2 years ago we were celebrating our last "brother day", National Siblings Day, and the 7th anniversary of when Gus came home from the NICU and my boys finally met. It was a good day. 2 weeks later Gus suddenly died.
April is all the things. Both kids birthdays, our anniversary, Liam's birthday, often Easter, Gus' death day. It's heavy and the world doesn't help. We can use extra prayers.
And I'm so thankful for you and those girls who met on our way to Kentucky 20+ years ago.
Oh Betsy. It’s all too much, isn’t it? I keep meaning to tell you this little story, and today it wove its way back. The day that I heard the news about your sweet Gus, I was driving home from an appointment somewhere, listening to this playlist that one of my best friends had helped me make, of all these silly cheesy favorite songs to help keep me going through all the horrors of those early days of uncertainty and endless doctors’ offices. One of the songs I heard that day was “Bad Day” by Daniel Powter, which always weirdly had a way of cheering me up. But ever since then, whenever I hear it, I think of you and your family, and I pray for you, and it’s become this bittersweet song too. And then today, I found myself putting that playlist on again, from two years ago. “Bad Day” came on, and we’ve had a rough week round these parts, so one of the kids piped up from the back & started singing it. Which made me cry, and my other son said, “You used to say you loved this song, so why does it make you cry now?” And all I could think was that if you get to live long enough, all the beautiful things become sad & the sad things become beautiful, and it feels like all of it breaks your heart. So just know that I was with you across the miles today, and I think of you and your family so often. And none of it is fair or easy, but I have to keep believing we can still find hope and beauty. Your boy is never forgotten.
Thankful to have found this tonight. My husband (who’s in his mid-40s) is a year into a medical trial for a slow-moving blood cancer that decided to speed up, and there’s no clear end in sight. We definitely feel like we occupy a different reality than most: right between the “learning to let go… and embrace the life you actually have” lottery and the ache of feeling “frighteningly fragile.” (We’d 100% be your downer friends at the party, but we’d probably also be the ones laughing at good dark-humor jokes too.)
But tonight was one of those nights: sitting on the floor, nose tucked between my knees, crying my eyes out from the sheer fatigue of living in this weary uncertainty. Your words helped me feel seen and more free to rest for now as I lay here watching my husband sleep, knowing even sleep is a gift God gives the weary who sow in tears.
Love wins.
Grace bats last.
Thanks for offering words to hold in the dark as we wait for the dawn.
blessings on this day, this day. sounds like we both got shot out of our cannons eight days apart. you went first: you're braver than me. i am following behind. your agonies and ecstasies i know. a hundred thousand blessings on this survival day.
Second, this post unearthed a memory of me taking The Agony and The Ecstasy off our shelf and deciding I was going to read it. I was definitely 9 or 10 (I didn’t get very far).
And to the body memory thing. It is so undeniably real. I spent last week feeling insane until I remembered it was the first week of April, in which I did not get cancer, but other cracks in the universe opened up under my feet. Suddenly sudden onset ADHD and migraines along with an insatiable need to scroll into oblivion were revealed to be not a personal character flaw.
I did read all of Bessel Van Der Kolk’s book, and then because research is my chosen torture of choice I also dove down a bunch of rabbit holes about how it was a load of crock.
I’m inclined to believe it’s not, given the fact that my body always, always tells the truth even when I’m trying to convince myself that I’m “fine, fine! I don’t know why it’s all coming out squeaky but I’m fine!”
Prayers for you and thank you for sharing the link for Steph’s memorial fund. My heart just dropped when I read her post.
Cried my entire way through this one. I'm not a survivor of cancer, but my dad, up to this day, is and started chemo on Monday, and my father-in-law has just been diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic and liver cancer, so, sighs too deep for words. And to your question about has anyone finished Bessel's "The Body Keeps the Score," as for me and my house, the answer is no. I thought it'd be a good idea to buy it maybe 4 weeks after I came close to dying giving birth to our daughter and was in a long ass healing process (and yeah, body will never be the same after that), and had to put it down after maybe 2 paragraphs? Later, my therapist said gently, "maybe not right now." And I took her words to heart. All to say, thank you. love you. with you.
love your words. Tomorrow is the 25th!!!!!! anniversary of my mother’s catastrophic stroke (she was 52) (I’m almost 52). It’s more agony than ecstasy. it’s unbelievable and more than impossible to go into here:). Too exhausted to process much anymore. But when I do it’s horribly honest.
I’m a chaplain now. that’s the good that’s come of all this I guess. Working at a cancer center as of a couple months and I find this helpful in how I listen and support my patients. Blessings.
Fellow cancer survivor here, 11 years out (exactly this time of year) from finishing chemo after an ovarian cancer diagnosis at 31. It does get better, but it’s slow progress, especially on the mental/mindset side. The “equity” piece was a big challenge for me, and I wrestle with it a little bit every time someone around me passes from cancer (survivor’s guilt, theirs is worse than mine comparisons, etc). It truly is a “one day at a time” thing.
