Letter to Alicia

The Grim Reaper entered our lives yet again.  He managed to slip in unexpectedly and do the unthinkable--take Alicia from us.  On Tuesday, December 18, 2012 we learned she was no longer with us.  This is what I need to her to know:

Dear Lish-
              My heart hurts.  I mean physically hurts, like someone punched me square in the middle of it so hard that I'm sure there is a hole there.  I can't tell you how many times in the past 5 days I've picked up the phone to send you a text message.  Then I realize I can't and the pain washes over me in engulfing waves that makes it hard to breathe.  After the cancer I had promised myself to never let things go unsaid.  I take some comfort in knowing that we didn't.  The last few years have been rough and we didn't get to see you as often as I would have liked but at least we talked often, whether it was on the phone, via text or on facebook.  I'm glad you knew you were loved.  I don't know why it was your time to leave us but what I do know is that we will go on.  Each of us will do it in our own way, missing you while surrounding your children with love and sweet memories of their mother.  You have entrusted us to care for these three precious souls, leaving pieces of yourself behind in them.  We won't let you down.
     I loved that as a little girl we would ride in the truck, singing at the top of our lungs to Knock Three Times by Tony Orlando and Dawn.  You were about the only one who would listen to me sing in my awful, got-kicked-out-of-the-church-choir voice and not tell me just how terrible it truly was.  You didn't care how bad it sounded, you just let it flow.  I couldn't help but appreciate such acceptance.  Don't get me wrong, you know it wasn't always easy in the beginning but I accepted that you and your dad were a package deal.  And we did manage to become a family.  I knew we had made it when you didn't hesitate to ask me those hard questions in public, so everyone could hear my answer.  Questions like, If my mama's black and my daddy's white, does that make me an Oreo?  I wanted to throttle you on the spot there in the grocery store. 
     I loved your fearlessness.  Like when you were four or five and joined the band Gator Alley on stage at the concert in Hessel Park to sing Country Club.  The lead singer asked if anyone wanted to come up and sing and like a shot you were up on that stage.  You knew all the words, too.  Even made the local paper.  You were always such a ham; you could always make me laugh even when you weren't trying.  Like when you were six and Aunt Bert and I took you and your 6 month old sister (Hannah) to Nick's Park in Monticello; you decided to go down the slide even after I warned you it was hot.  I'm sure you shocked some of the parents when you yelled, "Aunt Bert, hot butt" clear across the park.  I think I laughed so hard I almost peed my pants.  Someday I will share those memories with your children so they will always know you the way I knew you.
     You were so excited about being a big sister.  You and Hannah butted heads so much because you both thought you were in charge.  It was nice to watch your sisterly relationship develop over time.  I think Hannah said it best with the poem she wrote for your memorial service:
                                                          
Alicia's Poem

I didn't always know
my sister meant the world to me.
It took us growing older
for both of us to see.

The times we spent together
were precious to us all.
We weren't with each other much
but we would always call.

When she became a mother
I loved her family.
Now quickly she is gone from us
I only have the memory. 

Of how much I loved my sister
And what she meant to me.

     I hoped you liked that so many of your dad's relatives ended up at Aunt Anne's house after your memorial service just to be together.  We know you were skipping the CD during the memorial service at the church because we played it the night before and it was just fine.  Way to make your presence known.  I said to Hannah, just as Bobby was saying to his mom, "That's Alicia!"  I laughed through the tears when it happened.  At Aunt Anne's as we watched the DVD with pictures of you, the kids and the families (both yours and Bobby's), I could feel you smiling.  We cried, we laughed, we reminisced and just enjoyed being together.  No drama, no fighting, just being.  And then last night after we returned home from Missouri, I dreamed of angels and tinkerbells.  I was in a beautiful, lush, green meadow running through the sunshine while they circled my head.  I felt no fear and no pain, only a calm peacefulness.  I think that was your way of comforting me and reminding me of our connection.  I will forever think of Alicia's meadow and try to always carry that feeling with me. 
     I'm not really sure how one goes on after such a devastating loss but I'll do the best I can.  I draw strength from Hannah as well as give strength to Hannah.  I try to help your dad connect the dots as he works to process this.  And when I want to yell at him to stop being so damn annoying, I will remember the patience and understanding you always displayed with him.  But I am counting on you to send me a sign whenever I need it.  I love you and will forever miss you. 

