I wish I were lacing up my hot pink Nikes to run in this weekend's Race for the Cure. Having been involved only from a spectator's perspective, I know it's a huge and epic event. Well - let's be honest. I wasn't actually spectator, my first time around. I was working as the manager-on-duty in the Oakland Starbucks and we were understaffed and Oh God It Was Terrifying. Seemingly endless waves and waves of pink-clad men and women splashed into the store, wanting little more than a bottle of water or a quick bagel to snack on as they walked and ran in honor of victims and survivors. Although I remember being overwhelmed to the point of numbness, I don't recall any customers being rude or impatient. They were all there because they saw the Bigger Picture.
Which I can see, too, since I now count breast cancer survivors among my closest friends. And I would have no issue with squeezing my seven-month-pregnant belly into a pair of yoga pants and a support belt, ready to walk among those brave woman and thousands of others, but my pregnancy has caused several asthma flare-ups and some pretty scary (though normal, I'm told) episodes of breathlessness lately. Not wise to go tempting fate and power-walking with the Pink Brigade, I'm afraid. Next year.
Not being able to participate is a definite downer, but the hardest part of Mother's Day weekend will surely be the fact that my mother is gone. Last May, I was still in a cocoon of shock, having lost her a mere two months prior. I didn't feel much, and it didn't register too clearly that she was gone. This time around, I've had over a year to process, to rant, to weep, to rage, to mourn, to contemplate, to accept, and to adjust to my mother's passing.
There have been a lot of moments where I was filled with anger - not towards God, but towards her, since her cause of death was likely preventable, had she sought help for her hernia when she was first diagnosed. There have been moments of laughter - when friends ask about my pregnancy and I'm able to tell them that I, mercifully, did not have "six straight months of god-awful heartburn", as my mother (repeatedly) told me she suffered with me. There have been moments of pain - when I have wanted to reach out and ask her intimate questions about family, history, faith, and forgiveness. There have been moments of beauty - when my husband and I finally got up the nerve and went through all of her paperwork, and found ourselves delightedly reviewing old photographs of my dad in his 80s finery (tight jeans, a feathered cowboy hat, and an elaborately embroidered top), birthday cakes from years past, and all of our long-gone pets.
Don't get me wrong, please. I dearly love my step-mama, Deana. She has become to me a treasure and a friend and yes, a wonderful mom. She has been incredibly supportive during our miscarriages and has shown us the same level of support and excitement during this pregnancy. She has taken care of my often-stubborn dad and has weathered years of mothering three daughters (two of whom possess their dad's stubbornness). She is an all-around amazing woman, mother, Christian, teacher, friend, and businesswoman. And I love her.
But I can't ask her the question, "What was it really like when you were pregnant with me?" The baby pictures she has of me aren't connected to her own personal memories. I can't trace my biological family tree through her. I can't laugh over stories of my first taste of solid food, or riding a bike, or a grade school play. I won't be able to show my mother these ultrasound pictures, or let her hold her sweet grandson for the first time, wondering if his eyes will darken to a beautiful brown, like hers.
Two nights ago, I picked Ross up from work and we stopped at Giant Eagle to pick up a few things. I wasn't in a great mood, and he thought he had done or said something wrong. As I threw a package of raisin bread in the cart, I finally blurted out, "I miss my mom!" He looked startled, and asked, "Why?" He probably thought it had something to do with the bread. Did it remind me of her? Poor confused guy. I fought back tears and reminded him, "It's Mother's Day weekend." He didn't say anything, just put his arms around me and wheeled the cart to the register.
On the way home, he gently asked, "Well, what are some of your favorite memories of your mom?" He'd only met her once but had heard hundreds of tales from myself and my dad - some of them funny, many of them sad - about living with her. "I don't know," I said honestly. If I am being completely truthful, which has been my aim in having this blog, then I have to say there were a lot of awful memories. A lot of hours of the silent treatment. A lot of regrets because I didn't understand why I needed to respect her. A lot of fights. A lot of disappointment. A lot of misunderstanding and failure to communicate. A lot of bitterness. Oh, so much bitterness.
Much of that faded in the years after I had moved away from home, and, little by little, happier memories began to join the sad ones. Memories of stopping at Arby's and then browsing at Fashion Bug (now defunct, sadly) for accessories. Memories of text messages and phone conversations about our pets (while I was collecting my Crazy Cat Lady starter kit, she was adopting and rescuing neighborhood strays left and right). Memories of the sweet and silly letters she liked to write, and the goofy doodles she sent me. Memories of conversations in which she admitted to finally forgiving my father for hurting her.
And then the memory of her passing cuts through me like a cold wind, stopping my heart. The look in those soft black-brown eyes when they met mine for the last time, full of pain and regret and weakness and sorrow.
And sympathy. For me, having to see her die.
Those moments stick with us, become an immovable part of who we are. They become tinted over time with either rose-colored optimism or they fade to a shadowy sepia, but they stay with us. In that moment, when I look back, I see her asking forgiveness. Not for the way she raised me, or for anything she might have failed to do as a mother. But forgiveness for having to have our final memory of her one in which she was lying prone and hemorrhaging in a hospital bed in Kentucky, unable to speak or move or breathe on her own, surrounded by gentle strangers. For knowing that we drove five straight hours and risked countless speeding tickets, because seeing her alive was the only thing that mattered.
For her last day alive being so dreadfully ugly.
