We just got the call. Our Dad is in remission!
Thank you all for your support, words of encouragement, prayers, wisdom, hugs and kindness.
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Remission. The word that makes your heart soar.
We just got the call. Our Dad is in remission!
Category: Family
Cancer. The word that stops your heart.
This Friday I will have a surgical procedure to remove cells that, left alone, could turn into cancer. These pesky cells were discovered during a routine yearly exam…
This Friday I will have a surgical procedure to remove cells that, left alone, could turn into cancer. These pesky cells were discovered during a routine yearly exam with my gynecologist, after which she called to let me know that my test results showed an abnormality and she wanted to take a closer look. During this second visit, after a look-see, she calmly said, “I am going to take a couple of quick biopsies.”
What happened next is a bit fuzzy, because when I heard “biopsy” my heart stopped beating and my head started to spin. My family doesn’t have great history with biopsy results. And, in my experience, biopsy spells CANCER.
I don’t have cancer. I may never develop cancer. And I am more than willing to have these cells cut from my body later this week.
I think I may even survive the heart stopping attacks I have suffered during this process. First, biopsies. Then, waiting for results. Then, being told I have high grade cancer-causing cells. Then, the call to let me know the amount I will owe the hospital Friday after my very expensive health insurance is done accounting for the 80/20-out-of-pocket-co-pay-deductible-not-covered-under-your-plan-matrix-of-go-screw-yourself-lady-coverage.
But talking about CANCER in relation to my body has changed me forever. I will learn to live with the reality that my body carries a virus that causes cancer sometimes. I will learn to forget about it for long periods of time. I will learn to not live in fear of cancer. I will re-read all the anti-cancer lifestyle books I have read because of my mother’s breast cancer and my father’s lymphoma. I will make more lifestyle changes. I will feel blessed that I had the resources to have preventative care. I will get more sleep. I will continue my journey to control my anxiety and my stress. I will eat my fruits and veggies. I will walk thousands of miles for my health. I will show up for all my exams and tests in the years to come. And soon I believe I will feel lucky that I don’t have cancer.
But I will never again walk into my doctor’s office with the same confidence I did before this happened.
This week, my father is travelling to MD Anderson in Houston for a battery of tests to find out if his 18+ months of chemotherapy is working to put his lymphoma into remission; my mother is at home without an ounce of breast tissue left on her body; and I am joining some of my friends that have been in my same situation.
I am writing this blog to continue the public conversation about cancer, and to help remind myself that we are finding treatments and strategies for prevention and that every day we are closer to a cure. To encourage everyone to get yearly exams, and to educate yourself on your own health.
And I am writing this blog to bolster my own strength in the fight against cancer. I know I should feel like one of the lucky ones, but I don’t yet. I believe I will soon.
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Slow and Steady
I should have never cracked the car window. Dang this unseasonably warm weather. Sixty degrees in February. With time, being able to catch gulps of fresh air would be a blessing.
I watched the door of the ice cream shop as my husband ran in to get a coffee drink, and I watched a woman with a walker walk out.
I should have never cracked the car window. Dang this unseasonably warm weather. Sixty degrees in February. With time, being able to catch gulps of fresh air would be a blessing.
I watched the door of the ice cream shop as my husband ran in to get a coffee drink, and I watched a woman with a walker walk out. She was escorted by her son and his wife. She had all the makings of a woman who has come to terms with her older status and her condition. Bright, clean tennis balls adorned the front two supports, and sturdy sneakers held her in place. Her steps were slow and purposeful, bone and muscle clearly full of the memories of a few steps previously misplaced.
She was over 80, if she was a day. Well-groomed. Tidy. And the man, who I took to be her son, was my father’s age. 60s. Established. Comfortable in his life. The woman with them was his age, but he was the direct link to the walker, I surmised. All wore wedding rings, but the deep relationships ran beyond the binding of gold.
I saw them coming towards the car next to mine, and I decided that pulling back a bit to give them room would be so helpful. The tail end of my sedan was pretty much protected by the monster SUV idling to my right. A distant memory reminded me that you need room to maneuver a car door, a human and a walker. You need space and time and patience.
