Cancer Sucks, Part Four: Lessons from Cancer

This is the last post in my Cancer Sucks saga.  And its very overdue.  Life has been busy, crazy busy, these past months.  Lots of work, too much work.  Two wonderful (if stressful at times) weddings.  Vacation.  Parenting challenges.  Too much caffeine.  Not enough sleep. Lots of things I want to write about.  Things I WILL write about.  But for now, here is part four. Because I promised.  Because its important.

Lesson One:  Cancer brings out the best in people.  
Once I asked my oncologist if it was depressing working with people with Cancer.  She said no, that her patients were the bravest and best people she knew.  That she loved her patients because they were fighters.  Because they truly wanted to get better (versus some people who go to the doctor for attention, to complain, or for who knows what reason, I suppose).  I can see that.

I met an incredibly brave girl, currently fighting bone cancer, at the Oh Sweet Sadie gift show the other night.  I had found myself absent-mindedly looking at some really amazing tote bags tucked away in one corner of the large hall filled with vendors.  Mixed in with the bags was a picture of a beautiful young girl, with a caption below telling how she had begun sewing these bags while in the hospital for a YEAR of chemotherapy.  I turned around, and there she was, smiling at me.   I felt like I should say something, so I told her that her bags were beautiful, and that I was a two-time cancer survivor myself.  That was all I needed to say to be "in the club", someone safe to talk to.  She told me how she was happy because she would soon be getting her leg amputated.  Yes, happy, because the titanium replacement femur behind that long scar going down her thin leg had been causing her lots of pain and problems.  Happy not to have to use a crutch, as she had for the last two years. To be able to maybe ride her horse again.  She is so brave.  Putting on her best smile and fighting the fight.  Day after day, year after year. I went back to the show later in the weekend and bought one of her bags.  It cost more than my cheap self would typically spend, but who cares.  This girl is a quiet fighter.  A 16 year old hero. You can learn more about her, and see her bags, on her Facebook page or Etsy.

The next night I was at home feeling a bit sorry for myself because my husband was working late (again) when I stumbled upon the TV fundraiser "Stand UP to Cancer".  I had watched it last year and liked it, even bought the yellow "survivor" t-shirt, but I wasn't sure I was "up" for it again.  I decided to give it a chance.  

Ronan, age 4

Talk about a reality check.  Story after story of brave people- kids, moms, dads, people young and old, fighting the fight, loving their families, wanting to get better, participating in clinical trials to help others, even when they knew their own chances for survival were slim.  You can watch it on Hulu  and still donate here if you feel so inclined .  100% of money raised goes to Cancer research. Just be ready to maybe shed a few tears.  If you are a Taylor Swift fan, she sings a song about a boy named Ronan who died of Cancer that just might rip your heart right out, stomp on it, and then put it through the disposal before returning it to you.  You can watch her performance here, and see the reaction of the mom of the little boy its written about to the song here.   Man oh man. Big old slap in the face. I have no right to whine in the face of such bravery.


Lesson Two:  Its not about me.  
I've struggled with shyness most of my life.  Agonized about what to say, what people thought of me.   Hid in bathrooms at parties. When I had Cancer, I learned from amazing people that this was no way to live.   People like the man at church (now a dear friend), who asked me every week how I felt during my chemo.  Listened, commiserated.  He wasn't afraid that I wouldn't want to talk about it, that he would somehow offend me. I've tried to follow in his (and others') footsteps.   To remember that ITS NOT ABOUT ME.  The truth, I've realized, is that most people are too busy worrying about themselves most of the time to think about whether I looked fat, or said something dumb, or any one of a million other completely trivial things I've spent way too many hours worrying about.

This realization has helped me be more outgoing in many situations, to sit by that person sitting alone, to talk to that neighbor, to approach the person going through tough stuff, even to do better at work.  Its changed me. 