Also, I’m actually reading “The Body Keeps The Score” right now and though it’s a larger book, it’s quite readable and fascinating.
Your #3 under “The Ecstasy” had me clapping and cheering…all three under “The Agony” have me giving you a fierce bear hug. I cannot even begin to imagine it…❤️
As a fellow survivor (EEEEK, five years out and it STILL feels like a curse word) everything about this is everything I’ve felt and continue to feel. I’m so grateful for your ability to put this bizarre experience into words.
The toddler phase analogy feels soo good! Tomorrow marks 5 years from life saving leg salvage surgery that forever changed my life thanks to the bone cancer tumor that had grown out of my bone. I have started to tell people that day saved my life, but it was 2.5 later, after I had my rotationplasty amputation that I truly felt like I was actually going to get to live my life. Some days it’s so hard to get through and accept the changes of what I thought motherhood would be for me. Being disabled comes with its own unique set of challenges, as I also parent a child with a physical disability. I also feel the aging and changing of my body, even at age 37, 4.5 years past chemo. Menopause. Osteopenia. Crap sleep, despite all my best efforts. And now facing balance issues that I’m convinced would be considered side effects from chemo. Long story, but chemo is shit for bones, (and it’s a bone in my ear that could be the issue). It’s all so hard and heavy. And yet. I get to see my wild children grow and be carefree. They were so little at my dx (18 months and in utero) that they don’t remember that trauma. But my body does. Daily. And more so, on the anniversary dates, yet less as every year passes. Time is a funny thing. And I’m so deeply grateful for it, and also just so tired!
Thank you for sharing your experience of this crap experience with us, Laura! The dark humor will get us through! Along with your beautiful words.
I have some of those thoughts to this day! And I'm 18 years beyond a very scary prognosis. My thoughts about death at the time were about the people I would leave here. I didn't want them to be sad. I was pretty sure I personally wouldn't be SAD, and in a way I thought with my cancer I would at least get a chance to say goodbye. I was sad not so much about missing the growth and happy times with my grand children because I believe(d) I will somehow get to see them from my heavenly vantage point. It was just that they wouldn't get to see me seeing them. That really bugged me and still does! I want them to see the joy they bring me! Those feelings first prompted by cancer back in 2007 are still with me today. It's just that at 75 it seems all more reasonable. And yes, my body was changed in ways I'm still discovering. I didn't think it would remember this long...in fact I was pretty sure I wouldn't last this long.
2 years ago we were celebrating our last "brother day", National Siblings Day, and the 7th anniversary of when Gus came home from the NICU and my boys finally met. It was a good day. 2 weeks later Gus suddenly died.
April is all the things. Both kids birthdays, our anniversary, Liam's birthday, often Easter, Gus' death day. It's heavy and the world doesn't help. We can use extra prayers.
And I'm so thankful for you and those girls who met on our way to Kentucky 20+ years ago.
Oh Betsy. It’s all too much, isn’t it? I keep meaning to tell you this little story, and today it wove its way back. The day that I heard the news about your sweet Gus, I was driving home from an appointment somewhere, listening to this playlist that one of my best friends had helped me make, of all these silly cheesy favorite songs to help keep me going through all the horrors of those early days of uncertainty and endless doctors’ offices. One of the songs I heard that day was “Bad Day” by Daniel Powter, which always weirdly had a way of cheering me up. But ever since then, whenever I hear it, I think of you and your family, and I pray for you, and it’s become this bittersweet song too. And then today, I found myself putting that playlist on again, from two years ago. “Bad Day” came on, and we’ve had a rough week round these parts, so one of the kids piped up from the back & started singing it. Which made me cry, and my other son said, “You used to say you loved this song, so why does it make you cry now?” And all I could think was that if you get to live long enough, all the beautiful things become sad & the sad things become beautiful, and it feels like all of it breaks your heart. So just know that I was with you across the miles today, and I think of you and your family so often. And none of it is fair or easy, but I have to keep believing we can still find hope and beauty. Your boy is never forgotten.
Thankful to have found this tonight. My husband (who’s in his mid-40s) is a year into a medical trial for a slow-moving blood cancer that decided to speed up, and there’s no clear end in sight. We definitely feel like we occupy a different reality than most: right between the “learning to let go… and embrace the life you actually have” lottery and the ache of feeling “frighteningly fragile.” (We’d 100% be your downer friends at the party, but we’d probably also be the ones laughing at good dark-humor jokes too.)
But tonight was one of those nights: sitting on the floor, nose tucked between my knees, crying my eyes out from the sheer fatigue of living in this weary uncertainty. Your words helped me feel seen and more free to rest for now as I lay here watching my husband sleep, knowing even sleep is a gift God gives the weary who sow in tears.
Love wins.
Grace bats last.
Thanks for offering words to hold in the dark as we wait for the dawn.
Thank you for these words
blessings on this day, this day. sounds like we both got shot out of our cannons eight days apart. you went first: you're braver than me. i am following behind. your agonies and ecstasies i know. a hundred thousand blessings on this survival day.
First, I’m just really thankful for you.
