Eleven Years Later

Eleven years ago, on April 24th, I was officially diagnosed with a fast-moving form of breast cancer.  I was 25 years old, had only been married 21 months.  For a variety of reasons, but mostly because I had to wait for a few doctors to remove their heads from their bums and get on board with my treatment plan, I didn’t have surgery until May 16th.  That is an ETERNITY in waiting when you have cancer.

Every year, the time between April 24th and May 16th is weird for me.  This year it’s been especially weird and I decided it was time to sit down and figure out what’s going on in my brain and heart.

Anniversaries are special and different, as they should be.  Not only are those days hallmarks of who we are and what life has become for us, but they are days of remembrance.  We remember events, people, and frequently, forgotten memories flood back on those special days.

For instance, most days I couldn’t tell you very many things about the Diagnosis Day, but every year on April 24th, I remember that I was wearing jeans and blue t-shirt, and standing in the arts and crafts aisle at Target when the call came in.  I remember that Greg had been standing with me, but just a minute earlier had walked a few aisles ahead of me and I wasn’t sure what the appropriate gesture was for, “Hey, I think my doctor is about to tell me I have cancer”.

I remember going completely numb.  I remember putting down the red wire basket on the floor, and then going back to move it, so someone wouldn’t trip over it.  We left Target, barely talking, and somehow made it home.  I don’t remember the drive, but I remember feeling like I couldn’t breathe.

Then, very suddenly, I was just glad I knew.  I had waited four days between the biopsy and the phone call.  I felt like I had lived many years, but hadn’t breathed enough breaths in those four days.  Knowing was a relief and suddenly, the air finally felt like it was getting all the way to the bottom of my ribcage.

I remember things from many of the different important days in my walk with cancer, but Diagnosis Day is unique in how specific my brain gets in reminding me of what happened.

In the reminders, come emotions.  Lots of them.  Since it’s been eleven years, I don’t think about cancer every day.  I see my multitude of scars every day, but I don’t feel anything in particular.  It’s part of who I am now.  However, on the anniversaries, ALL of the emotions come flooding back.  I remember panic, fear, anger, frustration, doubt, nausea.  I feel that heart-squeezing feeling of not knowing if I was going to be alive in a few years.  I remember wondering if my parents were going to have to bury me.  I felt and thought things that no person, let alone a 25 year old girl, should feel or think.

The blessing of time is that I don’t feel those things all the time.  If I did, I would be wrapped in a nice, comforting white jacket somewhere in a room while doctors hovered anxiously nearby.  I’m glad that those emotions go to a safe place for 360 days out of the year.

So, the question remains.  Why are the anniversaries so hard?  It’s not just the emotions flooding back or the memories becoming de-cobwebbed and aired out again.  It’s much more than that.

As a friend pointed out last night while I was in a pretty crabby headspace is that it’s okay to grieve.  My initial response was a very classy “Nuh-uh”.  I didn’t think I had anything more to grieve.  I mean, it’s over.  Right?  What else is left to grieve?

I don’t have real boobs anymore.  I don’t really care.  My new ones are part of me and are normal to me.  The six by four inch scar on my leg is not startling to me anymore.  The round scars on my side where the tubes poked out are no more strange to me than the freckles surrounding them.  The scars on my stomach after a very scary surgery, made scarier by my cancer history, are a part of me, too.

Even though I’m pretty excited about being able to wear strapless dresses without the hardware underneath it and that I can comfortably go running in just a t-shirt, the truth is I did lose something.  I lost a lot.

I lost months of health.  I lost the ability to go into a doctor’s office and confidently know that everything is probably alright with me.  I lost a big part of my femininity.  I lost many nights of sleep in sickness and worry.  I’ve lost the ability to be a “normal” 36 year old.

I’m different now.  My story is longer and more complicated than many stories will ever be.  I have chronic pain due to a nice parting shot from chemotherapy.  I don’t get to make plans knowing that I will be able to keep them.  I hardly ever get to be pain free.  I battle depression, winning most of the time, but I still have to fight it.

All of those things are worth mourning.  They are hard.  They are difficult.  They are life-changing.  And, it’s okay to cry over them once a year.

Lest I leave my mourning in an inappropriate place of honor, I have to remember that cancer did not just take things away.  It also gave me everything that I had the ability to learn.