Lesson Three:  I do not have the things I have because I have earned, or somehow deserve them.  
I remember driving down the road one day during my chemotherapy and being overwhelmed with a feeling of gratitude.   Feeling gratitude that I had legs that worked, that I could see, that my brain could think clearly (sometimes :). Realizing on a new and deeper level  that all that I am, all that I have, isn't the result of something I have done.  All of it, every bit, is a gift from a loving Heavenly Father.  Yes, I do have a stewardship to make the most of my talents, my abilities, my situation, that's true, but without the blessings He has given me I wouldn't be able to do anything.  Its amazing the gratitude that going through something tough can bring. Its strange, actually.   I remember thinking, Man, I used to be such a whiner, always complaining about stupid little things like my kids being snotty or tough.  Like having to drive an old car.  Stupid, stupid things.  I remember thinking that I would never whine about those things again.  

Lesson Four:  We are not alone.
Sometimes in this life people let us down.  Even our friends, our children or our spouses can let us down. Life teaches us that we just can't rely on another person to meet all of our needs.  Its not being pessimistic to say this, its being real.  Its the nature of human beings to be imperfect.  

There is, however, someone who will ALWAYS be there.  We have a loving Savior who will never leave us comfortless.  I don't think I ever felt as much love, peace and support from  above as I did during my Cancer treatment.  Because, you see, I was never really alone.  I was carried.  This was my favorite scripture during the tough times:

John 14:27 Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.

Its still my favorite scripture today.

I'm still learning lessons from my Cancer experience. Learning to have faith.  Learning to not worry that every little ache and pain is a recurrence.  Learning compassion.  Learning to love and appreciate life and my blessings.  Learning patience and perspective.  

I've got a long long way to go, but I'm grateful for these "lessons learning".

Cancer Sucks- Part Two- Diagnosis

In my front yard right now.

This is the part of this story in which I tell about what it was like to have the bee-jeebies scared out of me when I was diagnosed, for the second time, with Cancer.  The part where I tell about what its like to have your world thrown off its axis.  The part where you lose your hair, but get through it.  The part where the love and support of others makes all the difference.  


This post may be very long.  Or it may turn in to two posts.  I am writing for myself, so that I don't forget what happened, ever, even when I am really really old and my memory is (like my 96 year old dad used to say) "like a steel trap" (not).  I am writing for my family and friends, who loved and supported me through it all.  I am writing for those who are clawing their way through Cancer right now, and need to see that light at the end of the tunnel.  


I hope that what I write is helpful.


In my post Cancer Sucks- part one I wrote about my experiences with thyroid Cancer. Definitely scary, but almost more of an inconvenience.  After my treatments for that were over, my life returned to more-or-less normal. I was a good girl and got my screenings.  I wanted to do all I could to NEVER walk down Cancer Street again.  Once I turned 40 I had regular mammograms and colonoscopies.  I started having colonoscopies young, because, as you may remember, my mother died of Colon Cancer when I was five (read about it here).  I've had several, and had pre-cancerous polyps that could have turned into full-scale colon cancer painlessly removed twice.  I am a big cheerleader for colonoscopies --go Colonscopies, go!!!-- because they've saved my life.  If you have a family history of colon cancer get your hiney (literally) in and have one.  If you are over 50, have one.  If your parents are over 50, march them in and MAKE (if you have to) them have one.  You can read about what my last one was like here. 


Anyway, I was due for a mammogram in August of 2005 but missed it for a reason that I'm sure I thought was valid at the time but can't remember.  October is breast cancer awareness month, so one October day my husband Spence came home with this little pink ribbon thingy that he got at work and stuck it on one of the shelves in our closet.  I saw it every day, and eventually the guilt got to me, and I re-scheduled my mammogram.  It was in November.  I went in, put on the lovely gown, sat down in the inside waiting room and smiled shyly at the other women who were there for the same thing.  They smiled awkwardly back, while we all pretended to watch something inane like Jerry Springer or Montel Williams (some kind of "high quality" television programming) on the little TV.  I remember feeling younger than the other people there.  


