Amy's Blog

Thank You, Thank You, Thank You

Tue, 31 May 2011 04:44:00 GMT

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Two years and 111 blogs later, it is time for me to sign off and pass my blog on to the next person who has a story to tell. I have thought and thought and, after much discussion with my mom and dad, I have decided that I have written everything I can for this blog. I have poured my heart into it and shared a piece of my family that a lot of people don’t know and won’t ever get to see.

One thing I have realized over the past two years is just how special family is. If it weren’t for mine, I can honestly say that I would not be able to survive- emotionally, physically, mentally, or in any other way. Through all of my ups and downs my family is the one thing that has been there no matter what. Especially in these past few years, I’ve realized just how much I can depend on them. My mom is a survivor and a fighter and a woman I hope to be; my dad is my best friend; my sister is my role model; and they are all my heroes.

Because of my parents, my greatest goal and passion is to save a life. I’m not brave like them though, so I had no idea how I was going to do that. Until I discovered writing in Mrs. Drury’s English class when I was fifteen. Now I can say that I write to save a life. I write like no one is going to read my words so that way I can be honest. I have no idea who reads these words, but I sure do hope that they have touched just one life in even the slightest way.

I began writing this blog because I wanted to share my story in hopes that it would help someone else get through what I went through. I want people to know that cancer is not the end of the world. For us, it was the beginning. Despite the fear of not knowing what tomorrow holds, despite the drains that made Mom look like the alien opera singer from The Fifth Element, despite everything that mom had to go through, we came out alright. And even better than before.

If I leave anyone with anything at all, I hope that it is confidence and hope. Confidence that there isn’t anything you can’t do. And hope that it will get better.

I thank everyone who has helped my family from the bottom of my heart, especially the Liesman’s. Y’all have no idea how grateful I am for everything you have done for us. It is because of you that my family is where we are.

And for everyone who has taken the time to read what this 20 year old has to say, I am forever indebted to you. Thank you for believing in me.

In the words of the great Michael Buble: “You are not alone and I am there with you…when you feel like you’re done and the darkness has won…you’re not lost.”

Vulnerability

Tue, 24 May 2011 00:31:00 GMT

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The only time I’ve ever seen my mom vulnerable was when she was going through her breast cancer treatment. That was the first time she didn’t have control. I didn’t realize it at the time, but now that I do, it’s a pretty scary thing.

I’ve never felt vulnerable before. I’ve never had to trust someone with my life when it wasn’t it my control. I’ve never known what it’s like to be afraid of what tomorrow does or does not hold.

But looking at my mom then, and looking at her now, I see a different woman. I think being vulnerable, letting ourselves be vulnerable, changes us. It takes us to a place where we have never been so afraid before, but we come out of it even more beautiful than we ever thought possible. It teaches us to trust people. And when you have someone you can trust, you gain a confidence you didn’t know was there.

I think at a point in all of our lives we feel vulnerable. It is one of the scariest feelings in the world, but it’s one of those that we have to have in order to make that next step in our lives. To let go of all control, to trust someone else with who your life, will only help you find yourself even more.

My mom was 47 years old when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Even then she was still becoming even better than I ever thought possible. And she still is, every day.

Being vulnerable, being afraid, is not a challenge. It is an opportunity. It is for us to surprise ourselves with how cool the world can be when we put faith in total strangers. These emotions were given to us for a reason, so why not take advantage? Why not truly feel what they are like?

Crossing Over

Mon, 16 May 2011 02:36:00 GMT

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One thing a lot of people don’t know or realize about my mom is that she was a pharmaceutical rep who sold breast cancer medications before she was diagnosed with breast cancer herself. She was in the business for 23 years and can still tell you everything you would ever want to know about Nolvadex, Arimidex, and Faslodex. Some of her doctors even started calling her “Madame X.”

The fact that Mom ended up receiving the medication she sold, one would think, prepared her better than anyone for what she was about to experience. But that wasn’t really the case.

Scientifically speaking, Mom knew wholeheartedly that she was going to be alright on the medicines she took during and after her treatment. She made her living off of explaining how they worked to doctors all over the country. She was (and still is) an expert. But she will tell you before anyone that no drug rep, pharmacist, or doctor, can prepare you psychologically and emotionally for the effects of breast cancer treatment.

Of course it is a battle that can be fought and won, but any survivor will tell you that it is by no means easy. But then again, no battle worth fighting ever is.

According to Mom, once you “cross over” from the scientific side to the patient side, it is a completely different world. For her, it was a point of no return. After becoming a survivor, Mom didn’t, couldn’t, go back to the pharmaceutical world because she couldn’t sell the medication the way a sales rep was supposed to sell.

Mom knew how hard it was to go through what she had, and she couldn’t just smile, tell someone it was going to be ok and walk away. She wanted to stay and tell the person where to go, what to do, and how to do this and that. But that wasn’t part of her job description.

Life takes you in directions you didn’t even know existed. Most of the time I think it is to see how you handle what is thrown. Whatever comes your direction is not meant to keep you down. It’s meant to help you connect to a different part of yourself, to a different part of others. It keeps you human and reminds you what’s most beautiful in life.

The Junior Jitters

Mon, 09 May 2011 18:48:00 GMT

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It’s official, I am a junior in college. The first thing my mom said to me after my last final was, “Amy, have you learned everything you possibly could this year?” My answer? I don’t know, but I don’t want to learn any more.

A while ago I wrote about the “Sophomore Slump.” It takes place during your sophomore year of college, and is basically a time when you are trying to figure out who you are and where you’re going. To say I merely experienced that would be an understatement.

I lived in Europe without my parents for a semester, trying to navigate through an entire foreign continent speaking only English and a small amount of Spanish. I had to readjust to living in the United States before my second semester, which was probably one of the most work-heavy semesters I will ever have. I lost my best friend over a petty argument, learned how to stand up for myself, and tore my ACL in my knee for the second time. All while trying to meld European Amy with normal Amy and figure out who I was.

It was a pretty exciting year.

I think, I hope, it’s safe to say that, on a personal level, this was one of the toughest years I have yet to experience. But despite all of the obstacles and challenges that dared me to be anything but myself, I survived. And to be honest, I wouldn’t have done it any differently.

Out of the mess that was my Sophomore Slump came a world of amazing opportunities. I got to live in EUROPE for goodness sake! And after the falling out with my best friend, I felt like I had no one to talk to outside of my family. But then I got to be really close with two of the girls on my soccer team, who have made me feel more “at home” than ever before. It’s funny how people come into our lives when we need them most. From these two girls I’ve learned that who I am is good enough; I’ve learned that the only thing I can be is myself and people will either like me or not, and either one is ok.

I also found out a few weeks ago that I got my dream job in college- I’m going to be a Resident Assistant in my favorite dorm next year, helping all of the freshman adjust to college life and making sure their college experience has been as incredible as mine has thus far.
Everything has fallen into place, and I can say, with immense confidence, that I am so content and happy being me. It took a lot of work and tears to get here, but it’s a fabulous place to be.

I’m halfway through college and I have no idea where or what I’m going to be in two years. Mom calls this the “Junior Jitters.” But I come from a family of survivors. And if we can get through cancer and the Sophomore Slump, then there isn’t anything we can’t do.

Easter Surprises

Mon, 02 May 2011 02:56:00 GMT

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Six years and one week ago today my mom came home from the hospital after her surgery. We got her all snuggled into bed, trying to avoid looking at her surgical drains, and tried to figure out what was going to happen next. It was Easter Sunday and Mom’s next task was to recover from the bilateral mastectomy she just had and prepare for her first round of chemotherapy two weeks later- on her birthday.

That Easter was one of the best Easters I can remember. We weren’t able to go to church, but the Easter spirit still made its way into our home. Our closest family friends came to visit, toting a complete feast and Easter goodies. All of the people we loved were there, and it ended up being one of the last Easters we had with my grandmother.

Since then, Easter has been my favorite holiday because it represents everything I hold dear to my heart: the thanks I have for my mom’s survival, the gratitude I have towards all of the people that have helped us when we needed it, and most of all, my family.

I remember the Easter egg hunt my sister and I had the year after Mom came home- we still have them, even though we are both in our twenties. My grandfather had an extensive collection of coins and, after he passed away, Grandma would put them in plastic eggs and hide them around the yard for Katie and I to find. Apparently her hiding skills got better as Katie and I got older. There was one specific egg, the last one, which we couldn’t find to save our lives. But my parents insisted we keep searching.

The final egg, a blue one, was hidden in a hole in the limestone of our house. Katie and I both saw it at the same time, and just laughed at the fact that it was hidden on the wall. I think it had a twenty dollar bill in it, which was the grand prize of the hunt, so Katie and I split it.

For the first time since I’ve been in college, I got to spend Easter at home this year. Mom flew me in from Boston on Thursday night and I came back to school that Monday. This year the four of us spent Easter with another special family, and I got to help my two favorite kids- ages 4 and 8- find the eggs hidden throughout the yard. I smiled as they cracked open each egg, excited every time they found a new treat. And I couldn’t help but think about the Easter we had seven years ago.

Like the eggs left behind by the Bunny himself, every Easter holds a new and exciting surprise. We never know what it hides, but it always promises an adventure as we try to figure out what it is.

Every time I come home, be it from school or the grocery store, I look at the hole in the limestone and smile, imagining the blue egg that once hid there, nestled in, and waiting to be opened. I smile as I think of my mom, healthy, and of my family, happy.

Harriet

Mon, 18 Apr 2011 13:26:00 GMT

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When I first began writing my blog I wrote about Harriet- my Percheron horse and love of my life who passed away a few years ago. Losing her was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to face. She was my life.

My mom called me a couple of days ago when I was in class. I checked my voicemail and heard a tone in her voice that I don’t know I’ve ever heard before. She sounded better than happy. She was elated and almost awestruck. One of her dear, life-long friends had called and asked if she and I could help them out with something. They had just gotten two new horses- three-year-old Percheron brothers- and wanted to know if we could help train them. Of course, I called her back and excitedly agreed to this endeavor. After I thought about it though, I got a little lump in my throat, and wondered if this was something I could actually do.

I have ridden maybe three times since Harriet’s death three years ago. And all of those times I rode my sister’s horse, Murphy. I still have trouble bringing myself to get back in the saddle. I feel like I’m betraying Harriet. Often times I tell myself if I’m going to ride it will be her, and since she is no longer with me physically, that’s poses quite the challenge.

I talked to Mom again yesterday. The first thing she said to me was, “Amy, I am covered in dirt, I’m so tired, but I had a blast. You have GOT to meet those two babies. We have an appointment with them on Friday.” Again, my mom had that jubilant tone I had heard just days before.

Harriet is a tough subject to talk about. For a lot of people, I’m sure she’s “just a horse.” But if you know my family, you know that there are times we love our animals more than each other. They ARE family (there have even been a few occasions when my sister and I have brought the horses into the house). The family that reached out to us for help with their babies probably has no idea how utterly thankful I am to them. I haven’t even met their horses yet- that’s coming in a few days- but I feel like they will bring a part of Harriet back for me. And that is one of the greatest gifts I could ever receive.

I’m nervous to meet them. I’m excited, I’m anxious, I have no idea how I will react to riding a Percheron other than my own; but somehow, I’m feeling like Harriet is going to be there with me. I’m slowly getting closer and closer to being alright with riding again, and this will be my toughest challenge to date.

That’s the thing about challenges, though. They aren’t supposed to be easy. They are supposed to make us do something we might not want to, in order to make us stronger. They come when we need them most, even if we don’t think so. And somehow, they make us better people.

Go Billies!

Sun, 10 Apr 2011 03:50:00 GMT

This week I have decided to brag just a little bit. My dad is in his first year coaching high school boy’s soccer, and he made quite the impact, if I do say so myself.

At my high school, soccer was never really taken seriously. We all worked so incredibly hard and poured our hearts into the game, not because we received recognition, but because we just love to play. The players there are still the same way- playing for nothing but love of the game.

This year was a little bit different. This year, the varsity boy’s soccer team made it to the final round of the Regional Tournament, just one game away from going to State. This was further than any soccer team in the history of that high school has ever gone, and my dad had a large something to do with it.

I spoke with him on the phone after the game and he was disappointed because he felt like he didn’t do a good enough job, almost as if he let the team down. What I tried to remind him of, what I’m hoping to do now, is to help him realize that he is a part of this team, and he has made such an impact on those boys’ lives. Because of what the team (coaches included) has done this year, soccer will finally be taken seriously at school. All of the kids who stay after the bell to practice, who get home late after games only to stay awake doing homework, will be recognized for their hard work.

It takes a lot of courage to do what these boys have done, to fight for the thing they love even when a lot of people don’t think they will make it. They did.

I wanted to tell their story because I am so incredibly proud of them. I’m proud of my dad for believing in a group of boys with such fight in them. I’m proud of the team for never once saying they couldn’t do it. After all, who told them they couldn’t?

I think we can all learn something from them. It’s cliché, but they are the perfect example…never give up. This world has too much to offer for us not to reach for every chance we are given. Even when those chances are disguised as burdens, there is always an opportunity for us to prove to ourselves that there isn’t anything we can’t do, no battle we can’t win.

To the Battlin’ Billie Soccer Boys, to my dad: I am so proud of you all. Thank you for never giving up.

And Mom, the chocolate chip cookies you sent to them made all the difference in the world.

Bowling and Breast Cancer

Mon, 04 Apr 2011 00:36:00 GMT

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I went candle pin bowling this weekend and was trying to figure out different strategies to help myself win. I am extremely competitive, probably more than I should be, and I kept wondering how to get those 10 pins down with such a tiny bowling ball. At times, it seemed unattainable.

Cancer is kind of the same way. To get a strike, you have to knock down a whole bunch of pins along the way. It’s difficult with a tiny ball, so why not get bigger ammo?

I know there are a lot of people who want to help patients and families battling cancer, but just don’t know how. So, I’ve compiled a list of five things that helped my mom beat her cancer. With a bigger army fighting, those pins will fall faster, and a strike doesn’t seem so impossible.

