Author: Sarah Brewer

I timidly peeked around the corner to view row after row of meticulously aligned desks. My shiny, black patent-leather shoes reflecting my pristine, white ruffled socks below knees that were most likely sporting scrapes from the trips and spin-outs that most six-year-olds experience. The first day of school was a fairly new concept to me – I’d only done it once before – but this time I was starting completely over. The year before I had lived with my Grandma in Hebron and I went to school there, but now my mom had remarried. I was able to come back to Kirkersville. I had new brothers and sisters. A new dad. A new school. And, gulp, would have to make new friends.

I thought longingly of Stevie and Connie, my best friends from Mrs. Black’s Kindergarten class. I wished that they were there waiting for me. Any familiar face would be welcome. Other kids walked past me dressed in their best back-to-school duds and immediately fell into banter with their old friends. They were animated and laughing with their old comrades, delving into stories about what they did over the summer. I continued to gaze from behind my partially obstructed vantage point, hoping and praying that someone would be seeking me out, too. I had been assured that I’d make new friends but I was kinda hoping that they’d magically be there already, just waiting for my arrival. But no, I was the new kid. Nobody was waiting for me. I tightened my grip on my book bag and took the first big step into my new world.

I don’t recall if anyone truly paid attention to me or not since I was walking with my head down, perusing each desk looking for signs of vacancy. Most of the desks had backpacks already littering their surfaces or sweaters daintily draped across the back of a pint-sized chair. Each step I took brought a bigger sense of dread, soon I was going to have to turn around and try a different row. People were going to notice that. Finally, I passed a desk that looked empty. I slung my book bag over the back of the chair and swiftly tucked my ruffled dress under my bottom as I sat down. Whew! I staked my claim! I kinda felt like I belonged. I allowed my eyes to dart to either side and noticed that I was surrounded by girls who looked friendly enough but I didn’t allow myself to reach out to them. If they wanted to be friends with me they’d have to do all the work.

Suddenly, a girl rounded the corner and starting walking toward me. Her pigtails were swinging with each step she took and I thought, “Hooray! She’s coming to say Hello! To ME!” She maintained eye contact the entire way down the row. Just before she got to me, she reached out her hand and took something off the top of the desk. It was a little coin purse shaped like Mickey Mouse. Her piercing eyes were trained to mine as my smile faded to a frown. She didn’t say a word. She just took the coin purse, turned on her heel, and walked away. I slowly realized that this had been her desk and here I was, the new girl who came and stole it. I really didn’t see that coin purse until she came and took it. I figured my chance to make friends was over.

Then, before anything else could register, a girl wearing a shirt covered with clocks leaned over and said, “Hi. My name is Sandy.” She nodded her head toward the coin-purse girl and said “That’s Holly.” Then she turned to the girl behind her and said, “And this is Laura.” I looked at Sandy as if to say “Didn’t you just see what I did? I stole her desk!” But Sandy continued to chat. I stared at her shirt as she continued to tell me about herself. She told me that she had three brothers and liked dogs. I cautiously watched Holly take a new seat. Then Holly turned and started chatting with me, too. She mentioned that she had a sister and her grandparents operated a dairy farm. I finally gained enough courage to say “I have a whole new family.” The girls seemed stumped by this concept yet intrigued all at the same time, which, interestingly enough, is exactly how I felt about the situation myself.

The four of us remained close throughout grade school but Sandy and I were inseparable. We were exactly the same size and enjoyed pretty much the exact same things. We made Top 10 lists of boys we hoped we get to kiss someday, which in retrospect is quite comical because there were probably only 10 boys total in our class at any given time. So, essentially, everyone made the list. I cherish those moments of typical grade-school-aged whimsy, but the fact remained that my home life was difficult. There was a fair amount of emotional and physical abuse – not from my mother, mind you – but I never wanted to go home. And I never said a word to anyone about what I was enduring because I was afraid of the repercussions. But I think Sandy knew. Despite her young age she was able to catch on that something was not right. There was something about Sandy that was special. She wasn’t afraid of anything. I was in awe of her. I adored her. She was so soothing to me.

Our friendship was strong until about the eighth grade. A lot of things don’t survive those pre-teen years and I know, personally, that I did not celebrate good mental health during those years. The “new family” that I got in first grade had dismantled by seventh grade and I had to start all over again. In many ways it was good to start over, but I had lost pretty much everything that I’d known for the majority of my life. So, while I wasn’t a “bad” or “troubled” kid, I certainly had enough self-loathing to fuel an entire support group of emotionally incapacitated people. I was exhausting to be around. Regardless, life went on and Sandy and I went our separate ways.

In 2004, I was sitting in a room at Children’s Hospital, eight months pregnant with Madeline and cuddling my very sick little boy on my shrinking lap. He was resting after a particularly hard day of chemo. A soft knock on the door shook me out of my thoughts. I looked up to see Sandy standing there, asking if she could come in. She looked exactly the same and here I was sitting in a dark room, swollen, exhausted, hair hastily pulled back and rocking a boy who was rapidly losing his hair… not looking like I was ready for a high school reunion by any stretch of the means. I know she didn’t care one bit but I couldn’t help but feel totally unprepared to reunite. She came in and sat on the bed, chatting about nothing – anything – to take my mind off the obvious.

She didn’t talk about Ben. She didn’t ask what was going on in my life. She just wanted to come and say hi. I wondered how on earth she knew I was there. Turns out that she worked at the hospital and had heard through the grapevine that my son had been sick. She ended up stopping by now and then to take my mind off “stuff”. It was so soothing to me.

