Got Screened?

The screenings don't get easier.  My oncology team recommended additional screening in between my mammograms so every 6 months I'll have imaging.  I understand the necessity, but the days leading up to my tests plague me with anxiety, nearly like the kind I felt the night before infusions when I'd be a crying mess at the dinner table.

It's the fear of the unknown, the "what ifs."  What if they find something?  What if the cancer comes back?  What if I have to endure chemo again?  What if... That fear can almost be debilitating.

It doesn't stop me, though.  I never miss my appointments.  I know how important they are, not only for me, but for my family.

I had my first breast MRI a few weeks ago.  If you don't know how breasts MRIs are done, neither did I until it was being explained to me.  You lie flat on your stomach with your breasts hanging down and arms straight up.  The IV didn't bother me.  (Sadly, I'm so used to needles by now).  The prep didn't bother me.  The temperature in the room didn't bother me.  It wasn't until I was in the machine with all the clamoring and beeping that I started to feel panicked and had to take deep breaths (moving as little as possible) to calm myself down.  And afterwards, I felt woozy because I hadn't been able to eat a meal all day because of the nerves.

Minutes later, I had my results: Normal.  No evidence of breast malignancy.

I could breathe again... at least, for another 6 months.

Get those screenings and do those self-exams!  They could save your life.

Timely

"Timely"

Thanksgiving 2023

 

Time is elusive.  We go about our every days in measurable ways – getting the kids off to school, our 9-5s, appointments, dinner, lessons, bedtime, prep for the following day.  Our weekends are packed full of activities.  We find ourselves rushing from one thing/place to the next, and then impossibly the season has changed again, my son has somehow grown out of everything, and my daughter is talking animatedly about the origins of Thanksgiving and how it can be a painful reminder for many Native Americans... so is it okay to celebrate?  [Insert mind blown emoji].  The kids keep growing up and outwards.  We keep moving forward and onwards.  The cycle continues.

 

We may not realize that any of it, or all of it, can be like balancing on a tight rope.

 

I’ve always taken pride in being a working mom; I loved my job, I loved being a leader.  I constantly strived to find ways to become even more efficient with snippets of time throughout a day.  I continually sacrificed sleep and my health at times because I’m a giver – as with anything I set my mind to, I gave it my all.  Work was no exception; I would often be responding to e-mails or messages late into the night or pre-dawn hours, on-call and available whenever I was needed despite having young children or going to grad school or being diagnosed with cancer and undergoing treatments.  Despite those incredibly rough pandemic years.  I was there.  And because it never quite felt like there was enough time, I didn't waste any.

And then one day… I lost my job of 11 years.  It was unexpected and scary, and it hurt, a lot.  It was humbling.  It felt a little like time stood still for a moment.  Everything I once knew, over a decade of our practiced routine, that fragile balance, had toppled over, and I was falling.  There was no safety net to be found.

 

When I found my footing though, I realized, suddenly and remarkably… I was blessed with time.

 

This was an opportunity to decide how to spend my days.  Where to focus my energy.  Truly think about what I want to do long-term.  Tackle projects at home.  Share my talents volunteering.  Ask myself some tough questions about how to be a better partner and supportive wife, daughter, and sister.  And realizing what could wait.

 

This year, I’m grateful for the beauty of nature.  For long walks and companionship, leisurely visits with family.  For extra snuggles and sleeping in.  I’m thankful to be able to attend the kids’ school events and serve on committees, to volunteer at the food pantry, to help organize at church.  I’m enjoying untimed conversations, checking in with friends old and new, sending surprise care packages “just because,” honoring people we’ve lost this year in special ways.  I’m learning to give more while being okay with letting go.  I’m decidedly present, and here, and still have not wasted a minute.  I’m savoring time.

