Breast Cancer for Christmas

This week marks the year anniversary of my being diagnosed with breast cancer. After my biopsy, I had to wait about 10 days for my results. In encouragement, my friends and family kept telling me I didn’t know anything until the doctor called – but I knew they were wrong. I can’t explain how sometimes we just seem to know things, but I knew.

The day before my birthday, (Dec. 14th) I was trying to stop thinking about when I would get the call,….. When I did finally get the call. As I stared at the phone ringing for the second time, I just stood there. With my heart hammering double time, I finally picked up the receiver. I didn’t want to hear it - and until I actually heard my doctor’s voice, saying those words to me - there was still a shred of hope. But none of that really mattered,… because I already knew. As my doctor went on about the biopsy, nothing clicked and fully registered until I heard him say, “And yes, I’m sorry to tell you - that you do have Breast Cancer.” As my sweaty hand gripped the phone, my shaky breathing suddenly switched to gasps.

I don’t remember crying hysterically,…. It was just that after that moment tears were always in my eyes. If I wasn’t actually crying, the promise of tears were always hovering or hanging from my eyelashes. I noticed everything I hadn’t noticed before. Devouring my children with my eyes, I suddenly noticed their habits more. I saw how tall they were,…and just how beautiful they were. At night, I’d sneak into their rooms, climb slowly under their blankets and snuggle up close to them. I would lie for hours just holding them and smelling them. As the pillow beneath my head slowly became wetter and wetter with my tears, I would stare out their doorways and watch how the reflections of colored lights from the Christmas tree danced off the walls.

My mind was racing. How many more Christmases would I have with my kids,…. with my husband? Would they know how much I loved them if I died? Who would fix everything up just the way they liked? Could I really give up the sweetness of my children’s kisses and accept that I had cancer? How big was my cancer? Where exactly was it? How fast was it growing? Why didn’t I have any symptoms? Was it possible that a nurse accidentally mixed up some files and I was really okay? During the 10 days prior to Christmas, my brain was a mess. Even though I had immediately made appointments to see specialists, it was the holidays. I was forced to wait until after the New Year to see anyone.

Christmas morning, my eight year old daughter London, wanted me to open her present first. At her school they have a special store planned by the PTA. The kids bring money and pick out whatever they want as gifts for their family. To a child – this is paradise, topped off with a pink pony. Not being able to wait any longer, London eagerly placed her gift in my hands. I peeled the tape away from the bulky, uneven blob of wrapping paper. (I think she used a whole roll of tape and wrapping paper to wrap it.) Inside, I discovered a small, red embroidered box. London had taped a small note on the outside that read, “I love you mom.” - TO: Mom / From: London. I looked up at London’s face. It was glowing with love and anticipation. When I opened the box, I found a small, glass angel with a golden halo. The angel’s small, glass hands were holding a red heart.

“It’s an Angel Worry Box!” London explained with pride, opening the red box a little wider to show me a small parchment glued on the inside. “This angel will take away all your worries, Mom!” I smiled a shaky smile. So bad I wanted this simple, glass angel to take away all my worries - but I knew better. I still had cancer, and I was terrified. And as I stared at this precious gift, I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t see through the wall of tears pouring from my eyes. As my emotions rose up from inside me and ran down my face, I couldn’t do anything but make small choking sounds. I pulled London into my arms. She hugged me back just as fiercely. As the tears slid down my face, I laid my head on her shoulder and sobbed. Reaching up, London gently stroked my hair.

I took that glass angel with me when I had my double mastectomy on Feb. 13. And although I lost my breasts, I received the best presents of all. I received love, comfort, support, a family who will always be there for me (no matter what,) my beautiful angel worry box and Breath. And no matter what anyone says - love and especially breath are the greatest gifts of all!

UPDATE: My Stage 1 Invasive Cancer was caught very early. So early in fact, that doctor’s are in awe of how lucky I am/was. All of the cancer was removed during my mastectomy and nothing reached my lymph nodes. I needed no Chemo and no radiation. My doctor’s tell me I definitely had an angel watching over me. I smile because I know this is true. I did have an angel watching over me,…. a small, glass angel with a golden halo and a red heart. As a matter of fact,… she watches over me still.

“The Angel in this box

Is the guardian of your heart.

Give her your worries

And your fears,

So hope and peace can start.

Keep this box nearby you,

And know how much she cares,

For when you need love and joy,

Your Angel will be there.”

The Color Of Cancer

This is the first poem I've written about having breast cancer since my diagnosis in Dec. 2007. I wanted to write one about cancer, and knew it was inside me (no pun intended....) It just took a while to work its way out. When you find out you have cancer, this complete and utter fear invades every part of you. I just kept wondering, "how big is it?", "where exactly is it?", "what shape is it?", "how fast is it growing?", and also wondered, "what color is cancer?" I feel this poem explains all the images I believed cancer to be.

The Color Of Cancer

If cancer had color,
would it be bright red with horror-
its heartless vines stretching
like fresh blood spatter on a wall?

Or maybe purple-
royally empowered with greed,
plundering poor cells and leaving no survivors?

