A piece of wood
We turned the corner to drive down grandma’s driveway, and I took a deep breath. We were there to help clean out her bedroom. To go through her pieces of clothing and to toss them into bags, discarding one piece of her until all the drawers are empty and closest was bare.
Grandma’s room was hers. We didn’t go through her things, except for the box that sat in the back of her closet when I was a kid full of dress up clothes. Now I sat on a bench opening one drawer after another, inspecting, grabbing, placing, moving on.
We moved to the kitchen. Started going through the drawers, discarding long expired food, until we reached the drawer that held the phone books.
I sat watching Beth go through each item in the drawer. A phone book. A church directory. Paper. Calendars. And my eyes spied a piece of wood, square, with writing and a drawing.
Here in this drawer of “new” things, important things, the top most drawer under the phone, where you put things that you wanted handy was that piece of wood. A piece of wood that was 45 years old. A piece of wood that was worth literally nothing, could have been easily overlooked and tossed into the fireplace to keep the house warm.
I asked Beth if I could have the piece of wood. She asked if I knew what it was. I just shook my head.
I got up and put the wood next to my purse and sat next to my husband on the couch and couldn’t hold back the tears that rolled down my face.
She’s really gone. She’s not coming home, back, here, ever. Never ever. I was so blessed to have her as my grandmother. Blessed enough to have her put a piece of wood in the top drawer of the kitchen that I drew on when I was 7 telling her I loved her. I loved her. She loved me. She was one of the best things I had in my life. And the world is a little less blessed without her in it.
Red light, Green light, Go
Once you’ve had cancer, you are monitored for reoccurrence. It doesn’t matter if your chances are 1% or 90%; you get to spend time with your oncologist for years afterward.
I see my doctor every 3 months. They take blood, do a physical exam, talk about any tests or therapy I’ve had, and send me on my way.
I see my lymphatic therapist once a month, depending on how often I fly. Due to having 3 lymph nodes removed on my right side during my bilateral mastectomy, my lymphatic system is compromised, and I could get lymphedema. Flying is one of my triggers, so after flying, I need to be seen more often so they can help coax the lymphatic fluids to move off my right side. Other things that can trigger this are heat, having a blood pressure cuff on my right side, needle sticks, and tattoos. My right arm is sacred, and I’m pretty protective of it, as lymphedema is no joke.
Once a year, I get to have a breast MRI. First, I have closterphobia. They are not able to use an open MRI for breast MRIs, which doesn’t help the claustrophobia. During a breast MRI, you’ll lie face down on a padded table with a bowl-type thing to put your face in. The table slides into the opening of the machine. Your chest fits into a hollow space on the table, with your arms resting slightly bent above your head. The procedure is 20 minutes long, and you must hold perfectly still.
My first MRI since being diagnosed was yesterday. I woke up at 5:30 a.m., had the procedure at 6:30 a.m., was home by 7:30 a.m., and started my work day. At around 12:30 p.m., the results were sitting in my patient portal.
My husband sat on the bed while I sat before my computer, pulling up the results.
I don’t know about other people who have had cancer, but for me, there is a constant fear of it returning. Again, it doesn’t matter what your chances are, you have this underlining fear that you’ll have to go through it all again. So, while I read through all the medical jargon to get to the results, I didn’t breathe. I don’t think my husband did either. At the very end…
There is no MRI evidence of malignancy.
A 3-page report that could have led with those words…
We took a minute to cry (tears of relief), called family and friends, and returned to work.
Cancer sucks. And even when it’s gone, the trauma from having it lives on in anxiety, sleepless nights, and constant reminders that we are all mortal. Cancer never stops sucking.
Death
Death is weird. You expect it to be more, emotional. And then you sit within its reverberation and wonder if maybe you’re dead inside.
My grandmother passed away today. The message arrived in a text message from my brother, only because I was in a meeting, and he was at work.
Grandma passed. Sorry.
I sit here with those words now and can’t put my arms around them. They leave me perplexed and confused.
I expected more. Tears. Weeping. Collapsing to the floor with grief. Something. Anything. This isn’t what I thought death would feel like. As if just another thing to mark off the daily task list. This is how I felt while dealing with cancer, so maybe this is just how I process it all, I don’t know.
I didn’t see her much while I went through chemo. Her memory reset every 15 minutes, and I couldn’t bring myself to break her heart (and my own) every 15 minutes when she would realize I was bald. I couldn’t bring myself to see her cry, because she would. I couldn’t bring myself to have me cry, because I would. I never wanted sadness to touch her. So I stayed away. Once my hair started growing back to a length where I could say “Oh yes, I’m trying out a shorter new hair style” we went to see her. She didn’t recognize me. She recognized the kids, Eric. But not me. And that was ok.