1. Ask questions. Cancer is surrounded by such a stigma that many people don’t think patients want to talk about it. In my family, the only way we survived was by asking about things we didn’t know. What does a port do? Why does Mom have surgical drains? What does chemo feel like? Talking about these things makes it even more real, which is why a lot of people avoid it, but it also stirs conversation and kicks the giant elephant out of the room. People need to know what is going on. Patients need someone to talk to outside of the doctor’s office who isn’t afraid to really know how they are feeling.

2. Offer to make dinner one night. Life doesn’t stop when a loved one is diagnosed with cancer. Bills still have to get paid, kids have to go to school, and dishes have to be washed. One of the best things people did for my family was make us dinner. One family in particular would bring us meals three and four times a week. It was such a treat to see their smiling faces at our door, and to know that someone was there for anything and everything.

3. Be a chauffeur. To chemo treatments, to school, to the grocery store, even out for ice cream. Being trapped at home all day gets monotonous, and a little sunshine and a familiar face makes everything better.

4. Don’t pretend cancer doesn’t exist. This kind of goes along with asking questions. A lot of people don’t know how to act when they are faced with a friend or family who has been diagnosed with cancer. Don’t brush it under the rug. Acknowledge it, face it, and don’t treat anyone any differently- they are still the same person, just with a few bad cells inside.

5. Be there. I had no idea what I was supposed to do when my mom was going through chemotherapy. I was thirteen, was terrible at making sandwiches, couldn’t drive, and was unable to get the child proof cap off of medicine bottles. The only thing I knew to do was sit with Mom, even when she was asleep, and be by her side. It’s easy to say, “Oh she’s resting, I don’t want to bother her,” when you don’t know what to do. But no one likes being alone, especially when they are sick. Just go sit with them, read to them, talk about the cute boy at school. Just be there.

Don't Silence Your Voice

Mon, 28 Mar 2011 03:06:00 GMT

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I went to a play this week about women in Juarez who are being brutally murdered and overlooked by authorities. Their stories are being brushed aside, forgotten about. The play was a staged reading that was performed by an all female cast in the library of my school, and contained actual testimonials from these women’s mothers and sisters. There was even a diary entry read that was made by a woman just two days before her death.

The purpose of the play was to shed light and bring awareness to the plight of these women. Even living so close the U.S.-Mexico border, I had no idea that this was going on, so I’m sure most people don’t either.

When I left the play, I immediately called home and started bawling on the phone to my parents. I wasn’t crying because I was afraid, but for the first time, I was crying because of an injustice in this world that I thought was unfair. I was so angry and frustrated that all I could do was cry. My twentieth birthday was two weeks ago, and my reaction to this play showed me for the first time that I am growing up.

It used to be that when I saw scary movies or television shows, I would get scared that whatever was on the screen would happen to me. I assumed that I would have the same reaction to the play, but that wasn’t the case. All I could say to my mom and dad was “it’s not fair.”

Hearing the stories of these women, seeing girls my age act out their lives, made me proud to be a woman for the first time in my life. By no means have I been ashamed of being a woman, I just never really thought about it. I have been surrounded by strong women, by survivors, my entire life. As far as I’m concerned, to be woman is to be a hero. I just never felt it, until now.

My mom and dad both have always expressed to me the importance of finding my own voice and believing in it. But the voices of the women of Juarez have been silenced, and it is our job to speak up for them.

For survivors of all ages, races, genders, I ask that you believe in your voice. Be proud of who you are and where you come from. Be proud of what you look like. Be proud of the peach fuzz on your head that will sprout when you are done with chemo. And don’t silence your voice or stand for those who silence others’.

They are too beautiful to not be shared with the world.

Find Your Happy Place

Sun, 20 Mar 2011 16:50:00 GMT

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Off-season soccer practice officially started this week. Sixteen college girls in a stuffy gym from 6:00-7:30am, three times a week- it’s not the prettiest sight.

My alarm goes off at 5:30. I lie in bed for five minutes, thinking about how much I don’t want to go run around, and then my feet hit the ground and I’m up. In ten minutes I’m outside, walking to the gym as one or two cabs pass by with their headlights still on. I have so much homework, a paper due in two days, and I get my midterm grades back today. I am so tired.

Within ten more minutes, I’m moving, laughing, kicking the ball around with my team and everything seems to go away. It’s the moment when I am nothing but my sweaty self, in a gym, doing what I love.

Everyone has that one thing that makes all the worries go away, even if only for a little while. I am lucky to have a healthy, happy family, and my only worries consist of school work. But even that gets stressful. I haven’t played in over a year because I chose to study abroad during soccer season. I don’t regret my decision for a second- I got to live in Europe for three months, so I think the trade off is fair to say the least. What I forgot during that year, however, was how much I love the game.

On a trip to Barcelona, I got to see FC Barcelona, one of Spain’s professional soccer teams and my personal favorite, play. It was honestly the coolest thing I have ever seen- I even cried when I saw my soccer heroes step onto the field (I know, it’s cheesy).

Being in the gym last week brought that passion back. It was the first time in a year that I got to stretch my legs out, experience the pangs of cleats scraping against my shins (it sounds painful but it’s part of the game that you actually grow to miss), and feel that little leap of my heart when I scored a goal. My world for those 90 minutes was the game, and I was back in love again.

I have now spent 367 words telling you how much I love and live soccer, but my point is to remind you that we all have that one thing that just makes us happy. It takes us into a different world where we are truly ourselves, and nothing can hinder that. For my dad and me, it’s a field (or a gym, in this case) with a ball. For others, it’s a warm spot on the beach, or under the shade of an oak tree in the park. For my mom, it’s standing in the kitchen window, making meatloaf and watching the horses graze.

A lot of times we forget about this magical place. We get caught up in the hustle and bustle of daily life and everything that has to get done. My challenge this week is for all of us to go back to that place we haven’t been in a while, to find that smile we’ve lost over time, and to rediscover the loves in our lives.

My alarm is set for 5:30 tomorrow morning. I will wake up, lie in bed for five minutes, complain to myself for ten, and be in my “happy place” in twenty. It’s the best therapy there is.

Being a Better Person

Sun, 13 Mar 2011 05:43:00 GMT

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With the arrival of the season of Lent, everyone seems to be buzzing around trying to figure out what they are going to give up. I have heard it in the grocery store, seen it online, and am even guilty of it myself. But I don’t think that Lent is about giving anything up. In fact, my parents have always told us that Lent is about doing something to better yourself. Instead of giving up chocolate cake, decide to eat healthier. Instead of giving up coffee, decide to go to sleep earlier and practice relaxing. It’s about being a better person. If you can do it for forty days, then maybe it will become a habit and your life as a whole will improve.

Being a cancer patient seems like it’s about all of the things you have to give up. Doctors tell patients not to eat their favorite foods or wear their favorite perfumes during their months of chemotherapy because, when they are done, they won’t ever want to touch those things again- the tastes and smells will make them sick.

One of the toughest things my mom had to “give up” was wearing her favorite perfume. I know it was hard on her, because it was hard on me. Whenever I smell it, I instantly feel comforted and safe- she even sprays it on a handkerchief and I take it with me to college- and she wasn’t able to wear it for six months. I also just learned that Mom has a hard time eating almonds. She ate them during chemo and now they make her feel sick to her stomach.

It’s interesting, the things you have to give up to cancer. It seems as though it takes everything away- security, confidence, your hair, favorite foods, and even your life. But really, it can give you so much more.

Cancer can be about fear. It can be about defeat, the unknown, and loss- if you let it. Or, it can be about new opportunities, great life changes, discovery, and self improvement. It’s a choice.

I’m not trying to connect lent to cancer, but I do think that they can be similar in some ways. Whether you’re a cancer patient, survivor, family member, or someone looking to better themselves, don’t decide to give something up. Choose to be a better person. Choose to make cancer into a good thing.

Be Ready

Sun, 06 Mar 2011 22:04:00 GMT

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In one of my classes this past week, we interviewed one of the leaders in Boston theater for an assignment. During the interview, he offered a piece of advice that he received when he was an aspiring young actor. “Be ready,” he said. “Everyone will get their chance, but the question is if they are ready for it.”

Our interviewee used to drive taxis in Boston while he searched for acting jobs. One day, he received a call from dispatch to pick up Carol Channing just after her performance in Hello, Dolly! It was on this call that Ms. Channing shared these words with him, these words that he has never forgotten and now passes on to dreamers everywhere.

What this man said about chances is true. If it weren’t, we would all be wasting our time trying to become better people. “Be ready,” he said. The time WILL come.

We all have dreams and ideas of who we want to be. When I was little, I wanted to be a firefighter like my dad. He is one of the bravest people I know and I wanted to be just like him. Then, I wanted to be a veterinarian because I like animals. I also wanted to be an architect, an astronaut, and an anesthesiologist. I even tried to be a painter. I felt like I kept changing my mind every other week. I kept getting bored with one idea, or I would figure out that I didn’t have the courage to run into a burning building, or I would see stars every time I caught a glimpse of blood. None of these jobs were right for me, and I began to wonder if I would ever figure out what I wanted to be.

I kept growing up, and my dreams kept changing. All I knew, all I’ve always known, is that I want to change the world. I have always been ready to, I just didn’t know how.
Then, I got a flyer in the mail three years ago from Emerson College, a school in the heart of Boston’s theater district with one of the best writing programs in the country. That was my chance, and I knew it.

I still have yet to change the world with my writing, but I’m working on it. It’s funny, every once in a while, I get these “signs” that let me know I’m on the right path in my life. For example, my dad and I have always bonded over hawks- they are one of those things that are very special and symbolic for us. We play this game in the car and we see how many hawks we can spot whenever we drive somewhere. He’s really good at it, where I ‘m better at spotting buzzards.

Last week, I was looking out my dorm room window (at Emerson, of course), and the biggest hawk I’ve ever seen flew right past. I watched it fly around downtown Boston for ten minutes before it flew away. At that moment, I knew I was where I was supposed to be. Things like that don’t just happen. They are life’s way of telling us that we are on the right track, that we are doing a good job. They are our opportunities, and we have to be ready for them.

We all get our shot at that one thing that we are meant to be in life. Half of the time, we are already there, we just don’t know it yet. One of the most beautiful things in life is that our opportunities change as our circumstances do, which means that we will always get another chance. It may not be the same chance, but there will be another one. We just have to be ready and willing to see it.

And the Winner Is...

Mon, 28 Feb 2011 03:45:00 GMT

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Tonight is the night of the biggest award show in Hollywood- the Oscars! A few weeks ago, a woman came into my mom’s shop looking for an outfit. She ended up purchasing a beautiful, flowing white dress and matching duster.

It was to wear to the Oscars.

It has always been my mother’s dream to own her own dress shop. She majored in Home Economics and became a pharmaceutical rep until she was diagnosed with breast cancer. I remember the day she decided she was going to retire with extreme clarity.

We were sitting on our new porch, maybe one or two weeks after we had moved, having breakfast in our pajamas. Mom had on one of her white linen nightgowns and I was in dog pajama pants and a t-shirt. She was flipping through the local newspaper when she saw a “for sale” ad for one of her friend’s shops on Main Street. All of the sudden she paused, put the paper down, looked at me and said, “Amy, I think I’m going to buy this store.”

“Are you serious Mom?”

“Yep.”

“Ok, let’s do it!”

Mom retired from her job of 23 years, only to go into the retail business. At least once a week now, she tells me how it has always been her dream to sell dresses. She loves to make women feel beautiful and good about themselves, and she is brilliant at it.

Every time Mom walks into her store she tells it good morning. When she leaves at night, she wishes it sweet dreams. Half of it she does jokingly, but I can see it in her eyes that she truly loves the shop. She is living her dream.

It’s odd to think that, if it weren’t for her cancer, we probably wouldn’t be where we are today. If it weren’t for her cancer, Mom wouldn’t have even thought about pursuing her dream of owning her own store. She was happy, had a stable job with wonderful people, and there was no reason to seek out anything else.

Cancer does something to people. It changes them. Most think it’s for the worst, but my mom is living proof that it can make dreams come true. The mindset that breast cancer gave my mom is, “there isn’t anything I can’t do,” and that includes following the dream she had since she was a little girl.

I am sitting here, watching James Franco and Anne Hathaway host the 83rd annual Academy Awards show. Oprah is on stage, Kirk Douglas presented the award for Supporting Actress, and one of my mother’s dresses is in the audience. As the show goes on, my pride only grows. It almost brings me to tears to know that my mother has accomplished everything she has. She is a mother, a survivor, and a phenomenal business woman. She is living her dream despite everything that has tried to knock her down, and that dream is sitting in the Kodak Theater in Hollywood, making a woman feel beautiful.

Thank you Mom, for showing us all that we can do it. I love you so, so much. This is one of my proudest moments.

Interconnectedness

Mon, 21 Feb 2011 03:34:00 GMT

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This week at school, activist Angela Davis came to speak in honor of Black History month. She spoke of her involvement in the Civil Rights Movement, her political views, and of the people she felt were the ones who truly shaped African American history. Seeing that she is a controversial figure in our nation’s recent history, I do not wish to touch on the past, but rather, what she had to say to the students at my school.

What I found most interesting (that keeps replaying in my head and has come up every day since I heard her speak) is theme of interconnectedness that Ms. Davis wove throughout her speech. Her biggest piece of advice was for us to find something that we are passionate about, get involved, and then realize how it is connected to so many other aspects of the world.

Being the daughter of a breast cancer survivor, I have always been extremely involved in promoting breast cancer awareness. I am passionate about the fight for a cure. Breast cancer is not reserved for any particular person- it does not strictly affect one race, one gender, or one personality type. As Mom says, it’s just a bad cell day, and it can touch the life of anyone in this world. In this light, we are all connected.

On the other hand, survivors from any background are connected by the fact that they have survived. Be it cancer, a car accident, a tragic loss, anything, a survivor is a survivor.

Every one of us has a moment in life (most if the time, this occurs more than once) when we feel we are alone. At times, it seems like everyone around us is enjoying all that the world has to offer, and there we are, stuck and in a hole we can’t get out of. What is so interesting to me though, especially now, is that there is something that connects us all at every moment of every day. Be it something we are struggling with or something that made us smile, we are all interconnected.