Do I imagine it yellow-
oozing sickly jaundice,
while weakening the body, turning strength into stench?

Or possibly blue-
frosty and unfeeling,
like a cold I.V. slowly dripping icy fear?

I can picture it green-
sprouting spores of fresh fungus,
rapidly spreading poisonous polyps.

I once thought it black-
casting pure evil, cursing my soul,
a Salem witch hanging heavy on my heart.

But now know it’s white-
cut out with my breasts
cleansed free, I own breath,
my baptism of birth and a gift of my worth.

Three Year Old Vs. The Ant Hills

I heard her screaming. From somewhere in the backyard, her long, shrill cries blasted my ears like the siren of a distant fire engine interrupting a calm day. I ran. I didn't know where I was going, but I ran in the direction I believed her cries were coming from. Her screams clearly told me something was wrong. Images of broken teeth hanging from a bloody mouth filled my mind. She was a tough three year old, but the sheer panic and pain projecting from her lungs, told me it was much more than just a casual fall, a scraped knee or even the possibility that her 7 year old sister may have clunked her in the head with a baseball bat.
In sheer panic, I raced to find the screams. As I pushed through the screen door, I heard it slam behind me as if in slow motion. I caught sight of my three year old as she turned the corner and came barreling into the garage. With her little legs pumping, she was half running, half stomping towards me. Wildly waving her hands around, she resembled someone mimicking a strange ancestral dance of some sort. Running to her, my confusion was clear on my face. As she got closer, her frantic screams penetrated my fragile eardrums. Once I got a good look at her, I knew at once what was wrong.
A normal warm day in Texas, I had dressed her in shorts, a t-shirt, socks and sneakers. As she squirmed in pain, I could see that her small legs, from her shoes to up past her knees, were swarming with medium sized fire ants. They were everywhere! Screaming myself now, I began stripping her down. Within seconds, in the shelter of the garage, my three year old stood before me in only her underwear.
Ants were inside her shoes. They had made it inside her socks. Small, pink mounds were already visible against her tanned, toddler skin. They were between her toes. There were ants up her thighs. Off came her underwear! Managing to penetrate into her underclothing, the ants had attacked her small, delicate bum where bumps were already looking like a furious, festering diaper rash. A few stubborn ants still clung tightly to her skin, their teeth digging in as their bodies gyrated back and forth in anger. With forceful pinches, I plucked them off her, flicking them away as quickly as I could.
Picking up my baby, I cradled her into the kitchen where I sat her up on the kitchen counter. Closely, I began my inspection. By this time, my daughter had stopped screaming. She was merely moaning now, humming her painful tune over and over again, like a vacant, tedious dial tone. Cooing and comforting her, I moved swiftly and resourcefully, as a mother soon learns to do. Swabbing a cool washcloth over her swollen, heated legs, I pulled her close and hugged her. With smooth, loving fingers, I wiped her dirty, tear streaked face and tried to console her.
The end result? My 3 year old had about 30 fire ant bites dotting each small, chubby leg. There were possibly 60 bites in all. Like I said, she's a tough, little girl. And although I hated that this had happened to her, I was just glad she was tough. After cleaning her up, I applied cream with lots of hugging and kissing in between, and she was fine. She was my little trouper. However, this incident did leave her with a fresh, new fear of playing on the grass.
Running to the edge of the driveway, she'd suddenly stop. I was quickly summoned to fetch her ball, each and every time it rolled off her sanctuary of pavement and drifted into the realm of dark and evil anthills. Every small pain or itch she experienced after this, was screamed out in sheer terror. She believed every small twitch or scratch was a new surprise attack of ants, and she would jerk and cry out in her sleep as if reliving her horror, over and over. Anyone who came to our house was suddenly bombarded with her traumatic tale. They'd listen patiently, their laughter clearly in cheek as her story laborously played out complete with animated gestures and dramatic charades. It was very obvious the whole experience had deeply affected her.
So for a while, my 3 year old daughter became my inside buddy. As I cleaned, cooked, and kept the house in order, she would watch TV or play quietly in her room. She would try on her older sister's outfits (and a natural born shoe lover) she would wear every shoe in the house by days end.
Meanwhile, during this time, my husband and I were trying to get our home business back up and running. We had recently relocated to a different state and our finances were not what they had fortunately been, before the move. With every passing day, we found ourselves stressed. Vividly, we watched our small savings dwindle into nothingness. Daily, I was plagued with headaches, and I'd wake myself in the middle of the night with the continuous clenching of my teeth. As we both became more and more engrossed in our stress, we soon found that our fuses were much too short. Tempers flared and patience was meager.
Adding more to our plate, my ailing father suddenly passed away. After the funeral, the only thing I could feel was "beat up" and "broken." Upon returning home, once again, my husband and I turned our attention to the daunting lack of business and our bleak money situation.
The first weeks following my father's death, found me simply lying awake at night. Racing thoughts bounced and bounded through my head, recalling my many images of childhood. Silently and secretly, I grieved and missed my father terribly. I'd catch myself sobbing four or fives times during the day and soon I stopped applying mascara or make-up at all. After all, I just cried it off anyway. I hardly left the house, and the only time I ventured outside was to aimlessly wander down the driveway to miserably collect more bills. Finally succumbing to the need off having food in the house, I dragged myself into the car and miraculously accomplished the overwhelming task of grocery shopping.
Only after hearing that my older sister, after 20 years of marriage and with four children - was divorcing her husband, did I feel like falling to my knees and giving up. As I trudged across the lawn, returning from a short visit to my husband's backyard studio, I suddenly stopped in my tracks, feeling exhausted and ready to give up. As if attacked by my own personal fire ant hill, I felt the painful sting of stress mixed with the merciless throbbing of my tremendous trials. My faith trampled, my emotions screaming, I overflowed with sorrow and endless dread.
Raising my eyes skyward, I clenched my fists in frustration and cried out angrily. "Please dear Heavenly Father," I shouted in a challenging voice and searched the clouds for a sign - any sign. Frantically, I peered into the heavens, hoping for a miracle.
"Dad?" I begged softly, my voice breaking with emotion; my shoulders sagging, "I miss you so much." Hot tears slid dejected down my cheeks, and I sniffed. "If you can." I pleaded. "Please send some help. We're going to lose our new house," I told him, as if he didn't already know everything as he watched me from his heavenly perch on high. Suddenly, I felt something tugging at my shirt.
"Mama?" A squeaky voice suddenly brought me back to the present. I was still standing in my sunny backyard, halfway to the house on my way back from my husband's studio. With tears running down my face, I looked down to see my three year old daughter. At first, it didn't hit me, but then I realized. Shocked, I stared down at her. My daughter was actually standing on the grass! It had been weeks since she'd left pavement and set foot on the lawn. As understanding slowly sank in, I smiled.
My three year old was standing on the grass in her tall, yellow rain boots. Looking up at me, a victorious smile began to spread across her precious, little face. Tugging at my shirt again, she made an announcement.  "I'm ready to play outside now," She informed me, her voice confident with pride. "The ants can't get me if I wear my boots."
Wiping my eyes, I inhaled a shaky breath and nodded. My three year old had found a way to conquer her ant hills. It had taken about three weeks, but in the end she had come out the winner. Exhaling slowly, I looked up at the sky again and promised myself that I would keep trying.
My husband's business has still not "taken off" to its full potential. We still worry about what we will do and how we will pay the bills, but each day, I get up and wait for opportunity to knock. And when it doesn't, I smile and somehow make it through the day. I still miss my dad and know I will have days when I simply break down and cry. But when I'm done with the tears, I wipe my eyes and turn to find my little example.
She is sitting on a booster chair at the kitchen table with glue, construction paper and safety scissors. She looks at me, and her love and happiness lights up the whole house. She has taught me a lesson. When my daughter was faced with adversity, she took her time in figuring out a way to overcome it.
As I watch her, daily stumbling along after her older sister, I know she has faced her inner demons and won. Dressed humbly in shorts, a t-shirt and her yellow, knee high rain boots, she marches triumphantly across the back lawn. She is a conqueror in her own might. No longer a prisoner of pavement, she is now protected by her ever-faithful, yellow boots. With her own great power, she stomps forward, facing and treading over her enemy.
As she turns to look at me, she smiles and waves. Holding my head up high, I smile and wave back. I find I am not only smiling at my little three year old, but at her prevailing stamina. I also smile at the strength she has unknowingly taught me. It is perhaps the most valuable gift anyone has ever given me.