My sweet, old friend, the girl with all the clocks on her shirt, turned out to have a true understanding of what it meant to have excellent timing. And as she reached out to smooth my hair away from my tired, tear-streaked face and leaned down to kiss my very sick little boy, she said “I know it’s been so hard for you, Sar. I know it always has. But I love you. And I always will.”

It’s just the kind of girl she is. I’m not sure if she understands how she saved me that first day of First Grade or how she saved me all those years later, but I’m so grateful for her friendship. And for what it’s worth, she’ll always have a place in the warmest space of my heart.

Jackie Sharp gave me today’s word and while I’m sure “Sandy” was on her mind due to the storm that is pummeling the East Coast (or, perhaps she has a beach vacation planned shortly) I knew that the only meaning that “Sandy” has for me is what I wrote about above. Jackie has been a long-time supporter of my son, Ben, while we’ve been at war with cancer. She, herself, has two beautiful boys and was a dedicated nurse at Ohio State before she moved out of state. She loves my children so very much and I love her so much for that. Thanks, dear Jackie, for giving me a word that hammered home the importance of having “dear old friends.”

I remember it clearly. A warm pre-summer day at a lake near Ohio University where bad kids used to go to skip class or good kids, who waited for the weekend, would go to enjoy the sunshine with some friends. I think I was in the former group that particular day. Regardless, I was with my girlfriend, Christine, and we were laying out in the sun. Now, I generally don’t do this because I have been known to burst into flames when I’m outside – thank the ginger gods who built my breed with such fair skin and sunshiny hair – but for whatever reason, I was very tan (as tan as this redhead can get) that particular spring. And I was freaking skinny. I’d been going through some tough emotional times and I was the skinniest I had been since being a toddler.

I don’t remember what my friend and I were discussing but I remember that I was on the flip-side of a bad relationship. I was finally getting to the point where I was feeling confident again. I was concentrating on my internship – which I absolutely loved – and I was getting ready to graduate. As we were laying there in the sun, chatting and laughing, a butterfly landed right near my bellybutton. It sat there for a long time. Christine said: “It’s a sign.”

I don’t know what he was trying to show me so I’m not sure what “the sign” was. But it was fun to watch him crawl around. In all honestly, I never had such intimate contact with a butterfly before. They might have come near me in the past but they had never hung out for very long. This one seemed to want to stay. I put him on my finger. He hung out. I put him on my leg. He walked around. I put him on my shoulder. He parroted my voice. Just kidding. But I could move him wherever I wanted and he remained very compliant. Eventually he flitted away but it has remained a special story for Christine and me all these years. If anything, whenever I see a butterfly I’m reminded of her and what an important friend she’s been to me.

Isn’t it funny how we associate things with people in our lives? Whenever I see a large flock of birds hanging out on a wire I think of my ex-husband, Rob. It isn’t necessarily a good feeling because it makes me think that he’s going through a tough time. I see all those birds and after I get over the initial shock of thinking about Rob, I have to wonder if he’s okay. All of my reminders aren’t necessarily like this, most of them are very good. Whenever I see a penguin I think of Ben’s home/hospital teacher. She’s such a lovely person and was so good to my son, so seeing a penguin makes me happy. I think of my dad whenever I hear a plane flying overhead. My dad loves airplanes. He’s a pilot and used to do some pretty scary aerobatics (on purpose). One of my favorite activities when I’m around my dad is to watch him from the corner of my eye. If you watch him long enough you’ll catch him doing these aerobatic-like patterns with his hand. He is seemingly always thinking about it even if he’s unaware of what his hand is doing. It makes me smile because, while he is one of the most serious people I know, when he does that with his hand I know there’s a part of him that’s free. A child-like sense of wonder overcomes him when he’s around planes, so they make me happy, too.

Of course, music is probably the biggest supplier of memories. I can’t listen to the Beach Boys without thinking of my mom driving our gigantic green and white Econoline van on Girl Scout outings, crammed full of girls singing songs like “Good Vibrations.” My mom could not carry a tune but she wasn’t shy about it. She’d belt it out with us. All the girls wanted to ride in Pat’s big van – she was the cool mom. And, of course, she had the sweetest collection of 8-track tapes.

And then there are the items I hold most dear: An aspen leaf. A carved, wooden heart. Stationery with which to write a love note. It’s bittersweet to be reminded of past loves. I wouldn’t say that I’m good at being in love but when it’s true there’s nothing like it. I’ve been in true, do-stoopid-things kind of love twice. I married one (the bird guy) and then the other, well, he still occupies my heart. Both of these loves made my heart feel like the ingenue of a 1950’s-era big band musical.

Wouldn’t it be fun if we lived life like a musical? Actually, Madeline and I have this fun ritual where we’ll add “the musical” after something in a simple conversation. Here’s an example: Madeline says, “I hate going to school.” and then I say, “the musical.” That makes her laugh and then she forgets about hating school for a couple of minutes because she’s thinking about what “I Hate Going To School, The Musical” would look like from a production standpoint.

So, I invite you to try that today. I bet even the most tedious tasks will be lightened by the thoughts of putting a musical number to whatever you’re doing. For instance, We’re Going To Carve Pumpkins! The Musical! I can’t wait to see how that turns out. Anything can be made into a musical. And isn’t that how life should truly be?