The appointment itself was uneventful.  The boobs were squeezed, the small talk made with the technician, the clothes put on, and I was home.  I thought nothing of it.  


I noticed that I had missed a few calls from Intermountain Healthcare on the caller ID, but again, thought nothing of it.  They were probably taking a survey.  Seriously, it didn't even cross my mind that the calls might have to do with my mammogram.  Then one day I got something in the mail from the Breast Care Center that said "We've been trying to reach you about the results of your recent test, please call..."  That got my attention.


I called, and scheduled a follow-up mammogram.  I was worried, but not too much at this point, because I had been reading on the internet (wonderful and dangerous place when it comes to medical information) that most of these things were false alarms (most are).  I had never felt a lump, still couldn't. It was probably just a shadow on the film, or some kind of cyst, right?


Spence and my brother Dan came over to give me a priesthood blessing.  I wanted them to tell me that this whole thing was going to turn out to be nothing.  They wanted to tell me that, too. They really wanted to, but they couldn't.  Instead they said, and felt, that this whole thing wasn't going to turn out to be "nothing", but that it wasn't going to be the end, either. 


They were right.  I remember the radiologist matter-of-factly showing me the lump on the ultrasound. Putting my fingers on my left breast and saying, "Can't you feel that?"  I honestly couldn't.  Or maybe I barely could, but it just felt like a lumpy breast.  Like my breasts always felt. Like normal.  


I was more or less in shock, numb.  They kept telling me that most of the time when you get something this early it isn't much of anything.  Maybe I would have to have surgery and then radiation, but the surgery is easy to recover from, and the radiation not that bad.  I would be like Cheryl Crow.  She never had chemo, never lost her hair, was right back there singing on stage.  Yeah.  That's how it was going to be.


My surgery was scheduled remarkably quickly.  My surgeon was awesome, and very re-assuring.  He, too, seemed to believe that this would turn out to be only a minor thing. It was right before Christmas, and my family babied me and was oh-so loving.  I actually remember that Christmas as being an especially sweet one.  After the New Year someone from IHC Breast Care called and asked if I would like to see a panel of doctors at the Huntsman Cancer Institute about what was coming up next.  It was a new thing, and they said it would be great, that I would be able to get all of my questions answered.


That appointment turned into seriously one of the worst mornings of my life.  They took Spence and I into a little room with a couch where one specialist after another came in to talk with us, loaded with an armful of fun that included new information on the size and spread of my tumor, conflicting statistics, scary ultimatums, survival rates with various procedures, and lists of horrible side-effects and long term possibilities that I had never even considered.  I started bawling, and couldn't stop.  We felt trapped.  Still they came in.  "If you have this treatment, your hair will of course fall out, you may get mouth sores, your nails may fall off and never grow back, you may have bone aches and possibly permanent numbness and neurological changes.  If you don't do the treatment, your cancer will come back, and when it does, you WILL die.  You may get lymphedema, and have to wear support-hose on your arms for the rest of your life.  Do this exercise every day to help that not happen.  And oh, by the way, if you have the breast cancer gene, your children will be at risk.  They may not want to take the risk of having children, and may want to have  mastectomies as a preventative measure."  Really. All said in a matter of fact way as if I were not a mess, sitting in front of them, crying my head off.  Said in a way that said "We do this all the time". Sadly, they DO do this all the time.  Hopefully they are better at it now than they were then.


I left feeling scared and confused.  I went home and cried.  A lot.  Cried until no more tears could come.  Cried more than I ever had before or ever have since.  


Life went on.  I went to work, got the kids dressed and fed.  Went through the motions. I was teaching high school, and told my students what was going on.  I think its good not to pretend like nothing ever goes wrong in this life.   They were great.  So supportive.  Lots of people were.


My ward (congregation) had a fast for me.  We had only been in our neighborhood for a year or so, and it was so touching to me how many people went without food and sent prayers my way.  So sweet.  I know it helped.  I remember feeling so loved and supported, and even feeling a physical burning in my chest on the affected side the whole day of the fast.  Almost like a cleansing burn. It was amazing and the support and prayers so appreciated.


