So why does it feel like this?

Check. Done. One more cancer exam for Melanie is now history and as far as we know it was pretty great. (Blood test results won’t come for another week.) Still, she had her scan and Chris and I made it to NY in time to see her walk out of that with a tired smile on her face. (Maybe a bit too much partying the night before at her friends’ Mark and Myna’s wedding.) Dr. T has moved his office and is now only a couple of blocks from where she get scans so we had time to catch up, hear about the wedding and her time with old CC friend, Kristin and grab a bite to eat.

Dr. T’s new digs are a vast improvement from the old ones; eight doctors share a space that is quieter and much less crowded. Melanie and I occupied the usual one hour wait with a word game on the IPad—an early anniversary present from my hubby. She was called in, and after showing him a picture from the wedding (Yes, I do carry some at all times—along with pictures of the grands.) ;the visit was short and very sweet. Melanie’s scan was stable with just one little tumor hanging underneath the scar from three surgeries seven years ago, but it is long and so thin he’s willing to let it just stay unless something else grows with it. But the big news came when he said, “Well, why don’t you come back in a year.” Satisfying words, since we have been making this trek twice a year for seven years, and for the past two years that trek has meant a cross-country flight for Melanie. As I have said, her cancer grows slowly so since last year’s surgery to remove two tumors, nothing new has appeared.

Almost as exciting as the news of a year free of tests was seeing Dr. T’s face when we asked about his research. Beaming he said that he is having excellent results with a pill that might very well help Melanie in the future. It was the first time we have seen such enthusiasm and hope for something new. Melanie happens to fall into a relatively small number of thyroid cancer patients that has stopped responding to radioactive iodine treatments—the treatment du jour for most papillary thyroid patients.   Along with several other doctors, Dr. T’s has found a pill, which if taken a month in advance of radioactive iodine treatments has shown to allow 50% of patients like Melanie to once again have the treatment work effectively. In other words, down the road, he believes she might well be a candidate. This is exactly what we (and so many others) have hoped for—a new possibility where none previously existed. It is what every cancer patient and every one who loves them dreams of.

So I should be ecstatic, right? Chris and the rest of my family are. The messages on my Face Book page abound with cheers, hurray’s and blessings, and believe me, I AM grateful and happy. Still I have been in a foul mood since returning home and it took a while to figure out what is going on.

I think I am feeling a bit like Melanie as we left dr. T’s office when she said quietly, “It’s great news, but I just want to be able to have a party.”

“What kind of party I ask,” fully knowing the answer.

“A ‘My Cancer is Gone Party.’”

And there it is. More than almost anything in the world, that is precisely the party I want to be able to throw for my daughter. I want to have a party with cake and balloons and bubbles. I want to never have to celebrate another cancerversary with Melanie. I want to take those Livestrong bracelets that her father and I faithfully wear and bury them in the woods or toss them out to sea. I want no more scans or trips to the doctors or wondering when the next shoe will drop.

But that is not going to happen any time soon. Melanie knows it and I know it, too and that my friends, is just kind of an awful reality to live with. It stinks and it is part of her life and the lives of those who love her.  The good news is that we can all live with that. Her life is strong and vital and her cancer has made her more of both those things. She should not have to cheer because she can put off the inevitable for a year. She is allowed a moment of regret and sadness once in a while. And so am I.

I would worry for her if she lived her life in that space of regret, but I know she does not live there, any more than I do. Way deep down, we both know that she is lucky in her cancer journey. There are so many whose cancers are more debilitating—whose treatments are devastatingly painful and frequent. I feel such gratitude for excellent medical care she receives and for the abundant love that surrounds her on this journey, and I know she does as well. And I have seen my daughter flourish with spirit; grasping life and giving life to others. That is who she is as much as what she does.

But to my daughter (as well as anyone else dealing with this nasty disease), it is ok to be mad, or sad , or just generally pissed off once in a while, and I may join you in that space, too.  Only remember, just as we danced the night away not that long ago as you and Ben became husband and wife, there WILL be parties—many parties to come. That is a promise.