Robin Reid gave me today’s word. The significance to her is beautiful for butterflies remind her of her sweet daughter who passed away a few years ago. Butterflies bring Robin comfort. Well, they do for me, too, dear Robin. You are one of my butterflies. When I see you I’m reminded that I have selfless friends who will drop everything and fly to New York on a moment’s notice to bring me some wine at the Ronald McDonald House. You’re excellent at bringing a bit of levity to My Crazy Life (the musical!) Thanks for being there for me, for making me laugh, for giving me encouragement when I just don’t feel like going on, for slapping me when I need it (the musical!) I sincerely appreciate all you add to my life. <3

The diploma I earned from my Master’s program at the University of Denver hangs directly above my toilet. It’s not that I’m not proud of my achievement – I am. I worked as hard as my left-leaning, socialist pinko-commie* brain would let me during those 18 months of torture. I am not interested in the world of big business but I went to classes and did my work and earned my degree. The whole time I was in that program I felt like a square peg trying to fit in a round hole. I clearly didn’t think like my peers. I didn’t have the drive and determination to take over the world. I don’t want to think outside of the box and there was nothing that could incentivize me to break the freaking glass ceiling. I just wanted to have a meaningful life without the use of corporate buzzwords to get me through my daily dose of productivity. I thought that if I went to business school that maybe I could take that education and start a really cool non-profit that would help others have a meaningful life, too. Oh, okay, I wanted to impress my un-impressable in-laws, as well. Unfortunately for me, my divorce was final just months after earning that piece of paper, so it was mostly for nothing. It was a very expensive mistake. That’s what I get for caring what someone else thought of me.

Most people have a nice office where they can hang their pricy piece of parchment. My post-MBA work-life has confined me to a world of mostly of cubicles. There was no solid wall in which to put a nail, and at the time there was no clip or velcro strong enough to support my $40,000 piece of paper. So my diploma hung in a fairly inconspicuous place in a house that cost about 2/3 more than my education did. Something that should be an impressive achievement spent most of its days longing for a better piece of real estate.

Of course, we all know the next bit of the story: Ben got sick. Work ended then. The world of big business seemed absolutely ludicrous to me. Nothing else was important besides getting my son well and caring for my newborn daughter. My diploma kinda just floated around from space to inconspicuous space for the next few years as I braved the next phase of my life that no degree on earth could have ever prepared me for. I didn’t work for eight years.

So now that Ben is better and my life is a lot different, I’m trying to piece things back together. Some days it works. Some days it doesn’t.

I’ve been working as a temp off and on because I was out of the workforce for so long. Usually, I get passed over right away for jobs because Big Business doesn’t understand that the “little people” have lives – and they especially don’t understand when people have catastrophic lives. It’s not like I was sitting around eating bonbons for eight years. And so what if I was? If they can’t own you round the clock you’ll never advance to the point where you’re allowed to take time off for a sick child or a doctor’s appointment without feeling guilty that you’re not giving them your all. They want your first-born. Well, I’m sorry, but I’ve worked too damn hard to keep my first-born. I’m not going to give him away to some sleazoid piece of crap who won’t appreciate him. And who obviously doesn’t appreciate me.

So, with that said, I was released from my job yesterday because I took Ben to a doctor’s appointment and then the next day I was a few minutes late because there was an accident on the way in to work. I gave plenty of notice on the appointment and I called when I knew I was going to be late. It sucks being a temp, you’re treated more like a disposable diaper than an actual person. I was told the day prior to my release that I was doing a really good job, so… it doesn’t make any sense. I spent all last night wondering WTF happened but today I’m trying to not dwell on it and just move forward. At the very least, now I have some time to get other projects done, like write. I’m more the creative type anyway.

Don’t ever try to be something you’re not. I’ve declared war on selling myself out for so little – maybe that will bring me some peace. I’m inventing a backup plan – one that involves my creativity. Because, in all honestly, that’s what I truly excel at. I’m scared, but hell, what’s new? I’m always scared.

I just want to have a meaningful life. I’m not going to get there by doing what I’ve been doing. I need to put all my gifts together -find the synergy- and grab the low hanging fruit. Ugh. I guess I can’t exorcise those MBA demons completely after all. 😉

And the next time I run out of TP when I’m dropping off “bonbons” at least I’ll have a backup plan directly above my head.

*Note: I wouldn’t say that I’m a socialist pinko-commie, but I have heard this descriptor of me from others on more than one occasion. It fit into my story so I used it. I’m more of a middle-of-the-road girl, which I should revisit because all that’s going to get me is hit by a truck.

Thanks, Mike DiTommaso, for the word. I tried to write about candy, I truly did, but this is what came out. It’s been a joy following you on FB the last couple of years. I know we didn’t know each other well during high school but I’m glad we’re in touch now and I appreciate your friendship! Even if you are a conservative.

They say acorns don’t fall far from the tree and that’s probably because they are too heavy for wind dispersal. They get shaken loose, fall to the ground with a large ka-thunk and there they sit, just waiting for an animal to abscond with them and bury them for a mid-winter snack. Or, perhaps, a child will come along and add it to their collection of odds and ends. Regardless, acorns are simply not capable of falling far from the tree.

This analogy is often used to describe children. I would have to agree when it comes to my kiddos. They are so much like me, in both looks and personality. When Ben was born he had red hair. Initially – and I’m not proud to admit this – I was concerned that my newborn son had red hair. Having grown up a redhead myself I knew that kids could be cruel. I didn’t want my son to go through anything as painful as being made fun of for being different. As I was holding my newborn son and marveling at how perfect he was – despite the red hair – I had NO idea of what my son would end up going through and some of the cruelty he would eventually face. My being worried about him having red hair was a ridiculous worry. I wish I could go back and give that new mother a good talking to. What I used to worry about is laughable now.

When my Madeline was born we were just six weeks into Ben’s fight with Neuroblastoma. I had no idea how I was going to care for a newborn and care for an extremely sick – and possibly dying – toddler. Again, I was worried about the wrong things. Madeline knew exactly what she was doing when she got here. April – the month that Madeline was due to arrive – was filled with Ben’s chemotherapies and bone marrow harvesting. As I looked at an overwhelmingly booked calendar that the nurse handed me, I mentioned in a very soft voice, “But I’m supposed to have a baby sometime this month.” She nodded and acknowledged my concern. All she could say was “pick a day and go do it.” I imagine my face was twisted with an expression that revolved around the question of “you can do that?” So, I called my OB/GYN and mentioned that I needed to schedule delivery, picked a day, and that’s what happened.

