for the cancer and mild anxiety), and countless other reasons to be happy. I know that it's not like that for everyone. I know that I can sit here and write because I don't need to leave the house for a second job so that my kids can eat lunch tomorrow. I know that a lot of HER2+ women will never get Herceptin and that I'll get mine next week. Life definitely isn't fair.

I admit, part of me wants to cry at the thought of August 8th because I feel so proud and so grateful for how I've been able to live -- not just survive -- over the past year. But I also know that it's only because of all of the people that helped me build a solid foundation for 32 years before that -- starting, of course, with my parents -- that I was able to rebuild everything that felt like it had crumbled. And somehow, the rebuilt version feels even better than the one that cancer knocked down.

Oh, and I have better boobs. 

"Bad Day"

Whenever my Mom used to tell me that she thought little babies were "so boring," I used to think she was kidding. She’d say it in a funny way and I took her smile to be, well, humor. It was only when I became a parent that I realized what was really at the root of that sly little smile -- her internal voice whispering, Don’t worry, she'll see it all for herself one day. 

That "one day" arrived on my first maternity leave. I saw for myself that being home alone with a baby is not only pretty boring, but it's really hard work, too. No matter how hard I tried, the kitchen always remained a mess, Teddy's poop consistently exploded out of his diaper, and I never had a chance to exercise, make myself a healthy lunch, or even shower. I found much of that time home alone with my firstborn to be isolating, claustrophobic, overwhelming, and gross.

When I was fed up with the walls of our condo, I'd go for a drive with my new baby. Until I discovered his habit of projectile vomiting about two miles into the trip. At times, yes, my time alone with baby Teddy was absolutely wonderful, but if I were going to be honest, those times happened maybe just once or twice a day. Looking back, I realize that's not a bad average.

With Annabel, everything was different. I was different. I had three years of sleep deprivation practice, comfort with my complete lack of independence, a bigger space to live in, a husband who was a parenting-pro, and a little girl who was happy sleeping or just looking around. Most importantly, I had a three year old to hang out with.  

Which brings me to what my Mom would always say after her “boring babies” comment. She would always say something like, Once you kids could talk, I loved every minute with you. 

The physical milestones of babyhood are undoubtedly pretty neat -- the first roll-over, the first walk across the living room. But for me, my kids learning to talk was the best thing of all. It was the very opposite of lonely or claustrophobic or boring.

I find it overwhelmingly awesome to hear Teddy tell me about how a knuckleball is really hard to catch and how I shouldn't blame the Red Sox catcher for so many pass balls in the first inning of tonight's game. And it's incredible to hear Annabel tell me (like she did today while holding up her index finger for emphasis), I didn't hab a good nap today because I was missing you when you wah at wuk and Daddy was at school. 

Perhaps the best thing about the kids being able to talk is that they have no idea how funny they can be. (They also have no idea how frustrating they can be, but I'm trying to be positive here after an hour of frustrated go-the-f*&k-to-sleep negotiations.) Tonight, I want to share a story that seems randomly relevant. 

Sometime last fall, Teddy was trying to tell me about a song that he really liked that he had heard during a football game. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out the song. He kept repeating something about Fantasy Football and guys being sad. Finally, I got there. This was the commercial to which he was referring and the song is Daniel Powter's “Bad Day.” 

I got such a kick out of Teddy's random instinct to like this song that he essentially found all on his own. Sure, he loved Bruce, but that’s because we did. There was something so cool about his first independent music choice. 

Of course, there was something hilariously ironic about it, too. Last Sunday night, as the one year anniversary of my really bad day approached, I found myself laughing out loud at this irony.

That Sunday night, we had just wrapped up a great summer weekend. On Friday night, Teddy got to play wiffle ball with Brian’s former hockey players and his best pal, Liam. He stayed up later than I did and got to watch the Red Sox play a close one. On Saturday, he played catch for hours and then he got to swim at his friend’s birthday party. Sunday was spent on a beautiful lake in Western Massachusetts, where we all jet-skied, kayaked, and swam with my awesome college friends and their adorable little kids. Teddy was spoiled by cookies for lunch, his choice of pizza for dinner (Brian and I wanted Thai but we caved to the boss), and a home-scooped ice-cream cone for dessert. After his shower, TV show, and snack, it was finally time for bed.

Brian always sings songs with Teddy after I read him a book. The songs are usually soooo repetitive and so boring that I can barely stand them, and when I tell Teddy that, he thinks I’m hilarious (can’t wait until he’s a dad and realizes I was serious). But even though I exit the room a few minutes early to start to tackle the mess that accumulated that day, I always keep listening to my two most precious guys as they lie together in Teddy's toddler bed.

On Sunday night, I listened as Teddy made his first song request. He wanted Brian to sing, “Bad Day,” which was not repetitive at all. In fact, I hadn't heard anyone sing it in months. The song doesn’t translate well to a lullaby, never mind when you have Brian’s tone-deafness, but Super Dad pulled it off. As I unpacked the beach bag of life jackets, goggles, cookies, and sunscreen, I couldn’t help but think how totally hilarious it was that Teddy wanted Brian to sing about a bad day.