My life is better, richer, and more full for having had cancer.  I don’t take my health for granted.  I don’t take the gift of my three year old son as something that I deserved to have.  I rejoice in the hours, and sometimes days, that are pain-free.  I have flashes of overwhelming thankfulness for something as silly as watching my son point to the letters of the alphabet during closing circle time at his school.  My faith in God has been challenged, has been stretched almost to breaking, has cracked in places, but has not broken.  In my search for the why of cancer, I learned that God is bigger than me, that His plan for me is more wonderful and elaborate than I could ever imagine, the Christ Himself prays for me (seriously, does it get any better than that?), and that God has held me close in every sleepless night, in every terrifying surgery, and has given me His strength when I had none left.

It’s not just about me, either.  I have walked with many women through scares of breast cancer as well as the reality of a diagnosis.  I have been able to look into the pit that threatens to swallow them and say, “I’ve been down there.  It won’t keep you forever.”  I can show them my scars and not cry, showing them that life won’t continue to be this awful.  My empathy has grown by leaps and bounds and I’ve gained an ability to “see” when someone is hurting.

I would never trade in the grief if I had to give up the blessing as well.

And so, after untwisting my brain a bit, I’ve realized that anniversaries bring remembrances, pain, grief, joy, thankfulness and some pretty deep introspection.

Most importantly, I’ve learned that all of it is okay!

And wine.  Wine and chinese food with chocolate for dessert are all okay, too.

 

The Chronic Zebra

I went to a new doctor this morning and after a solid lunch of apple cider and popcorn, I’m going to try to sort out a few things we talked about today.

As is the case with most of my great doctors, I found this new one by showing up in her office pretty sure that my lungs were trying to crawl out of my body.  I had been pretty sick for a month, been on one round of antibiotics already and was feeling worse than ever.  She took her time, took me seriously, and decided that a better and more intense round of antibiotics would probably convince my lungs to stay put.

I always cringe when a new doctor looks through my medical chart, which comes in three or four handy volumes, since I never know what is going to come out of their mouths.  I’ve heard everything from “Why did you get a mastectomy?” to “I’d like to recommend you to a mental health expert.”  While I’m pretty sure I know why I got a mastectomy, I don’t think I need a psychiatrist to help me figure it out for sure.  This doctor just read for a bit, looked up and said, “I think I’d like to see you again to discuss your medication”.  I said something super coherent like, “Um, ok” and coughed my way out of her office.

Sometimes, it’s hard for me to talk about going to a new doctor because so many people are absolutely positive that this doctor will be the one to find me a cure for my chronic pain.  I would love for that to happen, but since my life isn’t as neat and tidy as an afterschool special, I usually just take a deep breath and hope this one won’t make my cry on the way out.

When going to a new doctor, I sometimes feel like characters in novels who see fairies or mermaids and no one takes them seriously. No! Really! My body hurts. A lot. And it isn’t any disease you can name, nothing is broken, nothing is torn, nothing that we can see is in the wrong place. My kidneys are functioning, my brain is fairly normal, and on good days, I can bike 20 miles or run 8. Good days I feel like Wonder Woman. Bad ones, I’m more like Gollum. I have been x-rayed, MRI’d, and CATscanned until it’s a miracle I’m not some mutant superhero.

While it sounds funny, and my sense of humor can make just about anything funny, it’s serious and it hurts and I wish it would go away.

There were several indications that this doctor wasn’t going to make me cry.  It seems silly, but one of my favorite things is that she didn’t insist that I sit on the examining table.  I absolutely refuse to sit on a cold table covered with cheap paper, with my too short legs dangling over the edge unless there are medical instruments involved.  If we are just talking, I can sit in this big chair like a grown up.  She was also quiet, she listened again, she asked intelligent questions, she had good answers for my questions, but most importantly, she believed me!  She accepted the fact that as far as we can tell, my neurological system was, probably, permanently jacked up by chemotherapy and by living so far above sea level.  I love that she didn’t fight with me about that.

We talked very seriously about the kinds of drugs I’m taking, how often, and my mental approach to the medication.  I don’t talk about what kind of drugs I’m on since that has gotten me nothing but grief, but suffice it to say that you won’t find them in your average medicine cabinet.  She believes that my attitude towards my drugs is healthy and that I try very hard to NOT take drugs.

She also helped me understand the role of my pain doctor.  I have been frustrated by how involved he was at the beginning, but when every test came back negative, we moved on to pain management.  But, apparently, that’s what pain doctors do.  They are the drug babysitters, making sure we all aren’t taking too much, aren’t taking too little, and aren’t going to jail for passing them out like candy.