My thoughts are still a bit scattered, and I’m sure it’s apparent in my writing, but I am just astonished and overwhelmed at the amount of connection I have seen in my small college world just within the past few days. Ever since I heard Ms. Davis say the word “interconnectedness,” I just can’t stop noticing it.

I know a lot of people I care about have had a rough few weeks. Right now, life isn’t quite going the way we all hoped for, and it’s tough. I’ve taken comfort, however, in the fact that we are not alone. I’m still trying to organize my thoughts on the matter, but I’m feeling such an attachment to the people around me.

The best way to describe it is like a perpetual light that keeps bouncing off of everyone it touches. In my mind, I picture this light leaving a trail as it moves onto the next person, connecting them to the one before. It really is quite a beautiful picture. I only hope that more and more people will come to see it too. Then, we will see the true interconnectedness of the world, and loneliness just might subside.

Speed Dating and New Normals

Tue, 15 Feb 2011 00:58:00 GMT

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Speed dating- one of the things I never imagined myself doing- and yet, this weekend, I found myself sitting at a table with 30 other girls, meeting a new boy every two minutes. As awkward as it was, I had a blast.

One of my good friends is in the Jewish organization here at school and they organized a cross-campus speed dating event in honor of Valentine’s Day. For those of you that know me, this is something I would normally have giggled at, thought “that sounds fun,” and forgotten about. I certainly wouldn’t have actually done it. Not this time, though. This time, I told myself I was going to go, and I stuck to it. I didn’t find my future husband but I did meet some really nice people and broke through my shell a little bit more.

This event was just for “funsies.” It was a bunch of college kids who gathered in a big room, ate cookies, and got to know each other. For once, I wasn’t nervous about what these new faces would think about me; I wasn’t afraid to just be me. I was confident in who I was.

I keep surprising myself with the things I do. I’ve made up my mind not to hold back anymore, and so far I’ve done a good job (at least I think I have).

I think sometimes we tend to get caught in grooves. Then, those grooves become ditches and they just keep getting deeper until we get too comfortable with the way things are. That’s when we find ourselves in trouble. That’s when we lose sight of who we are. Every once in a while, I think it’s ok to redefine ourselves. I don’t mean becoming a completely different person, but doing something we “normally” wouldn’t, just to see how it goes.

I don’t know if it’s the same with everyone, but at least with my mom, she became very self-conscious after her breast surgery. There were always the worries about her scars, what people thought about her new hair, and just how people would look at her, knowing she had cancer. She had her meltdowns, but then she decided she was going to rock it. She was tired of being upset and insecure. So she made a decision that this was the “New Mommy,” and she learned how to love herself again.

The closest I can come to relating is through growing up- being a girl, being a teenager, trying to find my place in the world. I know it doesn’t come close to what my mom went through, but I saw that, if she could overcome her insecurities from something as life-altering as cancer, then I certainly could overcome any problems I was dealing with, like bad hair days. After all, that’s what ponytails are for.

Things happen in life that cause us to change. That’s what life is about. It’s all of the “new normals” that we have to adjust to that make it beautiful. Up until this point I always thought that new normals just came to us. Now, I’ve realized that we can make our own new normals when we are ready to, and they can be pretty exciting. But we have to give ourselves a chance. We have to make up our minds and stick to it.

Get Out of Your Own Shadow and Go Buy a Giant Cookie

Sun, 06 Feb 2011 18:55:00 GMT

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I realized this week that I have been holding myself back for way too long. I wouldn’t go out and have fun on a Saturday night with my friends because “that wasn’t me.” I wouldn’t go to school functions without a friend because I was too uncomfortable to be seen by myself. I wouldn’t even go for a walk by myself because I didn’t want others to think I was a loner.

When I was in Europe I realized that I could rely on myself for the first time. I could solve my own problems and take care of what needed to be taken care of. But I never allowed myself to let loose, be silly and have fun- “it wasn’t me” to be that person.

Gelett Burgess said, “If in the last few years you haven’t discarded a major opinion or acquired a new one, check your pulse, you may be dead.”

In the past two weeks I’ve found that saying “that’s not me” was keeping me from being me.

My newest question to ask myself is, “What is keeping me from doing this?” My parents have always taught me that there isn’t anything I can’t do, and after my trip to Europe, I firmly believe that. And yet I’ve still been holding myself back. I guess I subconsciously made the decision a long time ago that I couldn’t go out and have fun by myself, that I needed someone else to go with me.

That all changed yesterday when I went out shopping for my sister’s birthday present. Normally, if I couldn’t find anyone to go with me, I just wouldn’t have gone. I would have waited until someone had free time. Yesterday, however, I went by myself, and I had one of the best days ever here in Boston.

I walked around for four and a half hours by myself, going into stores that I’ve always to but never have because the people I was with didn’t want to. I walked to my favorite pastry shop and bought myself a giant cookie and a slice of oreo cheesecake (I couldn’t decide so I got both). And, I found my sister’s birthday present, by myself.

It’s a really cool feeling when you rediscover the passion you have for life. It never goes away, but I think we sometimes fall into a shadow that limits us. Most of the time, that shadow is our own.

I stepped out of my own way this week. I decided to let go of all of the “that’s not me” I’ve been harboring for who knows how long, and I’ve found a renewed passion for life. I’ve always seen adventure in the world. I want to explore and discover and push my own limits. One of my soccer coaches used to tell us that the only way we are going to get better is if we get outside of our comfort zones. It’s ok if we mess up, as long as we are working harder than we thought we could.

So, my newest mantra is this: “Who says I can’t?” Over the past few weeks, I’ve discovered the person saying that is me. And I’m not going to do that to myself anymore. I think if everyone would spend a day, just one day, by themselves, doing what they want to do, we would all be happier with who we are. And that’s a big feat.

Facing Your Demons

Mon, 31 Jan 2011 00:57:00 GMT

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Each and every one of us has something that we are terrified of. Be it snakes, spiders, public speaking, confrontation- we all have demons that we must face.

My “demon” is confrontation (and snakes of course). I avoid it at all costs, even to the point where I let myself get hurt because I don’t want to upset anyone else. For the first time on my life, I learned to stand up for myself this week. I didn’t like the way I was being treated by someone I’ve known for quite a while so I did something about it. It was the scariest and most difficult thing I’ve made myself do, and I’m still trying to recover from the repercussions, but I am so proud of myself.

There is that old cliché that every parent teaches their children- the only way to overcome your fears is to face them. This week, I learned that there is nothing more true.

I know I’ve said this before, but life throws things at us sometimes that we think we cannot handle. It is only when we are forced to that we learn we CAN handle it. A family friend’s grandmother has always said, “If God brings you to it, then God will get you through it.”

Cancer enters millions of families’ lives. Hardship strikes when we least expect it. There are some things that just cannot be avoided. But what is so important to remember is that, although it may feel like it, we are not the only ones struggling. We are not alone, not ever.

I think the hardest thing that can be asked of me is to stand up for myself. What I’ve learned, though, is that if I don’t and I suffer because of it, then it’s my own fault. I am trying to grow up, to learn how to stand on my own two feet, and to introduce myself to the world. I was letting someone keep me from being me because I didn’t want to upset them. After my confrontation I realized that I like who I am. I’m proud of my family and where I come from. I’m proud to say that my mother is a breast cancer survivor, and I’m proud to say that my family is made up of people who will fight for those they love. And if someone has an issue with that, then that is their problem. I am no longer going to make it mine.

We all have demons in our lives, maybe not literally, but figuratively. Being afraid of snakes is normal and does not inhibit my life. Being afraid of confrontation does. If I’ve learned anything from my mom’s cancer it is this: nothing is more important than family, and you have to face your demons if you want to defeat them. Once you do that, then God and the people who love you will take care of you. You just have to get the ball rolling, and then know that you WILL be ok.

The Characters Among Us

Sat, 22 Jan 2011 17:28:00 GMT

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One of my assignments for a fiction writing class was to talk to one person I didn’t know and come up with a gift for that person, something that would tell the class who he is. For 10 minutes, I talked to the guy sitting next to me whose name is Tyler. We talked about skiing, New Mexico, drums, music, sock monkeys, soccer, comedy, and books. It was fun getting to know someone it would normally take me weeks to talk to, and then having to come up with a present for him.

Now, I have grown up in a family of girls. The only “boy” around is my dad, and coming up with gifts for him isn’t too difficult because he’s a dad and he likes anything. So coming up with a gift that represented the core of this person, this boy, I had spoken to for 10 minutes was a bit challenging. I don’t know what to get a boy!

I had this idea to make a silly quote book with quotes about skiing and funny things said on his favorite television show. I also gave him a peanut butter cup because, when it doubt, candy never fails. I was pretty impressed with myself, and Tyler seemed to like his gift too. All I wanted to accomplish with it was to make him laugh because it never hurts to make someone happy, even if only for a moment.

What was so cool about this assignment was that it forced us to go deeper, to really think about this person and, from the questions we ask and answers we receive, try to figure out who this person really is. It was an exercise for us aspiring writers to look beyond the surface of people and really find a character. It made us take off the blinders that so many go through life wearing and ask questions other than, “What’s your favorite color?” We had to ask questions that we genuinely wanted to know the answers to. When you’re talking to a complete stranger, this can be pretty difficult.

I took from this exercise a bit of different way of looking at people. I didn’t learn Tyler’s deepest secrets or what his first grade teacher’s name was, but I was still able to catch a glimpse of his character by watching the way he talked about things. When you pay attention to the ways in which people speak- what makes their eyes light up or how they can go on for days about their favorite sports team- you learn more than words can ever say.

Ever since that class I can’t stop thinking about that saying, “You never know what others are going through.” There were countless times during my mom’s chemo treatment and my parent’s divorce that I just wanted to say, “If only you knew what my family has been through…” I will probably never know what Tyler has been through but I can tell, just by our brief conversation, what makes him smile. I think that, if we can all learn what makes others smile, it just might help them through whatever they are struggling with. I have a new challenge for myself and for anyone else that wants to join me: pay attention to the people around you. Ask questions you want to know the answers to. You’ll find more than strangers. You’ll find characters, and you’ll learn what makes them smile. And that always makes the world a little brighter.

Chemo Brain

Mon, 17 Jan 2011 03:04:00 GMT

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There is this lovely thing called “Chemo Brain” that my mom always likes to talk about. It is her favorite excuse as to why she can’t remember where she put her car keys when they are in her hand.

Almost every chemo patient you will ever meet has experienced this form of amnesia- it is, after all, a documented side effect of chemotherapy that tends to last about 10 years. In a nutshell, chemo brain is memory loss or forgetfulness. For Mom, it is mostly little things that she forgets. A lot of the time she walks across the house to get something and can’t remember what it is she wanted; or she’ll forget what clothing lines she carries in her store, or what she’s saying mid-sentence.

For the most part, chemo brain is comical- Mom will have a brilliant idea that she gets so excited about and she’ll go on and on about it, and within 30 seconds she’ll have forgotten what the heck she was just raving about. But it does get frustrating.

There have been times when Mom has broken down because she feels stupid. She thinks, “I am an educated woman. I own my own business. Why can’t I remember anything?” She has to sit herself down and remember that this is not something that is in her control. She is by no means foolish- she was just handed something that she has to work with and not against.

I can only imagine what it is like to forget things like Mom does. I know we all forget now and then and get mad at ourselves and wish we’d remembered, but that’s part of being human. When you are a cancer patient, however, that trait is heightened. Sometimes, the best way to handle it is with humor. It seems to make things a little easier.

I asked Mom what it was like to have chemo brain. I can tell it gets frustrating, but I wanted to know what she had to say. She wanted to share this with anyone going through it to offer a little help: “Chemo brain really does happen, and it’s ok. It just makes you a better person because it teaches you that there are other ways to conquer adversities. It makes you come up with more creative ways to do things. You can’t conquer it, so you have to work with it.”

In a nutshell, chemo brain makes you forget. But it also makes you learn how to be a better person.

Running Your Finger through a Meat Grinder

Mon, 10 Jan 2011 02:44:00 GMT

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Today our dogs all tried to go out the dog door at once. It didn’t work so well and resulted in a fight. My mom, being the ultimate animal lover and not about to see her puppies get hurt, reached into the pile of flying teeth and claws and pulled them apart. Somewhere in the chaos, her leg was bitten and her finger almost torn in half. We took her to the hospital and, several stitches and shots later, she is resting up on the couch with a bag of frozen peas on her bandaged finger. Despite the pain, which she says is worse than it was after her breast surgery, she still has her sense of humor. “I ruined a perfectly good manicure,” she laughed through watery eyes.

I was staying with my dad this weekend when the lady that is staying in our guest house called and told us what had happened. Within ten minutes, we were back at my mom’s and Dad was bandaging her up- he was in the fire department for 30 years and has seen his fair share of wounds. He took Mom to the hospital and Mom’s friend and I took Chiquita (our littlest dog) to the vet to get her stitched up.

Every once in a while my family has meltdowns, like most families do. Ours are typically over the divorce and everything we’ve been through, why it happened, who was wrong, and how we could have prevented it. Mom and I had one of these meltdowns the other day. We talked and cried it out and everything turned out fine- it’s just part of growing up. Then, today’s chaos happened and everyone we needed dropped from the sky and came to the rescue. The lady in the guest house was with my mom within seconds and the first person Mom called was Dad.

My mother’s finger looks like it was run through a meat grinder but she will be ok. Despite that, what I saw today made me smile. I have no wish for my parents to get back together again- my family is happier this way- but to see them there for each other was nice. The two of them teach me things without even knowing it. Today, I saw two people who put their differences aside when one needed the other. I learned that, no matter how dark a past may be or how many meltdowns result from it, people from that past will be there when you need them.

My family is far from perfect. Like any family, we have our speed bumps. A lot of people that meet us think we are weird, and sometimes I have to agree. But to me, this is our “normal,” and I wouldn’t change it for anything. Occasionally, however, I do have to look back and wonder what it is exactly that God has planned for us.

Choices

Mon, 03 Jan 2011 02:43:00 GMT

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Robert Brault once said, “If you knew that hope and despair were paths to the same destination, which would you choose?”

