So, yes, they are back in school and I am back to my 16 cups of tea before 6:30 am and it's nice to be able to breathe for a moment and not attend to or wipe anything after 8:30 am. BUT I kinda... miss them....
The noise (yelling) the lazy days, the moments of sibling care (few but there) I miss that. Already.
Now we are headlong into paperwork and pretend smiles on the playground. Back to adjusting and hurried pace. Back to realizing that even though we may be going into this school routine for the 1st time or the 15th time, time is fleeting and somehow we need to appreciate the paperwork, unconscious mornings and tantrums over hair elastics. And even though I said I would never be one of those people who tell you to "cherish every moment" here I am with my liar-liar-pants-on-fire wardrobe. We are going to blink and snow will be falling, Spring will be swooning and we will then have our toes in the sand. We will meet in this back to school place once again with our droopy everything and try to catch time with an insect net. So go grab that extra tea and join me in a moment of thanks. It's OK if you bitch the moment after. That's allowed :-)
Thursday, September 5, 2013
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
OMG OMG OMG WE. MADE. IT. (!!!) NOW PICK UP YOUR TIRED ASS OFF THE FINISH LINE! IT'S TIME FOR SUMMER!
Wahoooo here we go! Yes, I know I am delusional thinking rainbows are coming out of my kids bottoms because it's Summer! No more school with the 17,000 end of the year field trips and teachers gifts and the terror of packing lunch. By the end I wanted to hand them a fruit roll up and a twenty and ask "are we good?" But now, now we are off a schedule and we are going to be so very, very happy together! Days at the beach! Library time! Catching fireflies! Blueberry picking! Bring it!!! Right?! Right????!
For some reason I never learn. Like smashing my head into concrete again and again I think each year will be different. I get to day two of beach time ( I don't want to go-it's boring-she threw sand at me-I'm hungry!) to blueberry picking (it's hot-we have been here, like, forever-he's eating all the blueberries!) and everything in between. It goes on and on until everyone is yelling and I want to drink my way through the day.
Adjustment. That's all it is. Like we tell our kids, emotions pass, this is will pass.
What a crock of crap.
Like the days of spit up and poop-up-the-back diapers we will feel the length and hot searing heat of these Summer moments until bright crisp September rolls around. And we will dance in the kitchen (as we make that first non-fruit roll up lunch with a love note enclosed!) We will lament as we watch them leave the house for school and remark on how much we will miss them. Funny enough that lasts about 13 minutes....
But I digress. Stick with it Peeps. Summer is built for those light bulb bugs and sleeping in. You will be as tired as a ninety year old at the end of the day and that will be great. Grit through your teeth how "we don't TALK TO EACH OTHER THAT WAY!!" and laminate the house rules that no one but you will read. Do soak in those moments of laughter. The tiny minutes of silence. The smell of beach on their skin. The gift of parenthood that we have been given for such a brief time.
And if that doesn't work try rum. That'll work. Definitely.
Wahoooo here we go! Yes, I know I am delusional thinking rainbows are coming out of my kids bottoms because it's Summer! No more school with the 17,000 end of the year field trips and teachers gifts and the terror of packing lunch. By the end I wanted to hand them a fruit roll up and a twenty and ask "are we good?" But now, now we are off a schedule and we are going to be so very, very happy together! Days at the beach! Library time! Catching fireflies! Blueberry picking! Bring it!!! Right?! Right????!
For some reason I never learn. Like smashing my head into concrete again and again I think each year will be different. I get to day two of beach time ( I don't want to go-it's boring-she threw sand at me-I'm hungry!) to blueberry picking (it's hot-we have been here, like, forever-he's eating all the blueberries!) and everything in between. It goes on and on until everyone is yelling and I want to drink my way through the day.
Adjustment. That's all it is. Like we tell our kids, emotions pass, this is will pass.
What a crock of crap.