The last time I saw her when she was still conscious was heart breaking. She was so lost and scared. Not understanding why she was in pain, in a hospital and not at home, where was her family, why did they abandon her.
I mourn more over those moments than I do her death. Right now at least. Maybe it will hit me tomorrow, the day after, next week. I don’t know.
For today, there is no more confusion. No sadness. No feeling of abandonment.
The Roof
Many moons ago, in a local coffee shop, a man drew a picture of me. It was quickly drawn in pencil and froze me in a specific moment in time. I hadn’t noticed that he was paying any amount of attention to me, and I was surprised when he walked up, placed the paper on the edge of my table, and walked away.
I remember looking at the paper, looking up at the man, wanting to say something, but he kept walking out the door. I sat there looking at this picture of me through someone else’s eyes. I slipped the picture in my bag and kept it for many years. I think it might be in a box of old memories in my basement.
I thought of that picture today as I sat on the 10th floor in my hotel room, looking down at the rooftops around me. I watched as they climbed the fire escape steps, walked across the roof, laid out a white sheet, and placed their drawing materials around them. I sit here now and am captivated by their actions up there on their roof.
Life is weird. Here I am in a city with a million people, watching this person on a roof, and they have no idea I’m watching down on them.
Cherry Blossoms
In Japanese culture, cherry blossoms symbolizes both life and death, beauty and violence. As the coming of spring promises new life, so the blooming of cherry blossoms brings a sense of vitality and vibrancy. At the same time, their short lifespan is a reminder that life is fleeting. Link
When I was in my early 40’s, I had cherry blossoms added to my body in the form of a tattoo. To me, it represented a shift in my life; where I started leaping into the entrepreneurial world while also being a mother. I have stared at those flowers on my foot countless times, both in good and bad time, and drawn power from what they meant to me, as well as what they meant to others.
I had an extra day today here in Buffalo, NY after attending WordCamp Buffalo which gave me the opportunity to visit Niagara Falls, some place I’ve only seen on tv. I ordered an Uber, hopped in the back seat and met the most delightful man. I learned he had migrated from Japan 35 years ago, had lived in Queens for just over 30 years, and moved to Buffalo at the start of the pandemic, when NYC was the epicenter of the pandemic, which he said scared him. He asked me if I had an umbrella, and upon me saying no, he laughed and said “You don’t want to get your hair all wet!” I laughed and said that a little water wasn’t going to hurt me. He pointed out different areas in the park that I needed to see. He told me that everyone else would be going left, I needed to go right, because those are the paths less traveled and they are also the most beautiful of all the paths in the park. He pointed to the river, the water crashing well before the falls, telling me, “Look at how beautiful they are!” He dropped me off and wished me a wonderful day.
I was expecting the falls. That was a given. What I wasn’t expecting was the cherry blossom trees, newly in bloom. They dotted the area here and there, not heavy in population, just enough to dot the landscape with their splender and beauty.
I keep seeing them. I went on a gondola in Taipei and as we reached the top of the volcanic mountain, there sat a small garden of cherry blossoms in bloom. Now, in Buffalo, NY of all places I am reminded by the symbolic nature of those flowers in nature and in my life.
Speak now or forever stay silent
I remember in high school, in my speech and debate class, I had to give a short talk on a subject of our choice. I picked cockroaches because I wanted the crowd to be as uncomfortable as I was throughout the entire thing. I told myself that I would never, ever do that again.
In 2017, my big scary goal was to overcome that fear and be able to speak in front of crowds. I joined Toastmasters and signed up for every conference I felt qualified for. For every single one of them, I spent days ahead of time trying to talk myself out of doing the presentation, and I would give in, do it, and find myself still alive at the end.
I kept speaking, mostly about imposter syndrome, systems and processes, and WordPress. I was a backup speaker for WordCamp Asia this year and will talk at WordCamp Buffalo and WordCamp Canada. I am very proud to be given these opportunities and to know that I put in the work to reach a point where I could stand up and speak about what I know about sharing, teaching, and learning.
Here’s to overcoming your fears and conquering the world!
Photography
I took this photo many moons ago, during a period of time when I was heavily into photography. I have an infinity towards abstract and macro photography. Life got busy, my focused shifted, and I stopped taking photos. I bought a camera right before things changed last year, with the hope that I would once again find the passion and love that I had before. That was put on hold for a while, and I’m hoping to jump feet first back into the mix of the beauty of the world. We will be going on a tour of Wyuka Cemetery in May. It is one of the more beautiful cemetery in Lincoln, and has so many aspects of inspiration.