My sweet neighbor and soon-to-be good friend who did hair took me wig shopping.  She had this great attitude like this was all a party.  We went to every wig store in the Salt Lake Valley, trying things on, laughing, making it fun as best as we could.  If you ever need a wig, drop me a line and I can point you towards the best places and give you some good info.


About two weeks after my first treatment, just as they said it would,  my hair started falling out by the handful.  It was crazy.  I'd just run my fingers through my hair and have maybe 100 hairs in my hand.  Then more than 100.  I put a pony tail in my hair and a baseball hat on my head and didn't touch it for a week, trying to make it last as long as I could.  Finally it was time to cut it off.  My sweet friend washed it in our kitchen first.  It looked like a dead cat was in the sink.  So much dark curly hair.  Then she cut it in a bob (I was used to long hair).  She said things like -  "Look how cute this is!  Lets try it even shorter, though- I want to see how you look in a pixie.   Oh my gosh, you look great!  You are totally going to rock the short hair when your hair comes back.  You totally have the eyes for it."  Even though my hair was much too thin to wear out the way it was, I felt pretty, and for that I was so grateful.  The next morning, when I took my shower, all the rest of my hair fell out.  All of it.  I was bald.  Me, the girl who had always complained about having too much bushy hair.  Once that part was done, though, it was done.  I honestly grew to think that hair is overrated.  It gets in drains, on floors.  Its just dead cells, after all, right? Kind of gross, if you think about it.


Much more to say, but I think I'll stop here for now.  I need to get back to (thankfully) normal life.  

Things to say about what its like to see poison dripping in to your veins.  About side effects.  About a surprise bundle of joy that fell into our home from above right after I started chemo. About wonderful people who were, and are, there for me, and for my family.  About what it means to be a survivor.  


About my lessons learned.

Cancer Sucks- Part One-Round One

NOTE:  When I say that Cancer "sucks", its not that I am saying that other things don't "suck" just as badly, or even much worse.  We all get our bag of troubles in our lives, and yours could very well be MUCH harder to deal with than mine.  This is just an anniversary for me, and a time to reflect.

When I was a kid, you didn't say the word "Suck" in my family.  It was a BAD WORD.  I still don't really like the word much, although (sorry Lyn) I do say it on occasion. 

Cancer sucks.  It really does.  I sometimes (shockingly) even call it- ready for this?- "Damn Cancer".   I know, you can't believe I said that.  You'll never look at my blog again. Get over it.


I watched my mother died of Cancer (colon), when I was five (see my post That First Pivotal Event).  I watched my sister almost die from it twice.  I grew up hating Cancer, but always thinking that it wasn't "my thing".  I had other trials.  Cancer wasn't going to be my problem.


But alas, I was wrong.  

Jacob at preschool graduation. 

The good news, HOORAY!!!!!!!!,  is that as of right about now I am a FIVE YEAR SURVIVOR of the dreaded stuff.  Go me.  I remember that I set off, with hair barely there, on a celebratory trip to Disney World with Spencer, my older kids and then-infant son Jacob five years ago today.  The same Jacob who graduated from preschool this week. Wow.  It seems like a long time ago.  So much has happened since.  


Cancer, real or imagined, is still a part of my life.  It seems like about every six months or so I have some kind of "scare" requiring testing and agonized waiting.  Thankfully, to this point, all of these scares have turned out to be just minor problems, or nothing at all.  


That wasn't the case five-and-a-half years ago, or fourteen years ago.  Those times, the scares weren't just scares. They were "IT".  The big "C".  The one that sucks.


ROUND ONE:  Fourteen years ago (wow).

Fourteen years ago I was a 30-something mom of young children. It was December, and I had a sore throat that wouldn't go away.  At the time, Spencer, Erin, Mikell and I were all performing in the Mountain West Ballet production of The Nutcracker. We did it for three years- one of those years we made Garrett be in it, too, as a party boy. 


