And then I remembered – my mom was the most beautiful woman in the world.

Motherhood changes our bodies. At least for most. There are some who shrink right back, but I was not one of them. Not my weight, but my size. My feet are, and always will be, a full size larger and full width wider. You know, like a hobbit. There is no diet on the planet that will fix that. My hips are wider, too. They’re the definition of “birthing hips.” Smush’s delivery – from the first contraction to “Hi baby!” lasted 1 hr 20 min, and that’s because I had to wait for the midwife to get in the room. Birthing hips.

Before I had kids, I was a flat-stomached, hourglass figure, kinda cute 20-year-old. My pregnancy with Punkin expanded my hips – literally. My body went a little overkill on the relaxin hormone, and my hips actually got wider – and then they stayed that way as the ligaments firmed up, and I was left with hips for days. Let’s just say that low-rise jeans were not made for most women, and I’m one of them.

Most days I’m okay with all that. I mean, it’s a mass of tissue, really, so whatevs. And we’re mothers – we’re basically nature’s superheroes. But for a while I had been feeling unattractive. Having more “fat days” than usual.

(If you aren’t familiar with that term, a “fat day” is where you wake up feeling like none of your clothes fit and your husband walks in to find that he can’t see the bedroom floor because you’ve somehow tried on every article of clothing you own. And you’re still in your pajamas.)

I had been feeling flat-out ugly.

I hated my jaw line. My eyes are too close together. My eyebrows are crooked and uneven, and because of scar tissue in one from a childhood injury, there’s not much I can do about it. My nose is too big, my skin is too pale, and I’m just too squishy all over.

But getting ready for church one Sunday morning, I came out of the bedroom in a long dress and high heels. I hadn’t done my hair. I hadn’t done my make-up. I looked like the bride of Frankenstein, if she went to church. And each of my girls looked up and, eyes wide and smiles big, told me how pretty I was.

I didn’t get it. I mean, I know we shelter them from a LOT of media. We don’t have cable. We laugh at how silly magazine covers look because they’re so fake. We talk about store window displays and billboards and how utterly absurd it would be to dress in clothes that look like underwear. But c’mon, they must know I’m no supermodel, right?

And then I remembered – my mother was the most beautiful woman in the world. Growing up, even after she died, I literally could not find another woman as beautiful as she was. Julia Roberts was pretty and all, but she wasn’t my mom. Nobody was my mom, and she had them all beat.

And I remembered something else. I remembered standing in the bathroom one day while she got ready for church, just like I had. I remember her touching the scar that marked her thyroid surgery, and looking at her one discolored tooth. And I remember her adding a little more mascara, and a little more eyeliner, and asking if that made her droopy eyelid any better. The surgeon who tried to remove her tumor had hit a nerve, and that left her with one droopy eye.

I also remember being so very perplexed. “Mommy, you’re beautiful. You look perfect. There’s nothing wrong with your eye.” That’s what I told her, and I meant it. I had absolutely no understanding of how a tiny scar, a darker tooth, and an eyelid made her any less beautiful. Grown ups were so weird.

A few weeks ago, Smush had her very own sleepover at Grandma’s house. She was so excited. A long-standing tradition at Grandma sleepovers is french toast – it happens every time, and it only happens with Grandma and Dodie (my aunt). Smush was dutifully helping with the french toast when she spotted a picture of me and Goo on the fridge. She paused and said, “I really love my mama. She’s pretty.”

Photo by Hurtado Photography.

I know the picture she saw. It’s sweet. It’s loving. And the first thing I noticed was my double chin and nonexistent jaw line.

The first thing she noticed was her mama that loves her so much.

I’m going out on a limb here and guessing that many of you have probably had those same days. The ones where you stand in front of the mirror and know that you just can’t fix it all. At least not without Photoshop. The ones where the makeup just isn’t cutting it. The dress just isn’t fitting right. And you can’t figure out for the life of you how women on magazines don’t have pores.

Here is an invaluable truth: None of that matters. You are beautiful because you’re you. No one else will ever be as beautiful as you are, because they will never have your heart. And if anyone tells you differently, kick them in the shins.

But don’t tell them I told you to do that.

The mirror tells you that your beauty is tied to your skin tone and your bone structure.

I have known some physically beautiful people who were downright ugly underneath, and I have seen burn victims and quadriplegics that radiated beauty from the inside out.

The mirror lies. The truth is that we were created in the image and likeness of God Himself. The arrangement of molecules that create our physical bodies is NOT who we are. It is a shadow of our true selves.

I know that I’m beautiful. Smush says so. You can’t argue with that.

I am doing something, whether you like it or not.

I’ve been relatively silent, I know. Life. Craziness. Finding it more frustrating than enjoyable to try to write a coherent post. Excuses excuses.