The cleaning frenzy

This morning I found myself digging deep into one of our kitchen cabinets, examining items--sorting, throwing, saving-- before scrubbing it down. While not something I do often, when the mood hits, watch out. With daytime T.V. background noise (no, not the stock market) I threw away a half eaten box of cookies so rich I could not bring myself to indulge in them. Then there was a baggie of some chocolate candy left over from my best daughter-in-law in the world’s visit in May. (Not that I don’t have my private stash hidden in another place.) Stale partial bags of nuts and some rock hard raisin pebbles that had seen better days—gone. After the spray-down with the all-natural cleaner, it was neat, almost empty and awaiting a Whole Foods run.

Feeling virtuous, I began to wonder what brought on this sudden urge to clean. Usually the impulse comes during a transition—a change of season, a child moving out, finishing one of my interim ministry calls. Perhaps I was just feeling the let down from the departure of my BFF, Sue, and her husband who had visited for a week. Missing her terribly with her life now based in Florida and mine in Boston could easily have triggered a need to put order into unsettled part of my life.

Then it hit me; the check-up. Next Monday we are meeting Melanie in New York for her next visit at Sloan Kettering Hospital. If there is one thing I have learned over the last seven years, it is that the week preceeding a check-up for Melanie is fraught with emotional landmines lurking about. Without realizing why, I get moody and a bit testy.  Like a summer storm cloud gradually forming on the horizon, I am barely aware of its existence until it gets closer.  Without even realizing it, I find myself reaching for an umbrella or even foul weather gear just in case.  

Maybe it goes back to thinking if I only I had been more observant, noticing those clouds forming nine or ten years ago I would have seen the tsunami bearing down on Melanie and protected her. (Doctors have told us that given her advance stage when diagnosed, her cancer had been growing for at least eight years)  If caught earlier, she might have been spared a lifetime of monitoring and treatment. Most days those regrets stay hidden like those rock raisins in my cabinet, but just when it seems I have disposed of them once and for all, they resurface triggering some pretty unproductive thinking.

 

So while excited to see Melanie for the first time since her wedding, it means facing (again) this love/ hate relationship with her check-ups.  Always hoping for the “good news” scenario--no changes in scans and steady blood work--for seven years we have been making this trek with fingers crossed and varying luck.

You might have noticed I keep using the word “we” because that is one of the ways we have chosen to support Melanie. When it comes to cancer, Melanie moves with an entourage. As her parents and her brother and SIL, it is a promise we made her seven years ago, and it is one that Ben has embraced with such love it brings tears to my eyes. Although it is Melanie’s life and body impacted, she does not do cancer alone.

After so many years she, and we, know the drill well. Melanie flies to NY while Chris and I hop the Acela from Boston. Melanie and I each carry trusty little notebooks, listing her blood numbers for the past seven years This weekend Melanie is attending the wedding of a high school friend first, so for us it will be a turn around trip as she is anxious to get home to fabulous Ben before heading to the wilderness later next week.  The first part of the day Melanie will spend running from place to place getting whatever scan has been ordered  (an ultrasound and every year or so a CT scan), checking with the business office to update her new name, and grabbing lunch before heading to the Sloan on the Upper East Side.

Entering Dr. T’s office is always a bit of a shock—the waiting room bursting with thirty or more mostly silent older folks in various stages of health-- a sober reminder that this is generally not a young person’s disease. Even though thyroid cancer is the fastest growing cancer in young women, we rarely encounter another patient under fifty. It is not a place my vibrant daughter should belong—yet she does. Although Dr. T runs a pretty tight ship, the wait feels tediously long,

When called, Melanie leads the entourage to the barren examination room— for years, the same one--with a window overlooking a park across the street. Again we wait. The rest of the appointment is teaching hospital routine with first a research fellow asking questions about medications and Melanie’s general health—much of the same material Dr. T will cover when he comes in.  Sometimes information is pick up in that session, but our real questions wait for Dr. T who appears a few moments later carrying the results of her scan and a smile that lights up the room no matter what he is holding in his hand. Besides the fact that he is a first rate doctor, his demeanor, attention to Melanie, agility with any question we have, and hearty laugh remind us that Melanie is in the most capable, caring hands possible. This is the man who tells her each visit that it is her job to live life, and his to tell her when she needs to take a moment to deal with her cancer.

In so many respects, she is lucky. She has choices and resources unavailable to far too many cancer survivors, and unlike many other cancers, even though hers is metastatic, thyroid cancer grows and spreads slowly. Once initially treated, there is generally not the urgency to treat found in many cancers; Melanie can plans the timing if treatment is required.