I decided to go to the doctor for the sore throat.  He told me that it was just a virus and nothing to worry about, but while I was there he felt a lump in my neck that he thought I should get checked out.  It turned out that I had a walnut sized benign lump on my thyroid, but that within that walnut there was a pea-sized malignant growth.  


I remember standing in my laundry room with the door closed so no one could hear or see me, crying.  Thinking that this couldn't possibly be happening to me, that Cancer wasn't my "thing".  


During this round, though, I never thought that I might die.  My doctor told me "If you're going to get Cancer, this is the kind you want".  The survival rate for Thyroid Cancer is very high.


I had my thyroid out just before Christmas.  Everyone was very sweet and supportive. They babied me and brought meals.   I had to go for six weeks without any replacement hormone after the surgery, which was hard.  I was teaching at the time, and told my students what was going on.  I think that its good for people to know that other people are going through "stuff".  They were great.  I taught mostly from my desk because I grew increasingly tired.   I have a chair that we got secondhand that I painted, Mary Engelbreit style, during the last week when I was so tired that it was all I could do to sit up and paint for a while, then lean back on our couch and rest.  The chair still sits in my living room, I just can't seem to get rid of it.

My Cancer chair

After the six weeks, I went in to the hospital for a few days and got big-time radioactive. I was given radioactive iodine treatment by nurses who wore haz-mat-style suits.  Seriously.  It was like something from a science fiction movie.  When I went to the bathroom I was told to flush it six times, to get all of the radioactivity out of the bowl.  Being in the hospital was kind of a nice break.  I read and watched lots of DVDs that I wanted to watch.  After my hospital stay I went home, where for several days I was told not to come within ten feet of anyone else.  Try that one with young kids and a dog.   I remember waving goodnight from across the room.  Bittersweet memory. 


I was put on replacement hormone after that, and life quickly returned to normal.  I had follow-up testing, and my thyroid dose has been monitored and tweaked, but basically it hasn't been that big of a deal.  I had a great surgeon, I don't think that anyone even notices my scar.  


Generally, it was about as easy as Cancer could be.  Not fun, but not that scary, and not the end of the world.


Round two was tougher.  


I've already broken the cardinal rule of blogging, though, ("Don't make it too long") so round two can wait 'til next time.   

A Change of Plans

So, I'm alive.  And well.  Really.  Or at least mostly.  Right now I am getting over pneumonia, which isn't fun.  But, aside from hacking up a lung on occasion and not having much energy, I am feeling better,  in lots of ways.

Garrett came home early from his LDS mission a little over two weeks ago.  It seems like longer.  Seems almost like he never left.  Its weird.  The whole time he was gone was so emotional.  Such a roller coaster.  How is he doing today?  Is it a good day?  A bad day?  Will we get "the" phone call?

And then the phone call came.  It was so dramatic, so traumatic at first.  Friends and family were amazingly great.  So supportive.  So loving of us, and of Garrett.  Our bishop went out of his way to make Garrett feel welcome at church, as did so many people.  I was proud of my ward, proud of my Church.  I was proud of Garrett.  Home less than 24 hours and right there at all three meetings at church, and then, suggesting we go to choir together.  Brave kid.  

Now, well, it feels normal.  Was that really only two weeks ago?  We scrambled, and got him right back into school.  His cousin Chase got him a job at the rec center as a building supervisor.  He and his girlfriend Ashlie are close as ever.  He is happy.   Sometimes I get sad, but less and less often.  Its a grieving process.  This isn't what I planned for him.  For us.  For my ideal family.  But its good.  His testimony is intact, stronger than ever, he says.  And I have to believe him.  I want to believe him.  He hasn't given me reason not to believe him.  So I do.  And it gives me comfort.  A lot of comfort.

His future?  Well, no decisions for a while.  And that's a good thing.  Anyway, these aren't my decisions to make, darn it.  Ah, parenting adult children.  Certainly not for wimps.