 

I’m savoring momma and daughter dates to an amusement park, art class, or show.  I look forward to daycare pick up when my sweet boy runs across the field into my arms shrieking “Mommy!” with delight; when he holds my face in his hands and tells me I’m “so pretty” and “the best momma in the world.”  I enjoy listening to my bright girl read the elaborate stories she’s written and responding to her rapid-fire questions when she’s curious about a new topic.  I have fun teaching little man to do chores and to dress himself and cheering him on when he gets it just right (on his terms, not mine).  That nagging mom guilt for having to divide my time?  It’s dissipated – I’m all in.

 

It's temporary, I know… but for now, I’ll take it.  I’ll recognize and cherish it for the gift that it is.  I’ll soak up the moments.  I’ll listen for the sounds of my rowdy family gathering at my parents’ house and the side conversations at the ever-growing kids’ table.  I’ll marvel at how we’ll barely make a dent in our traditional-American-meets-Chinese feast.  I’ll catch up with my cousins as we watch our own kids and their cousins play, the volume crescendo-ing usually after they’ve had a taste (or three) of dessert.  And I’ll be so grateful – for togetherness, for family, for time.  For an amazing husband who assured me it would be okay and encouraged me to take the break.  

 

I’m thankful for being given a different lens and a way to refocus.  For the not knowing, and for the finding me, again.

full circle

“Full Circle”

Thanksgiving 2022

Last year at this time, we were in sunny Florida, taking advantage of Sophia’s week-long Thanksgiving break from school with our first big road trip with the kids.  My mother-in-law (Mu) had surprised us after we had arrived, and we spent the next few days soaking up the sun with her and Nan, Aunt Colleen, and Uncle Mark, enjoying seafood outdoors by the water, walking on the beach, visiting Homosassa Springs Wildlife State Park (one of our favorites) and “Monkey Island,” kayaking, and staying up late with the kids.  One day we ordered a Greek feast from Tarpon Springs for dinner and I remember finding ways to use our leftovers with our Thanksgiving meal.  Speaking of Thanksgiving, Eli fell asleep in the stroller before the table was set and then woke up later to share in the festivities with Grandma Carol.  Sophia wrote a story that she asked everyone to read, and I think we’d all agree that Uncle Mark’s interpretation was the best.  The next day, we met up with more extended family and then were on our way to Savannah for an overnight stay on the ride home.  It was such an amazing time together and a memorable trip for the kids.

Leading up to the trip, I started a gratitude tree with the kids where every night in November, we’d write something we were thankful for on one of the leaves to gradually fill the branches.  We were filling up two trees in parallel so we could surprise Aunt Colleen and Uncle Mark with theirs in Florida, and it served as a centerpiece on the table the whole time we were there.  Sophia has still been talking about that exercise so earlier this week, I asked her to decorate the following leaves on her own for a virtual gratitude tree.

Sophia is thankful for: Mama, Dada, Eli, family, and Bianca, her cat.

What this demonstrated to me, so simply, were a few things.  She is thankful for the people around her.  We, essentially, are her circle of trust (yes, a Meet the Parents reference).  She holds those who are gone dear to her heart – we lost Bianca over two years ago, but Sophia still talks about her frequently.  What our seven-year-old depicted so beautifully and easily was what matters most to her.

Thanksgiving has a way of teaching me to reflect and reset my perspective every year.  Amidst the flurry and clamor in the kitchen with every available surface in use, tripping over our kids running through and forging a path where there is none, a cacophony of clanging pots and pans and little feet and oven timers beeping and laughter (and sometimes yelling), I feast on all the welcome noise and delicious smells and unruly scenes before me.  For in this disorganized chaos, I see life – messy, cluttered, unscripted life – and I am reminded of what we try to teach our children all year.