One of my very dear friends lost her father to cancer about a year ago. I’ve talked to hundreds of people about cancer- my mom’s friends and people I’ve met along the way- but never have I talked face to face with a teen who’s parent had cancer until I met this friend in college.

She was my roommate during our recent semester abroad and we frequently talked about kids “like us,” kids who grew up in the cancer world. The one-year anniversary of her father’s death was coming up and she was having a horrible time coping. I had no idea how to help her- I still had my mom and she had lost her dad. I could relate to her in a lot of ways, but I had no idea what it was like to lose a parent, and I had no idea what to say to her.

During one of our talks, my friend told me that she was terrified she would be depressed forever. I told her about the doctor telling my family that Mom’s diagnosis could either be the best thing that has ever happened to us or the thing that would ruin our lives, it was our choice. So I told her that she could choose to be ok. Tears streaming down her face, my friend told me she couldn’t.

I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose my mom or dad. My world would be shattered. The only advice I had to offer was to tell my friend that she would be ok one day; she just had to trust me. I’ve never met my friend’s father, but I know that anyone who has been touched by cancer is a fighter. I know that my parents have equipped me with everything I need to survive and live life to the fullest, and I know that my friend’s parents have too.

Grief is something that we experience because we love someone with immeasurable depth. When we lose that someone, we feel completely alone and crying can become the only way to deal with the emptiness we feel. Sometimes it’s just easier to be sad. But what we must remember is that we can choose to be ok, it just takes a little time. We cannot control the circumstances but we can live with a smile, knowing that the people we love surround us every single day of our lives because they are inside of us. They are us, in every breath, every step, and every way. Knowing that will make everything ok.

Baby Jesus' Birthday Cake

Mon, 27 Dec 2010 23:16:00 GMT

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Every year for Christmas my family has a few traditions that we follow religiously: my sister and I bake Baby Jesus a birthday cake on Christmas Eve, then we all go to church, and on Christmas morning we open presents, Mom makes migas (a delicious Mexican scrambled egg dish), and then we set to work, still in our pajamas, on Christmas dinner.

This year was a little different. My sister went to spend Christmas morning with her boyfriend and his family, and then they came to spend the afternoon with us. Katie was having such a hard time not spending Christmas morning with us, and we were struggling too, but she has found someone special and we all had to learn to adjust a little bit- it’s part of being a family.

This year, it seemed like Christmas Eve church service was written for us- the lesson was that Christmas isn’t always perfect. It’s not the “Lexus with a bow in the living room” Christmas that the commercials tend to portray, but somehow, it always seems to be ok. The minister made the point that birthing the son of God in a barn in the middle of the night was not quite the ideal situation Mary had pictured, but the baby came anyway and all was alright.

Even though Katie couldn’t be with us on Christmas morning, Christmas came anyway, and the world kept turning. She came later in the day and we got to open presents all over again. We made dinner together, sang “Happy Birthday” to Jesus in Dutch, and ate a delicious cake made by Katie and me. It turned out to be one of the best Christmases ever- we were together, and that’s all that mattered.

Mom and I were talking about the church service last night and giggling about how much it applied to us. We started talking about the different ways it applies to life in general, particularly cancer. Sometimes life isn’t always ideal; sometimes things happen to us that we don’t plan on. Breast cancer isn’t the ideal thing for anyone to have in their lives, but sometimes it’s uncontrollable. Things happen and life comes anyway. The world keeps turning.

Life isn’t always a Lexus in the living room on Christmas morning, but it can be so wonderful in all of its imperfections. Sometimes we worry too much about making Christmas and other events so perfect that we miss the true beauty in them. Change- be it in family structure or breast health- is always scary. Change is inevitable, but the world will keep spinning, Christmas will come, and the true magic and wonder will be ever-present.

Ninety Days, 18 Flights and 10 Countries Later

Mon, 20 Dec 2010 00:53:00 GMT

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After 90 days abroad I am in my pajamas, curled up on the sofa next to the newly decorated Christmas tree, sipping hot cider and eating a cup of Mom’s tortilla soup. Peppermint ice cream from Dad—my favorite Blue Bell flavor that only comes out in the winter—is for dessert. I am home!

As the group of us “Castle Dwellers,” as we have come to be known, landed in the United States for the first time in three months, we all cheered. The flight attendant was kind enough to announce that it was one of my friend’s 21st birthday and we all sang the Birthday Song in Dutch amidst an airplane full of other people who thought we were crazy. As I walked off the plane another flight attendant looked at me and said, “Welcome home.” Being the sap that I am, of course I got a little teary-eyed.

Ninety days ago if you had told me I would have gotten through this whole experience I probably would have laughed. When I first moved into my room at Kasteel Well, I was terrified to say the least. Ten countries and 18 flights later, I can now say that I did it: I survived being an adult for the first time, and it was one of the greatest experiences of my life. I learned so much about myself (probably more than I wanted to know), about the world, and about mankind.

I know I am different, I can feel it. I am still the Amy I was when I left, but I am much more accepting and open-minded now. Everyone in this world is different, with different values, beliefs, ideas, physical features, lifestyles. I used to be afraid of people who were different from me, but then I stopped and said to myself, “I am the outsider here. I am different from them.” It’s ok to be different, because, when it comes down to it, we are all still human beings, and that is what unites the world.

I have such an appreciation for the people around me and what they have taught me. Before I left, someone told me that my parents had equipped me with everything I could possibly need to make it in the world and that I just needed to realize it. I finally have, and because of it, I am confident enough to begin making my mark. If I had one wish, it would be that everyone could have the experience I did: to meet new people, taste new foods, and, more than anything, teach themselves that they can do it. Once you realize that, the world, and all of the different people in it, don’t seem as scary anymore.

Life Is Not a Check List

Mon, 13 Dec 2010 02:34:00 GMT

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On our last trip together, my roommate said something to me that I can’t seem to get out of my head: Life is not a checklist.

It seems like, in the last few years, we have all developed a little thing called a ‘bucket list,’ a catalog of things we want to do before we die. One of the things on my list was to study abroad, in Europe. One week from today I will be home, with my adventure abroad coming to a close. One week from today, I will have one more check mark on my bucket list.

When Carlee (my roommate) and I were reflecting about our trip thus far and she said the biggest thing she’s learned is that life is not a checklist, it got me thinking. There are so many things I want to do, to accomplish in life, and, with some hard work, I know I can. I am such a planner- I hate not having a plan for each day, not knowing what I want to do. I don’t like “flying by the seat of my pants” because it is too unsure. Like a lot of people, I am terrified of the unknown, and so I avoid it by planning. But sometimes, life throws things at us that we don’t plan for, that aren’t on any list, and that we never plan on “crossing off.”

My trip to Europe has turned into one of those things. Yes, it was planned for. Yes, it is on my “list.” But what has happened while I’ve been here is not. I have had to learn how to live in the moment- possibly one of the most challenging things anyone could make me do. I have learned how to fix problems I didn’t plan for, and I have had to learn how to marvel at unexpected discoveries. One thing I will never forget is the moment I saw Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia in Barcelona. I was with Carlee and our other roommate and we were coming up the stairs from the subway, in search of the famed cathedral. As we trudged up the steep stairwell, we all sighed as we realized we still had to search for it. Once we reached street-level and turned to find our bearings, there it was, towering over the city. It literally took my breath away- I wasn’t ready to see it yet, I hadn’t planned on finding it so easily, but it was ready to be seen.

It was at that moment that I realized that life is not a checklist. We all have things we want to do, places we want to see, goals we want to achieve. By no means am I saying we shouldn’t- I plan on adding to my bucket list more and more as I grow older. But life is not measured by how many check marks we have on these lists; it’s measured by the unplanned-for problems, the unexpected discoveries, and, as cliché as it is, the moments that take our breath away.

No one plans on having cancer. No one can prepare for it. If they did, it would only drive them insane with worry. It is just one of those things that life throws at us sometimes- “a bad cell day” as my mom calls it. Because my mom had cancer, my family has learned how to be a better family, divorced or not. We have learned that there is no problem that can’t be solved, no fight that can’t be won, and that the greatest gifts can come out of nowhere and wrapped in the oddest packaging. My uncle gave my mom a mug that says, “Nothing is worth more than this day.” I’ve always loved it and believed it, but I’ve never felt it until now.

We all have our lists- grocery lists, to-do lists, bucket lists, lists, lists, lists. Crossing something off those lists, for me at least, is one of the greatest feelings because it makes me feel accomplished. Now though, I understand a little more that it’s really not about crossing these things off- if you get to them, you get to them. But don’t focus so much on planning, because you are afraid, that you forget to live in the moment. Don’t miss what is right in front of you because it didn’t quite fit into your pre-made schedule. Sometimes, the greatest beauty is in the unknown.

The Newest Sister

Thu, 02 Dec 2010 17:26:00 GMT

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I recently found out that one of my “mentors” here at school, my writing professor, has some type of cancer on her nose. It is not life-threatening, but has required surgery, and will most likely require more. I had a meeting with her to discuss one of my assignments the other day and we talked about her health a little bit. She told me she knew it wasn’t great, but she’s been worse.

I don’t think my professor knows I consider her to be a mentor, and I think I like it that way. On the first day of school, she told us that our job as Travel Writers was to see the things that other people don’t and write about them. Her class has taught me how to see a world that no one else does, to look at life as if looking through the lens of a camera- zooming in and out, seeing the textures and colors the world has to offer. I find myself thinking differently now. Even walking down the street I tend to look more closely at the bark of a tree or stop to try to put into words the sounds the leaves make when the wind blows. It sounds silly at first, but the main idea of the challenge is, as cliché as it sounds, to stop and smell the roses. It’s much more difficult than you might think.

Despite everything she is going through in terms of her health, my professor always puts her students first. She stays at school until 11:00 at night so we can meet with her to discuss assignments—she lives two hours away. A few weeks ago some kind of virus was going around and it was clear we were all miserable. She told us that, if we needed to, we could be excused from class that day to sleep and get better. I’ve had great teachers before, but none who are so willing to adjust their personal schedules to accommodate students. She truly has our best interest at heart, and it is obvious, even when she isn’t feeling 100 percent.

In an attempt to say, “I kind of know what you are going through,” I told my professor about my mom. It’s funny. I realized, when I told her my mom is a breast cancer survivor, it came out like me saying, “You can do it too.” I was proud to say it. When I used to tell people about Mom, it somehow came out as me revealing some great secret about my life that not many people were privy to.

I still haven’t had enough time to really think about it and come to any type of solid conclusion, but I think that, after a certain amount of time, the “secret” and the stigma of cancer becomes an encouragement. I didn’t tell my professor about my mom so she would feel sorry for me or my family, I did it because I wanted her to feel better, to know that she isn’t alone, to know that she can do it too. Looking back, I think it was my subconscious inviting her into the Sisterhood.

Our cancer conversation was brief, and then we moved on to editing one of my papers. I never thought about returning to the cancer talk because I had said what I wanted to, hoping to give her support. This afternoon I saw her at lunch and she laughed at me because I couldn’t decide what cheese I wanted to put on my cracker. I’m sure I looked awkward, reaching for the brie and then the cheese spread and then back to the brie again (I was unaware that anyone was watching). I laughed too, and as she went to sit with the rest of the faculty she stopped and asked me how my mom is. I smiled and said, “Great! We are 6 years out now and she is doing very well. Thank you.” She smiled, as if reassured, and said, “That’s wonderful,” and sat down.

I think we have a new member of our Sisterhood.

Turkey Day

Sun, 28 Nov 2010 23:20:00 GMT

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Two weekends ago I went to one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been, Venice. Never have I seen a city that looks exactly like it does in pictures. As my roommate and I agreed, walking through Venice is like walking on the set of a movie—quiet, beautiful, and perfectly constructed everywhere you look. If I had to choose one word to describe the city, it would be “magic.”

This week in particular has been really tough on me. I only have three weeks left on my European excursion—the final stretch has come—and this is the first time I will not be at home for one of my favorite holidays. What I’m having the most trouble with is the fact that I won’t be able to have 4:00 turkey dinner with my mom and dad and sister, or celebrate the tradition I’ve known for 19 years. I won’t be at home when my mom’s stuffing doesn’t turn out so well but my dad has a backup stored in the fridge (it happens every year). I won’t wake up to the smell of migas floating through the house, and I won’t get to watch the dog show that follows the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Instead, I’ll be spending Thanksgiving in Dublin.

So here I am, sitting in my room in a 16th century castle in Europe with three of my best friends, packing for a trip to Ireland, crying. Why? I think I’ve gone mad.

Obviously, Thanksgiving is about being thankful. It’s the time of year when we look back at all the good we’ve experienced and we take the time to think about the true gifts in our lives. This year especially, I have so much to be thankful for: this trip, everything that I’m learning about the world and different cultures, and all of the things I’ve proved to myself that I can do. What I have learned most, however, is the importance of family, and how thankful I am for mine.

I am so lucky to have an opportunity like this. Most people don’t get this chance. I wish so badly that more people could travel abroad, spending time by themselves and learning how to “be.” I have gained such an appreciation for my parents and everything they do for my sister and me. I finally understand the value of a dollar, what it’s like to be an adult (although I’ve only had to deal with myself and that’s hard enough sometimes. I can’t imagine what it’s like trying to raise children on top of that), and what the meaning of “home” is. I guess, what it comes down to, is that I’ve learned how to be an adult. (I will never admit this in person though.)

I’ve been to eleven different countries in nine weeks. I recently spent three days in one of the most picturesque places this world has to share, and I’m spending Thanksgiving in Ireland. There’s really not much I can complain about. And yet I am still sitting here in a castle, tearing up, because I just want to be at home for one day with the people I am most thankful for.

You don’t realize the value of family until you have a chance to step back and look at it from far away. Most people don’t get that chance, and I am lucky that I do. Family, no matter what forms it may take—the traditional form, close friends, a person and their cat—anything is beautiful. And as much as I wish I could be home, I still have a little more learning to do. I’m not quite finished yet.

I have now used 602 words to describe what I’m thankful for this year: this truly once in a lifetime experience and, most of all, my family. Take the time to really think about what is most important to you. Write it down or say it aloud. We all have much to be thankful for this year. Happy Turkey Day!

