A cozy, upbeat reminder of our dearly missed Jack. Straight from his beloved T.O.
Peace…. Love…. Jack Layton.
Thank you, Kingi. Thank you, Jack.
I felt isolated. Targeted. Stupid.
Sadly, I don’t feel alone now.
There are too many of us. And the numbers keep growing.
Most of our moms didn’t walk this path.
I fervently hope that our daughters don’t have to.
Eighteen intensity-packed days condensed down to 2 minutes of feel-goodness.
Thank you, Mark!
A lot’s gone on in the past twelve years.
Hopes and upheaval. Disappointments. Triumphs. In work, relationships, parenting and health.
And through it all, there’s been a weekly evening with Jay.
Sanity. Sage advice. Laughter. Perspective.
Whatever the week brings, my evening with Jay makes it better. Those evenings make me better.
I think sometimes about our 18-years-younger selves. Saying our first hellos. With 7,550 km and ten provinces of cycling ahead of us. And all we never dreamed about those next 18 years.
And I think of the years ahead of us now. The venting and celebrating of our sixty-something selves.
And that makes me smile.
Thank you, Jay.
And thank you, Mark, for making those evenings possible. All these years.
We fight about clean-up a lot at our place. About keeping the common areas tidy. Participating in household chores.
During after-battle tears, yesterday, Lucy admitted “I know it’s for our own good, Mom. So we’ll know how to clean up.”
Then it hit me, I’d never really explained why we’d rather fight this battle than breeze through the tasks ourselves.
That it’s not about technique. And it’s not just about comfort and justice and self-discipline and space.
It’s about the mind-game.
Facing a mess and knowing we’ll get through it. One tiny bit at a time.
Accepting it’s there. Deciding how to look at it. Making the first move. Occupying our minds while we do it. And following through til it’s done.
Like illness. Like recovery. Like fear.
A year ago yesterday, was my first day back to work.
But yesterday, wasn’t.
Lucky, lucky me.
Before cancer, I led a charmed life. And I knew it.
I was happy. I was healthy. With two delicious daughters. And a vibrant relationship with a hunky, funky, fun-loving man.
We had good jobs. A cozy home. Consuming creative, hobbies. Tonnes of passion. And shared our time with interesting, intelligent, authentic, fun-loving friends.
I had stress. And I did torture myself. But I really did marvel at my miraculous life. And wondered how I’d stumbled into it.
Who’d have guessed it would get even better.
I love my life.
Thank you, Mark.
And if I do, I sure hope I don’t find that I have alienated myself from every one of my children.
And if I have, I really hope that none of my children has to endure the trauma of a life-threatening illness without one iota of parental support.
And if they do, I sincerely hope I won’t be so petty and poisonous at to leave snarky comments on their blog.
But that’s just me.
“As Hope Edelman puts it so well in her book Motherless Daughters: ‘Our mothers are our most direct connection to our history and our gender.’ By their presence or absence, the example they set or the lack of it, their positive influence or their negative one, by what they gave us and what they couldn’t, for every girl who makes the journey from child to woman, the first mirror in which she looks is the mirror of her mother’s face.
What we do and don’t see there is a part of us forever.”
— Girl in the Mirror: Mothers and Daughters in the Years of Adolescence. Nancy L. Snyderman, M.D. , 2002.
(Thank you, Janice.)
Prevention Magazine. October 2011. Pages 94-95.
School started this morning.
Lucy and Bayla were thrilled. Mark was melancholy.
And I was chopped, tossed and tongue-tied by the schoolyard full of parents.
Stepping into that sea of smiling excitement knocked me flat.
I can’t think. I can’t smile. I don’t know where to look. Where to stand. My brain goes blank. I say stupid things.
It feels like I’m in a blender.
There were great friends in that crowd. And faces that maim me at the best of times. Both bowled me.
Sure, it’s all in my head. And I should probably ground myself, breath, repeat some mantra. But it takes me by surprise. I’m suddenly whirling and sputtering. And blank.
But I survived.
And today’s the first day of my first school year as a free-all-day mom.
I’ve got bon-bons to eat.
I’d better get to it.
It’s August 29, 1982. Five days after my sweet-17.
Relatives drop in and I’m sent to the local orchard to pick up some apples. It’s a 4km drive.
My 12 year old cousin, Susie, joins me for the ride.
We pick up the apples. Then, since we’re so close, I drive us down to the Rideau Locks. Park the car. Hop out and show my little cousin around.
But what’s that? A rusty little Civic is floating in the water.
The rusty little Civic that I just parked. Out of gear. On a slope. Facing the water.
My first full-scale failure.
A crowd. A boat. A tractor. A rope. Susie’s mechanic-Dad gets it running.
I squeeze out the seats. Cover them in blankets. Gussy myself up and pick up my hunky ex-boyfriend for our planned boat-cruise party date.
Twenty-nine years later — To. The. Day. — I learned that my long-lost cousin Susie and I are both breast cancer survivors.
Good thing we’re resilient.
We’re going to be fine.