That's why I love kids. Because writing about a bad day doesn't just evoke memories and pain from August 8, 2012. It also makes me laugh out loud at Teddy's totally random and ironic choice of music.  

A Part of Life

I either love driving in the car with my kids or I'm just kind of numb to the madness of the s*#t-storm of complaints and questions and spills coming from the back seat. Fortunately, the majority of the time, it's the former.

Saturday afternoon, on the ride to Teddy's friend's birthday party, my conversation with him (and now, with Annabel, too) turned to some silly talk about babies in bellies. Teddy is fascinated by the idea that he was once in my belly and every now and then he asks me serious questions about it. Annabel, the budding jokester in the family, likes to make us all laugh and so, with a little smirk on, she told me and Teddy things like, Mama was in my beh-wee! We laughed and I reached back to tickle her chubby little thighs. 

Then Teddy asked me when we were going to have another baby (the collective we, like as in all of us). Before I could even answer, he clarified that he knew that the baby would be adopted. I couldn't believe that he even remembered the word adopted. I told him that I didn't know and that it takes a long time to make a baby. Then I asked him if he wanted a little brother or sister even though I obviously knew the answer. 

The natural opportunities to talk about adoption with the kids don't come along often so even though I feel a bit uncomfortable talking about something that I don't know with certainty will happen, I still feel like I shouldn't let those chances pass. So we talked about how much fun it would be to have another baby in the house and how it doesn't matter if the baby doesn't come from my belly. 

As we sat in traffic at a stoplight, Teddy got quiet. A minute or two later, he told me that if we got a new baby, we would have three kids in our family like the family that lives a few doors down from us. Then he reminded me that the youngest child in that family wasn't adopted. I know, but all families are different, I explained. Then, referring to his friends' mother, he asked me, "When will Debbie get her bweast cancer?" 

There aren't too many times in my life that my heart has melted, but that was one of those times. 

I stammered through an explanation that not every woman gets breast cancer. We listed lots of women in his life who have never gotten it, and a few others who have. He asked me why I got it and without any time to prep an answer that might comfort him, I told him, I have the same exact question! And as soon as someone tells me the answer, I promise, I'll tell you! 

Glancing at those two curious little faces in my rearview mirror, I felt such love that my heart physically ached. Soon we arrived at the party, ate cake and ice cream, and went swimming. 

*  *  *

Moving from one phase of cancer recovery to the next is kind of like growing up -- it's not clear when we go from childhood to adulthood and sometimes, we're forced to act 40 when we're 16 or we find ourselves behaving like we're 10 when we're really 32. The path rarely feels all that linear, but every now and then, I realize that I've changed. Of course, there are times when I revert right back, but still, the overall movement seems to be forward. 

I didn't spend a lot of time this weekend reflecting on my one year mark; we were too busy enjoying a few awesome summer days. Still, I couldn't help but let my mind go there every now and then. It happened when I was doing the dishes during Brian's hockey cookout and when I was changing the laundry yesterday morning. It happened when I was putting Annabel's hair in a ponytail and when Teddy and I played catch in the backyard on Saturday. It's funny how much clarity I found in those random moments, especially while Teddy was standing on pitcher's mound (the circle of dead grass upon which the baby pool sat for a few days too long), instructing me as to which pitch signal he wanted me to throw (usually a "1" for the fast ball but sometimes a "2" for a knuckleball or a "3" for a ... I could go on).   

For some reason, I kept coming back to something Mark had said to me earlier this week. He had just returned from the funeral of one of his friends who had died suddenly. I asked him how his friend's long-time partner was doing. Mark explained to me that she was remarkable. She has really taken the perspective that she was so lucky for the time she did get with her loved one and she's not feeling cheated out of the time that she won't get with him. 

In my last post, I wrote about what Vivian said to me; that I will live. Most of the time, I believe her in the simplest of ways -- that my cancer will not return, just like her's didn't. But every now and then -- like when I was holding my sleeping baby girl or catching Teddy's fast ball, I believe her on a whole different level. 

Because in the last year, I have lived more than I have ever lived before. I haven't traveled the world or had a new baby or written a book. But my neighbor held my hand and made me believe in magic. I've watched my body go from strong to dangerously weak to stronger than it was before. I've met new people and reconnected with people I grew up with. I've grown closer to the ones I am the closest to and I've found a voice I never knew I had. I've learned that a family is so much more than blood relation, and that sometimes, adapting to the unexpected is a gift. Thanks to this space, I have seen and heard more in one year than in the 32 years that came before it. Vivian was right -- I have lived -- through paralyzing fear and through joy and relief so profound that I haven't even tried to write about it yet. 

I see now, one year later, that the first phase of my battle with cancer was about survival. About believing what Vivian and so many others had told me -- that I will have a life after cancer. 

But the next phase for me, one that I've only started to dip my toes into, is a bit more complicated. It's about trying to be more like Mark's friend's partner, a woman I've never even met. It's about appreciating that I've been given so much, and that if my time is "cut short" (as others may explain) I, personally, won't feel cheated. It's about me enjoying each August 8th without worrying (too much) about whether or not there will be another one.