Like the days of spit up and poop-up-the-back diapers we will feel the length and hot searing heat of these Summer moments until bright crisp September rolls around. And we will dance in the kitchen (as we make that first non-fruit roll up lunch with a love note enclosed!) We will lament as we watch them leave the house for school and remark on how much we will miss them. Funny enough that lasts about 13 minutes....
But I digress. Stick with it Peeps. Summer is built for those light bulb bugs and sleeping in. You will be as tired as a ninety year old at the end of the day and that will be great. Grit through your teeth how "we don't TALK TO EACH OTHER THAT WAY!!" and laminate the house rules that no one but you will read. Do soak in those moments of laughter. The tiny minutes of silence. The smell of beach on their skin. The gift of parenthood that we have been given for such a brief time.
And if that doesn't work try rum. That'll work. Definitely.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
I'm digging in my garden. It's that time of year. Thinking of Mom and wanting to bring this post out into the light of day again....
Motherless child
May is a hard time for me. Mother's Day rolls around and I'm a bit twitchy, there is a definite edge in the air. Even though the torch has been passed to me in celebrating the day, it always goes back to my own Mother. How could it not? Like the nightlight we forget to turn off in the morning, she's always there in the background.
I lost my Mother 16 years ago to cancer. Lost is such a funny word in describing death don't you think? Like she went into the grocery store with me and just wandered off. With so many years passed and so much having happened in those years it feels like my life is truncated into two parts: my childhood with her and the beginning of my adult life. That's a really strange compartment. Comparable to playing in the sand one minute to having a house on it the next.
She missed so much. She will never know my husband, the man who transformed the way I love. She will never look into my children's eyes. She will never see them come into the world, never hold them, never comb their hair. Never be part of any Christmas or Birthday, never again ring in the new year. She will not see the radiant smiles walking down the aisle, not laugh at the antics of my Dad. All this I know. I wear the finality of it like a coat. There is nothing to be done with it but sit with it and invite it to the table; less painful than having it linger by the door.
I feel less alone now than when my kids were babies. So many nights wondering: is this normal? /did I ever have a rash like that?/was she as exhausted-elated-exhausted as I am? I'd watch my friends Mum's with that look in their eyes- bottomless love, enchantment, that buffer; how they would relish their time; the tender lessons only a Grandmother can teach.
I could do many things but I could not trace her footprint in their lives.
I'll say it. I'll say it out loud. I felt cheated.
Gradually though and with much inner destruction, I realized not all paths were meant to be ours.
The ouch of it all did ease with my husband's Mother. She was not my Mom but she loves her Grandkids. My heart melts every time she plays Crazy eights with them. Isn't that funny? Crazy eights. Who knew that would be what dulls the ache. My kids are surrounded by people who love them. My Dad's wife dotes on them like they were her very own. It's enough. We all pretend it fills the cup that is cracked. We put napkins on the floor to cover the drip. It's enough.
So now May comes around and I garden. I dig and plant and arrange and concentrate. I clean my house. I fold my laundry. I write. I smile during the Spring tea's at school and love my homemade cards. And every year I silently say the only prayer I can muster; Happy Mother's day Mom.
Motherless child
May is a hard time for me. Mother's Day rolls around and I'm a bit twitchy, there is a definite edge in the air. Even though the torch has been passed to me in celebrating the day, it always goes back to my own Mother. How could it not? Like the nightlight we forget to turn off in the morning, she's always there in the background.
I lost my Mother 16 years ago to cancer. Lost is such a funny word in describing death don't you think? Like she went into the grocery store with me and just wandered off. With so many years passed and so much having happened in those years it feels like my life is truncated into two parts: my childhood with her and the beginning of my adult life. That's a really strange compartment. Comparable to playing in the sand one minute to having a house on it the next.