Madeline’s birth was simple compared to Ben’s. Ben’s was long. Fraught with scary moments. Distress for both mother and child. It was a semi-traumatic experience, whereas Madeline’s was simple. Peaceful. Quiet. And, after being in labor for just a few short hours, Madeline arrived looking absolutely perfect. I was overcome with emotion. After six horrific weeks of not knowing if my son was going to survive horribly harsh treatments, here I was, holding a beautiful miracle of purity. She was perfect. And there was simply no denying that she looked EXACTLY like me – but without the red hair. In fact, she had no hair at all. This time, as I held my newborn daughter and marveled at how perfect she was, I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to divide my energy equally or appropriately.

Miraculously, Madeline knew her role and excelled at it. She was an amazing distraction from the horrifying world of pediatric cancer we had been living in. It was as if she was a beacon of hope on J5 (the oncology floor at Children’s Hospital in Columbus). All the nurses would take turns with her at night, just holding and comforting her. The sick children would stop by during the day to visit with her. She was an excellent distraction for everyone. And as she’s grown, she continues to do that. Madeline wants to entertain. She wants to make sure that everyone is laughing. She knows the world is messed up and scary and broken – and she’s diligently doing her part to keep everyone distracted. It’s bittersweet to watch her in action. She just wants everyone to be happy. I see so much of myself in her at times that it breaks my heart. I know what it’s like to want to please everyone, to think that you’re the only one who can offer everyone else a reason to not be sad or mad or upset. Someday she’ll learn that she can’t control how others react. What I hope I can teach her is that the only thing she needs to be is herself. That she can’t truly control the outcome of anyone’s emotions. It’s taken me a long time to learn that myself.

And my Ben. In all honesty, it’s the same for him, too. His heart breaks whenever anyone else is hurting. He hates conflict. He’d rather take the bullet instead of seeing anyone else get shot down. His heart hurts for all the children who have suffered – often times forgetting that he, himself, has suffered the very same affliction. He doesn’t quite realize how remarkable he is. What a survivor he is. How many people look up to him and regard him as nothing short of amazing. His low self-esteem doesn’t allow him to see. I know how that is, too. Low self-esteem sucks and encourages you to do a lot of self-deprecating things. I sincerely hope that I can teach him – show him – that he is amazing and he needs to embrace that. I didn’t really have anyone to teach me how to overcome my low self-esteem and I’ve paid for it dearly by wasting so much precious time. He’s a fighter, there’s no doubt about that, but he needs to realize that he can use that ability in ALL aspects of his life.

I have two acorns. They haven’t fallen far from the tree at all. And while they’re close to me during their childhood I will teach them all I can to LOVE themselves. APPRECIATE who they are. EMBRACE their quirky characteristics. BELIEVE in their abilities. And to simply BE HAPPY while trying to navigate through the choppy waters of their lives.

Ben Brewer gave me today’s word. He says he doesn’t know why he chose it but I know why… because it gave me the opportunity to write about my beautiful children. You’re AMAZING, Ben. You are my HERO and I know, with every fiber of my being, that I am the luckiest mom in the world to have two incredible children like you and Madeline. While I encourage you to grow a tougher skin so you can brave all the cruelty that life will inevitably throw your way I don’t want you to change a bit because I love your sweet and sensitive nature. I love how you see the world through your beautiful eyes – you give me courage to take off my cynical glasses and see the world how it should be. I’ve heard so many parents talk about what their children’s futures might hold… how they’ll be the next great politician or they’ll invent something to change the world… well, I can say without conviction that I’ve seen you change the world already. I don’t have to wait until someday to see how amazing you’ll eventually be. You’re already there. You’ve already achieved it. And I can’t wait to see what you’ll do next.

I rode around on a trash truck yesterday. No, I’m not considering a change in career, I’m working for a waste disposal company in the recruiting department and I wanted to know what a day in the life of a driver would be like. So, I had to report to work at 5 AM, which meant I had to leave my apartment by 4 AM since I’m on the complete opposite side of Denver. Dragging my butt out of bed at 3:30 was a challenge I do not want to face on a daily basis.

I rode on a roll-off truck for the first part of my day. Our first pickup was at a business in downtown Denver. Aaron, the driver I was riding with, told me that we’d have to be quiet because we were technically in a residential area and we were not supposed to be there until after 7 AM. Right. Be quiet in a multi-ton trash truck while picking up a gigantic metal container? THAT was funny. We had to break the rules though, because to be downtown in a huge truck parked in such a manner that blocked all lanes of oncoming traffic, well, it was better that we were there before the hustle of downtown burst out of its sleeping cocoon.

On our way to the transfer station to dump the container I marveled at how strangely quiet everything did seem. It was still so dark outside. Nothing was really moving with the exception of our giant truck. I closed my eyes to listen to the hiss of the air-brakes and the groan with each change of gear. Everything was still so sleepy in my town nestled at the base of the Rockies. It was almost romantic. And then we arrived at the transfer station. For those of you who might not know, a transfer station is where the trash goes before it moves on to a landfill. The truck gets weighed as it comes into the transfer station, dumps all the trash out, and gets weighed on the way out so they’ll know how much trash was left behind.  Tons of trash moves through transfer stations each and every day. I hate to say this, friends, but when it comes right down to it, we are a horribly wasteful and disgusting society. I saw it for myself yesterday. I smelled it, too.