We talked about some places in Denver and at the University of Colorado who, similar to UCLA where I went for a while, have a mindset of thinking a bit more outside the box.  Or outside the jar of pills.  She recommended two doctors in particular who I could refer myself to who take a more integrated approach to medicine and bodies.  Which is just a fancy way of saying that they bring in chiropractors, therapists, and other holistic fields to figure out what could bring some relief.

As we were getting ready to go, she hesitated and looked me squarely in the eyes and said, “Are you looking for a cure?”.  I was caught off guard since nobody has ever asked me that.  I told her what I believe, which is that I don’t need a name for this, or promises that a doctor will eventually have to break.  I want help.  I want relief.  I want more manageable days.  She smiled and said, “They might be able to give you that. No promises, though.”

Then, she said something I’ll never forget.  She cracked her first real smile and said, “You’re a zebra.  You don’t make sense.  They’ll want to work with you.”

I’m not sure what I’m going to do next.  It sounds neat and tidy to go to Denver for help.  I’ve been through this kind of thing before, though, and it totally throws my life out the window.  It involves thousands of dollars, five to six hour days that I don’t have to give up right now, more procedures I’m not anxious to participate in.  I could barely pull it off when I didn’t have Jake, but now that I do, I’m not sure it’s even possible for a while.  I know that my health is a big piece of our family, but it’s still only assigned one part.  I need to be sure that the other parts aren’t going to get squeezed out of the picture entirely if my health gets too dominant.  I’m not ruling it out or deciding anything right now.  I’m going to think about it, pray about it, and make the best decision I can.

In the meantime, I’ve decided I like being a zebra!

No Thanks, Yucky Face

I’m emerging from my blog radio silence with a post about Jake.   I’m sure that the following will spark lots of comments and advice.  Just be kind, since I’m already pretty tapped out.  :)

We’ve hit a bit of a rough patch with Jake.  Over the last few weeks, the only thing I hear from Jake’s teachers are, “Well, Jake had a bit of a rough day”.  It’s not unusual for a special needs kiddo to have a rough day, since most of the school day is helping him cope with those special needs.

The thing we’ve been dealing with is anger, frustration, irritability, and general crankiness. Jake has always been opinionated and strong-willed.  I will never forget holding him in my arms when he was a year old and telling him, “Mama always wins. She has to, sweet boy.”  So, the strong-willed part isn’t new, but the mini-tantrums have sailed through new right on into getting old real fast.  He has somehow developed the ability to wrinkle up just the bridge of his nose.  His nostrils flare out and his lip curls up.  He makes this face when he’s particularly mad and I’ve started calling it his “yucky face”.  (You can tell how long I’ve been a mom since I have chosen to call something “yucky”.)

This is the first time, but probably not the last, that I’m at a loss for what to do about it.  I have no idea what is causing or how to handle the outbursts. I’ve read articles on how to discipline or creatively ignore a child who is having outbursts.  I’ve asked for advice and I keep hoping someone will have the magic cure.

I’ve been trying to figure out the cause of the anger.  The things I know is that Jake is loved, provided for, cuddled, read to, walked, biked, libraried, gamed most of the day.  He also has plenty of latitude in his day for doing whatever a three year old wants to do, which is mostly jump around the house or trace his letters on his Leap Pad.  So, he’s really not being neglected or abused.

Growth spurts and just being three and good at it are also possibilities.

What I’m having to think about, quite seriously, is if there isn’t another sensory trigger we are dealing with to join the sensory and auditory processing problems.  Lately, Jake has gotten pretty vocal about noise.  The radio can only be on a little before he says it’s too loud.  A fire engine is barely audible before he is covering his ears.  There have been many times when I’m trying to find him and call his name and he says I’m yelling too loud.  He seems to do fine at home when it’s just us.  If we introduce other kids into the picture, he gets more bothered.  He doesn’t complain about noise, he just gets stressed and crabby.  When he gets into a classroom situation, though, he deteriorates.  Another thing that seems to be strange is that his new favorite toy at school is a pair of giant purple ear muffs.  He wants to wear them all the time.  They have been asking him to take them off at circle time, but he gets frustrated and they said he complains that it’s too loud.  We’ve just had his hearing checked, so we know that there is nothing wrong with his actual ears.