Second, this post unearthed a memory of me taking The Agony and The Ecstasy off our shelf and deciding I was going to read it. I was definitely 9 or 10 (I didn’t get very far).
And to the body memory thing. It is so undeniably real. I spent last week feeling insane until I remembered it was the first week of April, in which I did not get cancer, but other cracks in the universe opened up under my feet. Suddenly sudden onset ADHD and migraines along with an insatiable need to scroll into oblivion were revealed to be not a personal character flaw.
I did read all of Bessel Van Der Kolk’s book, and then because research is my chosen torture of choice I also dove down a bunch of rabbit holes about how it was a load of crock.
I’m inclined to believe it’s not, given the fact that my body always, always tells the truth even when I’m trying to convince myself that I’m “fine, fine! I don’t know why it’s all coming out squeaky but I’m fine!”
Prayers for you and thank you for sharing the link for Steph’s memorial fund. My heart just dropped when I read her post.
Cried my entire way through this one. I'm not a survivor of cancer, but my dad, up to this day, is and started chemo on Monday, and my father-in-law has just been diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic and liver cancer, so, sighs too deep for words. And to your question about has anyone finished Bessel's "The Body Keeps the Score," as for me and my house, the answer is no. I thought it'd be a good idea to buy it maybe 4 weeks after I came close to dying giving birth to our daughter and was in a long ass healing process (and yeah, body will never be the same after that), and had to put it down after maybe 2 paragraphs? Later, my therapist said gently, "maybe not right now." And I took her words to heart. All to say, thank you. love you. with you.
Anne Lamott's quote, "Grace bats last." may need to be my epitaph.
love your words. Tomorrow is the 25th!!!!!! anniversary of my mother’s catastrophic stroke (she was 52) (I’m almost 52). It’s more agony than ecstasy. it’s unbelievable and more than impossible to go into here:). Too exhausted to process much anymore. But when I do it’s horribly honest.
I’m a chaplain now. that’s the good that’s come of all this I guess. Working at a cancer center as of a couple months and I find this helpful in how I listen and support my patients. Blessings.
Fellow cancer survivor here, 11 years out (exactly this time of year) from finishing chemo after an ovarian cancer diagnosis at 31. It does get better, but it’s slow progress, especially on the mental/mindset side. The “equity” piece was a big challenge for me, and I wrestle with it a little bit every time someone around me passes from cancer (survivor’s guilt, theirs is worse than mine comparisons, etc). It truly is a “one day at a time” thing.
Also, I’m actually reading “The Body Keeps The Score” right now and though it’s a larger book, it’s quite readable and fascinating.
You are one of my favorite writers and I'm glad you're still alive.
Your #3 under “The Ecstasy” had me clapping and cheering…all three under “The Agony” have me giving you a fierce bear hug. I cannot even begin to imagine it…❤️
As a fellow survivor (EEEEK, five years out and it STILL feels like a curse word) everything about this is everything I’ve felt and continue to feel. I’m so grateful for your ability to put this bizarre experience into words.
The toddler phase analogy feels soo good! Tomorrow marks 5 years from life saving leg salvage surgery that forever changed my life thanks to the bone cancer tumor that had grown out of my bone. I have started to tell people that day saved my life, but it was 2.5 later, after I had my rotationplasty amputation that I truly felt like I was actually going to get to live my life. Some days it’s so hard to get through and accept the changes of what I thought motherhood would be for me. Being disabled comes with its own unique set of challenges, as I also parent a child with a physical disability. I also feel the aging and changing of my body, even at age 37, 4.5 years past chemo. Menopause. Osteopenia. Crap sleep, despite all my best efforts. And now facing balance issues that I’m convinced would be considered side effects from chemo. Long story, but chemo is shit for bones, (and it’s a bone in my ear that could be the issue). It’s all so hard and heavy. And yet. I get to see my wild children grow and be carefree. They were so little at my dx (18 months and in utero) that they don’t remember that trauma. But my body does. Daily. And more so, on the anniversary dates, yet less as every year passes. Time is a funny thing. And I’m so deeply grateful for it, and also just so tired!
Thank you for sharing your experience of this crap experience with us, Laura! The dark humor will get us through! Along with your beautiful words.
Just wanted to thank you for your words and especially for the footnotes today.
I have some of those thoughts to this day! And I'm 18 years beyond a very scary prognosis. My thoughts about death at the time were about the people I would leave here. I didn't want them to be sad. I was pretty sure I personally wouldn't be SAD, and in a way I thought with my cancer I would at least get a chance to say goodbye. I was sad not so much about missing the growth and happy times with my grand children because I believe(d) I will somehow get to see them from my heavenly vantage point. It was just that they wouldn't get to see me seeing them. That really bugged me and still does! I want them to see the joy they bring me! Those feelings first prompted by cancer back in 2007 are still with me today. It's just that at 75 it seems all more reasonable. And yes, my body was changed in ways I'm still discovering. I didn't think it would remember this long...in fact I was pretty sure I wouldn't last this long.
I love you and every word of this. ♥️