The initial chitchat delays the news we really are anxious to hear. Is there anything new on the scan? The other news involving a blood marker must wait for ten days-- a huge disadvantage to not living locally, since the test takes a week to ten days to process. Questions are asked and answered; then it is all over.  Perhaps twenty minutes has elapsed with the doctor. All that is left is for Melanie to make her next appointment, get blood drawn, and for us to put our head’s together reconstructing the nuances of any new information we might have gleaned and asking each other if we heard the same things. It is amazing how often that is not the case.

It is all surreal. No matter what has been learned, only twenty minutes have lapsed. That is it. Too soon it is time to leave each other. Hugging, squeezing extra tight for good measure, we will say goodbye with storm clouds or crystal clear skies following us even as we go in opposite directions. Home again, her life and ours will resume, hopefully with my kitchen cabinets, save one, remaining in their familiar disarray for a bit longer.

 

Be safe...

A couple of weeks ago, I got a call from Melanie—short and sweet-- as is the custom when she is at a base camp for Outward Bound. “ Mom, can you call me back on this land line?” (Why is it that OB bases are never in a place that has cell service? Dumb question, I know; that’s the point. Wilderness.)  Calling her back, she told me she was leaving the next day and would be back in five or six days.  As part of being Course Director for two groups already in the field, she needed to meet up with them: hike in, find each group, check in with staff, then reverse that trip. She would be leaving at noon the following day, hike until dark, sleep out under the stars, then hike for another eight hours before meeting up with the group. Innocently asking who would be her hiking partner, she stated that it would be a solo trip.

Okay, I have to tell you that for me, that is just a scary scenario. Hiking alone, in the dark, carrying sixty pounds, trudging for miles with a map and compass. Like I said, “scary” is the nicest words I could use to describe such a venture. When asked if she was worried about this solo part of her job, Melanie said, “Mom, I’ll have a sat. phone.” “Well”, I thought to myself, “ I am sure the bears will be completely aware of that.” For a person who finds the wilderness daunting and yes, a bit terrifying, her joy in this activity is a mystery. Just walking my dogs through our local trails at the nature preserve, I have the urge to bring breadcrumbs (or my trusty daughter) to lead me back to my car. Every fork resembles the one that I thought I remembered from my last hike, but I’m just not sure. But that is my “stuff” so I mumble a simple “Be safe”-- words I have learned to use to “let” her go. (As if I had any choice.)

All this got me thinking about how on earth she got this brave (reckless) and smart (totally stupid), to attempt such an endeavor. In fact, how did either of my children get to the point that they are doing such incredibly difficult and taxing things with their lives?

(Justin’s childhood passion for epic stories, over the years developed into a career in the video game industry. (Thank you George Lucas!) Now as Game Director in the last throes of a two-year production cycle, he works sixteen-hour days, seven days a week while being husband and dad to two rambunctious boys. His story is it’s own and one that deserves another blog entirely but being Always a Mom, he is never forgotten. )

With Melanie, the desire to be on the go started early-- the younger sister keeping up with everyone, especially her big brother.  Appearing fearless from an early age despite more than her share of childhood illnesses, jumping, climbing (as a two year old, dancing on the kitchen table when my back was turned), and skiing morphed into tumbling, and hurling her body with abandon when she discovered gymnastics at age four. Tenacious, she was daring and bold, determined to be her own person.

But it was at age fourteen when invited on a wilderness-backpacking trip that she discovered a world that sustains her even today. After climbing mountains in the Cascades, the returning to her suburban existence paled to the mystery she discovered in the mountains. Struggling up rugged mountain passes life was vibrant.  From the peaks-- miraculous. Except for 2004 when cancer treatment was in its’ earliest and most virulent form, each summer since she has spent significant time hiking, rock climbing, kayaking, trekking up and down hillsides breathing passion and expectancy into her in the same way that stories energize and give Justin life.

Eventually there was work leading trips, but it is an industry that is seasonal, challenging, exhausting and largely without benefits. Why does she do it? While she is the best person to answer that (Mels want to give it a shot?); it is hard for me to comprehend that drive to take on a life filled with risks and hardship.  