When Aaron got out of the truck at the transfer station, I followed him. I watched as he manually opened the back. Water and an assortment of un-delicious goo came pouring out. If that wasn’t bad enough, about two seconds later, the smell hit me. I will never be able to explain what that smell might have been a combination of, but I’m pretty confident that if Bath and Body Works were to slap a label on it, it would be marketed simply as “Hell”. I learned quickly that the concept of “mouth breathing” isn’t nearly as repugnant as I once found it to be since breathing through my nose would singe what remained of my olfactory nerve.

Before I knew it I was standing in a thick layer of crap that people found disgusting enough to dispose of yesterday, so it had an extra day to marinate in its’ own disgustingness. It made me really sad. Garbage could use a strong dose of Prozac with an Abilify chaser. There it was – discarded. Limp. Smelling like death had already moved in. I needed to move away before I added my own layer of yuck. Fortunately, Aaron saw my color change and suggested that I move back into the cab. I did not put up an argument. Besides, speaking would force me to stop breathing through my mouth.

I climbed up the ridiculously high set of stairs to the safety above the sludge, trying to catch my breath without blowing chunks. As I pulled myself into the cab, I noticed a bright orange glare hitting a nearby building. It was so bright and fierce, it was almost as if the building was on fire. I quickly scanned the horizon from my perch above the trash and noticed the most magnificent sunrise that I had ever seen. I’m pretty sure that I released an audible “Whoa!” in slow motion, just like a kid  might do on a particularly impressive Christmas morning.

Now, when I imagine God saying “Let There Be Light” this is what I imagine: A gigantic, bright ball appearing in the sky that is so breathtaking and wonderful. Illuminating everything for the very first time. Opening my eyes to the beauty that surrounds me. I closed my eyes and let the warm orange glow wash over me. I chuckled under my breath because as I was marveling in the beauty of my stunning sunrise, I was – in reality – completely surrounded by horribly disgusting trash.

And then it hit me. It doesn’t matter what I’m currently surrounded by. I have to trudge through it. Sometimes it will make me want to barf. Other days it will not seem so bad. I might even find a treasure or two amongst the trash that clutters up my life. But what I have to do is keep my eye on the prize. It’s okay to stare into the sun, especially when it has the capacity to be absolutely brilliant. There will always be trash. That will never change. But to adapt and grow from it – and to learn how to deal with the smell – that’s the lesson.

I know I have a light in me that is even brighter than the sun I saw yesterday morning. And what the heck. I’m going to take the leap.

I’m going to let it shine.

I love words with my whole heart. When I was in first grade I realized that I could see a word once and it would be burned into my memory in such a way that I would always know how to spell it. When it came time for the weekly spelling test in Mrs. Sutherland’s first grade class I always aced it, often after only briefly glancing at the list. My name was always on the chalkboard for getting a perfect score. Actually, that’s not true. There was one time that my name was taken off the board after receiving a perfect score because the class brown-noser had planted a slip of paper spelling the word VALENTINE in my desk, which happened to be one of the spelling words for that week. He came over to my desk after the test was over, pulled out the slip of paper and said, “Mrs. Sutherland, look what I found in her desk!” Mrs. Sutherland took the slip of paper, took Mike’s word for it, and went to the blackboard to erase my name. My immediate thought – after blushing with complete humiliation – was “Bitch, please. VALENTINE? Cheating on THAT word is an insult to my intelligence.” Nonetheless, I was reduced to losing my status as the class spelling ace (Mike’s reasoning to cheat was so he could finally beat me… I’m sure he’s a “successful” businessman by this point in his life) and I’ve hated Valentine’s Day ever since.

Anyway, back to words. I love them. I’d rather write than talk. Admittedly, that’s changed a bit in the past eight years, but for the first 1/3 of my life writing was my preferred method of communication. Everything I’ve ever wanted to say or any dream I’ve ever had was always conveyed in written form. For whatever reason my mouth could never say what my heart was screaming. I’ve technically been a writer since I was in elementary school having consistently kept a journal from a very young age. I’d give one of my toes to have those journals back today – to see what my thoughts and feelings were way back when – but I would destroy them whenever I’d have a traumatic life event. I destroyed several journals after my step-mother committed suicide because I somehow felt guilty that I’d been writing/complaining about my life when she had been clearly suffering to the point of wanting to die. I did nothing to help her. I technically know that her death wasn’t my fault but I could never get my heart to accept that. My words, whether they were written or spoken, wouldn’t have been enough.

She encouraged me to write, though. She believed in me. And when she died I just didn’t know what to do with that. All of a sudden, the person who probably believed in me the most, had taken her own life. And I’m sad to say this, but it completely invalidated me. She believed in me while she was alive and that felt wonderful. But she didn’t believe in herself. What she said to me, the encouragement she gave to me, were just words. Not actions. And suddenly, words meant nothing. All the energy I’d put into words – all backed by her encouragement – vaporized. What do I do now? My answer was to throw it away.

It didn’t take away my love of writing. I continued to write all the time. But some other life-event would happen that would hurt and I’d burn my words. Or throw them in the garbage. Or rip them to shreds. After my step-mother died, sharing them stopped being an option. So, I just kept the majority of my thoughts and feelings to myself and opted to let them flow through my journaling, which I would always end up destroying.

So, when Ben got sick, I embraced email. I could update a mass of people all at once on how my pookie-pie was doing and avoid being on the phone for hours on end. My little updates morphed into a regurgitation of feelings and emotions about how I was dealing with my son’s illness. I didn’t even realize I was sharing. It was all under the guise of just giving an “update” on Ben. But I was writing. Feverishly. Passionately. Purposefully. Publicly. And my writing was receiving a validation that I hadn’t seen since before my step-mother died. People felt like they were a part of Ben’s journey. They could hear the machines beeping. They could smell what I smelled. They felt what I felt. My words finally found a home and an appreciative audience.