A question I received a while ago has been ruminating, and I decided the most productive way to wrap my head around it would be to whine about it online get a little written therapy going.

Towards the end of Goo’s treatment, I was asked a question. The kind of question that makes you reexamine your whole life and evaluate every decision you’ve ever made. Not the small ones, but the big ones: Do you marry this guy? Have kids? Work there? Stay home? Are you a Dunkin’ girl or a Starbucks girl? You know, the ones that define who you are.

“When are you going to…you know…do something with your life?”

Ho.ly.crap.

At that moment, my heart actually ached. Was I really that big of a disappointment? How did that happen? I mean, I’m not winning the Nobel prize or anything, but I’m pretty okay. I definitely didn’t think I was a total failure.

At least, not until I was asked that question. And then, for weeks, I pondered it. I looked at my life in a completely new light. Dean’s List student with a degree in Biology? Yeah, but all you did was teach high school for a few years. For a teeny tiny paycheck. So not worth bragging about.

Loving marriage that survived a really rocky period, because we stood by the commitment we made to each other and sacrificed until we found ourselves madly in love again? Sure. But financially we’re nowhere. We don’t even own a home. So really, what do we have to show for it?

And then there’s that mom thing. Staying home with the kids all day. DOING NOTHING. I mean, it totally worked out when my kid got cancer and I had to quit my job working from home to care for Goo, but again, no paycheck, no career boost, and if there’s one thing cancer doesn’t do, it’s make you rich. Or successful. Such a bummer.

And then, every so often, for months after, it would pop up again. I’m 31. I haven’t done anything. My life is at least 1/3 over and I have nothing to show for it.

And then I hit the brakes.

Because what a load of nonsense.

I’m sure that question came from a place of love, from someone trying to inspire me? Maybe?

Side note: I recently helped with a class that focuses on finding truth, and gaining freedom from all the hurts of the past. One of the things I told the women in my group was that for every lie you hear in your head, speak three truths. (Not my original idea, but I thought it was a great one.) “You’re ugly.” Umm, no. I’m a daughter of the King. I’m created in the image and likeness of God. I am beautiful because I was created with a purpose, and it extends far beyond fine lines and numbers on a scale. Boom.

I then had the crazy thought to take my own advice. So for every negative thought that stemmed from that question, I decided to make a list of things I’ve done that I’m proud of, that are important to me, and that I wouldn’t change for the fanciest career or the biggest paycheck in the world.

I have a gut feeling that if you’re a stay at home mom, or a working mom, or a human being, you’ve struggled with feelings of failure, and inadequacy, and irrelevance.

Punch those thoughts in the throat. And then make a list like this one. IT FELT SO GOOD. Like drinking coffee with full fat milk. And not even feeling bad about it.

What I’ve done while I was busy doing nothing.

• Overcame suicidal tendencies as a teen by clinging to a faith in a God who was bigger than my sorrow (boy has that been helpful over the years)
• Despite watching my mother die of cancer, being left by my father, and having a healthy dose of emotional scarring in the first 20 years of my life, I kept a level head on my shoulders – no drugs, no drinking (prior to children. Blame them), no crazy boy stuff – other than marrying a guy who once shaved “DUM” in the back of his head. But hey, nobody’s perfect.
• Worked my tail off – through 4 months of all day/every day “morning” sickness – going to school full-time, doing research part-time, and working 30 hrs/wk – to earn my degree.
• Volunteered my time, love, and life experience through various ministries through the churches I’ve attended. I’ve done that since I was 15. For 16 years I’ve volunteered with children’s, teen, and adult ministries, ranging from changing diapers to providing counseling. I hope that wasn’t nothing. Because it really felt like something kind of awesome.
• I put on my big girl pants and made life choices that totally contradicted what everyone else thought was best – and I’m kind of crazy happy about that, because those choices made me crazy happy. So there.
• I know you’ve heard it all before, but I have to say it here – I, alongside my family, saw my little girl through cancer. I cleaned up her vomit too many times to count. I advocated for her. I spent every 3 weeks, for a year, totally reworking everything we ate to promote her health and changing taste that resulted from chemotherapy. I shaved her head, and cried with her when she thought she was ugly. I told her she was beautiful until she believed it. I held her through every needle. I gave her injection, after injection, after injection – because I knew that making her cry would save her life. I made time for my other girls, all the while juggling guilt for not having three of me to share. THAT was not nothing.
• I ran into the ocean in the dead of winter to raise money for an organization that helps families of children with cancer.
• I trained for, and successfully completed, a 5k. I trained all summer, then ran the actual race during a freak cold front that dropped the temp to 34 degrees. My lungs burned, I produced far more snot than any human being should produce, and I was slower than a turtle in quicksand, BUT I DID IT.
• I perfected the art of homemade mac and cheese. That absolutely counts as a lifetime achievement.