The problem with all sensory kids is that their bodies check out normal.  But, their brains don’t process those normal things the right way and it’s stinking difficult to figure them out.

We are going to try some different things at school such as finding him a weighted vest to wear, letting him wear his ear muffs all the time, and encouraging him to use the space designated for resting if he needs to get away from the noise.

At home, I’m going to start tracking his moods a little more aggressively.  If I can figure out what is Jake’s perfect storm to trigger a tantrum, then I might be on my way to figuring out how to fix it, or at least if there is another sensory thing out of whack.  I’m also open to changing his diet if I need to, but I’m really hoping I won’t have to do that.

For now, I’ll just keep saying “No thanks!” to his little yucky face and hope that eventually my sweet little Jake will re-emerge full-time.

Little things give me hope.  One of those things is that I have been really sick for the last few months and Jake has been aware that I need to feel better.  He has spent a few minutes every night bringing me things and asking me if I feel better now.  He really has such a sweet little heart and hopefully his face will match it soon!

A Chapter Closed

For the last seven months, I’ve been writing a preschool curriculum for my church.  Our preschool team had been struggling to find the right materials for our church and been coming up empty.  I had written a few weeks of curriculum earlier in the year and after seeing how well it went, I was hired to write the curriculum for an entire year.

The goal of the curriculum was to take one topic and teach it for an entire month so that there would be enough repetition for the kids to really grasp what they were learning.  Instead of blazing through the entire Old Testament in a year, we decided to teach twelve basics of faith, one per month, for an entire year.  Then, at the end of the curriculum year, we would start over at the beginning so that by the time the kids are five, they would have heard every lesson at least three times.

The writing process has been a wonderful experience for my own understanding of my faith.  If you ever want to learn a topic really well, write it out so a four year old can understand it.  I learned quickly that I had to strip away everything that wasn’t important.  I spent hours working through what it really means to obey God, to pray, to be thankful.  It was even harder to not include the junk that usually gets put into children when they are little, such as the ideas that God will keep bad things from happening to us, that God will keep us safe, and that God will answer our prayers how we want them to be answered.  I have seen first hand how much the kids are retaining the curriculum and how they are growing as a result.  I have grown even more.

There is a flip-side to every situation, though.  Even though the writing was great and the kids were learning, I never felt settled in the job. I didn’t really belong there.  Something felt not right, like when one of your shoes is slightly too big.

About two months ago, I began to ask God if this was really where he wanted me to be.  It made sense for me to be where I was.  I have a passion for kids. I get four year olds.  I can speak their language and I understand what bugs them.  I know how to communicate with them and I can tell when they just need to dance around and be silly.  Maybe it’s because there are large parts of my day when I also just want to dance around and be silly!  More than that, though, every time I read the accounts of Christ talking about how precious children are, my heart achingly agrees!  When he says that it would be better to drown yourself than to harm a child, I’m all in. (If you think He didn’t really say that, go look up Matthew 18:6.)  I want kids to learn and grow and to love God for who He truly is, not the weird God some adults have made up.

So, why the unsettled feeling? It made no sense to me, but it became increasingly obvious that I did not belong in our ministry.  And, to be honest, it broke my heart a little.  I tried, and tried, and tried, to make it work.  I begged and pleaded with God for this to be the right place for me.

A few weeks ago, something inside me switched and I went from begging God to make it work to saying, “Okay.  I get it.  Just show me once and for all if I’m not supposed to be doing this.”

Two days later, I was sitting in my associate pastor’s office hearing him tell me that just like all of us, our church was having to live within it’s means, and that meant letting me go.

I have rarely felt such a relief, such a peace.

 I want to say, very clearly, how much I love and respect our church leadership for making some tough decisions. I have rarely seen such caring and humble pastors.  I have never been more confidant that I am at the right church and my respect and admiration for my pastors has grown with leaps and bounds over the last month.

My pastor and I talked for almost an hour and a half and I seriously got some things off my chest.  I told him about my passion for children’s ministry and how badly I wanted to be working there.  He said something I’ll never forget:  ”Sometimes, God doesn’t put us where it makes sense for us to be.”.  I have known for along time that God doesn’t always do what we want Him to do.   I’m still without my pony, even though I’ve been asking for one for Christmas for 35 years!  I’ve also known that I don’t get His plan for me.  You know, cancer, house burning down, chronic pain, and all that stuff.  It really never occurred to me to translate that into my service at church, though.  I’ve always thought that I would plug all my abilities into a computer and it would spit out the perfect place for me to serve.  Maybe that works for some people, but not for me.