Blogging has given me a “voice” – a voice that I could never seem to find in the past. I’ve found an audience. A home. I still get the urge to destroy my words once in a while but ultimately they’re out there now. There’s no taking them back. Even if someone crashes my site or threatens to shut me down – which has surprisingly happened – the fact remains that I have a handful of readers out there who have heard me and love what I have to “say”.

And even Mrs. Sutherland can’t erase that.

Christine Yankovsky, thank you for today’s word. I often can’t believe how beautifully my life has been woven together but I have to say that your part in the tapestry always shines in brilliant gold. I’m sorry you’ve been dealt the task of being a voice of reason in the chaos “lovingly” known as my brain. Thank you for the love you’ve shared with me over the years – giving me shelter from my many storms as well as a sweet place to live when I had no safe place to go. I love that you appreciate my creativity with pipe cleaners and my ability to communicate with butterflies (I still have that stamp, btw). Heck. I love that you love me. I love you, too. We will get published someday, let’s just hope it’s not posthumously. Love you, sweet friend. Words could never convey just how much.

Wouldn’t you know it? I get so few days to sleep in and today I woke at 5 AM after having a terrible dream. The dream was so intense that I shot up out of my sleep, grabbing my chest because I was unable to breathe. While I immediately knew I was safe I couldn’t shake the overwhelming feeling of dread that was coursing through my system. Going back to sleep was just going to teleport me back to the world that had shaken me so violently – and I wasn’t about to do that. So, I had to find another source of comfort. Fortunately, my friend, James, had already challenged me to a game of Song-Pop so I had that going for me. After playing a few rounds and finding some comfort there (even though he kicked my butt), I decided to check Facebook where my friend, Andrea, had a word waiting for me to write about: Oxymoron.

My day started with one. Terrible Dream. Now, I know an oxymoron when I hear one but I don’t think I could rattle a bunch off the top of my head. My original thought was to make a story out of nothing but oxymorons – there are several websites dedicated to making lists of them – so I know I could write something compelling. But given my 30 minute time crunch my story would be about 1/2 a paragraph in length. So, I thought I’d pick out just one. And here’s the one that presented itself to me: Dying to Live.

Maybe I was drawn to it because I’ve been surrounded with some sad stuff lately. A friend of mine just lost his dad. Another friend just learned that her BFF has terminal cancer. Another friend just lost her son to Neuroblastoma. This has all been within the last two weeks. Add to that the stress of a new job. It’s scan time for Ben (and he’s starting a new out-of-state study this coming week). School has started. Rent is due. I have so many projects to complete. My dad called a couple of days ago to tell me he’s getting married on Friday (I’m ultimately very happy about that). And, the bane of my existence: laundry. The list gets longer and longer of stuff I need to do. I feel like I can’t do what I truly want to do with my life… even if I don’t truly know what that is. Hmmm. That thought process feels like a potential oxymoron to me. Or maybe I’m just a moron. 😉

Someone recently asked my son what he wants to be when he grows up. He stated that he didn’t know. I guess he’s getting to the age where he’s putting more thought into it, perhaps the reality of being a firefighter or police officer isn’t as romantic as it used to be? But he did say, “I just want to grow up.” There was something about the simplicity of his statement that touched me. I think we could all learn something from that. I’m NOT saying that we shouldn’t have goals. I’m saying that we should all be flexible. Something like, “Hey. This isn’t working out for me. I think I’ll try something else until I find something that fits.” I’m also not saying that you shouldn’t be loyal because I could easily use my new theory as an out for my failed marriages. “Hey. This didn’t work out for me. I’m going to find someone else.” I knew BOTH times I got married that I was making a mistake. And it’s 100% my fault for not rectifying it before I made the decision to walk down the aisle. I’m just saying that we should be gentle with ourselves. Get back up, brush yourself off, and get on with it already. We should all be dying to live instead of living to die.

Oh, how I wish I came up with that phrase myself, but, alas, it came from a song. Edgar Winter, in fact. So, since my 30 minutes are up, I’ll leave you with the hope of the last verse of “Dying to Live”:

So I’ll keep fighting to live till there’s no reason to fight
And I’ll keep trying to see until the end is in sight
You know I’m trying to give, so c’mon give me a try
You know I’m dying to live until I’m ready to die. 

My dear Andrea, I thought this would flow easier than it did. I wanted to write about something else entirely but I had a constant restraint snaking its way around my thoughts. Evidently, this word invoked something deeper that just isn’t ready to come out. If I could ask you again, please search your heart and come up with another word. It will be the first one that comes to you. And that one will take me where I need to go. I can’t tell you why I know this, I just do. Please give me another word. Thank you, dear, sweet friend. Your encouragement means so very much to me.

Okay, so my brainiac friend, Jason Gilmore, just gave me this word, OSCILLOSCOPE, to write about. Essentially, he cracked open my cranium and poured some liquid over my control panel that created lots of smoke and shot sparks and gave off a lot of feedback. I’ve officially short-circuited. Congratulations, Jason. You broke it.