This post is totally my way of sticking my tongue out at the people who have made me feel bad about my life. It took me a long time to fight the overwhelming sense that I had failed because no matter what we’ve done, we can’t buy fancy houses and remodel them. We don’t own brand new cars. We can’t even sign our kids up for dance/sports/whatever because we don’t have the money. My sense of self-worth and success was only measured by the things I could own or the money I could earn. So lame.

But you know what? My husband knows he is loved. My kids know they are loved. Punkin walked out of her room wearing 14 different colors and patterns in the same outfit the other day. It’s been her thing since forever. She asked what I thought, and when I said, “Well, it’s definitely you,” she put a  hand on her hip, and with a big smile and a little sass proudly announced, “And there’s nothing wrong with that!”

She is confident in who she is, and that who God has created her to be is more than enough. I’m trying to be more like her.

The only thing I can figure is that those who have viewed me as a disappointment or a failure, see me that way because I don’t “work.” But I know who I am in Christ. I know that I am more than a conqueror (Romans 8:37). I know that His grace has always been enough. I know that my value is in no way tied to my bank account.

So there.

A year ago today: What cancer did not do.

One year ago today, my husband and I sat in a waiting room while a surgeon sliced into the right side of Goo’s head and scraped out a small piece of tissue. He removed some from her auditory canal. He made a frozen slide. He stitched her back up. And then he approached us.

I knew. I knew the minute I saw his face that it wasn’t good. I remember his voice as he said, “It looks like something called, ‘rhabdomyosarcoma.'” I remember my heart pounding, my husband and I searching each other’s eyes. I remember thinking, “You need to hear what he has to say. This is important, and you’re the one who understands the science jargon. Listen now. Cry later.”

And I did. I heard it all. I did not cry until he left the room. And then I collapsed into my husband’s arms as we wept uncontrollably. I shook all over. I put my head between my knees when the room started spinning.

And then I went to work. I made phone calls. I got angry. I lost 6 lbs in 5 days because there isn’t much time to eat when you’re fighting for your child’s life. I heard every single word the doctors said, and I can still recall much of it, verbatim. I fought through anger and doubt that nearly destroyed me.

Cancer, you sneaky, vile thing. You came like a thief in the night. You sought to devour.

But one year later, let me be clear: YOU LOST.

You did not destroy a life. Actually, you gave me an appreciation for all that I have in a way that wasn’t possible before this.

You did not shatter hopes and dreams. You fueled a dormant passion. You rekindled fire that had begun to fizzle. You reminded me that this isn’t the end – it’s only the beginning.

You did not tear a family apart. In fact, you expanded it. You brought people into our lives that we now stand beside as we continue the fight to defeat you.

You did not steal my baby’s childhood. You see, she doesn’t really remember you. She doesn’t remember your pain. She doesn’t remember the way you tore at her cranial nerve, leaving her face paralyzed on the right side. It’s hard to remember when that paralysis isn’t there any more. She doesn’t remember the spinal tap, the bone marrow biopsies, or the way you threatened to destroy her hearing. Which, by the way, you did not do. Let that be a reminder: You were beaten by a 5-year-old.

You did not leave us paralyzed by fear. I had a very small, very feisty warrior reminding me that fear is a choice, and it’s a choice she never made. So we do not fear you. We will not wait helplessly for you to return. We will press on, and we will continue to fight for those you are still seeking to devour. But we will not live in fear.

You did do a lot, though, in a year’s time. You taught me to love more deeply than I ever thought possible. You used a child to teach me what it means to fight. You created a love between 3 sisters that can never be broken. You took a rock solid marriage and made it even better, because there is a tremendous bond formed in the thick of battle. You taught people how to give, and how to do so selflessly. You forged friendships that will never be broken. You taught me to believe in a God that is greater than I could ever hope to understand, and certainly bigger than you. You taught me that in a matter of moments, there are people worldwide who lift us up in prayer, and believe me, I will never forget that. You taught me to hope, and that is something I had forgotten how to do.

Cancer. You did so much. But remember one very real thing you did not do:

You did not win.

 

 

A letter to new parents: Don’t sweat the small stuff. Part 2

Love, and this. Pretty much all you need to parent.

In honor of friends that just had their first baby, and friends who are becoming part of a foster-to-adopt program, I wanted to share a little insight from a Mom who has learned that out of everything we have to worry about as parents, the most common ones don’t actually matter all that much. Having a young child with cancer really showed me that maybe I didn’t need to lose sleep over whether or not my infant was getting enough visual stimulation. Life lessons at their finest. You can read part 1 of this post here. In the meantime, here are other things that you *totally* don’t need to freak out over. Save that for first dates, mean girls in middle school, and knock-the-wind-out-of-you blows that life may deal along the way. You’re (almost) a parent. Get used to it.