Then I remember the sound of her voice when she emerges from the woods and, I “get it”.  Maybe the first time that happened was in the summer of 2005, a year after her cancer diagnosis and surgery.  Melanie was scheduled to co-lead a fourteen-day trip in the Pacific Northwest. Having watched her struggle for a year with her energy, I was not at all sure she was up to the physical demands and I was worried. After flying west, she took up residence in my thoughts as we vacationed on our boat. One muggy Saturday after she had been gone a week, Chris and I sprawled on a lawn listening to music in at the Newport Jazz Festival, when my cell phone rang. It was number that had far too many digits and I almost ignored it, but picking it up, I heard Melanie’s voice clear and strong, “Hi Mama!!” Knowing my concern, her wise co-leader, our friend Bill Harper, had let Melanie sneak off with the satellite phone to call and say all was well. But she did not have to tell me that; I could hear it in the strength and tenor of her voice. There was a revived of hope and joy I had not heard for months. (A week later calling the Harper’s home I was told she had been sleeping for eighteen hours.)

Even having sapped all her energy, that trip healed far more than it drained her.

Perhaps for the first time I began to comprehend how much working in the wilderness can be life giving. Living in, and being a student of, the wild, builds courage and wisdom; doing it with others teaches cooperation and mutual interdependence—something it seems our world could use a bit of right now. Interacting with at risk youth, Melanie has also seen how the experience impacts young hearts, minds, and actions as students come to find an inner resolve they might never have suspected was in them. Standing with youth as they find direction, hope, and perhaps even a new place in the world seems to be worth the exhaustion and lack of steady income.

I was not surprised when several years ago she announced an epiphany that had come to her. She wanted to take other young adults cancer survivors into the wilderness, and she set out to find a place to do that. An Internet search confirmed her suspicion that few such opportunities exist. But then she found a newly forming nonprofit called True North Treks. If you haven’t done so before, please look at their website (www.truenorthtreks.org) and some of the amazing folks who are part of this organization. In a few weeks along with several colleagues, Melanie will be leading the second True North Treks trip, this time on the Olympic Peninsula.

Now I hear Melanie tell me of some adventure and as scary as that might be to me, I have come to deeply appreciate that this is part of who she is and a gift she gives others. So while I may wonder where she got it, I am glad for her and for the world that she did.

P.S. And today I say my “Be safe” prayers for all who are “out” right now (including my son-in-law, Ben).  

So what do you do with The Dress?

Yesterday the dry cleaners called to say that The Dress was ready for pick up. I have become quite fond of The Dress for the last seven months. It was bought almost on a whim last October while we were visiting in California with Justin, Farr, Jackson and brand new baby brother, Cooper. We had done what we do as often as possible-- gather the family for a spontaneous time together. Chris and I flew in on Thursday; Melanie and Ben followed Saturday morning.

For three days, there was much passing around Cooper along side serious playtime with his two and a half year old brother, Jackson. But on top of that, we would be there to participate in the Manhattan Beach Great Pumpkin Race. To Jackson, his Dad, Papa and Uncle Ben Ben, this rivaled the excitement of having a new baby in the house. The male contingent had been prepping for months to design an entry for the event.  The rules are simple: one pumpkin, two axels that must go though the pumpkin and four wheels. It had already been decided that it would be a kid friendly pirate ship (despite Papa’s lobbying for one called the Tea Party—a pumpkin covered in wing nuts). Most of Saturday was spent on the patio with hacksaws, knives, drills and not a few beers.

In the living room, Farracy, Melanie and I were perusing wedding websites, Cooper cradled and passed between us. Engaged since May, Melanie wanted to go just at least “look” at wedding dresses (kind of like “looking” at a puppy I think); Farr and I would be her wing ladies. Now here is what you have to understand. For Melanie, most important purchases—say a backpack or snow board—require research, touching, testing, talking and after narrowing it down to two—days of deciding. She weighs the pros and cons until those around her are ready to throw up their hands and just buy her both of whatever she is contemplating if she would just decide. While excited to go with her, Farracy and I decided to take Cooper along so that if things got too prolonged we would have an easy way out. Plus neither of us was crazy about leaving the little guy in the hands of men so consumed in their creative project requiring dangerous tools.