There Isn't a Problem Spidergirl Can't Solve

Mon, 22 Nov 2010 03:22:00 GMT

In one of my classes we are giving presentations comparing an element of ancient Greek literature to one found today. One girl gave her presentation about heroes. She talked a lot about Spiderman and the qualities that make him a superhero. I’ve only seen the first movie once so I don’t know too much about it, but she used this quote in her presentation and it got me thinking about my own heroes.

“We need a hero. Courageous, sacrificing people, setting examples for all of us. Everybody loves a hero. People line up for 'em, cheer for ‘em, scream their names. And years later, they’ll tell how they stood in the rain for hours just to get a glimpse of the one who told them to hold on a second longer. I believe there’s a hero in all of us, that keeps us honest, gives us strength, makes us noble…”

I think it’s true that we need heroes. They are the people we look up to, strive to be like, people who make the world a better place. They are the ones who tell us to hold on a second longer when we think we can’t anymore, and they are the ones who save us.
I came to a huge realization this week—that there isn’t a problem I can’t fix. My parents taught me that but I didn’t realized it until a few days ago, because for my entire life, if I had a problem, they were there to help me fix it. Now that I’m on my own for the first time, if I have a problem, I have to figure out how to fix it by myself. I’ve been abroad for eight weeks and six days and have encountered my fair share of issues. It was only this past weekend that I looked back at them and thought, “Oh my gosh, I’ve actually survived.” It was a huge realization for me—that I have solved every problem I’ve had here by myself.

To know there isn’t anything I can’t do, no problem I can’t solve, is a huge feat for me, and I couldn’t have done it without the knowledge my parents gave me, or without figuring it out on my own.

I’ve been thinking about the people I look up to most: Nelson Mandela and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Being a teenage girl, I also love Carles Puyol, Morgan Freeman, Beyonce (of course), and a few more here and there. Then I started thinking about my heroes: Mom and Dad, and finally, myself.

I do believe there is a hero in all of us, a piece of our soul that “keeps us honest, gives us strength, and makes us noble.” A piece of us that makes us want to hold on when we are fighting a battle like cancer, a battle that sometimes we feel we cannot win. It is the hero in us that tells us not to give up, that makes us fight until we win. To find this hero though, we must learn from the heroes outside of us, the heroes in our lives. I am slowly discovering the hero in me, thanks to my heroes at home.

The Sisterhood

Tue, 16 Nov 2010 02:37:00 GMT

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Last week I visited Dachau, a concentration camp in Munich, Germany. It has always been on my bucket list to visit a concentration camp, and I am so grateful I get to say I did. To walk through the gate that thousands of people did, to read the words, “Arbeit Macht Frei” (work sets you free) that so many prisoners read, was indescribable. Never in my life have I been to a place where there is no hope. Of all the things I saw and learned on my visit to Dachau, this is what scared me the most.

We are always taught to never give up; where there’s a will, there’s a way. I searched Dachau for this, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find it. Despite everything that occurred there, the monstrosities man can commit upon his fellow man, what was most unbelievable to me was that somehow, the prisoners found hope and reason to live—not in the place—but in each other.

At the end of my tour of the camp I watched a twenty-minute documentary summing up everything I had just seen. That was when the tears started flowing, when the enormity of the whole place smacked me on the head. The one line I remember from the film was the one that said, “People found hope in a brotherhood.” As the narrator said this, a picture of two starving men, carrying a third, flashed across the screen. No one should have survived looking like these three men did, and yet they were able to because they had each other.

The word “brotherhood” has been permanently etched in my brain since that experience. When I heard it, I thought of the sisterhood that I am a part of; that my mom is a part of, and that my entire family is a part of. This sisterhood—men and women and families who have gone or are going through breast cancer—is made up of people who live for each other. In a time where hope seems scarce, we find it in those we love, in the sisterhood. We carry each other even when we ourselves can barely move because that’s what sisters do.

I know that the world of the concentration camp and the world of breast cancer are completely incomparable, different in almost every way, but they are similar in one: the brother and sisterhood.

As I walked through the only place in the world where I could not find hope, I cannot say that I wouldn’t have given up. There was nothing to live for at Dachau. Every aspect of life was torturous. When I saw the brotherhood though, and learned of the place where these men found hope, I thought of the sisterhood and all of the people who helped my mom and my family through her cancer, all of the people who gave us hope, and all of the people who, I hope, we can help along the way. It is for this brotherhood and sisterhood that I am so thankful. It is so much more than a group of people who share a similar experience. It’s a way of life, an unbreakable bond between human beings that gives us reason to hope when there is no hope to be found. To be a part of that, even in the smallest of ways, is one of the greatest gifts I think life has to offer.

It Really is All in the Little Things

Sun, 07 Nov 2010 20:33:00 GMT

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One of the misconceptions about cancer is that once a diagnosis is made, it is all-consuming. In many aspects, it is the fear that comes with diagnosis, as well as a fear of the unknown, that's constantly in the back of your mind. Every day someone asks, “Are you doing ok?” while looking at you as if they expect you to start crying at any moment. It is true that some days are worse than others, some days you want to start crying, but a lot of people seem to forget that life and the world around you never stop.

I was in middle school when my mom was diagnosed with cancer. My sister was in high school, my dad worked in the fire department, and my mom worked for a pharmaceutical company. Mom’s cancer did not make us an abnormal family by any means. It just made us have to adjust to something life threw at us. Dad still worked his normal shifts and Mom still went to work on the days she wasn’t recovering from chemotherapy. My sister and I still went to school, we still did our homework, and Mom and Dad still expected us to keep up with our grades and extra curricular activities. Despite everything Mom was going through, she still made sure we had our after school snack together and ate dinner as a family, and that it was in no way any different than before her cancer. The focus wasn’t only on cancer and death and sickness. It was on the same things it always had been, with one extra thing (although it was a big one) thrown in.

A few people have asked me why all of my blogs aren’t about cancer. The answer is simple: My life, my family’s life, was not all about cancer when my Mom was going through treatment. We didn’t stop doing “normal” things just because Mom was sick. Yes, we had to make a lot of adjustments and get used to a different lifestyle, but that became our “new normal.” I remember sitting on the sofa when the four of us made the decision that this was going to be the best thing that had ever happened to us. It was not going to be easy by any means, and things were going to be different, but we were going to be better for it.

I don’t write about cancer in every blog because I want people to know that, while their lives will change if a loved one is diagnosed with cancer, it doesn’t mean cancer has to be the sole focus. My intention is to write about growing up as a teen whose Mom had breast cancer. Growing up is hard enough on its own, and I want to talk about it, talk about the things other people might be afraid to, and try to answer questions. I am fortunate enough to have a Mom who is a cancer survivor, to have experienced the fear, the tears, and the laughs that came with her diagnosis, and to have met all of the amazing people of the cancer world that I have, all while growing up.

One of the biggest pieces of advice I can offer a family going through what mine did is that it is the little things you find comfort in that save you. When I was 13, my Dad and I would go get a cookie or an ice cream cone or run to Sonic to get a drink after soccer practice. We’d talk about soccer and school and how our day went. Once I got to high school we went to Sonic every day after school and got the same thing: sweet peach tea and cherry Dr. Pepper have always been our favorites. Now, when I come home over Christmas, Thanksgiving and during the summer, Dad and I still go to Sonic and talk about the day or how badly the cheese fries stink up his car, but I think they taste so good it doesn’t matter. It’s these things that stick with me, these little things that keep life normal and have absolutely nothing to with cancer and everything to do with growing up, that I like to write about. They made me smile during one of the most difficult times in my family’s life, and they were probably the most normal things anyone living in today’s world could possibly do.

To Mom and Dad, thank you for everything. You have made me who I am and taught me there isn't anything I can't overcome. I love you.

Learning to Find Light in the Darkness

Mon, 01 Nov 2010 02:19:00 GMT

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One of the biggest challenges we face is fear. We are always taught that in order to get over these fears, we must face them. When my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer, it is an understatement to say we were afraid—afraid she might die, afraid of how we were going to tell people, afraid of what chemotherapy would do, and just afraid of the unknown future. What was especially terrifying was this was a fear we had no choice but to face. There was absolutely no way to run from it. It was something that was happening, and we weren’t ready for it.

There is a certain attitude that a lot of breast cancer survivors and their families adopt. It is one that my family has adopted and firmly believes in, and it is this: There is always a bright side to things because you can always learn from them.

I am on my own for the first time. I am in Europe for three months, learning how to be independent and trying to grow up. It is the hardest and scariest thing I have ever had to do, and there is no running from it. It is because my mom faced her cancer and my family got through it, despite our fear, that I know I will be OK. My mom taught me there isn’t anything I can’t do, and I am slowly starting to realize it.

I have met the most amazing and interesting people on my trip. I have learned way more than I bargained for, and I have seen places I never imagined existed. I have opened my eyes to new cultures, even the ones that are out of the “norm,” and I have learned from them. It is in these places—the unexpected, seemingly ugly ones—that I find the most beauty because they have the most to teach me.

I have always been one to see the good in people and places. Sure, I may be a little off sometimes, but I am proud to say that I have the capability of finding beauty in everything. I have never had cancer, but I have a mom that has, and she has taught me that life is beautiful in every aspect, even the ones that scare us. Even when I am afraid and feel like I’m in the dark, I know I’ll come out a better person because I will have learned something, and that in itself defeats all fear.

Bringing up Taboo Subjects

Mon, 18 Oct 2010 00:41:00 GMT

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One of the things I love to discover is quotes. I am constantly looking for inspirational words of wisdom or words that just make me smile. This week, my professor said something that really stuck with me. He said, “In the beginning was the word, then the thing. Words make things happen.” As an aspiring writer, I loved this. It is so true. He referenced the bible and how God said “let there be light” and there was light. The word “light” brought light. The word made something happen.

I am not going to get into religion, but I thought the example was perfect. Words create reality—the two are connected. We continued our conversation in class about Greek mythology and the connection between words and reality. Eventually, we got to the subject of avoidance. There are some things that every person, every family, does not talk about. It’s the taboo subject that no one wants to bring up, in fear that speaking of it will make it real again. It’s the “family secret” we all try to avoid.

I immediately thought of cancer when I heard this. Most of us are uncomfortable talking about cancer, or any sort of disease for that matter, because we fear that talking about means we are acknowledging that it is real and something that can happen to us. It’s too scary. There are many things in this world that I am afraid of and don’t like to talk about. We are all like this. It’s the mindset that, if we don’t talk about it, it doesn’t exist.

When it comes to cancer, my family will talk about that for days. I wouldn’t say cancer is an enjoyable topic of conversation, but it’s one we feel needs to be brought up. Cancer is real. Not talking about it doesn’t make it go away. It’s something everyone fears, so why not bring it up? The best way to overcome fear is to face it. This is something we are taught from childhood. So talk about it. Bring it up, acknowledge that it is a legitimate fear, and tell someone how you feel. Cancer will not go away on its own. In order to find a cure, it has to be discussed. In order to beat the disease a patient, a family, a friend, and anyone else involved needs to talk about it.

On the patient and family aspect of cancer, it is vital to discuss what you are going through. What scares you? What are you thinking? How are you feeling? What is a bilateral mastectomy? What exactly does chemo treatment entail? These are all questions that arise when a family member is diagnosed with breast cancer. For me, my mom’s diagnosis was scary because I knew cancer was bad. But I didn’t know why or what it meant or what was going to happen. It was too easy to be afraid to ask, to be afraid of bringing it up in fear that I might upset someone. But I needed to know what my mom was going through, and so I asked. It made everything less foreign and gave me a sense of what my role would be through my mom’s treatment process. It made me feel like I had some control.

If you have questions about cancer or just about life in general, ask them. Chances are that everyone around you is wondering the same thing. Of course, be respectful, but don’t take on the mindset that if you don’t talk about it, it can’t be real. Remember that words make things happen. They can make fear go away. Or at least make the source of the fear easier to bear. They can put you in control.

The World's Largest Learning Experience

Mon, 11 Oct 2010 00:48:00 GMT

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Over the past three weeks I have learned so much about myself, almost too much. I have discovered how much I want to be home, how scary it is growing up, what an opportunity I have been given, and most of all, how to do things for myself. I’m still working on this last one.

My semester in Europe is about me. It’s not about sacrificing what I want to do in order to make sure other people are satisfied. It’s about learning to be a little selfish sometimes and learning how to stand up for myself. I like to please others, to make sure they are content and are doing what they want. I like this quality about myself, but I’ve noticed, especially now, that it can sometimes lead to hurt feelings, stress, and the occasional teary eyes.

I had a huge meltdown this week and consulted one of my good friends for help. She told me that this was my trip, this was her trip, this was everyone’s trip, and we will get out of it whatever we want to, but only if we work for it. She told me that now was the time to be selfish, to take charge, and to live for myself.

Many people are like me—wanting to please others. By no means is this a bad trait. In my opinion it means we are considerate and respectful, the way people should be. But if you are like me, you know how hard it is to say, “No, I don’t want to do that. I want to do something else instead.” You know what it’s like to want to go out to eat at your favorite restaurant, but someone else doesn’t, so you end up giving in. You like to put others before yourself, and you are afraid being selfish might upset someone else.

I have quickly discovered that growing up and being on my own is by far the most difficult thing I have ever had to do. I am in Europe. By myself. And I have to figure out how “to be.” One of my mom’s favorite lectures is “Amy has to be Amy!” But how do I do that? Obviously I know who I am and what I value, believe, and want. Figuring out how to act on it is the tough part, the discovery part. I finally know what Mom means though, after years of wondering. I finally get it. Amy has to learn to stand up for herself. She has to find a little attitude and voice her opinion. She has to be an individual now, a grown up (but not too grown up). Amy has to learn to stand on her own two feet and tell others what she wants. That’s the only way anyone will ever know.

This whole European excursion is terrifying for me. I know it is going to be the hardest and greatest thing I have ever done, and I know I am going to find myself, even if that means learning to say no and how to do things for myself. In a larger context, we all have to, at some point, learn how to be selfish at the right time. We have to learn that it’s OK to do something that only we might want to do, and if it’s that important, we have to say so, or no one else will ever know.