Stuff to not worry about, cont’d.

• Tummy time, skin to skin, and visual stimulation. You know what stimulates babies? YOU. If every child in the history of ever was shielded from black and white swirly mobiles, I’m pretty sure we would still have lots of functional, intelligent people on the earth. I remember stressing over how much visual stimulation I was giving Punkin. By the time Smush came around, I realized something invaluable: babies could care less about zebra stripes. They like the sound of your voice. Same for tummy time and skin-to-skin. Our skin time was nursing. After bath snuggles are also fantastic. My girls all hated tummy time, so I opted for on-your-side time to avoid that whole flat head thing. I know a mom who does a 3 hour rotating schedule of skin-to-skin, tummy time, eat, sleep. Schedules are awesome, but good Lord, do you hate yourself? Parenting is hard enough without giving yourself a report card. Feed your baby. Clean your baby. Love your baby. That about sums it up.
• WHY ARE THERE SO MANY CHOICES? The Nerd and I researched every car seat readily available in America before Punkin was born. When we finally went to buy one at the store, it was discontinued. OMG. But we KNOW that the only one that could possibly keep her safe is the rear-facing to 40 lbs, front-facing to 65 lbs, cup-holder having, head support installing, burrows underground in case of nuclear attack Ultra Mega Seat Of The Gods. Or that other one we picked up that we still use 9 years later. Do some research. Pick a seat. Priority one: DO learn how to properly install it. That makes all the difference. Local police stations will help with that. Or local pits of wasted money baby mega stores.
• Milestone schedules. Baby George rolled over at 4 months. Little Amy is already 4.5 months and still isn’t rolling over. She should probably be checked for spinal abnormalities. Please, for the love of your sanity and all that is good and holy, try really, really hard not to compare babies. They’re all so different. And for one very good reason: They were made that way. If God needed 7 billion Michael Jordans, or Billy Grahams, or George Bushes, or random kids down the street, He would have done that. But He didn’t. Because He knew that right now, the world needs that exact miracle you’re holding (or soon to hold) in your arms. Not the one your friend has. They have a different kid, with a different purpose. You don’t compare elephants and fish, because they’re two unique creatures, made with unique strengths and weaknesses. If God wanted you to have George who rolled over at 4 months, He would have given him to you. STOP COMPARING. Punkin took her first step at 10 months. She was running by 11. Smush didn’t even care about walking until 15 months. Punkin started talking at 9 months and was speaking in two-word phrases at 1 year. Smush barely even knew she could talk until she was 18 months old. They’re all different. Guidelines are important, but that’s what they are – guidelines – not absolutes. Punkin honestly never had a tantrum in her life. Goo met all the criteria for a few different psychological disorders because she was still having tantrums at 4. Then she stopped. Then she got cancer and started again. But guess what? I started having tantrums when she got cancer, too.

My final revelation for parents-to-be: If you’re worried about how good you’re going to be, it’s a really good indicator that you’ve got this in the bag. Because being a good parent starts with one thing: Love. If you already love your child – whom you haven’t even met – enough to be in the early stages of an anxiety disorder due to a desperation to be perfect, you’re already doing your job. Love them. Freak out sometimes. That’s parenting. There is absolutely no way to prepare for it. You just have to dive in head first, and pray. I recommend lots and lots of prayer. In my darkest hours as a mom, I found myself dropping the parenting books, and dropping to my knees to ask the ultimate Father what to do. Works like a charm.

That, and butt paste. Best diaper cream ever. Again, you’re welcome.

Getting organized: Food prep day. No, seriously.

So I’ve been gone. Hi, smiles all around! Goo felt that it would be super awesome to get a fever for two weeks, which led to miserable ER visits, lots and lots of needles and medicine, and very little sleep.

Related: I hate cancer.

Also related: It’s good that I hate cancer, because she is beating it like a freaking boss. We are on week 16 of treatment. Week 15 is the 1/3 way mark, so Goo had an evaluation where they told us the best thing ever: It’s almost gone. Like 90% gone. Then they told me the bester (yes I meant to type that) thing ever: What’s left might actually just be scar tissue, and she/chemo/Jesus may have obliterated that sucker already.

So. There’s that.

Also, Make A Wish is sending us to Disney World when she’s done. So there’s that. (I’m totally playing it cool right now, but I cried, and laughed, and squealed like a little girl when it all went down. Because DISNEY WORLD!)

Now that all the feel good fuzzies are covered, let’s move on to important things, like how I’m getting better at this whole Mom thing. No, seriously.