Figuring that this was simply a scouting trip, we headed to the nearest David’s Bridal Shop to look at dresses Melanie had already found online. We were a bit of a motely crew--Melanie in flip-flops and her hair up in two nubbins and amazed to find scattered groups of threes and fours stylish women gathered around the banks of mirrors outside the dressing rooms. Asked the time of our appointment, we blankly explained we were just “looking.”  New to this whole bridal business, I was already starting to feel out of place, but taking charge, Farracy asked if it was possible to just see a few dresses. Ten minutes later an “appointment” was arranged.

The immaculately attired young woman assigned us was handed a slip of paper with the dress numbers. Disappearing for a few moments she returned carrying all three in Melanie’s size. (Apparently this was a stroke of luck on our part.) While Melanie vanished behind the curtained dressing room, Farracy and I settled into chairs, Cooper happily slumbering in his seat on the floor by our feet, preparing ourselves for the long ordeal to begin. From behind the curtain Melanie yelled, “Ok, ready? Here I come!” Stepping out with a huge grin on her face, Farracy and I started laughing and high fiving. It was The Dress; we all knew it the minute she walked out. Melanie did ask me if maybe I wasn’t supposed to be shedding a tear, which I actually did a few moments later, but first I was too busy taking pictures from every angle. The dress was simple, and elegant, and she looked beautiful, but to be sure, we all agreed she should try on the other two, a process that took longer than the decision to rule them out. In a matter of minutes, my pro and con weighing daughter had just made a choice most women spend weeks or even month deciding.

The dress would have to be ordered and then some minor alterations made, but the saleswoman said that could happen when we all came back to California for Christmas. Less than an hour had gone by, the baby had not even stirred and Melanie had a wedding dress. Done, done and done. When we got home, the men still cutting and drilling, were shocked to see us back so soon and even more surprised to hear mission accomplished.  (They, too, were successful with a racer that was not only great looking but also came in second in its heat.)

December 26 the four of us were back again at David’s for the fitting and alterations which cost almost as much as the dress. When finished it was air shipped Boston to wait the big day. Arriving in March, it hung in a doorway of a closet until riding to Maine atop piles of suitcases and boxes filled with programs and bubbles. (How perfect that my wandering daughter would wear a dress that had traveled so many miles to get to her.)

 On May 28, The Dress was worn with joy for eight hours; it was as perfect as we knew it would be. Then somehow it was left in Boston to be cleaned. Dropping it off, I pointed out that along the hem there was about an inch of dirt. This wasn’t just your normal floor dirt along the edge because this was Melanie’s dress. After the ceremony, she and Ben climbed up on rocks and walked out on docks by the water’s edge, kissed by the cool ocean breezes. They stood under trees receiving blessings of the oaks. She picked up nephews, and blew bubbles, and danced her heart out with her new husband. She lived in it the way she lives her life; and some of that dirt just would not come out. There is still a faded line, but that is fine with me. Somehow that line embodies a life already well lived.

So for now it hangs next to another wedding dress –this from 1972 --with it’s long sleeves and empire waist sewn by a woman who lived “out in the country”, as we called it in N.C.  A bit faded from its thirty-nine years and many moves but a relic from the 60s. Worn only two hours for the church wedding and reception following in the parish hall it is still pristine—no signs of wear and tear. Beginning life together with Chris, my still immaculate dress seems a reflection of a 23 year-olds innocence. At thirty-one, Melanie’s life of adventure, joys and heartaches has already been so different from anything I might have imagined as a newly wed. But now, at least for the time being, they hang together keeping each other company, mirrors of the innocence and wisdom of two young women beginning their married lives blessed with such hope and love. 

Just trying to catch my breath...

July 2004, that was all I wanted to do—catch my breath—and for me there is no better way than our annual Fourth of July trip to Nantucket. But that year, until a few weeks before, we were not sure it would happen. Since April, our lives had revolved around only one thing-cancer--specifically Melanie’s thyroid cancer. That spring we had already canceled a cruise with two other couples. Vacations were not part of any conversations.