She missed so much. She will never know my husband, the man who transformed the way I love. She will never look into my children's eyes. She will never see them come into the world, never hold them, never comb their hair. Never be part of any Christmas or Birthday, never again ring in the new year. She will not see the radiant smiles walking down the aisle, not laugh at the antics of my Dad. All this I know. I wear the finality of it like a coat. There is nothing to be done with it but sit with it and invite it to the table; less painful than having it linger by the door.
I feel less alone now than when my kids were babies. So many nights wondering: is this normal? /did I ever have a rash like that?/was she as exhausted-elated-exhausted as I am? I'd watch my friends Mum's with that look in their eyes- bottomless love, enchantment, that buffer; how they would relish their time; the tender lessons only a Grandmother can teach.
I could do many things but I could not trace her footprint in their lives.
I'll say it. I'll say it out loud. I felt cheated.
Gradually though and with much inner destruction, I realized not all paths were meant to be ours.
The ouch of it all did ease with my husband's Mother. She was not my Mom but she loves her Grandkids. My heart melts every time she plays Crazy eights with them. Isn't that funny? Crazy eights. Who knew that would be what dulls the ache. My kids are surrounded by people who love them. My Dad's wife dotes on them like they were her very own. It's enough. We all pretend it fills the cup that is cracked. We put napkins on the floor to cover the drip. It's enough.
So now May comes around and I garden. I dig and plant and arrange and concentrate. I clean my house. I fold my laundry. I write. I smile during the Spring tea's at school and love my homemade cards. And every year I silently say the only prayer I can muster; Happy Mother's day Mom.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Hippity hoppity here comes Mommy losing her marbles
It needs to be stated that I am one of those people who should never have a medical 'signs and symptoms' dictionary in her house, nor ever click unto Web MD. I will think I am dying of every disease, just days away from perishing. I believe it's important to own your neurosis.
So it comes as no surprise that I would panic tremendously when during mid-yell at the teenage daughter I stumble over my words- ME, Italian-Irish girl- having a problem getting out rapid fire retort to her snark. I tell myself (before the dysfunction takes hold) that I have many things on my mind and that even though I have always struck with lightening verbal speed, this is normal. I have many reasons for my falter. She was upsetting my zen flow. I was looking for my chapstick. I was interrupted buttering my toast, which as we all know, takes great mental effort and clarity!
Within moments though, the crazy settles in. I have dementia. Early onset Alzheimer's. I am having a stroke.
Even teenage daughter tells me I am off my game. I do not like to be off my game.
Two glasses of wine later (red as it improves cardiovascular health and memory!) I accept the real, very unglamorous truth: I am not 28 anymore.
I can no longer:
1) Stay up all night (without wanting to commit homicide the next day)
2) Wear 6 inch heels (my back can barely manage 3")
3) Drink in the afternoon (I will fall asleep)
4) Tolerate asshat (it's a turning 40 thing)
5) Give my time to asshats (see above)
6) Pretend I like Parent Open Houses (My face hurts from pretend smiling)
7) Wear bras without padding.(see #4)
So life changes. So maybe I'm not as spunky as I used to be. So what? There are still PLENTY of things I can do.
The "can" list:
1) Wear a miniskirt and still look appropriate (I know my days are numbered, shut up!)
2) Remember any lyric from 1985-1993 (it's just after that time that gets a bit fuzzy)
3) Say no when I need/want to (it's a 40's thang)
4) Dream of what I want to be when I grow up (late bloomer)
5) Be kind to asshats (if I uttered 'stick it' I would know Dementia was a real possibility)
6) Still do a shoulder stand in yoga (it may hurt for three weeks to turn my head but I can still do it!!)
7) Laugh at myself (especially in mid-yell to teenage daughter)
So it's humbling. You try to banish the fear and let family know that you won't have an answer to everything and you will forget what word to say next; not from memory loss but because your brain is filled with so MANY moments/memories/to do's that it's hard to contain it all. And that is OK. It's evolution Baby!
So feel like you are having a stroke but then remember more likely you are just having a life.