And I still love my boy.

Sometimes He Calms the Storm...

There is a line, I believe that it is from a Christian Pop song, that says "Sometimes He calms the storm, other times He calms his child."  I like this line. 






Yesterday we went to the baptism of a sweet neighbor boy.  It was a wonderful event. His face beamed with a pure, clean light.   While we were waiting to go in to the baptism my almost-five-year-old son Jacob sat on my lap as we watched a film called Finding Faith in Christ.  You can watch it here.  Its a film about the life of Christ, from the perspective of his disciple Thomas, and shows examples of how his faith has grown.  In the film, among his other miracles, Jesus heals many people who are sick.  


Today in church Jacob turned to me and asked "What is that?"- pointing to the oxygen tank being used by a man sitting near us.  I told him.  Then he asked "But why is he shaking like that?".  "Because, honey, he is sick," I said.  "Jesus could heal him" Jake said.  "Yes, yes he could.  But, (I had to think for a minute) sometimes Jesus doesn't heal everyone that is sick.  Sometimes he just helps them feel better in their hearts."


Yes, He does.


Its a stressful time at my house.  Some of us are dealing with some hard things, things that we wish would be "calmed" or just "miraculously" go away.  Experience tells me, though, that grand, call-in-the-brass-band type miracles rarely happen.  Its okay, though. We will be fine.  


"Sometimes He calms he storm, other times He calms his child."  All we have to do is keep asking for that calm, and do our part.  And then we have our own, quiet, wonderfully sustaining private miracle of peace.


If only I could remember this ALL the time, instead of resorting to beating my head against the wall screaming for fairness in this unfair and imperfect world.


Working on it.

My Trip to Antarctica

An evolution of a post I originally wrote for A Little Great.

There's a very good analogy I've heard referred to many times entitled "Welcome to Holland".  Maybe you've heard it, too.  In the analogy a traveler is at first dismayed when she realizes that instead of arriving in Italy for her dream vacation, as she had expected, she has arrived in Holland.  The "gist" of the story is that sometimes in life we don't get to take the "trip" we originally envision or expect, but that the new "trip" we find ourselves on is just as good, only in different ways.  The story was originally written for parents of children with disabilities, but can also be applied to others experiencing challenges and adversity.

Over the years I've given this story a lot of thought, and lately I have decided to modify it a bit to relate more widely to my own life.  I've decided that for me life's trials and disappointments, whatever they may be, are more like a trip to ANTARCTICA.

Why?  Well, personally, I've had my share of challenges, and I often don't find the disappointing, frustrating, painful, grief-inducing experiences of life to be  "just as fun and interesting, only in a different way" as the life experiences I had originally planned and hoped for.  I find them to be HARD.  That aside, they are still worth the airfare.  

Here are a few ways that the Antarctica analogy works for me:

• On our trip to Antarctica we can learn many valuable things, just as real researchers do.  We can also experience joy, as we learn to appreciate Antarctica's unique wonders.
• Even though Antarctica can be cold and lonely at times, we can build significant  relationships with the people on our expedition with us.  Because of the harsh conditions we experience together, these relationships may even be stronger, deeper and more meaningful than the relationships we might have built if we had gone to our desired destinations and luxuriated on the beach, each engrossed in our own novels. 
• In Antarctica it is very important for researchers to have access to a radio connection to "home base" at all times.  When we are in our own Antarctica we face such harsh conditions that we also often find it necessary to rely heavily on this connection. It gives us needed guidance and assures us that someone knows and understands our location and situation. If things were easier, as in Italy, we might not choose to "use our radios" as often, missing out on this comforting information. 

Some of our "trips to Antarctica" are only short layovers.  We look back on them as times of great learning and growth.  We feel a sense of accomplishment at the discoveries we made there.  We appreciate the comforts of home more once we return.  Other times, our stays are extended. 