So, my challenge to you this week is to be you. Take the lecture my mom gives me and go be you. Learn how to say no sometimes. Learn how to do things for you every once in a while. Learn how to be scared and then let it go. Find yourself and love it! It won’t be easy, and I’m still searching, but you’ll discover a little more with every step. And it will be fun.

Learning From Ann Frank

Mon, 04 Oct 2010 01:03:00 GMT

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Over the weekend, me and my fellow students went on a field trip to Amsterdam. We had the opportunity to visit the Anne Frank House, where she and seven others hid from the Nazis for two years. It was one of the most incredible experiences of my life. I actually got to walk through the hidden doorway behind the bookcase that hid Anne and her family from the world. Then, I was able to go through the Secret Annex, as it has come to be known, and walk into Anne’s room. The pictures she hung on her wall in the 1940s are still there.

The Secret Annex remains unfurnished, just as it was when the Nazis took everything after discovering the Frank family. Otto Frank, Anne’s father, was the only one to survive the concentration camps, and returned to an empty house. When the Anne Frank house opened to the public in 1960, Otto Frank asked that it be kept unfurnished as a way to show what people are capable of doing to one another. The Nazi’s took everything he had, and the Anne Frank House serves as a reminder that we must learn from the past, respect each other, and protect our fellow human beings.

What struck me the most about the Anne Frank House was the message every employee there had to share: Do the right thing. My mom has always taught me that the right thing is the most important thing, no matter how hard or scary it may be. Everything I have learned and believed growing up was reinforced during my visit to the Secret Annex, and it was powerful.

At the end of my tour of the Anne Frank House, there was a room with a large television in it playing a video about personal rights and freedoms. The video introduced a few different teenagers living in areas where personal rights do not always come first. Then, it asked the audience a question like, “Should the crucifix be allowed in public schools,” and the audience could push a button to give their answer anonymously. Then, the results were displayed on the screen for everyone to see.

As embarrassing as it is, I was afraid to push the button at first. Even though it was an anonymous answer, I didn’t want anyone possibly figuring out what I said, in fear that my opinion might be different. Then I stopped myself, realizing how ridiculous I was being. I was in the Anne Frank House, surrounded by a history of people who fought for their rights and did not always win. But they kept fighting. And here I was, afraid to push a button.

Sitting in this room, I realized and understood everything my mom and dad have taught me. I finally believed that my opinion does matter and that I am lucky to have the freedom to express it and be proud of who I am without someone telling me I’m not good enough because of where I come from. Not everyone is going to agree with me all the time, and THAT’S OK! Anne Frank changed the world by writing what she felt, what she went through. She was just one person, and yet she did it. She changed the world. So why can’t I?

The Stigma of Breast Cancer and Divorce

Mon, 27 Sep 2010 02:15:00 GMT

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So far, everything here at the castle is going great. My homesickness has started to ease and I’m meeting a lot of new people and learning new things. I still cannot get over how beautiful it is. Classes started on Monday and my Literary Foundations professor said something that really struck me. We were discussing the Bronze Age and the reasons people in that time period were writing. It was because that was the only form of documentation anyone had of anything. Therefore, if it wasn’t written, it didn’t exist.

He asked us about facebook and twitter and all of these social networking sites- are they a way for us to say “I’m here”? Do we subconsciously feel that, if we tweet about the rude girl that cut us off on our way to work this morning, we are saying to the world, “Don’t forget about me”?

This got me thinking- man is a social creature. He wants to know that he has someone to go to, someone that will come to him. To exist, he needs the world to know he does. He doesn’t want to be forgotten.

One of the most controversial subjects among breast cancer patients, survivors, and the stigma in general, is that if a woman gets cancer, her husband is likely to leave. It is a completely normal and logical fear to have because cancer is not something that’s easy to deal with. It can be lonely and you feel like you’re the only one going through it. You fear that cancer will make you wither and people will forget you. But this is not true in any sense.

It frustrates me when I hear people on talk shows discussing the issue of cancer and divorce. The last thing patients and families need is someone telling them that diagnosis can end a marriage. Yet, it is an issue that arises because of our inherent need for social interaction, and our need to love and be loved back. It is one of my greatest wishes that patients and families will trust one another and know that they will get through whatever life throws at them because they have each other. What is most important in a cancer family is the patient’s well-being and support system. It is the love that binds the family, no matter how functionally dysfunctional it may be. There are so many other factors and concerns that need to be addressed at the time of diagnosis, and it is my opinion that divorce should not be at the top of the list. Yes, my parents divorced some time during my mom’s treatment process, but cancer wasn’t the cause, and my whole family (including BOTH of my parents) fought through it. We realized that some things are just more important and deserve more attention than others.

One thing we need to understand is that life doesn’t stop. It is such a constant cycle that we all go through- day by day, year by year. We all get mad, cry, laugh, smile, fear, love, everything. It is in this way that we are always connected. We cannot be forgotten if the person next to us or even halfway around the world feels what we feel. Emotions are what bind us. They give us the need to feel connected, but they also connect us. Cancer treatment can be one of the loneliest times a patient will have in their lives, but they are never alone. No one is ever alone because we have friends, family, and above all, we have each other.

In the word’s of my secret celebrity crush, Michael Buble, “When you feel like you’re done, and the darkness has won…you are not alone. I am there with you.” This is what I hold onto whenever I get scared. Someone somewhere, be it my mom or my dad or someone on the other side of the world, is there with me, just like I am there with you.

Home

Mon, 20 Sep 2010 02:18:00 GMT

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I made it! After a seven hour flight, seven hour time difference, two hour bus ride, and less than two hours of sleep, I am finally at the castle in Holland!

I am blown away by the countryside here—the canals, the beautiful green grass that goes on for miles, the houses that look like they’ve popped out of a story book—it’s amazing. Even the cows have a certain glow about them that distinguish them from the cows that live across the street from me at home. Never have I seen such picturesque views, and the people are every bit as nice as I was told they’d be.

I must admit, however, that I am having extreme homesickness. Whenever we have down time I only think about how much I miss my family and how much I want to be home. It takes everything I have, even as I write this now, to keep myself from breaking down into sobs. I know this is normal and something that will ease with time, but it’s just so difficult for me right now. My mom told me that if the only problem I had was that I missed home, then I didn’t really have any problems at all. I know this is true, but right now I feel like I won’t ever get over it. It’s the dramatic 19-year-old in me.

One of the big talks I had with my parents before I left was about “leaving home.” Everyone asked what it felt like for me to leave and how my parents were feeling. I actually got a bit upset because I don’t feel that I’ve left home at all. I’m coming back in three months. When I think of leaving home I think of moving off to some faraway land and never returning—something I would never be capable of doing. I’m just exploring right now and know that home is there for me when I come back. I was also worried that I might change too much while I’m abroad. Mom said it wasn’t so much changing as it was “blossoming.” “Everything is already in you,” she said. “Now you’re just letting it grow.”

I am on a huge adventure. I’m scared to death, miss home in a way that is almost unbearable, and sometimes wonder what I was thinking. Despite it all, this is how people grow. We have to do things that scare us. We have to go out on the limbs that might stretch a little further from the house. This is how we discover how much courage we have, how brave we are, and just how much appreciation we have for the word “home” and everything that comes with it.

I know my family and my home will always be there. I know I’ll come home at Christmas time and the three months I was gone will have seemed like no time at all. That’s the beauty of family, of home—it’s always there, waiting for you to return, as if you had never left.

Big Ball of Emotion

Sat, 11 Sep 2010 14:43:00 GMT

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The time has finally come for me to embark upon the greatest adventure of my life, and how do I feel? If you could roll up every form of excitement and mash it together with terrified, you would get me. I am studying abroad in the Netherlands for three months and I leave tomorrow! Ahhhhhh!!!

Of course I’m excited- I get to live in a castle in a completely different country and travel to faraway lands on the weekends. It’s my dream come true. I get to study writing, learn about new people and cultures, and eat foreign food. I even get to be the pen pal for the kindergarten class where my grandmother used to teach school. I know I’m going to come home at Christmas a worldlier, wiser individual, but it scares me.

I’m afraid to say goodbye to my mom and dad (I already had to say bye to my big sister which was pretty tough), to not be able to come home for three months, and to only be able to talk to them once a week. I know most college kids probably already only talk to their parents once a week, but not me. I’m the one who calls home every night to say goodnight and talk about the day.

This trip will be life changing. I know I’m ready for it, but it’s one of those things where you can tell yourself you’re ready all you want, but it doesn’t make the fear go away. As my mom says, “I know you can do it because I know I’ve raised you right and I have all the confidence in the world in you.” These are the words I keep telling myself- if Mom says I can, then I can.

If the only thing I’m afraid of is saying goodbye to my family, then I guess I don’t really have any problems. If anything, I’ll miss them terribly, and that’s not such a bad thing. I know my life is about to change and that’s a scary thought. Even if it’s for the better, change is still intimidating, especially when you see it in your very near future.

Well, it’s time for me to take my big ball of emotion and finish packing. I also have a little more basic Dutch t learn. So far I can introduce myself, say hello and goodbye, tell someone it’s nice to meet them, and ask where the toilet is. I have a ways to go. From now until Christmas, I’ll be writing from a castle in Holland. As they say in Dutch, tot ziens (see you later)!

The Sucky Slump

Sat, 04 Sep 2010 21:48:00 GMT

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To put it bluntly, cancer sucks. What I mean by this is that it sucks the life out of you. It sucks out the fun, the energy, the willpower, the hair on your head, and the person you’ve gotten used to being for the past however many years old you are. It is the biggest bully you have and will ever have to face, and the only thing better than not having to face it at all is beating it.

So, how do you beat cancer? After all, it is a disease that requires treatment which is not guaranteed to solve the problem and no cure has been found…yet (that’s what science geniuses like my sister are for).

In order to beat cancer, you recognize that you are in a sucky situation. You understand that your life will not be the same ever again and that your disease does not care how you may be feeling that day- it won’t let up. After you have acknowledged all of this, you put on a smile and say, “This is MY life. This is MY disease. I am in control here.” You make the decision that, no matter what lies ahead, you are going to live the life you choose and work with what you’ve been given, be it good or bad.

What my mom and I did when she was having a rough day was we set a time frame to be upset, say 20 minutes. During that next 20 minutes we were allowed to feel sorry for ourselves and cry and be angry and fussy and complain all we wanted. After our time limit was up, it would be time to move on.

This 20 minutes is what I have recently come to call the “Sucky Slump.” It is a time frame in which we allow whatever is bothering us to suck out whatever it wants to. Then, we take control again and get over it. The key to the Sucky Slump is to realize that we were the ones to allow it to occur. Thus, we never lost control in the first place- we just thought we did.

One of the things I’ve learned from my mother’s cancer is that life throws odd challenges at you sometimes. Whether it be getting your first “B” on a report card, scoring against your own team in a soccer game, or being diagnosed with breast cancer, part of what makes being human so beautiful is that we are never incapable of overcoming these challenges.

Life will sometimes suck the good out of things. This is inevitable. To overcome this hardly rare occurrence, we acknowledge it and take control. If you find yourself in a Sucky Slump, give yourself a few minutes to feel the pangs of it and then decide to be done. Everyone needs a good “I feel sorry for myself” sometimes. When you’re done, smile and be happy again. This way, you never lose control, and you always win.

Small Town Charm

Sat, 28 Aug 2010 15:41:00 GMT

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I heard someone say, “Life is not worth living if you don’t have something worth dying for.” I really don’t know if I agree or disagree with this statement but it really struck me. It’s in the back of my mind every day and keeps me asking myself, “What is it that I am passionate about? What makes me want to wake up in the morning?” It’s pretty heavy stuff if you ask me.

As I think about what my answer could possibly be, I look around- at the people I’m surrounded by, the things I see out the car window and the changes the sky makes at night. This past Friday was the biggest parade my small town has to offer and I finally got to see it. I’ve always been off at a soccer tournament and this was my first year home to see it. My neighbor rode his longhorn in the parade, the high school football team had their own float, and my dream of being the Luling Watermelon Thump Queen only grew when I saw her float. Green, red, and white sparkles seem to appeal to me for some reason. The whole town stood and cheered when our local troops just home from Afghanistan and Iraq drove by, and of course, what would a small town parade be without old tractors?

Watching all of this and absorbing the charm and pride of a small town made me realize that this is what makes me want to wake up every morning. It’s the people in this world and the stories they have to share. It’s my divorced parents who still sit next to me at a parade because they love me and don’t want their differences to affect the way we live. It’s my older sister who, no matter how much we annoy each other, comes home on the weekends just to see me and have dinner as a family. It’s the cow that lives next door and the dream that one day I will be on a big sparkly float with a tiara bigger than my head.

What I am passionate about is the world. I’m beginning to discover all of these little things that make life worth living and, to be honest, it’s a bit overwhelming. All of those lectures my parents have given me for the past 19 years are finally starting to make sense. I think I’m actually discovering who I am and who I want to be and it’s because I’m learning something from every person I see.

Maybe it’s a stretch to say that life isn’t worth living if you have nothing worth dying for. It’s all a matter of opinion. I do think that being passionate about something, or having passion for something, makes the hard days easier. For anyone who may be struggling or at a hard place in their lives, look around. Sit on a bench and just watch. There is so much to see and learn every day. There are stories out there being told but we never slow down enough to listen. It’s like what they tell you in first grade before you cross the street- Stop. Look. And Listen. You never know what you might discover.

Seeing Cancer for the First Time

Sun, 22 Aug 2010 18:42:00 GMT

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Last week I stumbled across this picture of my mom that was taken on her final day of chemo treatment. Every picture I’ve shared so far has been of healthy people. For anyone wanting to know what life in a cancer family is like, the truth has always been in my writing. I have come to feel, however, that it is equally important to show what it is like as well.

To be honest, I had no idea that this picture even existed. I had no recollection of my mother ever looking that sick. I tried to tap into all of my memories, searching for some image of her face, and I realized that there were none. I remember everything about my mother’s treatment except the way her face looked. I don’t really know, but I think it may be some form of psychological defense mechanism- the brain naturally erases the most disturbing images to protect itself. Whatever the reason for my not remembering, seeing this picture last Tuesday evening was the first time I had ever seen my mom as a cancer patient with a real disease that was a real threat to her life.