Yes, there are plenty of big events to remember – trips, holidays, birthdays, celebrations.  Yet I’d like to think that our kids can discern those “in-between” moments that fill up our days and the leaves on our gratitude tree.  Sophia’s excitement for school.  The proud look on Eli’s face when he can put on his shoes.  How Sophia says “Eli” (uh-lie).  When Eli watches Sophia do something like a hawk and then attempts to do the exact same thing a second later.  Sophia singing all of the words to a Red Hot Chili Peppers song.  Eli requesting “Dirt” (“Buy Dirt”) and “Wagon Wheel” after reading 23582350 books before bed, no matter how many times you tell him it’s the last one.  Watching Sophia swim or run on the track team or skate on the ice like a natural – she can do whatever she sets her mind to!  Eli with his practiced “please” and “thank you.”  Sophia walking her brother down the aisle at church and to Sunday school.  Listening to Eli sing every song he knows in the car.  Sophia formulating an idea and then creating it out of paper, markers, and a pair of scissors.  Eli exclaiming, “Oh, my gosh!” to literally everything. Sophia climbing the counter like a monkey to grab herself a plate and cup.  How Eli gives the best hugs and still loves to snuggle and hold hands at bedtime.  Realizing Sophia is old enough for play dates on her own and doing math in her head.  Eli embracing his toddlerdom to the max – there is absolutely no reasoning with a two-year-old.  Waking up to both kids in the bed and wondering when and how they got there.  These are our moments, in our circle, that shape and define all that we seek and are grateful for.

So this Thanksgiving, I am thankful for my husband of 15 years.  I am thankful for my beautiful rainbow babies.  I am thankful for family near and far, who will be at our table and those who will be missed.  I am thankful for another year to celebrate our hodgepodge of moments and glimpses and in-betweens, and appreciate them all as sacred and life-giving, as purely as a seven-year-old would.

ninth x 2

After we had lost the twins, I remember having this inexplicable fear that if I started to smile, and heal, and "move on," that somehow I would be leaving them behind.  I learned over the years though that it's possible to move forward and still remember -- to talk about them, cry for them, celebrate and honor them.

I usually try to take off work this time of year to pause around the babies' birthdays.  Nine whole years.  Nine years of memories we've made, with them watching over us, still in my prayers every night.  The other day when both of our kids were seated with us at the kitchen table, I asked out loud, "What if we had had more kids?  There aren't enough chairs."  Sophia replied, "If Lily and Lucas were here, we'd all sit together in the dining room."  Her simple response made my heart smile.

So much has happened in 9 years.  The twins have kept us grounded, remembering to live consciously, not letting the moments pass us by, hugging our rainbow babies a little tighter.  Being truly grateful.  And sharing the love, by cooking a meal or making a porch drop, through a card or a late night phone call to check up on a friend.  This life was meant to be shared and appreciated and celebrated.

(Tonight when we sang happy birthday, Eli joined in, too.  He just learned how to enunciate "happy birthday" with all of the celebrations this week).

We miss you so much, Lucas.  Happy birthday, sweet baby boy.

ninth

Every August 27th for the past 9 years, the ache is there, more pronounced than usual.  I pray for all of our kids every day, and Lily, she was the first.  Our sweet girl.

My best friend, who always remembers, gave me flowers the other night and I could barely stop the tears.  She knows how hard this week always is for Anthony and me.  I told her I was pregnant before I told my parents.  She was there after my water broke and I was on strict bedrest.  She was there after we came home from the hospital without our twins.  So, she knows just what I need... for our children to be remembered.

I'm currently reading Out of the Clear Blue Sky by my favorite author, Kristan Higgins, who captures what it feels like to lose a child so beautifully:

"These things happen.  Oh, they happen all the time.  Everyone's life--especially every woman's life--is marked by something like this, it seems.  Miscarriage, infertility, breast or ovarian or uterine cancer.  It's so personal when our female parts fail us in some way.  So hard not to think that we--that I--had caused this, should've known, should've done something.

...Because she was born after twenty weeks' gestation, my daughter got a fetal death certificate, which meant she needed a name.  We could have left that part blank, but it seemed so cruel not to name her.  But we hadn't settled on one yet, and oh, the deep, aching pain of naming a child who was already gone.  The tragedy of it all.  The absolute, wrenching grief.