A friend of mine started this group on Facebook where I spend far too much time where moms swap healthy habits and encourage each other that even though our thighs still jiggle, we’re totally awesome and on the road to being healthier for ourselves and our families (I took some creative liberties with that last part). I’m all about that. Not just because I have jiggly thighs, but because I’m super into real food.

If you waste too much time on the internet – which you obviously do since you’re reading this – you’ve probably heard of these insane women doing “prep day” with their home cooked meals. It’s where you plan your meals and set aside a chunk of one day to prep a bunch of stuff for the rest of the week. You spend 2-3 hours in the kitchen, but every meal after that is cake. Well, not literally cake, but it’s easy.

Side note: It would be so awesome if it could actually be cake.

Anyway. I hated the idea. I thought the idea of spending hours in my kitchen, making a huge mess, then cleaning that huge mess, was utterly preposterous. Then I tried it.

Prep day, where have you been all my life?

It is so. much. easier. to cook and eat healthy meals when it’s just sitting there in the fridge. Look, I did this:

That’s two frittatas, kale pesto (for pasta), quinoa (for veggie and shrimp quinoa paella), pimento cheese spread from this website, and ground beef with peppers, onions, and homemade taco seasoning (for nachos, obviously). Both frittatas have kale and this Irish Dubliner cheese that I could eat by the brick, then I added mushrooms to one and red bell peppers to the other.

I also made 36 from-scratch cupcakes for Punkin’s 9th birthday (gasp!) but they weren’t frosted yet so no picture.

You guys. This makes my life so much easier all week. Especially with cranky kids who poop everywhere except the potty (ahem – Smush) and make messes all day long. This is how I do it:

1. Check your local flyers. What’s on sale? I use that information to meal plan for the week. It’s annoying and a bit time-consuming, but if you put in the effort, you can stretch your buck and buy way more organic than you thought possible. And given that one of my kids actually has (had?) cancer, I have no qualms about being obsessive with not feeding my family carcinogens. You can read more about all the junk in grocery store food at http://www.nongmoproject.org. I heart them.
2. Plan your meals. Frittatas are easy, you can use whatever produce is local or on sale, and they keep well, so that has been added to my weekly repertoire.
3. Buy your groceries. Clip coupons if that’s your thing, make a list (otherwise you’ll totally forget important things like toilet paper and cantaloupe).
4. Get cooking! I budget about 2 hours of kitchen time for cooking and clean up, but at the end, it’s so worth it. Breakfast is ready every morning. Dinner is as simple as boiling some pasta or cooking up some veggies when the other stuff is prepped. It’s glorious.

Other tips:

• I also like to use prep day to make a big batch of marinara in the colder months. I use it in a myriad of dishes, and it’s the best thing ever to have it on hand. Especially since Goo will actually eat it.
• If your kids aren’t weird like mine and insist on snacking on fresh fruits and veggies in their whole form (no cutting allowed), you can also cut up fresh produce for easy snacking throughout the week.

Hey look, I did something useful! Let’s all relish in this moment while we prepare for this week’s Parenting FAIL Friday, where I decide that I’m pretty much going to be shunned out of our neighborhood.

If you want to restore your faith in humanity, spend a week with me.

For those of you following this story, I apologize for keeping you in the dark. Apparently having a kid with cancer is time-consuming and exhausting. Who knew?

Goo is, as expected, kicking some serious – well, you know.

Radiation? Owned it. Finished 28 days of treatment with NO – that’s right, NO – side effects. No burns. No neuropathy in her extremities. No mouth sores. No esophagitis. No fatigue. Because frankly, cancer, you don’t stand a chance against my kid.

Chemotherapy is expected to be ongoing through November. We have an evaluation in six weeks. But she’s on a roll, defying the odds, shocking the doctors, and quite frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised if we got to finish early. I know that’s unheard of, but so it is having 5.5 weeks of intense radiation therapy with no side effects. Well, except the sweet tan she’s got going on.

I don’t write often because I don’t want to be a Debbie Downer (if you don’t get that reference, watch this). There are days when I’m kicking butt and taking names, and there are days when I cry in the shower because no one can see me. Or in the car because I’ve got a good hour to get tears out, and still have time for the red, puffy eye and nose thing to go away. It’s so unbecoming. Honestly, most people are aware of the heartache that having a child with a serious illness can cause. I didn’t want to write about that as much. I didn’t want to wallow there, to dwell on the overwhelming physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual fatigue. So there. Now I’ve said it happens, and we can move on to the good part.