It needs to be stated that I am one of those people who should never have a medical 'signs and symptoms' dictionary in her house, nor ever click unto Web MD. I will think I am dying of every disease, just days away from perishing. I believe it's important to own your neurosis.
So it comes as no surprise that I would panic tremendously when during mid-yell at the teenage daughter I stumble over my words- ME, Italian-Irish girl- having a problem getting out rapid fire retort to her snark. I tell myself (before the dysfunction takes hold) that I have many things on my mind and that even though I have always struck with lightening verbal speed, this is normal. I have many reasons for my falter. She was upsetting my zen flow. I was looking for my chapstick. I was interrupted buttering my toast, which as we all know, takes great mental effort and clarity!
Within moments though, the crazy settles in. I have dementia. Early onset Alzheimer's. I am having a stroke.
Even teenage daughter tells me I am off my game. I do not like to be off my game.
Two glasses of wine later (red as it improves cardiovascular health and memory!) I accept the real, very unglamorous truth: I am not 28 anymore.
I can no longer:
1) Stay up all night (without wanting to commit homicide the next day)
2) Wear 6 inch heels (my back can barely manage 3")
3) Drink in the afternoon (I will fall asleep)
4) Tolerate asshat (it's a turning 40 thing)
5) Give my time to asshats (see above)
6) Pretend I like Parent Open Houses (My face hurts from pretend smiling)
7) Wear bras without padding.(see #4)
So life changes. So maybe I'm not as spunky as I used to be. So what? There are still PLENTY of things I can do.
The "can" list:
1) Wear a miniskirt and still look appropriate (I know my days are numbered, shut up!)
2) Remember any lyric from 1985-1993 (it's just after that time that gets a bit fuzzy)
3) Say no when I need/want to (it's a 40's thang)
4) Dream of what I want to be when I grow up (late bloomer)
5) Be kind to asshats (if I uttered 'stick it' I would know Dementia was a real possibility)
6) Still do a shoulder stand in yoga (it may hurt for three weeks to turn my head but I can still do it!!)
7) Laugh at myself (especially in mid-yell to teenage daughter)
So it's humbling. You try to banish the fear and let family know that you won't have an answer to everything and you will forget what word to say next; not from memory loss but because your brain is filled with so MANY moments/memories/to do's that it's hard to contain it all. And that is OK. It's evolution Baby!
So feel like you are having a stroke but then remember more likely you are just having a life.
Monday, February 4, 2013
OHHHH BOY.
The other morning I ran in 10 degree weather. I ran out and then back in for another layer. I ran along cursing silently as my face (the only naked part of me exposed) started to freeze. As I was contemplating the best treatment for frostbite, I started to wonder if I was really meant for this NH weather. My answer is no. My answer is that in my head I am meant to live as a free guest of St. Maartin my entire life and that every time I feel stressed I just climb up my own private coconut tree and while throwing down a coconut (which I will drink from) I will take in the view.
Does anyone else want to throw something at the T.V. when the Key West commercials come on? Who are these people??!! On the beach, laughing, holding hands, KAYAKING! How dare they!!! They don't have frozen hair! They don't have to stand out on the arctic playground for what seems like centuries waiting for their children to come out! They don't even have children! And if they do, they are so busy making sandcastles they don't even ask for a snack!
Every year it is like this. The heart of Winter. And every year instead of getting all introspective and zen-like, slowing down and 'hybernating my spirit' I rail against it like a leopard in a cage. February is the longest month of the year. Don't argue with me because it will not be safe for you. I don't care about the 28/29th day thing. Us cold-living people want out come February. Our skin is all pale and cracky. We can't get out of bed, nor do we want to when it's 17 degrees out. Our cars whine. Our kids whine. And yes I am whining. And ready to cut the Groundhog for promising something that will not be delivered soon enough for me: An early Spring.