Melanie’s life, and ours as we knew it, had come to a grinding halt replaced by tests and scans, blood work and three surgeries.  Countless conversations and emails with friends and family, and insurance company workers who knew my daughter only as a number and a diagnosis consumed each day.  My vocations was as cheerleader and caregiver while attempting to be optimistic and upbeat with Melanie who was reeling and mystified to find her twenty-four year old life morphing into the medical morass threatening to engulf her. Late into the night, Chris and I would huddle silently wishing we could “fix” the unfixable for our daughter who, after years of being a competent adult finding her way in the world, had become our daughter in need.

But now it was July; the surgeries were over.  Melanie had survived her last treatment-- three days in isolation being blasted with radioactive iodine-- and was already rebounding. In Melanie fashion, she was ready to move on. Deciding to combine her interest in experiential learning and love of children, she was accepted to a residential training program beginning July 5--only a week after her last treatment.  By summer’s end, she would be credentialed as a teaching assistant. So, while she packed up her belongings (again), to start a “normal” life, Chris and I attempted to do the same.

Piling two weeks of supplies and our black labs into the boat, we headed out for a bit of familiar R and R. The Fourth on Nantucket with its old fashioned Main Street celebration always brought me back to my youth-- pie eating contests, free balloons handed out by good natured souls, dogs in costumes. Plus, we would again meet-up with our good friends Mark and Ellen to share the weekend. After the Fourth we would bounce around other ports, stopping where the spirit moved us to stay for a few days.

Hugging Melanie goodbye and motoring under clear skies and flat seas, the anxiety I had carried for months trailed in the wake behind the boat. Willing myself to breathe deeply, I kept reminding myself that Melanie was safe, and on the mend. The crisis was over; all would be well. Five hours later, as Angel Fish pulled into Nantucket Boat Basin, tension dripped away with the sweat rolling off my face as ocean breezes cooled the air.

That night at dinner, Chris and I raised a toast, “To us and the fam.” --the same words we use every night, encompassing a world of hopes, prayers and thanksgivings.  As we left the restaurant the extra glass of dinner wine making me feel expansive, I remember telling Chris that I felt relaxed for the first time in three months. When my cell phone rang from our home number I smiled, effusively greeting Melanie with my usual, “Hi Peeps!”

But instead of her usual, “Hello Mother,” her voice sounded small –almost tentative; my mom radar began blipping wildly. It was 7:30 on the Friday night of the Fourth of July weekend and Dr. R had just called saying she was headed for vacation for two weeks.  She did not want Melanie to be surprised when she was contacted on Monday morning to schedule a MRI.  It seemed the follow-up CT scans after the radioactive Iodine treatment indicated Melanie’s cancer had metastasized spreading beyond her thyroid and her neck. Testing and follow-up needed to start immediately.  Suddenly completely sober, I asked a few questions-- none of which Melanie could answer and then put Chris on the phone. Grabbing the phone just as they were about to hang up I asked if she was ok (Could there ever be a dumber question?) and she of course answered yes, she was fine. Words we both knew were a lie the minute they left her mouth.

Hanging up, Chris and I tried calling her doctor, but of course, she could not be reached. What did this all mean? Neither of us had a clue except we knew it could not be good. Confused, distraught and unable gather the strength to move from the hard wooden bench outside the restaurant, we sat talking and speculating. Suddenly the Nantucket vacationland felt like a prison; I was stuck on an island in the middle of nowhere-- Boston and Melanie a million miles away and she would be leaving for school in 36 hours.  It wasn’t until we later saw our friends Mark and Ellen that they reminded us how easy it is to get home; in our shock it never occurred to either of us that planes fly between Boston and Nantucket almost every hour. 

Calling Melanie, I told her, I wanted to come home and just hang out with her the next day. “Thanks mom.” She did not try to dissuade me. While we both wanted to be with Melanie, Chris would stay with dogs on the Island while I flew home for 24 hours. The next morning, crammed into the tiny commuter plane, the day dawned crystal clear, the Islands and Cape surrounded by luminescent blue water. Suspended in air for fifty minutes, feeling small and helpless, I wondered what I could possibly say to Melanie. What were the words she needed to hear?

But of course, there were no words that needed to be said; there was only presence. She needed to not be alone. I had nothing else to give; it was enough. I would stand with her—as would her father, and her family, and her friends. She would not be alone to face whatever lay ahead. That day we watched boats flood Boston Harbor, took a walk in the woods, ate dinner out, slept, and hugged.  We talked about nothing and sat in silence. As morning came, I got back on a tiny plane and she left for school.  Life would go on, but it would be a long time before I would catch my breath again.  