For the first time in my living memory, at the end of December, I will be without a ministry.  I will not only be leaving my writing position, but my teaching one as well.  For a while, I am going to sit, be quiet, and ask God where He wants me to be.  I’m done with trying to get something to fit. I’m tired of trying to fit in.

I’m really excited, but seriously curious as to see what happens next.  I’ll be meeting with another of our pastors soon to talk through my life, my heart for ministry, and to see where I should be.

In an e-mail from the associate pastor, who has now secured a place in my top ten favorite pastors list, he said, “Your best days of investing in God’s Kingdom still lay in front of you!” It’s amazing what one sentence can do to uplift, encourage me, and to give me such an eager expectation of what is coming next.

Maybe it will involve a pony!  :)

Mr. Smith Goes to School

One of the main reasons I started writing this blog was to keep people who love us updated on Jake’s life.  I had a great idea of writing every few weeks, including a few pictures, and having it be something really fun for everyone who is far away.

Instead, it turned into a place for me to process and record our journey through the maze of Sensory Processing Disorder, hypotonia, speech delay, and all kinds of other challenges facing my little monkey.

If you haven’t been reading for the last two years, I’ll quickly catch you up. Jake was diagnosed with Sensory Processing Disorder, a malfunctioning of his sensory system which causes hyperactivity, hypersensitivity to his surroundings, extreme fright when he encounters certain textures and objects.  We think, on average, his reluctance to engage with his surroundings caused somewhere between a year and two years of developmental delay. He walked late.  He ate solids very late.  We had to teach him how to chew, swallow, and the days of puking at every meal because of the texture of his food are not that distant of a memory.  His hypotonia, a weakness in his joints, made walking correctly and sitting up straight very difficult.  He still struggles with fatigued muscles and tendons, even after so much therapy.

To help with all of his challenges, we did six months of feeding therapy at our local hospital, then graduated to a year of in-home therapy for speech, feeding, and physical therapy.  He has overcome so much due to faithful therapists who were able to communicate to me how to work with him almost every minute of every day.

In the state of Colorado, state-funded therapy for children with special needs, moves from in-home therapy and goes to preschool at the age of three.  All of the therapy that he has received and the help he will continue to have is part of the Head Start program, which identifies children who are at high risk for not succeeding in school.  To give all these kids the best chance they can possibly have, they are given free, federally funded preschool.  So, not sure where your federal taxes are going? Maybe you’ll be happier knowing that a teeny tiny percentage of YOUR paycheck is going to help my little boy.  :)

About six months ago, Jake was assessed and identified as high-risk and admitted to the preschool program.  I had a lot of mixed feelings since I never wanted him to go to preschool.  We moved to Colorado largely so that I could be a stay at home mama and be with Jake full-time until he started school at five or six.  Believe me, I’m not the kind of mom that weeps into her purse every time she has to leave her child.  I understand the need for, and value, the time I get to myself to be a thinking adult!  I just really didn’t want to send my three year old off into the world on his own.  I realized that when I say, “I would do anything for my child”, that “anything” would include laying down what I want to do and doing the right thing for him, even if it means sending him to school at three.

After a few months of school, I am so glad I made the decision to let him go!  He loves school, he loves his teachers, he talks about his friends, but most importantly, he is improving with leaps and bounds.  I’ll save for another post the 8,000 reasons we love our school.  Let me just tell you how much I respect his teachers, how wonderful they are, how much they are willing to include me, and how much they care for Jake. I have been a part of education on some level for the last 15 years, so I know that every classroom has it’s flaws.  This classroom has so few flaws and does so many wonderful things that when I leave Jake, the only pang in my heart is over how much I love Jake.  And, I’ll admit that walking away has been tough.  I miss him, but I am thankful for the time I get to myself to read, run, write, or just be still.

Since my goal with this blog has been to involve those who are far away as much as possible, I’ll leave off the writing and let you see Jake’s day.  (For safety reasons, I will not say Jake’s school, his teacher’s names, or any the names of his friends.  If I get vague, that’s why!).

Every day, Jake tells me he needs to “push buggins” which means he wants to push the button to open the door.

He has learned how to line up, mostly patiently, with all of his friends to wait for the classroom to open.