Take heart peeps, throw kleenex boxes at the commercials for therapy and cross off the days. We will get through this together. Oh, and drink. In my imaginary St. Maartin world they say rum makes the time go by faster.
The other morning I ran in 10 degree weather. I ran out and then back in for another layer. I ran along cursing silently as my face (the only naked part of me exposed) started to freeze. As I was contemplating the best treatment for frostbite, I started to wonder if I was really meant for this NH weather. My answer is no. My answer is that in my head I am meant to live as a free guest of St. Maartin my entire life and that every time I feel stressed I just climb up my own private coconut tree and while throwing down a coconut (which I will drink from) I will take in the view.
Does anyone else want to throw something at the T.V. when the Key West commercials come on? Who are these people??!! On the beach, laughing, holding hands, KAYAKING! How dare they!!! They don't have frozen hair! They don't have to stand out on the arctic playground for what seems like centuries waiting for their children to come out! They don't even have children! And if they do, they are so busy making sandcastles they don't even ask for a snack!
Every year it is like this. The heart of Winter. And every year instead of getting all introspective and zen-like, slowing down and 'hybernating my spirit' I rail against it like a leopard in a cage. February is the longest month of the year. Don't argue with me because it will not be safe for you. I don't care about the 28/29th day thing. Us cold-living people want out come February. Our skin is all pale and cracky. We can't get out of bed, nor do we want to when it's 17 degrees out. Our cars whine. Our kids whine. And yes I am whining. And ready to cut the Groundhog for promising something that will not be delivered soon enough for me: An early Spring.
Take heart peeps, throw kleenex boxes at the commercials for therapy and cross off the days. We will get through this together. Oh, and drink. In my imaginary St. Maartin world they say rum makes the time go by faster.
Friday, January 18, 2013
Welcome January (I think)
Welcome to January folks! Reposting this piece as the new year brings awareness to how much I need to get a grip on the unmentionables...yikes!
A good bra can fix anything
I don't care what it is, any problem, no matter how monstrous or trivial, life altering or mundane, can be solved with just one thing; a good bra. Think about it- world peace, in-law troubles; you name it- all can be taken care of by the simple action of finding that splendid unmentionable and connecting it's maddening hook clasp between our shoulder blades. A good bra makes us stand a little taller, smile a little brighter, shine that little speck more. We all know what happens to our morale when we put on a saggy, misshapen, dingy-drab from so many washings it looks like it was grey in the first place- bra. We feel like that. We feel the blah, we feel the misshape. We greet each new set of eyes with an Emily Dickinson-like stare, please don't really see me, I'll be the wallflower in the corner, thank you.
We can't blame ourselves for this, it truly is not our faults. When we are teenagers and our boobies appear we think they, like the mole on our arm will forever be with us just as they are in that moment. We take them for granted. We walk around letting them fly free. We do not care! We are 13, 18, 26, 30! We should be getting the forklift ready for their descent but we don't. No, we just ignore and look away, we pretend not to see them melting like the polar ice caps. We get pregnant. We get forty. We breastfeed. We run that 5k with that terrible shot elastic in our sports bra. And then BAM! One day, they don't greet the sun quite like they used to. Or they deflate like a balloon popped by a horrific child. We look around, we want to yell "WHO IS THAT KID ANYWAY??!!"
We want to blame somebody. What do you do when there is no one really to blame?
You stop blaming. Like the stages of grief you finish your bargaining, anger, and pleading and you hit your own version of acceptance. You stop buying your bra's at Wallmart and your march yourself into Victoria's Secret. You ignore the 16 year old asking "Ma 'am, can I help you?" and you keep walking because homicide is not on the calender for the day. You tell the most mature salesperson you can find (21 year old girl) that you need something that will help you with the breasts that have betrayed you. You tell her you want to take the fat from your ass and inject it into your breasts but that you will not do that because:
1) You can't afford it
2) How would you justify it to your daughters that you convince yourself are looking up to you??