When my dad’s mother was in the last few years of her life, she was relegated to a walker. She took to it pretty well. She was a joyous and happy woman most of her life, and what would be a set-back to many just kept her moving, which kept her happy. What I remember most about this time was the feeling in myself that it was time for me to slow down, too. Rushing through life needed to abate, and I needed to watch more and see more. I had to be missing things by not standing still a bit. By not waiting. My time with her was clearly running shorter, and I learned much from her final years about myself and my family. Some of us couldn’t wait to ditch her walker at the restaurant after getting her settled. Some of us would apologize to others in public for our speed, even if we weren’t impeding their progress. I noticed strangers would occasionally have trouble making eye contact with me, as if my grandmother’s limited ability was a freak show they shouldn’t be watching. On several occasions, my grandmother would start to make conversation with an able-bodied stranger, and they seemed shocked that she could speak clearly!
Much came flooding back to me as I watched this group leave the ice cream store while adjusting my car’s position. Tears came to me slowly, and I was transported back to a cool, brisk day several years ago when I took my grandmother out for her last Coke and short walk. Within 24 hours, the beginning of her end would start, and she would soon take me on a journey that would eventually end at her graveside.
When the stranger had his mother seated in the front seat of his car, he and his female companion walked toward the back of their car, and he said to me, through my open window, “Thank you very much. That was kind of you.” I was barely able to choke out the part about how it was the least that I could do.
“I remember it all so vividly,” is what I told them from behind my sunglasses. And I do.
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Packing It All Away
I was packing the last two boxes of holiday decorations. I save the packing of the ornaments for last. They usually come off the trees on a Sunday, migrate to the dining room table for removal of the hooks, and, a few days later, I start putting them back into the tissue paper they hailed from just a month and a half before.
I was packing the last two boxes of holiday decorations. I save the packing of the ornaments for last. They usually come off the trees on a Sunday, migrate to the dining room table for removal of the hooks, and, a few days later, I start putting them back into the tissue paper they hailed from just a month and a half before.
I was putting the finishing layers – three per box – into both boxes at once and said to my husband and son, “If I dropped dead tomorrow, you guys would never open these again, would you?” They were only one room away, clicking busily on their computers, when the dove-tailed answers hit. “No.” Maybe one of them mumbled, “Probably not.”
These boxes hold memories. When I unpack them right after Thanksgiving, they rest on the dining room table – out of their protective wraps – while I stare at them and repair unglued joints. I remember tiny hands that made some, and this year I revisited memories of a long gone sister and the two things I have that she made as a child. I walk leisurely down memory lane during the busiest month of my year.
A few days later, when the three of us go to hang them all, I take a few minutes to point out several to my son that have real significance – my grandmother’s stitches, my great-aunt’s crochet work, his grandfather’s paint strokes, and his aunt’s ability with clay. I try not to overwhelm and have learned that four shout outs one night a year is the maximum for possible retention.
I don’t really know if the boxes would ever be opened by the two men I live with. A woman would open them if left in her care. She would wait a year. Or more. Then, one cold morning, she would brace herself with a box of tissues and her courage and rip those suckers open. She would visit each piece like a tongue lingers on tooth pain. Delicately, so as not to wince, moan or cry out.
I packed it all away. Again. The entire process is cathartic to me. I have many people to visit with at my dining table all year long at a myriad of events, celebrations and holidays. But the places and the people I can’t have back come delicately to me in December in the form of pinecones, angels, dogs, and snowmen. I touch them all. Hang them up to breathe. Live with them. Then, I let them go.
p.s. Full disclosure: This is not our tree featured with my son and me in the photo. This tree graces the lobby at The Rep every year during the seasonal run of “A Christmas Carol”. We visit it.
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Hopes and Dreams
Earlier this month, an artist we represent visited the store. He shared with us a bit more of his personal history. The pain was apparent in his words and in his eyes as he told stories….