Turning Sadness into Celebration
I sat at my desk, gazing at the knickknacks arranged before my monitor, attempting to dispel the relentless roar of crashing waves echoing in my ears. Those waves rolled and thundered, obscuring my doctor’s words on the other end of the phone call. Her initial words seemed to hover just beyond reach, tantalizingly close, yet continually slipping through my grasp as the waves surged, pulling me deeper into their tumultuous grip.
A desperate need to ask questions clawed at me, the urge to form coherent sentences growing more urgent. Closing my eyes, I embarked on a journey of mindful breathing, the gentle rise and fall of my breath providing a fleeting respite, just long enough for me to inquire:
“Do you have any information about the cancer’s stage?”
She responded with uncertainty, “I’m afraid not.”
“And do you know the type of breast cancer it is?”
Once more, her reply conveyed her lack of knowledge.
Her voice broke through the chaos to inform me that she had already made referrals to an oncologist and breast cancer surgeon, assuring me that they would contact me later today. She apologized for the results.
As I disconnected, a rush of air left my lungs, and the sensation of buoyancy vanished. The waves crashed over me again, forcing me deeper into a swirling abyss, like an underground tornado, words and emotions swirling chaotically around me. The thunderous waves, the surging water, and the screams in my mind grew louder and more frantic until, finally, a fragile calm descended.
My first call was to my husband. I can’t recall whether he picked up on the first attempt or if I had to dial again. He was at work, immersed in the tasks of his day, fixing someone’s computer.
He answered.
“You need to come home.” With those words, the entire world seemed to crumble beneath me, the floor disappearing from beneath my chair as the sobs echoing in my mind finally found their way to my lips. “You need to come home. It’s cancer.”
That call happened almost a year ago. April 28 at 8:35 am. I was on a call with my lead and one of the engineers to discuss some changes on the product that I was leading. An entire year between then and now, and so much has changed.
Every single day was filled with a level of love and kindness that I had never experienced. Friends surrounded me, taking over wherever I needed help. Sitting with my husband during my surgery. Bringing food for dinners. Driving kids around. Love so deep and true that it filled every single crack that quickly formed, holding everything together like a put together broken piece of fine china.
This weekend, instead of remembering the call, we are celebrating the life. The last year. The friendships that grew stronger. The ties that bound. The highs and the lows and the love that will forever remain unbroken. We will sit around a table and eat brunch, and drink mimosas, and laugh and smile, and remind ourselves that this circle is infinity and beyond.
Find your people. They’re out there, and some of them will surprise you. Some will remind you how to feel alive. Find your people and cherish every single moment.
Comfort Care
My brother called me this afternoon to let me know that the outlook for grandma wasn’t getting better. She has been heavily sleeping, barely eating and was under comfort care.
Comfort care is defined as a patient care plan that is focused on symptom control, pain relief, and quality of life. It is typically administered to patients who have already been hospitalized several times, with further medical treatment unlikely to change matters. Comfort care takes the form of hospice care and palliative care.
They don’t think she will ever be able to walk again after her surgery, and that hospice is the next step. She won’t be able to go home, the home that she so loved.
I can’t imagine the farm without her. I can’t imagine my life without her. I’ve been incredibly blessed to have had the opportunity for her great-grandchildren know and love her. It doesn’t make it easier thought. Grief is grief and sadness is sadness.
The Tortured Poet Department
Earlier this year my sister-in-law invited me to see the Era’s movie with her and my niece, and I happily joined in the fun. Not because I liked Taylor Swift; at that point, I really hadn’t listened to any of her music. Going was more of something to do and spend time with people I liked. I left the movie with a greater appreciation for the Taylor Swift world, how charismatic she is to her fans, and why she has haters who are gonna hate hate hate.
I have always appreciated her business sense. She’s smart, tenacious, savvy, and kind. I also believe that she lives in a world that no one else can even begin to comprehend and the complexities of everything she needs to navigate just to be a human being.
So, when we heard that she was releasing a new album on April 19, I was a little excited—okay, I was very excited. I have never waited anxiously for an album to drop. Ever. Never. But there I was at 11:00 central time, clicking the play button on Spotify and texting my sister-in-law about the songs that I liked and didn’t like.
Taylor isn’t mind-blowing incredible. Her music seems to sound alike, and there isn’t much bravery in trying something new. It’s easy to listen to in the background and easy to tap your toes to. What Taylor gets right is that she writes what she knows, her life. She tells a story using words that play off of each other and as you learn the story behind the song, you become invested more and more into the music, because you almost feel like Taylor is telling you a secret, that she is starting the film real on her life and allowing you to sit in her living room and watch the story unfold. She makes you feel included. And she does it for every single generation, grandmas, moms, daughters, aunts, uncles, dads and brothers and sisters. She doesn’t exclude anyone. We can all close our eyes and pretend that Taylor’s story is ours, or we compare our world with hers and see similarities.
So for now, I guess I’m a Swifty. 🙂