Love,
Mom2

R.I.P. Robert

     For those of you who don't already know, Robert Reese, chief meteorologist for WCIA TV died Tuesday night at a Chicago hospital.  He had been battling pneumonia and cancer.  I have to say that I am more than a little freaked out from the news.  Now, Robert and I were not fast friends.  We only saw each other occasionally at the Oncology Department at Christie Clinic.  We got drafted into a club no one wants to be in.  I admired his grace and courage as he fought his fight.  He always had a smile for you and waited his turn along with the rest of us.  Hanging out in the waiting area could be quite stressful.  We tried to keep it light, discussing mundane things like weather and current events.  As you can imagine, weather discussions with a meteorologist can be quite fun.  I  think it would have been easy for him to use his celebrity status to get in and out faster but he didn't.  He knew all too well that cancer didn't care about his "status". 
     I think I am freaked out because we are close in age and the last time I saw him, he looked good and said he was feeling great.  It just goes to show that you can look good on the outside while your insides are betraying you.  I am fortunate to have recently celebrated my 3rd cancerversary.  I don't spend much time thinking about cancer until it sneaks up on me and knocks me up side the head with news such as this.  It scares me to think it could happen to me as well.  That coupled with the research that my type of cancer is aggressive and does not have the best survival rate sends me into a tail spin.  HER2-positive breast cancers tend to be more aggressive than other types of breast cancer.  They're also less responsive to hormone treatment.  Now, I have always known these facts but have chosen not to dwell on them.  That is until I am forced to face them. 
     I can't help but wonder why some of us continue to survive while others don't.  Survivor's guilt rears its ugly head.  In cases of chronic illness, this guilt can occur after the death of a peer who faced a similar diagnosis.  By definition, there is an implied comparison with people who have endured similar ordeals.  Survivor guilt can help to find meaning and make sense out of the experience.  It can help to cope with the helplessness and powerlessness of being in a life-threatening situation without the ability to save yourself or others.  It can co-exist with other responses, such as relief and gratitude, even being prompted by them. Logic has little or no impact on guilt and when I find myself comparing my situation to others, I have to remind myself that every person's cancer is different and that I am winning this battle.

Obsessing About Death

I'm feeling a little out of sorts tonight. Ever since I learned of my ex-husband's passing, I've been contemplating death a lot. (I'm pretty obsessed with it anyway and Paul's death certainly didn't lessen that obsession!) So I wonder, why do some terminally ill patients furiously fight to live even in the face of poor survival odds, trading whatever quality of time they may have left for painful or even risky treatments that have a high probability of failure? And why do others view death as a very gentle and normal life process? I suppose the answers are as numerous as the individual patients themselves. Researchers say that a person’s age, religious belief and life experiences all contribute to how well that patient copes with a terminal diagnosis and can even determine the will to survive. Knowing how freaked out people get when I talk or write about death, I recognize that we live in a culture where nobody talks about dying, so patients have a sense that the reason nurses and doctors won’t talk about it is that dying must be too horrible to even think about. Am I determined to try to live no matter how terrible my suffering may become? Abso-fu**ing-lutely! I will not go quietly into that goodnight!!! It is about surviving.

Leaving my family and friends with positive memories of how I conducted my battle against breast cancer is a big concern. At times during my treatment, I was in pain and fairly sure I was dying. All my life I’ve tried to protect my family from harm. I found it more painful for me to watch them watch me than the actual pain I felt from treatment. Should I lose this battle, I want them to remember me as a fighter, not a quitter. That is exactly why roller derby entered my life. I wasn't ready to give up and I had to find a way to make myself stronger. Having cancer has given me courage and freedom to speak my mind; I don’t mince words. If I feel something, I say it because I might not get a second chance to say what I need to say. If I die tomorrow, I hope I’m not leaving anything unsaid or undone.

Last week I wrote "I hope to be a whole person, one who loves, accepts, serves, rejoices and opens up to others honestly and without hesitation. Then I might be someone worth knowing. That will be a life well-lived. That's really all I want." Despite my cancer, I consider myself lucky. I think I've lived a good life—the best I know how. But I am not ready for that final journey. And as the 2012 roller derby season is set to begin, I will remain strong and continue to beat cancer!