Once you have explained all of this to the 21 year old who is texting security you take a deep breath, lift your shirt and say- "can you, for the love of God, help with this please??" "
I have been told that there is a panic button for this kind of moment at Victoria's Secret. A hush falls over the store, walkie talkies are involved. You find yourself escorted into a special back room with not a florescent light in sight. You are placed in a vault-like dressing room where bra's are slipped to you through a secret compartment in the door; gingerly handed to you like little sticks of dynamite. Tentatively, with jaundice and malice you try the bra on. Like a golden arch of sunlight piercing the dressing room door, a miracle occurs- you look in the mirror and Voila! What has forsaken you has been restored, the prodigal son has returned!
You wear it out-you have no concern for the way clothes are made with formaldehyde these days- you can't be bothered with such trivial details! The world has changed! Hell--oooo! You go to the counter. You don't check the price- you don't care- you would mortgage your home for this bra! You walk out of the store with it on under your shirt and close to your heart; your heartbeat and bra are one! You let people pull out in front of you in traffic! You laugh at your Mother in-law's comments about how she had it harder than you! You saunter into your children's school at pick up time and wipe off any trace of Emily Dickinson! You and your new bra look them all in the eye with the fearlessness of an outlaw at high noon; you don't look away! You start that letter to the United Nations and it begins with "listen up 'cause this is how it's gonna get done!" Yes, things are going to be different now folks. Look out, nothing is ever going to be the same again. A good bra can fix anything.
We can't blame ourselves for this, it truly is not our faults. When we are teenagers and our boobies appear we think they, like the mole on our arm will forever be with us just as they are in that moment. We take them for granted. We walk around letting them fly free. We do not care! We are 13, 18, 26, 30! We should be getting the forklift ready for their descent but we don't. No, we just ignore and look away, we pretend not to see them melting like the polar ice caps. We get pregnant. We get forty. We breastfeed. We run that 5k with that terrible shot elastic in our sports bra. And then BAM! One day, they don't greet the sun quite like they used to. Or they deflate like a balloon popped by a horrific child. We look around, we want to yell "WHO IS THAT KID ANYWAY??!!"
We want to blame somebody. What do you do when there is no one really to blame?
You stop blaming. Like the stages of grief you finish your bargaining, anger, and pleading and you hit your own version of acceptance. You stop buying your bra's at Wallmart and your march yourself into Victoria's Secret. You ignore the 16 year old asking "Ma 'am, can I help you?" and you keep walking because homicide is not on the calender for the day. You tell the most mature salesperson you can find (21 year old girl) that you need something that will help you with the breasts that have betrayed you. You tell her you want to take the fat from your ass and inject it into your breasts but that you will not do that because:
1) You can't afford it
2) How would you justify it to your daughters that you convince yourself are looking up to you??
Once you have explained all of this to the 21 year old who is texting security you take a deep breath, lift your shirt and say- "can you, for the love of God, help with this please??" "
I have been told that there is a panic button for this kind of moment at Victoria's Secret. A hush falls over the store, walkie talkies are involved. You find yourself escorted into a special back room with not a florescent light in sight. You are placed in a vault-like dressing room where bra's are slipped to you through a secret compartment in the door; gingerly handed to you like little sticks of dynamite. Tentatively, with jaundice and malice you try the bra on. Like a golden arch of sunlight piercing the dressing room door, a miracle occurs- you look in the mirror and Voila! What has forsaken you has been restored, the prodigal son has returned!