4th Of July

July 4th - Being done delivering a Bounce House and Slide is a very good feeling.  Until you have set up a 350 lb. Bounce House and a 550 lb. Slide, you have no idea!!  We delivered one for a neighborhood party in Fort Worth for the 4th of July, and as we got close to our location, we were in awe as we entered into such a quaint, little housing area.  Tall, well pruned, older trees cast a cool shade over the already 87 degree morning.  It was only 7:50 am, but it was gonna be a hot one!  An old fashioned, pushcart ice cream wagon rested against the curb, coolers sat nearby overflowing with ice and bottles of water, and a table nearby that was stacked high with about 20 boxes of donuts had my girls scampering about with giddiness.

After setting up the Bounce House and Slide, we locked our car and walked to the corner. Families were already sitting and waiting for their annual neighborhood Fourth of July Parade to begin and we decided to join and watch the parade too.  Laughing, we watched the crowds walk past with their family pets dressed up in red, white and blue on creative, colorful leashes.  We pointed out our favorite pooches to each other and waited with the others for the parade.

Sitting there with my husband and two girls, I felt a strange deja vue.  The park surrounding this neighborhood reminded me of a park in Milford, CT., where my younger sister lives.  I half expected to turn my head to the right and see the all familiar cascading waterfall complete with turning waterwheel.

Later that night, sitting on the steps of our back porch, my husband and I watched the girls write their names in the darkness with gold, sizzling sparklers.  Overhead, fireworks exploded in the distance.  All around us was the sounds of the 4th of July.  Some may say it was nothing too spectacular, yet for us it was true paradise.  Sometimes it's just the little things in life that mean so very much and leave the biggest memories.