Letting Go

‘Tis the season of transitions –high school and college graduations, weddings at every turn and I am reminded of what that means. As a parent it means pride and joy melded with perhaps one of the hardest things I have faced over the years  Those big transitions serve as reminders that my kids are not only growing up and away, but also that they need me to let them go. A reminder I still need even when they are in their 30’s!  Even though I was acutely aware of what was coming, when the cap and gown or wedding attire was at last adorned, they serve as visible signs that life as I have known it will not be the same.  While I might have prepared and wanted the day to come it sometimes feels like being jolted with a new reality of the child I raised from birth moving on—often physically away from home.  It is ironic. We raise our children to be strong and independent-- to grow and explore the world and yet when they do, it feels like loss. Smiles of pride and satisfaction mingle with tears of loss and yes, tears of joy. You would think after all these years, it would be easy. 

When our oldest, Justin, left home after graduating from high school I was a bundle of energy held together by a thread. I simply could not imagine life in our house without him bounding in with some outrageous comment or getting that exuberant daily hug. The summer before he left our whole family was on edge until one day the four of us were in a full blown battle over hiking boots—don’t even ask because I couldn’t tell you what it was about. But suddenly in the midst of all the yelling,  clarity dawned and I interjected loudly, “This is not about hiking boots. Justin is leaving in a week.” Instantly the argument lost all steam. It was not about the hiking boots.

Two years later when Melanie left for school in Colorado College, again I was a mess imagining the unbearable thought of her smile leaving the house for months on end.  For weeks I told a therapist I was seeing how distraught I felt; how even with a husband and job I loved, I was sure that my life would be empty. After listening, as only a therapist can, session after session as I tried to sort though my mixed feelings she told me that several years before, when her last daughter graduated from college, she announced to her husband on the way home from the graduation ceremonies that she never needed to cook again. What was the point with such an empty house? It was perhaps one of the most reassuring things anyone said to me during that time. Here was the most put together person I knew saying that at least for a while she thought her life was over. And yet, she survived even thrived. Hearing her belief that her mother/daughter relationship was even better now, gave me such courage and hope. And yes, she was still cooking. Of course she proved to be right about it all. 

When Justin got married nine years ago today,  (Happy Anniversary!!) they were living close by and we had time to get to know Farracy. Spending time together, I began to imagine just how enriching it might be to add another daughter to the family. How prescient that was! Not only has she made my son happy, she has been such a blessing and joy in my life and a sister Melanie never had. Not to mention she brings extraordinary boys into the world. Being part of their growing family is pure blessing. 

Much because of our experience adding a daughter-in-law, I was looking forward to adding a son-in-law in Ben. So I was surprised in the months leading up to Melanie and Ben’s wedding, when I found myself uneasy—not about Ben-- but about the fact that Melanie would no longer be putting Chris and me down as next of kin on all the forms she would fill out for the rest of her life. For the first time in 31 years, we would not be the first ones notified if she was in trouble, got sick, or had a complication when being treated for an illness. I love Ben believing that he is the person meant to be Melanie’s husband and partner, but after seven years with her living with cancer, I have become used to watching over Melanie as she has navigated that part of her life. Even though, she has been the one to schedule all her appointments and manage her medical life, when it comes to cancer, I have stayed vigilant, and I doubt that will change since I can’t help myself. But what will change is that now she and Ben are dealing with this together; Chris and I will be there for them when they need us, but we will back up. That is right and as it should be, but it will take some getting used to.

But then again, maybe it is all part of that same letting go thing that began when I first dropped her off at nursery school. My illusions of control and my ability to protect my children have always been just that –illusions—not reality.  Still, it takes some faith and maybe a bit of poetry to move ahead. This from Mary Oliver.

To live in this world

you must be able

to do three things:

to love what is mortal;

to hold it

against your bones knowing

your own life depends on it;

and, when the time comes to let it go,

to let it go.

From 'In Blackwater Woods’

So once again, I will try letting go. But like I said—I'll always be a mom. Always.