You wear it out-you have no concern for the way clothes are made with formaldehyde these days- you can't be bothered with such trivial details! The world has changed! Hell--oooo! You go to the counter. You don't check the price- you don't care- you would mortgage your home for this bra! You walk out of the store with it on under your shirt and close to your heart; your heartbeat and bra are one! You let people pull out in front of you in traffic! You laugh at your Mother in-law's comments about how she had it harder than you! You saunter into your children's school at pick up time and wipe off any trace of Emily Dickinson! You and your new bra look them all in the eye with the fearlessness of an outlaw at high noon; you don't look away! You start that letter to the United Nations and it begins with "listen up 'cause this is how it's gonna get done!" Yes, things are going to be different now folks. Look out, nothing is ever going to be the same again. A good bra can fix anything.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
To the shore
I thought I was prepared. I really thought I was. If one could ever truly be prepared for a silent earthquake that swallows families whole. I told myself I would be able to hold onto the railing as strangers wiped their eyes, speaking of the ones already in the water and the ones lost long ago. In reality I was ill prepared to know the scope and depth of how much cancer has touched the lives of so many. As I undertook the challenge of running my first marathon for Dana-Farber I knew it would change me. I just couldn't imagine how much. My chest feels now these many months later like it's been cracked open with a sweetness only rebirth can claim credit for. I know now. I have seen. I have touched. I wake sometimes in the middle of the night remembering how you talked about your Sister or how your Father was so brave. I will never forget your face. It is my face, staring back at me in the mirror. I listen when you tell me not to wait to come visit. I don't. That is what cancer does to us. It takes us by the shoulders, shakes us to our core, tells us that life will never be the same. And one thing is for sure, cancer does not fuck around. It means business. In all the powerlessness swirling around cancer we sometimes forget that we still have choices. How to treat. To forgive or not to forgive. What we want to say to those we love the most. To fight with everything in us. What to bring forward, what to leave behind.
I know now that I will not forget what a miracle love, support, kindness & friendship bring. Cancer can have none of it. When we rally for those we love the energy that surrounds those afflicted is changed, and in that, their lives are changed. When we hold a hand, when we listen, we bring healing to those who need it most- sometimes the person with cancer, sometimes ourselves. We can also feel a roller coaster of emotions. We sometimes cannot recognize ourselves in the midst of the wave that is pulling us down.
I struggle with hating cancer. And when I say struggle I mean I have to actively work to not punch walls when I hear another and another and another is fighting. Taking. Taken. I have to actively tell myself it is OK; when there is nothing OK about it that the person I have loved beyond measure is only alive in her photos. I sit with them telling myself the fade will not begin. I remember. I remember, her.
I wonder if all my moments of hating cancer give it more power- like drinking poison and waiting for someone else to die. But there is no sense in cancer. She did not come to argue, she came to rip and shred. Or heal. Or awaken. Or sometimes we don't ever know why she came. What we do know is that everyone, everywhere, rich or poor; the joyful and the miserable, the lonely and the full, all have a story. Their stories are the life rafts we cling to, and like religion, how we choose to navigate through is a very personal choice. One thing I am certain of, however we choose to travel the road with cancer; it is those who are on the road with us that matter most. And that is a blessing that cancer cannot touch.
Andrea Ardito is a Mother, Writer, Reiki Practitioner &Teacher. She is running the Boston Marathon on April 16th for Dana-Farber in honor of her Mother Barbara, who lost her battle with cancer.
You may reach her at andrea.df.bostonmarathon@
I wonder if all my moments of hating cancer give it more power- like drinking poison and waiting for someone else to die. But there is no sense in cancer. She did not come to argue, she came to rip and shred. Or heal. Or awaken. Or sometimes we don't ever know why she came. What we do know is that everyone, everywhere, rich or poor; the joyful and the miserable, the lonely and the full, all have a story. Their stories are the life rafts we cling to, and like religion, how we choose to navigate through is a very personal choice. One thing I am certain of, however we choose to travel the road with cancer; it is those who are on the road with us that matter most. And that is a blessing that cancer cannot touch.
Andrea Ardito is a Mother, Writer, Reiki Practitioner &Teacher. She is running the Boston Marathon on April 16th for Dana-Farber in honor of her Mother Barbara, who lost her battle with cancer.
You may reach her at andrea.df.bostonmarathon@
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