...And still, I thought of my poor little baby every day.  I'd held her there in the ambulance....I'd memorized her perfect face.  Every year on the first of December, the day I'd lost her, Brad would bring me flowers, and I'd cry a little (or a lot), remembering the fear and love and grief so pure it was like a scalpel, slicing my heart in half.

But you keep going.  The memory is there every day, but the days grow and multiply until it's years and years.  Her story was so brief, and after a while, there was nothing new to say.  She was branded on my heart, and she always would be.  It became my private loss, spoken of no more.  Brad had lost her, too, but he hadn't grown her inside him, felt every wriggle and kick; hadn't known my secret fear; hadn't seen all that blood or felt her tiny body slide out of me, even as I fought to keep her inside.

...I missed my girl in a way that still surprised me.  That after five years, ten years, twelve, I could still sob, alone in the downstairs bathroom, for my lost little girl.

...We would be best friends, my sweet girl and I....She would be smart and kind and helpful....Popcorn and movie nights, walks around the kettle ponds, kayaking, cooking, baking, laughing.  School events, her friends filling the house with the sound of their laughter...

My daughter would be my closest ally, and I would be hers...She'd lean her head against my shoulder and say, "You're my best friend, Mommy."

The longing...it never goes away.  My little girl.  How wonderful she would have been."

--Kristan Higgins, Out of the Clear Blue Sky

Yes, how wonderful our sweet Lily would have been.  We love you, baby girl.

legacies

"Legacies"

Thanksgiving 2021

To this day, sharing food is at the heart of every family gathering -- meal planning, preparation, dining together, chatting until it is time for more.  Growing up, dinner was always a meal we ate together, free of distractions, a time to recap our days before we split off in our respective directions to finish homework or wind down.  It's shared time we have with our own kids now before bath and bedtime routines, and when any of us miss it due an appointment or obligation, we feel it.

I remember many family dinners from my childhood, sometimes with special guests or with family who was visiting.  We also had a number of family members who lived with us over the years.  My cousin James (aka Ming-Ming), moved in with my family while he attended college in the U.S., and despite our school schedules and extracurriculars, dinner was still an important meal that we shared.  I think back to that time, about how he was a busy college student and eventually met his girlfriend (who became his wife), and yet he still made time for us.

The pattern continued even as we went off to college and met our partners and started our own families.  Dinners would not be so easy to coordinate anymore but we would meet and eat and celebrate milestones -- weddings, birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, holidays.  Thanksgiving was special because if my parents were hosting, chances were that my cousins would join us.  We shared many Thanksgivings together, all over each other in my mom's noisy, warm kitchen, kids running around (and sometimes, to my mom's dismay, with a puppy or cat in the mix).  There was the infamous ice cream cake shaped like a turkey.  There was the piano bench doubling as a seat when we started running out of chairs to extend the table into the living room.  There was Ichi's delicious sticky rice.  There were long discussions about where and when we'd be heading out for Black Friday sales.  There were family photos taken at the kitchen island, with the camera on a stool we'd use as a tripod.  There were early Christmas gifts in case we didn't see each other again before the new year.  There were seemingly endless hugs goodbye when it was time to leave.

Ming would always be in the middle of all of it... usually with a kid or two in his arms or making someone laugh.  He was a big kid at heart, with his trademark black graphic t-shirts, an appreciation for all things Disney, and boundless energy to entertain all of our littles.  We joked about how he was like our cool uncle Jesse, or a big brother who would pull us in for one of his bear hugs, or affectionately  our self-proclaimed "Uncle Grandpa" or "Big James" to our kids.

He will be so incredibly missed this year.