Regardless of the length of our stay, through making the journey we learn and grow in ways we couldn't have otherwise.  We become stronger, more compassionate towards our fellow travelers and learn on a deeper level that we truly are never alone.  


And, in the end, isn't that really better than spending endless days basking in the sun?


What do you you think?  Does this analogy work for you?  I'd love your comments.

Mermaids

Where I thought we might end up after the swimming pool episode.

When I was little we belonged to a country club.  It fit in well with my Dad's job as an advertising executive for KFMB TV in San Diego.  Stardust (yes, it really was called that) was a place to do business, a place to take potential clients for a round of golf or cocktails.  Very "Mad-Men"-esque (I've actually never seen the show, but from what I've heard about it, my dad would have fit right in with the cast).

Lyn and I on the golf course.

An added benefit to being a member of the club was that my sister Lyn and I got to go there to swim and to have the occasional Shirley Temple or Roy Rogers in the red and black velvet wall-papered lounge.  It was the height of "I may look like a kid, but actually I'm a very cool grown-up in disguise"-ness. Awesome.

One day Lyn and I got really brave at the club.  We were very bad indeed.  There was another lounge at the club and this one was strictly off-limits to kids.  It had a tank behind the bar that took up the full wall.  In that tank, actually a small, deep swimming pool with a glass side, women dressed as mermaids would do an underwater ballet-type show.  One day, when the lounge was closed, Lyn and I snuck in to the glass pool.  I remember thinking it was so dangerous and exciting.  We swam in the pool, did flips underwater, and put on our own show.  There we were, a teenage mermaid and her little sister, swimming behind the bar.  I remember how hard it was to hold my breath long enough to gracefully swim deep enough that I could open my eyes and see through the glass to my imaginary audience.  It was wonderfully dangerous.  I wish I had a picture.

Me, three months, and Lyn, 8 1/2.

Over the years, people who have heard some of my childhood stories have often ask me the question "How did you go through everything you've been through and turn out so normal?".  While I might argue with the "normal" part, I usually answer, from the heart, that I made it through because of the loving foundation my mother gave me in my first five years, and because of my sister, who has ALWAYS been there for me.

Lyn and I shortly after I moved in.

My sister invited me to come for a visit, which turned into forever, with her and her husband the summer before I entered fifth grade.  I was ten and she was 18 and her husband Mike was 21.  Eighteen!  Crazy.  Since then we've been through so many things together- five bouts with Cancer, three life threatening car accidents, the trials and joys of raising our combined total of 12 biological and adopted children-several of whom have had special needs and challenges, deaths in the family, multiple moves, separations, surgeries, heart-aches and holidays.  We don't see each other as often as we would like, but when we do, its like we never left.  We understand.  We've been there. 

Thank you, Lynie, for rescuing me, and for being my forever sister and fellow mermaid.

Ignore the glamorous Costco background.  I like this pic.

The Cinderella Years

Me, about age six

This is me and my Dallas friend in our
look-alike dresses and purses

My mother died the November I was five, and there was no way that my dad was up to putting on a Christmas for us so soon after her death. A friend of my Dad's realized this and flew my sister and I from where we lived in San Diego to their home in Dallas. Texas.  They gave me a dress and purse just like their daughter's, and I remember that it snowed just a few flakes while I was there  I had never seen snow before, so I thought that it was absolutely magical.  At the time I didn't realize what an amazing thing it was that this family I barely knew did for us.  Thank you, Dallas people, whoever and wherever you are, for giving us a bit of normalcy during a crazy time.


Soon the family settled in to a new "normal".  My dad had always been a "meet me at the door with a cocktail after work" businessman, but after my mom's death his drinking increased.  He also started dating.  It seemed like he dated a lot.  I remember once he took my sister and me along when he took a woman away for the weekend.  He bought us all new nightgowns.  The way I remember it I slept in the closet. Maybe that was a different time- it happened more than once.  Anyway,  I remember thinking it was fun.  I remember pretending that I had to live in a space that small forever, and thinking about how I would decorate it and make it work. 