I took the picture downstairs to show Mom and she immediately burst into tears. I leaned over to give her a hug and said, “Mama, look how far you’ve come.” I think it was the first time she realized this amazing thing she had accomplished how much she had to be proud of.

What struck me as I kept staring at this picture was just how beautiful my mom is. Despite the cancer and chemicals pumping through her body and taking everything she had, she was so pretty. Behind the tired skin and hairless head was a pair of sparkling green eyes and a smile that cannot be matched. Behind the surgical scars and aching bones is a survivor. Behind it all is my mom.

This picture is the epitome of Mom. She was literally going through hell and yet she put on a boa and tiara and was beaming the entire time. This picture that at first brought tears to my eyes now makes me smile every time I see it. It reminds me that, no matter how hard we hit rock bottom, there is always hope.

Thank you Mom. I am SO proud of you.

*Mom also asked me to note how lovely her teeth look

Angry Teens and Parents With Cancer

Mon, 16 Aug 2010 19:49:00 GMT

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One of the things that accompany cancer is anger- a patient who is angry with God for giving them the disease, a spouse angry at themselves because cancer is the one thing they couldn’t protect their loved one from, or a child angry at their parent for being sick. In my family, this last form of anger was very prominent.

We have always been a tight-knit family. Even after my parents divorced, we still spend holidays together and everyone gets along. When my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, however, things changed. I was the one who was curious about chemo treatments and what all the little holes in Mom were for. I wanted to be a part of it all and know what was happening. I think this is because I was 13 and didn’t really understand what exactly all of it meant.

My sister, Katie, was the one who became very angry at my mom. She couldn’t talk to or even look at her for weeks. She’d come home from school and head straight for her room and only make the occasional appearance for dinner or if she had a question. Katie has always been my best friend, but even I couldn’t understand what was wrong. Being 17 at the time, Katie knew exactly what could happen to our mother. She knew why Mom was bald, why she looked so tired, and why people stared at her when we went to the grocery store. Katie felt every staring eye piercing through her at every moment, and she was mad. She was mad because Mom was sick; mad that she couldn’t make our lunches anymore; mad that all Mom did was sleep all the time. Katie was mad because she felt like she had already lost the woman she loved most and she wasn’t ready for it. Mom had always promised she would never leave us until we were ready, and Katie thought she was going to break her promise.

My mom and sister had a huge breakdown in the dressing room at Target. They had just gone on a mini shopping trip to get Mom out of the house for a while. Katie was still so angry and my mom finally said, “Katie stop it. What is going on?” My sister broke down and told Mom everything she was feeling- why she was mad, how she felt alone, and more than anything, how terrified she was that Mom was going to die. That was it- the root of Katie’s anger was fear.

This is why it is ok to be angry, because underneath it all is fear. If you’re angry at your mom or dad, or if your child is angry at you, consider it a good thing. It’s because you are a strong family surrounded and held together by love. It’s easier to tell yourself that you’re angry rather than admit you’re afraid. It’s basic human nature.

I know I’ve said this before, but my parents waited two weeks to tell Katie and me that Mom had breast cancer. On the surface, we were angry that they didn’t tell us right away. Did they not trust us? Did they think we couldn’t handle the truth? That we weren’t mature enough? This is where the anger started. Underneath it all, however, was the fact that two weeks had passed and they didn’t have our support. It was two weeks that we couldn’t fight the disease together, as a family. It was two more weeks that Mom and Dad were scared without us there to help.

It’s ok to be angry. It’s ok to cry and yell. It’s ok to feel selfish and not understand and feel like you’re losing the most important person in your life. All it means is that you love them. But you have to tell them how you feel. For their health and your sanity, you have got to tell them. That’s how you make it through.

My Mother and Michael Buble Taught Me to be Honest

Sat, 07 Aug 2010 02:33:00 GMT

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For Easter my mom got me tickets to see Michael Buble in concert. The concert was a few weeks ago and it was one of the best experiences I have ever had with her. It was just the two of us and it was amazing. Michael Buble is disgustingly talented and hilarious to top it all off. Needless to say, I’m in love with the man.

What struck me the most about his performance, other than the hopelessly romantic songs he sang, was his final song. He sang “A Song for You” by Leon Russell with the full band and all the lights and drama, but halfway through it the curtain fell, the lights went out, and the band stopped playing. There was a pause and then a single spotlight shone on Mr. Buble who was standing on stage alone. He sang the second half of the song by himself with no music and no fancy effects. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

Here was this man singing to a crowd of 14,000 people with no help. It was raw, pure, and honest. All I could think about was how vulnerable he was and how he was singing because it was what he loved to do and he wanted to share it with others.

This event made me want to be a more honest person and not be afraid to share myself with others. I dream of being a writer and sharing what I love with anyone who will listen. The only way I can do that is if I’m honest and I write what I feel. As cheesy as it sounds, I could feel what Mr. Buble felt because he was allowing himself to share it with 14,000 other people. If that’s not courage then I don’t know what is. It was one of the coolest things I’ve ever experienced, and I got to do it sitting next to the greatest woman in the world.

When Mom was diagnosed with breast cancer she waited two weeks to tell my sister and me. She just wanted to know for sure that it was real, and I can’t blame her. To me, however, those were two weeks she spent alone and I wish she would have told me so she would have had someone to hold her hand. I was there with her throughout her chemotherapy and recovery, but I can’t say I was there for the diagnosis and it bothers me on a selfish level. I want to be able to say I was with her through it all, feeling and experiencing it alongside her. I know I was, but I still wish I had those first two weeks.

One thing I’ve learned in the past six years, that was brought to my attention at the concert, is that we have to let ourselves feel. When we are afraid or feeling alone, we have to let ourselves experience that fear to fully move past it. We have to embrace it. That’s the only way we will be confident enough to let others in too. I think that’s what my mom was doing in those first two weeks. She had to be afraid and let herself accept her new reality before she could introduce it to anyone else. Then she shared it with my sister and me and it turned into an experience that changed our lives. In some sort of twisted way, the same thing happened at the concert.

There is something to be said about honesty. Whether you are a singer, a breast cancer survivor, or someone in between, never in your life are you more vulnerable than when you are being honest, and never in your life are you more beautiful than when you share that with someone who is waiting to hear you.

People, Places, and the Things They Teach Us

Thu, 29 Jul 2010 00:52:00 GMT

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The places in which we learn things are often random and unexpected, but they hold some of life’s greatest lessons. The people we meet in those places make it that much greater. My mom has always taught me that I can learn something from every single person I meet. I didn’t really understand that notion until I left for college, but I have discovered that there is so much truth behind it.

I met my best friend, Regina, in the bathroom of my dorm. The girls all shared a bathroom on our floor so there was a lot of mingling going on at all hours of the day- or night. I don’t remember the actual moment we became friends, but it seems like we just met and that was it, we were stuck with each other.

Regina’s brother is in the army. Before I met her, the war our country is in never seemed real to me. It was just a distant thing people mentioned over fancy luncheons or dinner parties. It was never something that I paid any attention to or had any feelings about until I walked into Regina’s room one day and found her sobbing. Her brother had just received his letter stating that he was being deployed. That was the first time I was ever afraid for someone I had never met, a soldier about to leave home without knowing if he’ll ever come back.

I can’t say I went through it all with Regina because I didn’t. I didn’t know what she was feeling. I do know that, had my sister been in her brother’s shoes, I would have been petrified and unable to make it through the day without thinking something had happened to her. I had no idea what to tell Regina, what to say to make her feel better, so I just listened. I still don’t know if that did any good, but I think that just being there with her while she was afraid was all she needed- another lesson I learned from my mom.

Regina’s brother came home six days ago, safely. She and her family were there to meet him. He got in at three o’clock in the morning and Regina sent me a picture of the homecoming. I looked at the picture and felt tears well up in my eyes. For the first time I was proud for someone. I was so proud for Regina and her family, that they had a son and a brother with that much courage and belief in doing the right thing and making a difference. I was proud to have Regina as a friend, and so grateful to have her in my life.

Seeing the picture she sent me at three o’clock in the morning, and being connected to it in even the smallest of ways, filled me with a pride I have never felt before. I kept saying to myself, “Here are all of these men who have been at war and their families are finally right in front of them and they have the dedication to stand in perfect formation and complete their duty to this country.” If that had been me, I would have run off the airplane and into my parents’ arms within seconds. But not these guys. They had a job to do, and in my opinion, they did it very well.

Looking back at it all, the lesson I took away is to learn from people and appreciate what they teach you. Be there for your friends even if you can’t understand what they are going through. And pray for the moment when you learn what it’s like to be proud for the family of a soldier- be it a man who is fighting in Iraq, a sister facing her fears of losing her brother, or a woman battling breast cancer. What they do is not easy.

Cancer is Not Hot Pink

Sun, 25 Jul 2010 00:12:00 GMT

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Someone recently asked me two questions that really struck me: Is there a difference between the reality of the breast cancer world and the way it is perceived? What advice would you give an outsider who is trying to help a friend get through breast cancer?

Oddly enough, these are the two most obvious questions I think someone might ask, but I never really thought to answer them. Is the breast cancer world different than the bright pink t-shirts and bows plastered across television screens and billboards? How do you help a friend battle breast cancer when you have absolutely no idea what they are going through? The answers might not be quite what you expect.

Answer 1: No. The breast cancer world that is painted, or rather spattered with pink, is not that way at all. In fact, a lot of survivors hate the color because of what it stands for. For them, pink represents a disease. It represents chemotherapy, hair loss, anger, fear, resentment, and pain blundering its way through every cell of the body. Pink is the color assigned to the worst time of these women’s lives.

Being the daughter of a survivor and not actually having been through cancer myself, I can’t quite understand where my mother is coming from when she refuses to wear a pink shirt, however, I do understand why she does not want to be defined by her past experiences with the disease. The experience of cancer is as dark as the spot on a mammogram. There is a stigma associated with it that a lot of survivors and families try to avoid. I don’t want my family to be defined by it. We are too talented, too diverse, and too wonderful to be thought of as “that family whose mom had cancer.” My mother is the strongest woman I know. I consider her to be the reincarnation of Wonder Woman. She is brilliant, amazing, and more driven than anyone I know. She is too special to be defined as a cancer patient. Breast cancer made my family stronger. It was an adventure, a challenge, and a blessing. It did not define us, but made our original definitions a little longer.

Answer 2: To help a friend get through cancer, you can’t try to pretend you understand because you don’t. I know that sounds awful but it is one of the best pieces of advice I can offer. I had no idea what my mother was going through, just as my friends had no idea what I was going through. When you have a family member battling cancer it feels as though you are the only ones in the world going through it. The last thing you want is for someone to tell you they understand. What the patient and family needs is someone to listen, someone to cry to, someone to hear them sob, someone to laugh with them, someone to sit in silence with, and someone to just be there. Don’t try to be anything but you, because you are the most normal thing in their lives and just being there will save them.

Cancer is scary. It’s not hot pink. It’s not something other people understand. It is a battle that requires an army, and ours was made of friends that turned out to be guardian angels. Cancer is the greatest battle anyone can ever fight, and it is worth every second of it.

Normality and Surgical Drains

Sat, 17 Jul 2010 03:28:00 GMT

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There are certain terms associated with the cancer world that any outsiders might not understand. One of these terms is “new normal.” It’s one of those that makes absolutely no sense when you first hear it, but it soon becomes your mantra and best friend. So what is a “new normal” and how can you get one?

When my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer, our whole family went with her to the consultation before she began chemotherapy. The doctor explained to us, in a fairly blunt manner, that we had a choice to make: cancer would change our lives forever and it was up to us whether or not it would be a good change or a bad one. At that moment so much was being hurled at us that a choice like that seemed ridiculous. And yet, it was so true. Cancer was going to change our lives in ways we never would have predicted. What we did with those changes was a choice only we could make. The normal we had been used to for our entire lives was about to be shattered, so we had to find a new one.

There is no time line for when this new normal is set to arrive. For some it comes the moment they leave the doctor’s office. For others it doesn’t occur until after treatments are over and they are left saying “what now?” For me, this new normal arrived neatly bundled in my mother’s drains.

My mother made the decision to have a double mastectomy and reconstruction following her diagnosis. Both of her breasts were removed and the doctor took fat from her stomach and used it to rebuild new breasts. As part of the post-operation healing process, Mom was sent home with a drain on each side of her body from which the excess fluids from surgery left her and traveled down tubes where they were collected in little plastic sacks that were attached to her. These sacks had to be changed out daily. I distinctly remember the first day I saw them. I didn’t know they were there until my dad asked me for help changing Mom’s bandages. We meticulously pulled the gauze and surgical pads from around her torso and once we got to her skin, these little sacks filled with fluid of a disgustingly unimaginable color rolled out from under the final layer of gauze and I almost lost my lunch. Now, my Dad’s favorite movie is “The Fifth Element” and there is an alien opera singer with tentacles coming out of her head and down her sides- this is all I could think about when I saw my mother’s drains. It was gross and I didn’t want to help anymore. I quickly realized, however, that my mom needed me. Her recovery depended on my willingness to be there for her. My earliest recollection of ever having an epiphany was when I saw those drains hanging from the woman who brought me into this world. Staring at the puss, I realized that this was my new normal. Six months later, when my mother finished her chemotherapy treatments and the doctor told her she was cancer free, I realized again that this was my new new normal. It changes.

Normality is what you make it. It’s what you want it to be and what you decide it will be. It’s not a standard set by others that you have to live up to. After my mom’s reconstruction surgery, my uncle would jokingly ask if, because her breasts were made of fat from her stomach, they would growl when she got hungry. In my opinion, that is one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard. To a lot of people, though, it’s morbid humor that might be deemed inappropriate. But that’s the normal I come from, and that’s the normal I have come to know and love.

