My mom has been fighting cancer of the pancreas for 15 months now. This is quite the rarity. She’s an extraordinary and shockingly strong woman.

She is doing the whole experience on her own terms. She does not want anyone sitting around crying over her. She does not want her children involved in her care. She wants to live in her own home and do as she pleases. Which sounds great, right?

Well, she’s slimmed down, to say the least. She’s not willing (or able?) to eat much. Her muscles are gone. Between the muscles fleeing the scene and the powerful pain pills, and goodness knows what else, she’s been falling down. When? Why? Good questions. We don’t know. She hides it. From her brother who lives next door and helps her out all h can. From her sister, a retired nurse, who does all she can. From her children most especially.

So she fell (again) or passed out, or something of the kind and spiked a fever and was not responsive on Saturday evening and got herself a trip in an ambulance to the ER. Followed by a nice, strictly enforced, rest in the PCU for a couple days. I say strictly enforced because she was literally tagged with multiple day-glow wristbands that proclaimed SEVERE FALL RISK, and a bed alarm that would sound if she so much as picked her behind up off the bed.

The social worker came to talk to us. First, can I just say, if you are going to be a social worker in a hospital, particularly on the PCU floor, get the damn flu vaccine and stop wearing a mask. It does not help you evoke trust or transmit caring to the people around you. It says you’d rather be elsewhere and you don’t give a fig about the people in front of you, but the hospital requires you to wear a mask.

OK. Moving on. She said that mom would be evaluated by Physical Therapy, to see if she needed Rehab to go home. She asked Mom some questions. Thankfully Tammie told her straight away, “She can hear you just fine.” So she stopped yell-talking. She asked mom if she’d been able to bathe and dress herself before coming to the hospital. Mom said, “Yes.” And we all stood there, as she lied. We, as her children, had been added to her chart for the cancer ward, but not the PCU, so our input was neither desired nor required.

We all told her that she should go to rehab. Maybe they’d be able to get some protein in her and get some muscle tone back, so she wouldn’t fall so much. Maybe. I mean, honestly, there’s a tiny shocked part of me that thinks that even though she’s been told that surgery is out of the question, that she’s been at this for 15 months, maybe she could actually recover?

So she managed to snow the Physical Therapist and maybe even the social worker, and has been sent home, alone, today. To do what she does. To do what she can.

Who fights cancer with chemo for 15 months straight? Who keeps on fighting if their quality of life is sitting in a recliner in front of a TV most of the time, only consuming milk and melons, and falling down on a regular basis? Who won’t accept help unless it is exactly on her terms? Who? Who does these things?

My mom. Does all this and more. Exactly on her own terms. It isn’t what she wished for herself. She’s mad as hell. You can see it in her clear blue eyes. You can see it in her rosy smooth cheeks and the set of her jaw. She didn’t see this coming, didn’t want cancer, didn’t want to be a victim.

Go ahead and save your tears. She doesn’t want them. Don’t tell her what she does and doesn’t need. Don’t tell her that you just want her to be safe. She sure as hell didn’t choose to get sick, but pretty much everything since that day has been on her own terms. You may not like it, but you have to respect her for it.

So very much about the whole situation sucks on a level that I can not even begin to articulate and you know what? I don’t know the half of it. She keeps me in the dark as much as she is able. You think I’m kidding? I still don’t know what STAGE of cancer she was diagnosed with 15 months ago. How’s that for in the dark?

As I said earlier today, I am sad and frustrated because I just want to make it all better. And I know that I can’t make anything better for her and that is just kicking my butt today. So I’ll put on the “Rehab” song and at least laugh at the irony of her strength of will… Stand humbled by her dignity. Know that as long as she is fighting and doing everything on her own terms, that she is still the woman that raised me.

The harder she is to deal with, the more she is just herself. My mom.

Love you, mom.