Robin and I with her grandson on his
birthday.  I remember being jealous
of him and this cake.

About a year after my mom died my dad got re-married to a woman named Bessie Etta Hart. She called herself Robin, but I don't know why. She was from Mississippi, and had been married three times before.  My father thought that she was beautiful.  She had dark curly hair and light eyes (blue? violet?).  She was a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (Mormons).  We had been Presbyterians before, but hadn't really been to church since my mom's death. I remember the first time I went to an LDS meeting.  It was a children's activity (Primary) and I was sitting in the front row quietly listening to what was going on when the boy next to me suddenly stood up and barfed red kool-aid and hot dogs all over the floor right in front of me.  Awesome.

Robin had the LDS missionaries come over and teach my sister, dad and I about the church.  We all decided to be baptized (I think that my dad mad the choice mostly because Robin wanted it).  I remember the day shortly after my eighth birthday when I was baptized.  I felt wonderful- warm, peaceful and so loved by my Father in Heaven. That feeling got me through many tough times in those years.  Robin was an odd member of the LDS church.  She didn't want to be married to my father in an LDS temple because she thought (just one of her very strange beliefs) that if she was righteous enough she would someday be married to Jesus Christ.  


Life with Robin was hard.  These were my "Cinderella and her Wicked Stepmother" days, at least in my mind.  Here are some "highlights":
- at least two hours of housework every day, including scrubbing the floors on hands and knees and moving all of the furniture and cleaning under it weekly.  Six hours of housework on Saturdays.
- no new clothes or toys .  I wore her daughter's (age 27 and tiny) very out of style and age inappropriate hand me downs. 
- six tablespoons each of cod liver oil and brewers yeast daily as a health food remedy for my dermatitis (it didn't work)
- being forced to eat ant-infested lemon bars that I left out on the counter (ants and all)
- being exiled to my bedroom for two days on Christmas when my dad and Robin had a fight because I didn't come when called to help with Christmas dinner. I had been playing with a toy Robin's adult son had given me.
- frequent discipline with a flyswatter on the legs.
- the bill for my orthodontia being posted on my door with a hand-written note that said something like :"We are paying all of this for you, what are you doing for US?"

I remember I didn't have a costume
this year, so I wore one of my sister's
old dance costumes.  People asked
what I "was" and I said
"a dancing girl". I felt stupid.

But the worst part, for me, was all of the time I spent alone. In the neighborhood where we lived there were two sessions of first grade- morning and afternoon.  I had the afternoon session.  To my memory I was alone every day until school started and was responsible for getting myself dressed and ready, making my lunches, etc..  Needless to say my outfits didn't always match and weren’t necessarily even clean.  Robin didn't want to be bothered with my naturally curly hair, so she cut it very short.  She wouldn't let me have a part in my hair because "Parts look like an Indian chopped your head".   We lived in a very upscale area of San Diego at that time, and I remember the kids at the bus stop stealing my stuff and taunting me until they made me cry because I was shy and so different.  My first grade year was the year when I think it really hit me that my mom was gone, and wasn't coming back.  I cried a lot. 

Lyn throwing the bouquet at her at-home
wedding.  She made her dress and I
think she made mine, too.

Being alone at night was even worse.  I used to check behind every door and the shower curtains to make sure that there were no bad guys in the house.  I remember taking ropes and trying to tie all of the doors closed so no one could get in. All of this happened when I  was between five and nine years old.



My sister was married the week she graduated from high school.  She was seventeen.  She was definitely in love, and is still married to her husband today, but I also think that she was very glad to get out of our house.  I missed her, though, when she wasn't at home with me any more.  So much.


Lessons learned during this time:  Kids need you to put your needs second to theirs, even when it isn't what you feel like doing at the time.  Kids need supervision, even if they seem competent and mature beyond their years.  And, don't forget, there are good people in this world and even when we feel alone we have a Heavenly Father who loves us.

Life goes on, and there are good times along with the bad.  
More about some of those good times next time :)