You Have to Get Back Up

Mon, 12 Jul 2010 19:37:00 GMT

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Two and half years ago I lost my horse, Harriet. She had a microscopic hole in her stomach and could not survive the extensive surgeries needed to find it, let alone repair it. I never knew what a broken heart felt like until I lost her. She was everything to me. She was the one constant in my life during my mother’s cancer and my parent’s divorce. I raised her myself and trained her to become a brilliant dressage horse. Every time she hurt, I hurt, and vice versa. I knew her every thought and she knew mine. It was a bond unlike any I thought possible. As cheesy as it sounds, she was my best friend who somehow made everything ok.

I always thought it was too dramatic when I’d hear stories of someone quitting something they love because they’d suffered a loss due to it. I felt like that only happened in movies and wasn’t what real life was like. I was wrong. When I lost Harriet, I learned what it was like to feel empty, to be angry at God, and to think life was unfair. I cried for weeks, stopped talking to people, and stayed in my bedroom when I wasn’t at school. My chest ached and I felt like I had a hole in me. Part of me was gone and it burned. They say when you fall off of a horse you have to get back on so you won’t be afraid to ride again. That’s the most valuable lesson that life has taught me, to get back up. This time, however, I stopped riding. Until today.

I rode my first horse in over two years today. His name is Murphy and he belongs to my sister. When I woke up this morning I didn’t want to do it. I felt just as I have since Harriet passed- reluctant, and like I was betraying her. I thought getting on Murphy would be this dramatic event that you read about in novels or see in those horse movies where someone is hospitalized and it takes years before they can even walk again. It wasn’t. I got on Murphy and everything flooded back to me. Things just felt right. Never once did I try to pretend I was on Harriet because she moves differently than any horse I have ever been on, but it was nice just to ride again and have that familiar feeling that had been missing for so long.

I can’t help but notice tears welling up in my eyes as I write this, but riding today made me feel like a part of me has returned. It’s a part of me I haven’t had for a few years and wasn’t sure I’d ever have again. I miss Harriet more than I ever thought imaginable, but I know she lives in our horses, and I know she lives in me. Every night I look up at the stars and I pick the one that stands out to me most. I close my eyes, see her face, and whisper good night to my best friend who watches me from above. Tonight, when I wish her sweet dreams, I know she’ll smile back and be proud that I got back up today.

Cancer is Like a Horse Race

Mon, 05 Jul 2010 19:18:00 GMT

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About one year ago I decided I needed a motto. For some reason I felt as though I should have one, and so began my search. As corny as it is, I actually looked up quotes on the internet in hopes of finding one. Nothing seemed right. What I was unaware of was that a motto isn’t just a statement or quote you may like. It’s something that helps you through tough times and keeps you motivated. A motto has to work for you. It has to help you. Today I can finally say that I have found mine: Do things that make you uncomfortable.

This certainly is not the mecca of all mottos and it is not something I immediately thought I would pick up, but I have found that it is an extreme motivational tool that helps me do things I’m afraid to do. On the surface, many people are unaware that I am painfully shy. I was a sophomore in high school before I would even walk into a gas station by myself, and last year I finally began phoning in pizza orders. Today, however, I made a breakthrough. I got a job as a mutuel teller at the horse races my town hosts every summer. Today was my first day, and I spoke to about 200 different strangers. At first I was terrified and extremely uncomfortable. I kept repeating my motto and forced myself to get over my issues. As it turns out, I discovered that I am outgoing. I was chatting with people I had never seen before and actually enjoying myself. I did what made me uncomfortable and got over my fear.

As I reflected on this great self-discovery, I realized something even greater. Today I watched as the horses went galloping by, mud flying through the air behind them, and I saw courage in their eyes. Then I’d look at the jockeys on their backs and I saw a hope and deeply rooted trust in the animals that carried them. I thought about my mom and how I watched her go through her chemo treatments. I thought about how much it took out of her and how hard she fought for each day. I also thought about my family and the work we put into her recovery. This concept, I have found, is not much different than a horse race. A race horse and jockey are a team. So are a cancer patient and his or her family. When all is said and done, it is up to the horse, or cancer patient, whether or not he or she chooses to run the race and how hard they fight to win. But the jockey must learn how the horse moves and what the animal needs to perform at its highest potential. This is how the cancer family operates. Ultimately, it is the patient’s battle to win, but the family does everything in its power to make sure their loved one has everything they need to fight the fight. By no means is it easy but, like all things, the greatest rewards stem from the hardest of work. In the end, it is the horse who runs the race, but it is the jockey he relies on to keep him going when hope is running short.

Unconquered

Thu, 29 Jul 2010 15:37:00 GMT

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For Father's Day last weekend, my dad and I watched the movie, Invictus, starring Morgan Freeman and Matt Damon. This amazing movie is about the life of Nelson Mandela and his involvement with the South African Rugby Team during the 1995 World Cup. Dad and I both almost cried several times while watching it, not because it was sad, but because it was so inspiring. With a name that means "unconquered" in Latin, Invictus is truly one of those life-changing movies that spoke to me.

What moved me so much about this film was the poem that embodies its message. The poem itself is titled, Invictus, and was written by William Ernest Henley. It is the actual poem that helped Nelson Mandela keep going during his imprisonment when everything in life told him to give-up. This poem has become my inspiration and my mantra, and I really feel that it speaks for itself. It is a must-read for everyone, especially those who are in the midst of the fight for their lives.

"Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul."

Cowboys and Marathon Runners

Mon, 21 Jun 2010 04:27:00 GMT

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It seems as though the past few weeks have had some kind of ‘life lesson’ to teach me. Maybe we all learn something every day but are too busy to notice, and maybe I’m just more aware than normal. Whatever it is, I’m thankful for it. This week, my lesson has come to me in two parts, and it has been this: There isn’t anything the human body cannot do.

Part 1:
I met a man a few days ago with one arm. His name is Tim, and he’s one of my mother’s friends from high school. Unbeknownst to Mom, and most of his classmates at the time, he had an extremely rare form of bone cancer throughout high school. If I remember correctly, at the time of his diagnosis, he was one of 29 recorded cases. He graduated from high school, and that fall, his arm was removed because of the cancer.

What makes Tim such an extraordinary person, aside from the fact he beat his cancer when his chances were incredibly slim, and he only visits his doctor for minor heart issues, is that he is a dog-training cowboy. Now, when I say ‘cowboy,’ I mean a man who lives on a ranch, works on a ranch, rides and trains horses, and has the determination of someone who knows what it’s like to earn a living. He is also an extremely well known dog trainer with a love and understanding of animals unlike anyone I’ve ever seen. On top of that, he does it all with one arm.

Part 2:
I ran my first half marathon today. One of my “life goals” has always been to run a marathon, and I decided this was going to be the summer I would do it. I’ve been training for three months, and have come ridiculously close to giving up. Last week I ran 11 miles and got sick with half a mile to go. Knowing I had my half marathon in one week, I had absolutely no idea how I was going to be able to run 13.1 miles with 1,500 other people and not pass out. All day yesterday, and this morning, I was sick to my stomach, but once my race began at 8:00 am this morning, I felt like nothing in the world could stop me. I had so much fun, felt amazing, and never got sick. I was even laughing part of the way—I was reading the other runners’ shirts and some of them were hilarious.

The biggest thing I’ve discovered in all of my training, and in my meeting Tim, is the human body is an incredible machine. It has the power to fight what our minds tell us can’t be beat. It can do the work of a normal person, even when a major limb is missing, and can carry us farther than we ever thought possible. The most important thing is that when we know this, and when we believe this, incredible things can happen. I’ll be honest: I’ve been struggling with body image issues for a few months. Now, I’m a college soccer player and have played every sport imaginable throughout my life. I even fenced for two years. I have absolutely no reason to feel self-conscious about my body in any way, and I know this. But I also just left home for the first time and spent my freshman year of college in Boston. When you are surrounded by unfamiliar people in an unfamiliar place, you want to fit in, so you start to pick out things you think are “wrong” with you and need correcting. I didn’t develop an eating disorder or anything like that—I like food too much to go that far—but I wasn’t happy with myself. In the past few weeks, today especially, I can honestly say I am completely happy with myself. Three months ago I decided to make one of my dreams come true, and today, I got halfway there with the body I’ve had for 19 years. So incredible!

So how does this relate to cancer? Our bodies have the ability to conquer whatever we throw at them. The problem is, our minds tells us we can’t. So how do we solve this conflict? We get over it, and we do it. The only person who knows our body is us, and if we decide we are going to do something, our bodies CAN do it. We just have to believe it. It’s ridiculously simple, and I have spent all of this time writing about it, but it’s so true.

So I have a challenge for whoever might be reading this: Go out. Decide you are going to make one of your dreams come true, and do it. If you want to be a dog-whispering cowboy, a marathon runner, a cancer survivor, or whatever it is that makes you happy, do it. No matter how difficult it is, your body CAN do it. It’s an amazing thing you’ve been given, and you are the only person who has the chance to see what it can do.

My Mom Went Through Menopause in Four Days, I'm Not Kidding.

Mon, 14 Jun 2010 20:27:00 GMT

©Survivorship Media Network, LLC. All rights reserved.

Menopause is the lovely event that occurs in women typically between ages 45 and 55. The best way to describe it is like puberty for adults- hormones change, dramatic mood swings occur at random moments, joints ache, the heart sometimes pounds, and my personal favorite symptom- the hot flash- makes its first appearance. For most women, this kind of adult puberty lasts five or more years. But not for chemo patients.

By no means have I ever gone through menopause myself—I am only 19 and often find myself with that awful puberty song they teach you in fourth grade stuck in my head—but I have had my fair share of being frozen out of the car when Mom has a hot flash. I was unaware that our car’s air conditioner could drop to such temperatures. Thankfully, these are the only remnants left of her chemo and her menopause.

One thing many people don’t realize is that chemotherapy drastically speeds up menopause in women. While everyone is different, for my mother, the four days that followed chemo treatment were the worst. While quickening the process of menopause, chemo also makes most patients extremely sick for a few days after treatment. For us, the magic number was four. During these four days, Mom would typically sleep most of the time, but when she was awake, it wasn’t pleasant. She would get sick, her skin would have a yellow tint to it, she hardly ate, and her mood… Let’s just say it was best to leave her alone and bring her anything she might need BEFORE she needed it. Survival, on my part, was all about anticipation.

When trying to get through those four days, it felt like they would never end. Honestly. They were some of the most difficult days I have ever faced, and all I had to deal with was a cranky mom. Seeing her so sick just killed me. I can’t even begin to imagine what it must have been like for her. But she’s a mother and the strongest woman I know, and she made it through as gracefully as possible. We joke about it now because Mom doesn’t even remember it. One of the blessings of chemotherapy is that it often causes you to forget those few days after treatment. I still tell her stories she has no recollection of, and we laugh about it. But at the time, I never imagined finding any form of humor in the situation.

Now I think it’s lucky Mom went through menopause so quickly. I just finished my freshman year of college and my roommate, who I love dearly, would always tell me stories of her mother’s menopausal ways. Just so you know, I have met her mom, and I love her just as much as I love my roommate. My response to my roommate’s stories was always a chuckle and “My mom did it in four days.” While chemo brutally shoved five plus years of menopause into four days for my mom, listening to stories of normal menopausal women now and looking back on it all, I’m glad my mom did it the way she did. It definitely wasn’t easy, but it’s just one more of those “blessings in disguise” that cancer has brought to my family.

Because No One Told Me I Couldn't

Mon, 14 Jun 2010 02:01:00 GMT

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My mom was diagnosed with breast cancer on March 12, 2005, two days before my thirteenth birthday. My parents divorced in September of 2005 and my grandmother passed away from esophageal cancer that November. Mom retired from her job and bought her own business in a new town, fulfilling her lifelong dream of owning her own women’s clothing store. This meant that we were moving to this new town the summer before my freshman year of high school.
And my sister, who was the only normal thing in my life at that point, was leaving for college.

2005 five was the biggest blessing of my life. And 13 is not an unlucky number.

I choose not to tell too many people my story not because it is some dark, dramatic time in my life that I don’t like to talk about, but because it isn’t what is most important about me or my family. It doesn’t define us, and I don’t want what happened five years ago to be the only thing that people know us for. I like to refer to us as a “functional dysfunctional family,” meaning that yes, my parents are divorced, but they get along better now than they did when they were married; my mom owns the business she always dreamed of; my dad teaches at my high school helping emotionally disturbed children find the good in life; my sister is getting her PhD in molecular carcinogenesis; and I go to college in Boston just one block away from where Benjamin Franklin’s parents are buried. This is what makes us great- that through it all, my family hasn’t once taken on a defeatist attitude. And this is what I want people to know about us. Cancer was our blessing because we would not be where we are without it.

Cancer is taboo. Divorce is taboo. But I want to talk about it because most people don’t. It’s one of the scariest things life can throw at you, but only the strongest of people are blessed with it. Once you enter the “Cancer World” you meet the most amazing people who know what it’s like to fight. They know what it’s like to know that chemotherapy might not work, that the cancer might come back in a month or in ten years, that they will wake up in the morning with hair left on the pillow, and go to sleep at night with nothing but the black shadow of cancer growing inside them. And yet they fight anyway.

My mom has always taught me that there isn’t anything I couldn’t do. Whenever I question my ability to do something she says, “Who told you you couldn’t?” And I used to roll my eyes and think it was just one of those things mothers say to prove their kids wrong. But now that I think about it, while people may doubt me sometimes, the only person that can decide what my abilities are is me. No one told my mom that she wouldn’t survive chemotherapy or lose the fight to cancer. No one ever told her she wasn’t strong enough or couldn’t do it, because that decision was hers to make and no one else’s. That is what makes a survivor- fighting like you never thought possible because no one told you you couldn’t.

People assume that life ends when a diagnosis is made, or that kids will be forever scarred and damaged if their parents divorce. These things are horrible and difficult and they truly do test the strength of a person, but I am proof that these assumptions are merely words said by people who have never been lucky enough to go through it all. And I am telling you right now that you can survive anything that is thrown at you or your mother or your family. And if you ever have any doubt in your mind, because you will sometimes, just ask yourself, “Who told me I couldn’t?”

Amy's Blog

Thu, 10 Jun 2010 02:46:00 GMT

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