But I promise you, that you are going to get the hang of it. You’ll figure out a way to either make your writing meet expectations or to squeak through like your mom. Dad is helping you with this because I understand all too well the desire to make your letters look like everyone else’s and no matter how hard you practice, that is just not what comes out the end of your pencil. But nobody really worked with me, so maybe dad can help. It’s worth a shot, and you deserve it. You deserve to give yourself the chance to grow beyond this trouble spot. It may not be easy, but if you can get past it, you will be rewarded in small ways for the rest of your life.

So many things in life are like this. They look insurmountable. Until you take it one step at a time, or someone shows you the way, or you just have a breakthrough. Just keep plugging away, OK?

You’re so amazing. Everything that comes to you so easily. It just takes my heart and squeezes it, in a good way. Possibly, those things that come easy make the hard stuff look much harder than it really is. Just keep at it. Don’t give up.

One more thing. I want you to know how lucky your brother is to have you. He’s 4 and he’s doing addition, and he figured out reading on his own… He makes everything look so easy. Do you want to know why? Because he has you. You show him things that Dad and I can’t. You are there for him, to challenge him and keep him learning new things. He wants to be just like you. You are a role model and an inspiration that he can totally relate to. And you? Had to figure it all out, with just Dad and I to lend a helping hand. And as much as we love you and want to help you, we are just not, well, kids.

Keep going, kiddo. I know that once you get some of your third grade challenges tamed, you’re going have a blast at school again.

Love you,
Mom

#4 is Good Cook, which is rather a shock, since Annabella is all about chicken nuggets at this particular moment in her life.

But it’s the last one that really makes my eyes misty. My girl thinks I have a big heart. How wonderful is that?

The “Just Mom and Me” American Girl book is her most favorite thing in the world right now. I highly recommend it.

I do not love that they are so delighted to be together that Annabella goes to the bathroom with the door open and Redding can’t wait to spend time with her, so I find him camped out on the floor with his snack, waiting for her to be done, so they can play some more.

Goofy little bastards.

I love you

ilove is higher than mteverest and deper thanthe deeper than the deepest ochen

Seriously, is there any mom out their luckier than me? I think not.

While on vacation in Mexico, I had no children with me. I used no alarm. I awoke spontaneously between 7 a.m. and 7:30 a.m.

Back to the daily school grind, and I’ve got an alarm that goes off at 7 a.m. to make sure Bel gets in the shower on time.

The first Saturday of the new school year, and I am sweetly woken by Redding calling me from his bed. When I get up to find him, Annabella is in the hall and informs me she wants some computer time. Then I get to Red’s bedroom and he tells me he needs more time to snuggle with baby bear and with me.

These days are numbered. But they make me feel like a million bucks.

I love to call Redding this name, simply because I frequently get the irate response, “I’m not Moe-Shoe!”

Moe-Shoe, is his next nickname. Now to get it on video to share with the world.

Nicknames are great. Just ask my girl, Anaphylaxis.

It’s odd. I remember it fairly clearly. I had been lying on the couch, looking out the big picture window at the evening, and alternately putting the bead in my nostril and blowing it out. This one time, it didn’t come back out. Cue the freaked out mother, trip to ER, and general mayhem to get a cute little pink plastic bead out of my nose.

Tonight, as I was making dinner, Redding walked calmly into the kitchen. He had been playing nicely with Annabella down in the family room. He said, “Mom, I’ve got something fuzzy in my nose.” Since he’s been sick, I figured he just needed to blow his nose. So I got a tissue and started to vigorously coach him through blowing his nose. Then I noticed that really only one side was blowing.

Uh oh.

I asked him to tip his head back and I looked into his tiny 4 year old nostrils. I saw nothing in the one that was blowing, and nothing in the one that wasn’t blowing. Except the nothing was bigger. Was there some sort of black hole forming in my sons nose? I thought not.

“Hold on buddy!” I enthused, as I tried to tip his head farther back and pull the offending nostril out further to get some idea what we were up against. Nothing. Nada. I made no contact, I got no further information. A second of panic and then a brisk trot up the stairs to find my tweezers.