 

The first thing all the kids do is wash their hands. Jake gets excited about opening the lid on the trash can with the step-to-open lid.

Since Jake has trouble sitting with his legs crossed, they have provided him a special chair that allows him to still be part of the group, while not hurting his legs.

So that he doesn’t get overwhelmed with being in a mass of people, he also has his special purple spot to stand on during circle time.

The class has the ability to bring in many special programs,but one of Jake’s favorites was when the local zoo visited.  He was really not sure about that skunk!

Even though his little body doesn’t do yoga very well, Jake always tries very hard to keep up with the class. His drive to do well and to please his teachers will be his biggest helps in school!

His teachers interact so well with the class.  They provide the education in a very fun way.

They are also very loving with their class!

Jake has made a few special friends at school. He and this little girl are the best of friends and she watches out for him.

After starting off life being terrified of swinging, it’s now one of Jake’s favorite things to do during outside playtime.

As always, he manages to put his own special flair into his playing, making everyone around him laugh and smile.

All in all, we couldn’t be happier with Jake’s school.  We are very fortunate to live where we     live, to have found such a wonderful school with great teachers.  Jake is happy at school and thriving.

We couldn’t ask for anything more!

Not So Quiet

The last post I wrote was about how my writer’s voice had gone away.

She’s back.

She brought a bottle of wine and chinese food, but refused to tell me where she had gone.

Seriously, though.  Something happened to me this morning (about which I may or may not tell you later) and the weight that has been squeezing me on all sides was suddenly gone.  I walked out of a building and was smacked in the soul with peace, joy, and relief.

I also got hit with a very sudden desire to write.

I don’t feel like I have to sit down and write it all.  In fact, I want some space and time to get to know my voice again, hear about her adventures, and learn a little bit more about the space I’m supposed to be occupying.

I don’t know where that space is yet or what it looks like, but I know that instead of having to force a place for me that wasn’t what anyone wanted, that God has His own perfect place for me to be.

I think when I get there my soul will be fed and cared for and that even if that place takes time and energy that instead of being used up and exhausted, I will be filled with joy and freedom.

Because that is what it looks like to follow God and His plan instead of my own.

Okay.  Enough preaching.  I’m seriously excited about the future, though and I couldn’t wait to say something about it.  Even though I’m not really saying anything.

I can’t wait to find the new place, in a very Lucy falling through the wardrobe, kind of way.

There will be lots of writing there! 

Quiet

I’ve been silent from the blogging world for the last four months.  It hasn’t been on purpose.  

For the first time in my entire life, I’ve had nothing to say.  Life has been clipping along at it’s usual pace, so it’s not as if there hasn’t been anything going on.   There has been plenty happening and a lot of it should have gotten it’s own entry, or, at least a section of an entry.  

I don’t know exactly why, but my “voice” is gone.  If you aren’t familiar with a writer’s voice, it’s the thing that nags me to write, sometimes yelling at me so loud, I feel slightly schizophrenic.  I have had to delay making dinner, exercising, or doing almost anything because I had to, had to, had to, sit down and write just so she would shut up and leave me alone.  My voice gave me essay suggestions, helped me find the funny in the hard situations in life, and allowed me to feel creative and productive.

I have no idea why, but she went totally silent.  It’s not un-like the first time you cut off all your hair and you instinctively go to flip your hair over your shoulder, only to find it’s not there.  But, it’s worse than that.  More like the sick feeling in your stomach when you miss a step down.  

I feel wrong and my world is too quiet.  I feel see-through and blank.  

I’ve been trying to figure out why she’s gone.  The last few months have been really tough, but not tougher than cancer, or my house burning down, or Jake being in the emergency room twice in one week.  I had plenty to say then.  I don’t know if it was one more thing piled on top of too much or if my voice took off because she was tired and worn out, too.

I don’t feel as weird and morbid and sad as this is sounding either.  She would normally hang over one of my shoulders and make this all sound…right.  

Just know that I’m not sitting in a dark room curled in a ball and sobbing or anything.  

Today, as I was e-mailing my precious never-let-me-down girls, one of them asked why I haven’t been writing and even though they love me voice-less, I realized it was time to just freaking deal with it and write.

I had a glimmer of my voice last week, almost as if she was letting me know she wasn’t gone for good.

So, here I am.  And, there it is.

And, Laura, Lexi, Sarah, Jesse, Becca, and both of my Ruths…thank you.  I love you girls.  So much.  This post is for you.