I’m not a scientist. I don’t even play one on TV. In fact, I’m fairly confident that I got a D- in all of my high school science courses. I’m pretty sure, however, that an oscilloscope appears in nearly every 1950’s horror film in some way, shape or form. “Bride of the Atom” or “The Outer Limits” could be a couple of examples of usage. While I couldn’t explain the inner workings of these thingy-majigs, I know one when I see one. I think. And my favorite memory of an oscilloscope goes something like this:

Ben was just 2 1/2 years old and was having surgery to remove his primary tumor on his adrenal gland. He had been in surgery for what seemed like days. I was especially nervous because just a couple of weeks before, another little kiddo fighting neuroblastoma had passed away directly after her surgery to remove her primary tumor. I was a wreck since Ben was in for the exact same procedure. Anyway, when they finally called us back to see him I all but ran to his bedside. My first reaction was “Why is he so pink?” Apparently, they had to give him a transfusion during his surgery and they gave him a bit extra (not uncommon) so he was extra pink. My next thought, which I kept to myself initially, was that he looked like a demented marionette. He had lines coming from every single limb and he was just so limp and lifeless. My warped imagination/coping mechanism immediately grasped on to the thought that “if only he had one of those x-thingys at the top of his head I could make him get up and dance.” Hey. I said I was demented. If he’d been any other color than super pink I would have thought he was no longer living. He still had tape on his eyes to keep them closed during surgery, which the nurse took off right away. I think she felt my heartache.

I sat on the very edge of his bed just looking at him. All the bandages. All the incisions. All the ouchies. It was nearly unbearable but I was afraid to get near him because of all the lines and monitors. Ben was having some heart issues post-procedure. The monitor would show consistent squiggles and then suddenly it would freak out and go all over the place. This made me think he was in pain (which was probably true) and I would begin to panic. If only they had hooked ME up to a heart monitor, we could have had dueling squiggles. Oh yeah. I should state here that the oscilloscope displays the waveform of the heartbeat. At least that’s my understanding. *DISCLAIMER* I DID nearly flunk science. I might be wrong. 🙂

I’d only been a mom for two-and-a-half years so my maternal instincts weren’t working full-throttle. I knew what I needed to do but I couldn’t make myself do it because I was a little embarrassed. I had to sing. And I didn’t want anyone to hear my pathetic singing voice. After all, I’d been one of four people to not make chorus during my seventh grade year (okay, so now you know that I stink at science AND singing… it goes without saying that I wasn’t a stellar student!) So, as I became a little more comfortable moving closer to him on his bed, I started to hum. Slowly, I’d gain a little more real estate next to his small and broken body as I realized that I wasn’t going to hurt him. And hummed a little louder. Moved a little closer. Started adding words. Snuggled right up to him. Belted out a Beatles tune. “Blackbird” in fact. And the squiggles started to stabilize. His heart heard me. And the beautiful part? His heart responded. The measurements between the beats of his heart gained a uniform consistency that made my heart – and singing voice – soar.

I know I’m not a doctor. I know absolutely nothing about medicine. But I do know that NOTHING substitutes for a mother’s true love. Maybe that should be used to calibrate an oscilloscope? Probably not. But it’s a nice thought.

By the way, Ben says I have a BEAUTIFUL singing voice and he still responds when I sing “Blackbird” to him. I haven’t stopped singing since.

Thanks for the word, Jason. I wish I would have sat next to you in science class so I could have copied your work (I failed Ethics, too). You are clearly a super smart dude and I’m sure you’ll (gently) correct me if I’m wrong. I sincerely hope, however, that you won’t make me redo the assignment. Go easy on me and give me a dumbed-down word!

“I’d recognize that look anywhere,” I muttered to myself as they wheeled her son into the PACU. She had hair that had been hastily pulled back. Her cell phone was glued to her hand and giving constant updates to those who were concerned about her son. And that look. The look of a deer caught in the headlights. The anesthesiologist was giving her the run-down of what happened from a pharmaceutical standpoint, like all the drugs that had been administered during the surgery and what to expect when her kiddo finally woke up. She nodded as if she was hearing every word. I knew better, however. That time post-surgery is spent inspecting your child – much like how you gingerly touch your newborn – to make sure they’re okay. Ensure that they’re breathing normally. Grateful to finally see that precious face after what seems like hours of waiting. It is truly like a rebirth. Starting over. Hopeful. Now that they’re in your arms (or as close to that as possible), you pray that from here on out they have a life filled with health and happiness.

THAT’s what goes through your mind. You don’t have the energy to hear what the doctors are saying because you’re just so thankful your child is okay. I’m sure this is why discharge papers were invented – so you could read what happened at your leisure.

Me? I knew the ropes. As it was, I was standing by my own child’s bedside, waiting for him to wake up from his surgery. My well-weathered skin had been toughened by the procedures – the chemo – the radiation – and whatever else came next. My leathery appearance had been subjected to beating after beating of what we go through as parents of a child fighting cancer. This is not to say that I am not affected when my son has procedures – I most definitely am. But I’ve learned to compartmentalize a lot better than I could in the beginning. Not this lady though. She was a newbie. Her scared, soft center came oozing through every pore. There was not one thing about her situation that I could envy.

We are on the backside of Ben’s therapy. It’s been a roller coaster for sure, but we’ve come to a valley where things have smoothed out and we have the option of getting on with our lives – or at least – what’s left of them. We’re missing some limbs (or a rib, in Ben’s case) and our hair is mussed from traveling at high speeds, but as far as Ben’s health goes, we’re in a good place. Matt has worked diligently to get Ben enrolled in a new Phase 2 study that might have some preventative aspects to it, which is always welcome. This study is in Kansas City and should be minimally invasive both physically and emotionally. The travel will be much lighter. The side effects will be fewer. And, we can stop at any time without any ill-effects.

Oh, I like to think I know how to handle what’s coming next. But, in all honesty, I guess I’m more doe-like than I realize. Apparently, I’m destined to have the sort of life that will always blind-side me. Will always throw curve-balls. Will always surprise me. I don’t know why I think it’s so different from anyone else. We’ve all got our own hooey to deal with, right? I should figure out a way to not be surprised when things don’t work out according to the plan I have concocted in my head, because it just never, EVER, will. Of that I am certain.