Goo’s fight with cancer has shocked me in a very, very good way. The world is full of ugliness. Full of wars, threats, disease, incomprehensible greed, and suffering. It is easy to forget that it is also full of courage, hope, victory, inspiration, and love. If you hang out with a pediatric cancer patient for a while, you get to see that. And because you just can’t understand unless you really see, I’m breaking my own rule and sharing photos. This is my family. This is our team.

Exhibit one: Goo’s radiation oncology team.  These ladies were there every single day, reassuring her, playing her favorite music, cracking jokes, and getting us through what is, in the beginning, a very scary ordeal. The fact that they get paid a fraction of what some tall guy with a ball gets paid is deplorable in my opinion, but that’s another post. These are my heroes. There is a lot more money in other fields, but they spend their days lifting patients, reassuring terrified families, and bringing a little bit of joy to a very dark road.

Exhibit two: This beautiful group of bald heads.  Our church did a St. Balrick’s fundraiser in honor of Goo, and several other members who are battling cancer. We had about 30 heads get shaved, in addition to 8 ponytails donated to Locks of Love. And because the sight was so overwhelming (read: I cried my mascara off), I’m breaking my own rule and sharing pictures. Because you guys have got to see this. Donations are still being accepted, and all funds go to support pediatric cancer research – the scientists taking the cure rate of children’s cancer from 58% to 80% in just the past 35 years. If you’d like to donate, please go here.

Exhibit three: Sisterly love. Cancer impacts everyone in the family, and siblings are no exception. Punkin has always been an inspiration to me, but watching her fight alongside her sister has blessed me more than I could ever communicate. She has endless patience, even when mine has run out. She opens up her room to extra sister sleepovers, and spends her days off from school going to chemo with us because it gives Goo extra courage to have her big sister there. And then there was this:  At our church’s St. Balrick’s event, we also had women donating their hair to Locks of Love. Punkin has had long hair for years, almost covering her back. She hesitated to even let me trim it, until Goo lost her hair. Almost immediately, she decided she would donate her hair to help other girls fighting the same fight. I want to be like her.

Exhibit four: I don’t have a picture for this one, but I’ve noticed something. When Goo lost her hair, I immediately went into Mama Bear mode. One horrific comment was made to her from an unknowing observer, and I prepared to obliterate anyone who used hurtful words with my baby. I braced myself for the strangers staring. And it happens all the time, just not in the way I expected. I expected to see looks of fear, curiosity, even disgust. What I have seen? Looks of compassion. Looks of hope. Kind nods from passersby that seem to say, “Good work, Mom. You’ve got this. She’s a fighter.” If you take the time to look, the world is full of truly wonderful people. We encountered a fellow cancer patient, a beautiful woman with three children of her own, who took one look at Goo and said to me, “She will be a strong woman, with a powerful story to tell.”

I couldn’t agree more.

Strength for my warrior.

Nobody signs up for cancer. Nobody raises their hand and says, “Me! Me! Pick me!” But when it comes at you, you have a choice: You can let the sadness and fear swallow you whole, or you can take the lemons life has just handed you and chuck them back at that tumor ala David and Goliath.

Sharing our story has proven to be very therapeutic. Part of that story is about finding strength in unusual places. In the compassionate nod of a stranger. In the firm handshake of a doctor that says, “I know what I’m doing, and I’m fighting for your baby.” In the big bowl of pasta that a friend brings over because they are desperate to stand with you. In the comments of people you’ve never met, telling you they’re following your story and fighting with you. In the sight of your little warrior, worshiping and praying for a friend who is also battling cancer.

In what is undoubtedly the hardest battle I have ever fought, I am overwhelmed with gratitude.

Yesterday, Goo started losing her hair. We knew it was coming soon, but I didn’t expect it until her next big round of chemo. I brushed out handfuls of brown waves, walked into the kitchen, and cried. Alone. Scared. Hating everything about this disease.

I tossed and turned for hours last night, battling waves of anxiety, praying over and over because that’s all I know how to do.

And this morning, I woke up to this post from a fellow church member:

“By faith these people overthrew kingdoms, ruled with justice, and received what GOD HAD PROMISED them. They shut the mouths of lions, quenched the flames of fire and escaped death by the edge of the sword. THEIR WEAKNESS WAS TURNED INTO STRENGTH. They became strong in battle and put whole armies to flight!” Hebrews 11″33 – 34. Goo has been added to my list of heroes in the faith!!!

She’s my hero, too. And now she’s got a little extra room for that helmet.

How to talk to a cancer parent. Or, how to avoid getting drop kicked by a mom on the edge.

Since Goo’s diagnosis of rhabdomyosarcoma, we have been overwhelmed by the support we’ve received. Words of encouragement, prayer, meals, gas money, presents to make Goo’s days a little bit brighter, babysitting – the list goes on. I expected support because we have the most rockin’ church family ever, but this has blown me away.

