Hope Floats

We lost my mom after her 2-year battle with colon cancer. She passed away one month before her first granchild was born-- my nephew, Connor. His ultrasound picture was the closest she would ever come to seeing her grandchild. Connor is now 12 years old. My brother Zhivago and his wife Toni have done an incredible job raising him to become a sweet and loving kid. My mom had five kids- me, Nina, Zhivago, and twins Mike & Jeff. There is an exquisite kind of pain in knowing that my mom is not around to know that I had twins of my own. In so many ways beyond articulation, I feel that some aspects of my life have eerily re-traced her own...but somehow I'm meant to absorb a profound lesson from her life and transcend the fate prepared for me in order to write a new one. I remember thinking often over the years that one day I would surpass my mom's age at the time of her death. There is a kind of hubris in assuming that I would age past my mom, even though the sentiment was borne innocently out of grief for a parent lost too soon. And the grim realization that I had to break the news of my diagnosis to my family, especially to my dad, was oppresive to me because it re-awakened the terrible sense of shared grief which had lain dormant for so many years. But despite the gravity of the circumstances, and the difficulties that lay ahead, I can still manage to count my blessings and recognize the good fortune I have in friends, family, and my children.

On my way to treatment today, I was stopped in the hallway by a stranger who knew my name. She caught me by surprise but she introduced herself as Kathy, the hospital social worker. She introduces herself to all the cancer patients in order to assess their emotional health, advise of cancer care resources, help with living directives such as a will or power of attorney, etc. She sat me down in a conference room and I sat facing the window. Outside the wind was blustering and the rain fell sideways, but there was a distant pocket of bright grey light due west. It's June, and outside people were bundled up like it was still January. Our conversation unfolded comfortably, and I found her to be compassionate and intuitive; but I couldn't help but look beyond her to the window where her head was framed by the relentless and driving rain. She asked about my kids, my husband, my family, my mom and even my friends. She said I was remarkably calm and composed. She asked me if I ever cried over this, and the bluntness of the question inserted silence into the room. She said it's ok to be strong for everyone else, but told me that if I hold all the stress in like a balloon, then it will only grow until it finally pops. I need to let a little air out every now and then, not all at once, but just enough so that I can find a healthy release. My sister once said that you can actually retain stress at the molecular level, so find a healthy outlet before it consumes you.

I am taking all this very seriously, but I also have chosen to be cheerful and cautiously optimistic every day-- trying to find humor and laughter too. I sincerely thank the countless techs, nurses and doctors who treat me daily because they are the people who are saving my life. I find unabated joy in my children and I bask in the comfort and love that is my family. I have deep gratitude for reliable old friends who have been there for years, a phonecall away. New friends who have shown their character and mettle in a time of need. Despite this terrible diagnosis, I feel truly blessed by the amazing people I have in my life. After my treatment, the rain finally stops and the sun is blazing for a brief moment. Even when you feel like you're drowning, hope floats.