I can't lie and say I've fully come to terms with the circumstances of her death, or even hear death itself. I still think of her every time I pass by the greeting card section in the grocery store, fighting the urge to pick a silly holiday card to send to her. I see her face in my reflection quite often. I hear her voice when I scold my cats for doing something naughty, and I'm sure I'll hear it when I scold my son.
I recently told a friend of hers that I hope so much that my baby boy has her smile. I know that I have my grandfather's smile, so remarkably so that people frequently mistake my aunt (his daughter), who also shares it, for my mother. How beautiful it would be to get to see my mother's slightly crooked, dimpled grin again, every day for the rest of my life.
As we observe the final few days of Breast Cancer Awareness Month (or Pinktober, as I like to call it), I wanted to share about some incredible women in my life -all of them with gentle hearts but fierce fighting spirits.
The first woman I want to honor is, interestingly, one of the most passionately private people I know. Therefore, I will limit my story to the basics of her fight - not her personal life. Laurie, my church's capable and always-smiling secretary (who easily does the work of at least three people), is a lady whom I have admired for years. Her family and mine have been very close for probably about 17 years. We joke that Laurie's sister and my dad are so similar that they must be long-lost twins. Laurie herself is a beautiful example of God's redeeming grace, having gone through a very difficult divorce many years ago. I think I would have handled things differently had I been in her situation (and by differently, I mean very, very poorly), but Laurie isn't the kind of person to raise her voice unless she is cheering someone on! I never saw her lose hope. I know her struggle was and is an internal one, and I don't presume to know what pressures she undergoes. But I do know that she is a woman who exudes grace and dignity even as the storms of life are crashing all around her.
She will probably blush, shake her head and laugh when she reads these things, but she needs to know how deeply to heart I have taken her example all these years. Although she certainly has a great sense of humor, what is most remarkable about Laurie is her quiet, gentle bearing. She is a physically lovely woman with an easy, infections laugh (I think it's one of my favorite sounds ever, and all the women in her family share it), but she doesn't like to draw attention to herself. She doesn't pretend things are okay when they are not, but she has a zero tolerance policy when it comes to drama. She is loyal. She is faithful. She is kind.
So when, several months ago, she shared with us - the members of Pastor Stephanie's small group - her diagnosis of breast cancer, we were stunned. Laurie was one of those people who loved exercise, ate well (in part due to some dietary restrictions), and took care of her body. How could this happen? I, in particular, don't think it registered in my mind as fact until many weeks later. Of course we prayed for her, but my heart housed some fear. We had just lost two beloved ushers in our church very unexpectedly - and then I lost my mother immediately after that. Another usher had a close call and landed in the hospital as well. Being so deeply involved in our church, these ushers, to us, weren't simply smiling faces who handed out bulletins and guided us to empty pews. Linda had been a friend who whore the same perfume as my mother, who lost her adult son within weeks of one of my miscarriages, who told me that her boy was already taking care of my babies in heaven because he loved children. Steve was our head usher, patriarch of a family that I consider pillars in our church community - his widow, Kay, is a leader on the ministry team; his daughter, Sue, is one of our worship leaders; his granddaughter, Sarah, is an active and vibrant part of the youth group. Brian, the usher who survived, is a newer member of the church with a big grin and goofy sense of humor. We all held our breath as news trickled down to us that he was improving and, eventually, released from the hospital.
Would our precious Laurie be the next victim in this bizarre series of tragedies? I admit, since my miscarriages, my relationship with God has sometimes been strained. I don't blame him for "taking" my children, but I keep returning to Him like a needy child, asking again and again that simple but weighty question - "Why?" I didn't know what to expect for Laurie. Of course we prayed for and with her, but I feel like my faith is remedial nowadays, plodding forward with itty-bitty baby steps, rather than great soaring leaps.
So I hoped.
Laurie believed for her healing, but - like most folks in our church - had no issues with turning to doctors for support and treatment. (Or general belief is that God has MANY ways to heal His children, and medical intervention IS, in fact, one of those ways. We believe in prayer combined with medical attention.) She underwent her radiation like a champ. She lost all her hair. She had to cut back on her hours at the church.
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| Image from www.Miami.com |
Last month, she had her final biopsy and got the all-clear.
Laurie is cancer-free!
Through the whole process, the only complaint I heard from her was that she was frequently tired - which was, of course, due to the chemotherapy. She did shyly mention, however, that her nurses told her they loved working with her because she was so full of joy. She wanted her experience there to represent her love for Jesus and share it with others.
I think that's pretty amazing.
The other two survivors I know have come into my life only recently. My direct supervisor at work, Mary, and the office manager, Karen, are both standing tall (relatively speaking, since they aren't much taller than me) after battles with breast cancer. Although I don't know much about their individual battles, I know that they are part of a much bigger network of support and love for victims of breast cancer. When I told Mary that my friend Laurie had been diagnosed, she asked about her regularly. Both women were quick to sign a get-well card I got for her, even though neither had ever met her. When I shared the news that Laurie was cancer-free, both ladies celebrated with me as if they'd just been given the same news for themselves.
What fascinates me about this awful disease - which strikes both healthy and less-than-healthy women...which attacks the very nature and identity of the female body...which causes women to struggle with their identities as women...which has no real cure...has also proven to motivate women to support each other with an unwavering and awesomely beautiful strength. The mildest, quietest women become outrageously fierce warriors when they wrap their arms around the newly-diagnosed, when they strap on pink sneakers to raise money, when they don pink shirts and march for the cure.
While I hate the disease, I love that, although it was meant to main, destroy, weaken and kill, it has instead raised up a veritable army of both women and men who have given each other the strength to raise their voices as once and roar, "I will overcome!"