I know that it's a lofty goal, but I've tasted it, and it feels good. It's tastes better, at least, than that holy s*&t it's August 8th again!?! feeling that also pops up when I least expect it. 

When will Debbie get her breast cancer? There is so much packed into that simple question. What I find most remarkable about it at this moment, is that deep down, Teddy already realizes that breast cancer is just a part of life. Like playing baseball or going to a birthday party. But maybe just a bit less fun.

Annabel, asleep on the lake during one of my favorite get togethers of the year. 

Vivian

In a house near to ours lives a very sweet old woman who I will call “Vivian.” Vivian must be in her mid-eighties and like most people her age, she doesn’t get around easily anymore. Nevertheless, Vivian is still famous to the neighborhood kids as the “chip lady” – for Halloween, she distributes small bags of chips instead of candy. Aside from last Halloween when I was too nervous to eat, I have enjoyed my other Halloweens in the neighborhood with a bag or two of Doritos that I stole from Teddy’s trick-or-treat bag.

Including Halloweens, I’ve only spoken to Vivian maybe ten or twelve times. But I’ve realized that one conversation at just the right time can mean more than a thousand instances of small talk.

* * *

Almost exactly one year ago, Vivian called me on our home line. I didn't recognize her name on the caller ID, which was probably because until then, I didn't even know Vivian's last name. 

Vivian's call came during that terrible time where “Blocked” on the caller ID meant Dana-Farber and Dana-Farber meant more news about my diagnosis. It was maybe the most terrifying time of all and it’s taken me almost a year to be able to see “Blocked” on my phone and not want to throw up.

Vivian talks slowly, and the kids had turned the house into a carnival so I could barely hear her as she tried to tell me something; something about having read my first blog in the local newspaper and about how she wanted to talk to me.

I have no idea what made me walk straight over to her house. It could have been some magical pull, or just the instinct to want to find a quieter space. Either way, I told Brian I had to go by Vivian's house and I scooted out. I knocked on Vivian’s door and after about five minutes of sporadic movement inside, she greeted me.

While there are serious holes to my memories of that time, there are also pictures so vivid that I can smell, hear, taste, and feel them. Sitting in Vivian’s kitchen was one of those times.

When we sat down, Vivian took my hand. I have a bit of a personal space issue and I really don’t even like when my leg touches other people's legs when I’m smooshed between them on the train. But I didn’t mind Vivian holding my hand. It made me feel safe.

I don’t remember how the conversation flowed but I remember as clear as the day a few things that Vivian said to me. I remember her telling me that she had cancer many years ago; that her doctors “gutted her like a chicken” to get the cancer out. That her husband died soon after, in her mind, due to the stress of it all; that I should make sure that Brian is doing OK.

I remember her telling me that my hair will grow back. And I remember her pulling off her wig. I like to think I’m pretty observant but I was absolutely shocked to see Vivian’s baldish head. I had no clue she wore a wig, although I had always thought her hair looked fabulous.

Mine didn’t really grow back, but yours will, she promised me. I was still a few months away from losing my hair, and I didn’t care much about it to begin with. But I cared very much about Vivian's honesty, her vulnerability, her empathy, and her kindness.

Then Vivian said something I remember almost every single time I drive or walk or chase the kids past her house. She told me that I was going to live. You will live. I smiled, to thank her. You will live. I started to cry, because I heard her that time and her words took a heavy weight off my shoulders. I just know it. The moment was so precious that it was almost surreal.

On the way out, I saw a photo of Vivian’s grandson perched on a small table by her front door. I immediately recognized him as a boy I had taught my very last year at Canton High School. I wasn't just being nice when I told Vivian how much I had enjoyed teaching her grandson. I’ll never forget that kid, who really isn't even a kid anymore. He was an amazing magician and on my last day at CHS, he and his friend orchestrated a magic show in the auditorium for me. That magic meant more to me than I could possibly express. And there was a wonderful irony in the fact that the whole experience with Vivian had felt so very magical before I even knew that she and I already had a connection.

I haven’t seen Vivian since, except, of course, for Halloween. I really should go say hello to her and thank her for giving me the gift of believing that I will be OK every time that I pass by her house. 

To be continued...

Ashley Drew, 26

And when great souls die, 

after a period peace blooms, 

slowly and always

irregularly. Spaces fill

with a kind of 

soothing electric vibration. 

Our senses, restored, never

to be the same, whisper to us, 

They existed. They existed. 

We can be. Be and be

better. For they existed. 

~ Maya Angelou, excerpt from "When Great Trees Fall"

In 26 years, she gave countless people so much and taught thousands of us about faith and hope and the will to never give up. She was loved and she loved in return, and she made beautiful music with lungs that couldn't keep up with how strong she was. Tomorrow, Ashley Drew's family and friends will gather to celebrate her life. 

Click HERE for Portland Press Herald article on Ashley, and HERE for another.