That being said, there are always the few: The ones who speak without thinking. Who maybe say things they shouldn’t to a woman who is on the brink of an emotional and psychological breakdown and sees nothing wrong with going Jackie Chan on you in the hospital hallway. For all of those wondering what in the world you say to a parent of a child who’s just been diagnosed with cancer, I give you the following list.

DON’T SAY THIS

1. At least you don’t [insert asinine and irrelevant activity/situation here]. Goo’s diagnosis hit just before New England was pelted with the biggest blizzard we’ve seen in over a decade. Upon telling someone that my baby girl had just been diagnosed with a life-threatening illness, they responded with, “Well at least you aren’t out in the snow!” Um, good point. Because I would *totally* rather see my child in immeasurable pain than have to, you know, shovel. 
2. I had that procedure/test/scan and it was awful. Umm, thanks for sharing? What would possess you to say that to a parent watching their child fight one of the biggest battles this life can throw at you? And also, my four-year-old handled it all like a freaking champ. Which I’m pretty sure makes her way tougher than you are.
3. Rejoice! There is blessing! And other religious catch phrases. There comes a point where I’ve battled through my fear and doubt and am ready to throat-punch disease and the devil (and I’m totally there already). But the day after I share that my daughter has been diagnosed with cancer and is undergoing numerous tests to figure out what the heck is going on? DO NOT TELL ME TO BE HAPPY. Even Jesus wept when He learned that His dear friend Lazarus had died. AND HE’S JESUS. My tears and anger are legit.
4. Wow! Her treatment lasts how long? It must be really bad! Pediatric oncology treatment plans vary greatly from those that are used in adults. But thank you for the comforting remark that her situation must be utterly dire. In fact, it is not. She’s already beating it. And when she’s done, I might have her beat you. Just because.
5. You’re wrong and I have the answers for YOUR child. I will  literally have dreams about drop-kicking you if you say this to me. You swear by wheat berry puree and kale juice? Good for you! When your child has cancer, let me know how long you watch them suffer before you do whatever the heck it takes to beat it. This is MY kid. This is OUR fight. I am not stupid. And I’m fairly certain that the theory about rhabdomyosarcoma arising from years of vitamin deficiencies is HOGWASH since her exact diagnosis is EMBRYONAL RHABDOMYOSARCOMA. That means the cells form in utero. Before they’ve had years to consume chicken nuggets and Goldfish. In fact, and this is just my science education talking, but I’ve heard somewhere that cancer actually arises from errors in cellular mitosis, caused by an accumulation of mutations that go unchecked due to malfunction of certain key factors, like defects in the p53 enzyme that check for errors in the nucleotide sequence and halt cellular mitosis before allowing DNA replication to continue. But kale juice sounds good, too.
6. Not my problem. These exact words weren’t used, but after 10 days in the hospital, with Goo in pain and not being able to eat, she was finally going for her last scan before we decided on a treatment plan and started kicking cancer to the fiery smelly curb of ultimate death. Transport arrived to take her down to the nuclear medicine department, but she needed one more push of morphine to make it through the 2 hour scan. Her nurse said, “She’s all ready. I just have to push her morphine.” He said, “She’s not ready, and I’m just telling you I’m leaving her here and taking her off the schedule.” He left the room. I followed him, and completely forgetting all self-control and decorum, flung her door open and said, “HE*L NO YOU AREN’T!” Again I humbly submit, even Jesus got so angry that he flipped tables over. I didn’t do that, but I did have to second-guess tackling him in the hallway. I settled for rallying the troops and getting a nurse, PA, and oncologist to notify his supervisor and file a nasty report. Do not mess with a mom on the edge. Unless you aren’t a big fan of walking. Because I will take you down. For a long, long time.
   

   I hired him as Goo’s bodyguard. My advice is to just stop talking. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

DO SAY

1. I’m praying for you. At least to me. Some people hate this, but I believe in the power of prayer. Now, a disclaimer: Don’t say it if you aren’t actually praying. Prayer is how I’m coming at this thing with a vengeance. Don’t take it lightly.
   
2. This sucks. A hospital employee literally said this to me, and I started crying and almost hugged her. Why? BECAUSE CANCER SUCKS. No matter who you are, or who is involved, cancer sucks, and sometimes it feels really good to just tell it like it is. Cancer sucks, and it’s going down.
3. Please tell me how to help. I’m getting so much better at accepting help. Because I can’t fight this fight on my own. We need troops rallying around us. With lasagna. And enchiladas. Those are both very good weapons in this fight. Please feel free to bring them at your leisure.
4. You’re an inspiration. I don’t need to hear this to boost my ego. I met with medical professionals for 15 days straight wearing pajama pants and no make-up. My vanity has been tossed out the window. But it is a kick-some-serious-butt feeling to know you and your family are conquering this thing and shouting to the world that we’re stronger than cancer. That our faith will not be shaken. That my tiny, skinny, but feisty-as-all-get-out preschooler is going to destroy this thing.