I’ve always liked John Lennon’s quote of “Life is what happens while you’re making other plans.” And when I think of Mr. Lennon I’m reminded that his life didn’t exactly go according to his plan, either. But he lived with great passion until he was murdered at the age of 40. I’m four years past that age myself and am wondering how the rest of this is going to play out. Interestingly enough, eleven years ago, I held my infant son against my chest in a Baby Bjorn as I wandered through the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame perusing an exhibit of John Lennon’s life. Things he’d written. Things he’d touched. The church pews that were the anchors of the bed that held him and his new wife as they promoted peace. But it was a snapshot. I saw the beginning, the middle, and the end. It was beautifully touching. The exhibit chronicled the pieces that meant something and the rest was left to just blow in the wind. I need to figure out how to best chronicle my life. Just HOW do I let the crap go? And HOW do I embrace what’s coming next?

Frick. I never wanted any of this to happen. I thought I was setting my life up to be something all-together different. But, it is what it is. And I can either feel its warmth or get run over by it. I guess I’m just tired of running.

So, I’m just going to stop.

This word makes me happy. Not because I’m a giant fan of tomato soup (I LOVE me some tomato soup), but because the last time I had soup I was sitting across from a dear friend. Actually, it was the very friend who gave me today’s word. I don’t know why she chose this word but I want her to know that if anyone else had suggested the word “soup” that I would have ended up writing about her. Ain’t life funny?

Her name is Valerie. I’ve known her for a really long time. We went to school together. Valerie was brave enough to come along on one of our annual pilgrimages to South Carolina for my mom’s family reunion. She willingly accepted the challenge of riding in a car for hours on end through not-so-fun states and dealing with the fast-paced and slurred-together dialect of my southern relatives. Honestly. It gets to the point where you can’t try to understand any longer. You just do your best to keep up and laugh when they laugh and anxiously await the opportunity to run like hell when there’s a break in conversation. Or, you can always shout out “the cornbread’s fixin’ to burn” (preferably prefaced by “Lord Almighty!) while running away at top speed. A true Southerner will understand. Anyway, Valerie saved my sanity on that trip. I am grateful for her dedication to our friendship to endure what she did that week. She was briefly rewarded with a day trip to Myrtle Beach where we spied on super cute guys. We were teenagers, after all, and that’s what young girls do. That trip remains a very sweet memory of mine.

Valerie and I had similar interests (besides spying on super cute guys). We both liked photography. We both enjoyed music. We listened to the Doors over and over and over again. But then, of course, we grew up and went our separate ways, as dear old friends sometimes do. I like to think this happens to dear old friends like us because it makes the reunion so much sweeter. I hadn’t seen Valerie in a long time and when she suggested that we get together for a brief moment while I was in town two weeks ago, I couldn’t wait. This latest trip to Ohio wasn’t really a “visit with friends” trip, I had a lot of personal stuff to take care of (as well as see Peter in concert, which will ALWAYS be a priority!) but I needed to see Valerie and meet her twelve-year-old son, Michael.

I’m always stunned by how little we truly change despite the incredible circumstances we find ourselves in. Valerie was always even keeled on the surface but she had a delicious helping of “quirky” on the side. I know that’s why I was originally drawn to her. And when we reconnected two weeks ago, I was pleased to see that her delightful sense of humor was still intact. See, Valerie’s son is disabled. Now, I’m sorry to say that I don’t know the exact nature of his disability or what it’s called, but he is in a wheelchair. He cannot communicate verbally. He still eats baby food. He’s beautiful. And watching my dear old friend as she loved her little boy was awe inspiring. Her gentleness. Her grace. Her love. It all shone brighter than sunshine.

Despite my having been through health challenges with my son over the past several years I cannot even begin to imagine the pressure and exhaustion that Valerie faces every moment of every day. There were times during Ben’s illness when I shut myself in a closet or stepped out of earshot to scream my head off over being so angry about what my son was going through. Valerie cannot leave her son alone for any length of time. I take for granted the things that Ben CAN do. Ben will more than likely live to become a young man. Hopefully he’ll go to college. Get married. Have the opportunity to live his own life. I get so wrapped up in the fact that he had cancer and what bad thing might be coming his way next. And I’m an idiot for that. My kid has a pretty solid shot at normalcy. Yes, our situation has had some sucky moments, but I cannot let that overshadow the beauty we’ve seen in our lives. Valerie doesn’t. Oh, I’m sure she has total crap days. I’m sure she gets mad about her son’s disabilities. But to talk to her – no – to WATCH her with her son. It was out of this world. That boy might not ever be able to solve a mathematical equation but he does know that he is LOVED. How many of us truly know that without question? To watch as he turned up his face to his mom – his way of asking for a kiss – and to never be turned down by her, touched me in a way that I can’t explain.

The complexity of his disability was overshadowed by the simplicity of the way they communicated with one another. I honestly could have done nothing else but watch the two of them interact with each other. As I sat across from my dear old friend as she patiently picked up another dropped toy, or gave another kiss, or encouraged him to watch a movie so we could chat, well, there was nothing we needed to catch up on, really. I saw it all right there in front of me as I ate my bowl of soup. She was still funny. She was still loving. I was still drawn to her and her amazing talents, even if those talents were being used a bit differently than how I remembered them.

As I sat there, awestruck, my mind drifted back to the two girls laughing in the surf on a sunshiny day so many years ago. Looking for super cute guys to spy on. Not knowing what the future would hold for either one of us. And interestingly enough, still not knowing to this very day what tomorrow will bring and finding the courage to be okay with that.

We rock, sweet soul sister. I love you so very much.