Home

This picture is from the last dance at Melanie and Ben’s wedding a few weeks ago. I just love it because I know exactly what they are singing –it is the last verse of the song they picked to end the evening. It’s called  ‘Home’. Here are the words to the last verse:

Alabama, Arkansas, I do love my Ma & Pa

Not the way that I do love you

Holy moly, me, oh my, you’re the apple of my eye

Girl, I’ve never loved one like you

Man, oh man, you’re my best friend, I scream it to the nothingness

There ain’t nothin’ that I need

Well, hot & heavy, pumpkin pie, chocolate candy, Jesus Christ

There ain’t nothin’ please me more than you

Chorus:

Ahh, Home

Let me come Home

Home is wherever I’m with you

~Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros

The first time I had ever heard it was at the wedding and when it came on, Melanie and Ben just started belting it out. Quickly their friends joined in until the chorus was picked up by the entire dance floor.  Melanie and Ben sang—sang their hearts out to each and as I sang along, tears stung my eyes.

It wasn’t until I got back to Boston and saw that picture for the first time and the catchy tune popped in my head that I realized what the tears were all about. Melanie had indeed found a home. It is a home with Ben as her companion and love, and it is a home within herself. It was a home that took a long time to find.

One of the things that happens when a young adult –or perhaps anyone—gets cancer is that at least for a while, a bit of self is lost. It is hard to feel at home in their body or the world. In the early years, when Melanie was first diagnosed with cancer she talked often about losing her identity.  Feeling betrayed by her body, forced to move home, and then having to come to grips with physical limitations—especially in those first couple of years when her metabolism was totally out of whack—made her question not only who she was but what the future might hold. Living each day was wrought with questions. What kind of work might she have the energy to do? Would her stamina ever come back or would this depleted energy be her new “normal” for the rest of her life. How much will this cancer define me? What guy would ever want to fall for “cancer girl?” (Her words not mine.)

From the day she received her diagnosis, Chris and I reassured her that her home could be with us for as long as she needed even while knowing that our adventurous daughter would quickly find life in the city confining and yes, soul crushing. Her life thrived on mountains, and forests, and tents, and backpacks. In the wilderness, she felt alive, connected to herself and at home. But she also needed a place to put down roots. And like most of us, she wanted a companion to share those things with her. Going solo through life is never easy. 

Navigating what it means to live with cancer is a lifetime journey and for Melanie it has been one of growth and change, frustration and disappointment, stretching to find new possibilities and self-understanding. It has taken tenacity and guts. As her mom, I have tried to be present to that journey, and that has not always been easy. During the wedding weekend in May, though, her confidence and utter joy and inner strength were almost palpable.

When it came time to bless Melanie and Ben at the wedding, I told those gathered a story from when she was little. Almost every evening when our kids were young, we took walks-- around the block, to the park and later short hikes.  Of course, Melanie being the youngest, would tucker out first and with hands stretched up implore,  “Carry me. Carry me.” Until we thought she really was “done” our answer was always the same. “We’re on a walk not a carry.”   But before long not only did she no longer ask to be picked up, she was running far ahead—skiing faster down mountains than any of the rest of the family, taking trips into the wilderness, spending summers in the mountains or in South America, literally traveling around the world for a semester.

(These next words did not occur to me to tell that day, because Melanie and Ben’s wedding was not about cancer or overcoming anything.)  But it was no wonder that the confinement of cancer treatment would rob her of her sense of who she was. For some years, home in the world of exploration did not seem to be an option and at times she doubted if it ever would be again. Big questions of self had to be tested out and worked through.

Then one day, Melanie met a man who loved the outdoors and exploring the way she did. It was truly a match made in heaven-- and earth—and she was strong and confident enough to embrace that life again. At the same time, Ben had traveled his own journey that also included mountains and forests, boats and water and living abroad—a journey I am slowly learning about as I get to know him better.  It seems, and Melanie and Ben believe, they met at just the right moment in both their lives.

On May 28, Ben and Melanie, with voices strong and clear spoke vows to each other --words they wrote together. And their families and friends affirmed those vows also in words, adding applause and bubbles of blessing.  But it wasn’t until late in the evening that they both let loose singing to the universe, “Ahhh home. Let me come home. Home is whenever I’m with you. ” The song ended and ….

Melanie and Ben

Welcome Home

Here's the song if you want something to hum along to today!