If you’ve said any of the don’ts, don’t worry. I have said many, many stupid things in my 30 years of existence. I will probably say many more. And many things are said from people trying to be helpful and encouraging. Especially the religious catch phrases. And sometimes, they ARE encouraging. But you’ve got to be sensitive to what the family might be experiencing. The grieving process of even a diagnosis often takes a little longer than a few hours. And a big part of that process is anger. So maybe just send a lasagna and call me later. It’s safer for everyone that way.

Here our story changes.

Up until now, this has been a humor blog.

It is here that my story changes.

It is here that I tell you that we’ve spent the past few days at the hospital with Goo. It is here that they found the tumor.

We will fight. We will win. For my own sanity, I will write when I am able. I will tell you how we’re going to beat it. How Goo is stronger and braver and more beautiful than ever. How never before have God’s arms seemed so big, as when He carries our family through this.

It’s a dreams come true kind of year.

I apologize in advance for the length of this. There’s just too much to tell. Feel free to scroll and skim if needed. Or to wait until the children are whining incessantly. Then I recommend locking the door and pretending they aren’t there while you read this. Because that always turns out well.

I’m not gonna lie, 2013 is off to a kick-butt start. Goo has been accepted to short-term preschool program here in town. She was so excited that we immediately had to make a calendar to count down the days until it starts. I’m beyond thrilled for her because private preschools were way too expensive, and this one is partially covered by the city, because it’s used as a student teaching experience for university students. I’m okay with that, because if a soon-to-be college graduate can’t handle finger painting and ABC’s, they totally picked the wrong career.

Side note: Let me take this time to say that being a preschool teacher is no joke. There’s a reason I’m not one. Because holy cow, three-year-olds are terrifying. And put 10 of them in a classroom? I would need therapy.

In entirely unrelated news, something to share that is blowing my mind. Some of you already know this, so forgive the redundancy. You can scroll past this bit.

Since I was 15, I have had a very real desire to do missions work. Like nitty-gritty, down and dirty, feed some hungry naked babies missions work. Over the years, the timing never seemed to work out. Plus having three rabid honey badgers to contend with always made travel a little difficult.

All that is about to change. In a few months, I will embark on what I hope will be the first of many trips I will be making to help those in need. I’m going to Haiti, people! I’ll be working in an orphanage that was established by a pastor and his wife after the earthquake nearly destroyed his home town of Carrefour (pronounced car-foo). He and his wife  came from  Haiti, but moved to the states to start a church for the Haitian community in a town in New England. When he went back to visit his family, he found what was once a typical town outside the nation’s capital of Port-au-Prince had become a depleted village of hungry children begging in the streets. He began sending his sister money to buy food to feed them, but the need was too great. He converted his home in Carrefour into an orphanage that currently provides food, clothing, shelter, and love to local street children. 

In a few months, I have the honor of going down with several others to finish a building project that will allow them to take in several more children. I will also be bringing one back with me.

Maybe that last part was wishful thinking, but you never know.

Side note: Don’t worry. I’m only painting. I think we all know that it’s best if I stay away from hammers and nails.

We will also be doing an outreach for the community, complete with a children’s program by yours truly. When we asked how many to expect, we figured maybe 30 or so, figuring you’d get an extra 20 beyond the orphanage kids.

Umm, it’s going to be like 200. This is where you start praying and fasting for me, because egad that’s a lot of kids. And I’m still amazed I’ve kept three alive. So you know, there’s that.

You can see a brief write-up here, along with information on donating to the ministry itself. There is also an urgent needs list of items the orphanage is currently running without.

This is where it gets good.

The trip has a price tag, obviously, since I need shots, and a passport, and airfare, etc. I’ve planned a bake sale, and before I could even start doing anything to raise money, donations started arriving at my house.

Then my kindergarten teacher and her husband connected with me on Facebook and invited me to speak at their church about the trip and orphanage. This church has a passion for Haiti, and will be taking a donation to support this endeavor.

Then a connection through my aunt, who is also going, got a REFRIGERATOR paid for. In full. With money to stock it full of food for the kids while we’re down there. We are being presented with a check in memory of the Sandy Hook victims.

Then my sister-in-law offered to hook us up with her church that does a charity event providing dresses for girls in need of basic clothing.

The world is full of hate. And greed. And evil.

And then a need arises. And people stand up. They fight hunger with generosity. They fight tragedy with hope. They fight hate with love.

We’re world changers, you guys. And I can’t wait to share with you about my experience when I get back.