I put the little guy, who really seemed a bit baffled, up on the counter, turned the light on, tipped his head back and took the first shallow dip with the tweezers.

“Are they pointy? Will they hurt me?”

“Just be still, buddy. Just be still, I won’t hurt you if I can help it. The more still you are, the more careful and gentle I can be.”

About the time I burst into a mild sweaty panic, I made contact. I pulled the small round felt black olive out of his nose.

Then we had a hug and a nice tedious repetitive chat about how “We Don’t Put Things Up Our Noses.” Never ever ever ever again, got it? Period. End of story.

Meanwhile, earlier today we saw a poster for a Red Cross Blood Drive on July 30th. Annabella asked what that was all about and I told her, “Sometimes when people are sick or injured they need blood. In order for them to receive blood, someone has to donate it. That’s why they have blood drives.”

“How do they donate it?” She inquired with wide eyes.

“It is kind of like when they draw blood for a blood test, only the needle stays in longer, until a pint bag is filled.”

“Whoa! That’s a lot. I don’t want to do that.”

“Well, you don’t have it, it’s not required. First of all, you have to be at least 17, and even then it is voluntary. People do it because it saves lives.”

“Like superheros?”

“Kind of, just less dangerous. One blood donation can save up to three lives.”

“Really? I hope I never need blood.”

“You did when you were a baby. And because someone, like your Poppa or like me, donated blood, it was available for you.”

“Why did I need blood?”

“Because you were very early, and preemies aren’t able to make their own red blood cells yet.”

“Why? Is being a preemie rare?”

“Because ordinarily, they wouldn’t have to. They’d get them from their mom. And no, being a preemie isn’t rare, there are about 500,000 preemies born every year.”

“HOW do they get blood from their moms?”

“Through the umbilical cord.”

“How do they cut the umbilical cord?”

“With sharp surgical scissors.”

So yeah, we had that whole big conversation. Then when Bel’s friend came over, she recounted it, almost word for word. She got all her numbers right, too. It was wild.

Her friend has two little brothers and one on the way. She was a riot, telling Annabella all about things. Then, next thing I know, the two of them are carrying around baby dolls and telling each other, “I think I’m going to have a baby!”

So much pretending! So much talking over what is going on in their lives, recounting their recent conversations with adults.

Another great reminder, that when we talk, they listen. We help shape their experience of the world and what they share with others.

Next week they’ll be modeling for JC Penney apparently.

Annabella was totally excited, she knows the routine, she can manage her own stuff. She was talking about how she’s planning on making it to the top of the climbing wall this year. She is such a dynamo!

From the first time Annabella took a bus to kindergarten, Redding has been asking when he can ride a school bus. This morning as I watched Redding struggle up the steps onto the bus, taking one at a time, pulling his backpack up behind him, I teared up a little. Then when he got to the top of the steps, oblivious to other bigger kids waiting to get on behind him, he stopped and asked the driver, “Does this bus cost money?” The driver told him no, and he moved on to his seat. He never once looked back at me.

I teared up more than a little the first time I sent Annabella off to camp, but there was less than a moment to think about it because I immediately needed to get on with taking care of Redding. Today, it is just me. I’ve got some things that I’d like to do. I’m half expecting a call to hear that Redding has lost his little mind, half expecting that he’ll do so great that he’ll be king of the camp in no time.

Three years ago, when we dropped off Annabella, Redding was just out of the infant carrier car seat. Today he’s a feisty 4 year old wrestling with a backpack that weighs almost as much as he does. But lucky me, even though he’s getting to be a big boy, he still wanted me to pick him up so he could give me a great big monkey hug before the bus got there. He grabbed both sides of my head and put his forehead to mine and said, “I just love you so much.”

Keep your fingers crossed, I know mine are.

I keep waiting for them to look exhausted and bedraggled after camp. No chance. They come off the bus and want to know where else we can go before we go home. It’s crazy.