It's hard to remember the last time, because you don't ever know it is the last.  We hadn't gathered for Thanksgiving together in probably close to four years.  Last year, we had a meal swap in my sister's driveway with immediate family only, and the two years prior to that we had missed each other for one reason or another.  The last time we had seen Ming was when we had celebrated my dad's 70th and he had been talking about going overseas during the summer to visit his mom, my aunt, who was very ill and now they're both painfully absent.

I'd like to think they're together now, as we find our footing without them.

I think of Ming often.  I don't always have the words, but as with others we have lost along the way, I carry him, and them, in my heart.  It's what I tell our daughter, when she tries to reconcile what it means when someone is no longer with us: We remember them.  We love them.  We hold them in our hearts.  And we live, because there are no guarantees in this life.

This year, we didn't set out to break tradition... yet we felt spurred by that sense of no longer waiting.  We had to work around Sophia's school schedule for the first time, and she happened to have a week-long fall break.  It suddenly felt like the right time.  We had been talking about heading to Florida to spend it with extended family we don't get time with often, and had already missed what had been becoming an annual trip for the prior two years due to a newborn/cancer treatments/pandemic (in no particular order).  Then Nan decided to join us, and when we made it to our destination, we were surprised by my mother-in-law, so needless to say, have been cherishing our time together.

Time has felt more important than ever.  We're with family in a different way.  This Thanksgiving, I'm thankful for road trips.  I'm thankful for surprises.  I'm thankful for visitors on the dock in the mornings.  I'm thankful for breakfasts we cook together.  I'm thankful for sunshine and amazing sunsets.  I'm thankful for outside dining by the water.  I'm thankful for walks down the street with the kids and car rides with four generations.  I'm thankful for silly jokes by Siri.  I'm thankful for mystery trips.  I'm thankful for late night baking and staying up past bedtimes.  I'm thankful for family dinners.  I'm thankful every day that I'm given time to be present and here, because I have that chance, and I'm taking it.

As we gather this year in our noisy kitchens and around extended tables and the food that brings us together, we say a prayer for those we carry with us and the legacies that are living on.

self-care is health care

Two years ago on Halloween, I had my first (unscheduled) mammogram. I had found a lump about a week earlier and my doctor referred me for an ultrasound which turned into a 4-hour appointment... which turned into "highly suspicious for malignancy." Stunned and a little incredulous, I reached out to a friend who told me to go trick or treating with my daughter, so I got myself together and did just that.

A biopsy followed. Two days later, ahead of my read appointment, I was called into the office to receive my results. In that moment, I knew something was wrong. I was numb when I heard the diagnosis -- ductal invasive carcinoma. I was scheduled with a breast surgeon the next day. And I was 18 weeks pregnant.

My oncologist and I discussed treatment options, what was safe for the baby, and timing. I was already in the high-risk category with the pregnancy, so was feeling overwhelmed and anxious, and utterly powerless. Although I was told to take care of myself, the thought of actually pausing for a moment to do that seemed implausible... I was carrying life inside of me, and it seemed so at odds with the rest of what my body was doing.

For the first time in a long time, I had to refocus on my health, and I had to do it with the same vigor I usually reserved for my family and my career. When I was told not to worry about a thing at work, I placed trust in those words so my energy could go where it was needed.

Time, suddenly, felt more important. There were appointments and schedules as my providers mapped out a plan. There was port placement, surgery, and 2 rounds of chemo, a scheduled induction so I could resume treatments 5 days postpartum. There was a beautiful, healthy baby boy. There was a pandemic. There were treatments alone, with a newborn at home. Then came radiation, and in the whirlwind of 6 months, I had completed active treatments.

Now there was time to take a breath.

The lesson? When I think back to that time, aside from the enormity of it all, I go back to 3 things:

1) Self-care is essential.

2) Refocus, reframe, reprioritize.  

3) When support is offered, take it.

I find myself going back to these things when I'm feeling a little stuck or overwhelmed. I couldn't be at my best, at home or at work, without taking care of me. So take the time to take care of yourself today; give yourself the opportunity to be better.