December 24, 2012
Earlier this month, an artist we represent visited the store. He shared with us a bit more of his personal history. The pain was apparent in his words and in his eyes as he told stories of his parents – who have passed – and his brother who has no time for him.
What causes our friend the deepest pain is not knowing his brother’s children. As a man who educates children for a living and who carries a deep love of art into his personal and professional life, he is at a loss. The love of family is missing. But the love of the family he has built with his adoring friends is what holds his heart intact. He has built a home for himself – a place where he lives a happy, joyful life – with just a few bricks missing. He told us that he follows our family history as it evolves in our blog, and he admitted to being a wee bit jealous.
We are an open and affirming family. To us, that encompasses our lifestyles and our “mode of being”. Our house has no room for hate. The windows and doors are shut to those who judge people based on their sexual orientation, skin color, or choice of faith. We reminded our friend that the greatest loss is the one his brother is experiencing – which is not knowing true brotherhood.
It is our dream, in this joyful season of wishes, that our children continue the fight we are waging to ensure civil rights for all of Earth’s people. We are handing this dream to our children because we believe they are finally the generation that may see beyond all the silliness to look deep within the human before them before making a judgement.
Our children continue to be our hope for a free and just world.
Happy Holidays to you.
Casey & Sloane SImmons
Sisters & Co-owners
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Laughter Solves Everything
Yesterday my day was filled with laughter. It was all I could do to survive the comedy of errors my day was destined to offer.
Yesterday my day was filled with laughter. It was all I could do to survive the comedy of errors my day was destined to offer.
Here is a quick snap shot.
- I lost my credit card.
- I wrecked my car.
- I fell on the ice.
- I peed in my pants.
- And the dog puked in the car…twice.
Yep, I live a life of grace and luxury. My friend said it best in a late night text: “Ahhh, parenthood, the gift that keeps on giving.”
I hope your holidays are filled with as much laughter as I shared with loving people yesterday. It really was a great day. Now, Friday…bring it!
hApPy HoLiDaYs!
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Just Being Me
At dinner the other night, my husband told the group I had sung my way through Costco the day before. He said it wasn’t loud but it could be heard by others. I did not remember doing this.
At dinner the other night, my husband told the group I had sung my way through Costco the day before. He said it wasn’t loud but it could be heard by others. I did not remember doing this. I do, however, remember thinking that I hope I was in tune and, if not, then enjoyable. I sing when I’m happy – but I do not whistle. Humming is in my repertoire but not used often.
There is one way in which my husband and I are diametrically different. He could go through life not really making a ripple on the surface. The thought of a server in a restaurant singing to him on his birthday would not only mortify him, it would be grounds for our divorce after almost 30 years of bliss!
He does amazing things – behind the scenes. He gives generously of his time and resources – quietly. And he backs me up in every single thing I do and stick my nose into. We are raising a child together, and so far the experiment is going swimmingly.
I don’t believe I make scenes. I don’t think I talk louder than the situtation demands or the microphone can take. I am a good listener and reside in quiet very well. I do occasionally, however, sing in public and like surrounding myself with my own joy. I laugh easily and talk to strangers constantly – inside and outside my work life.
My wish is that, at Costco the other day and every day, my joy envelops my husband and brings happiness and not embarassment. If not, he might want to get another cart and walk a few steps behind.
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Child Labor
They start by just sleeping in their car carriers. Under the desk. Behind the counter. In the office. They come to work and they do little.
They start by just sleeping in their car carriers. Under the desk. Behind the counter. In the office. They come to work and they do little.
Then, they play. They play with their own toys, they play with the office supplies, and maybe, just maybe, they play shop with us. They nap, they nosh.
Then, around five years old, they want something “real” to do. Labeling, stickering, sorting. Doesn’t matter, just as long as it’s what we’re doing. It’s for short periods of time so that the playing can continue.
At seven, they want a timesheet. It not about the money – there are child labor laws! – it’s about being like the other employees and doing “real work”. Not like the stuff they did at five. This time the labeling needs to be on product, the stickering needs to be on real file folders, and the sorting becomes filing into the file cabinets. Real numbers, Labor Law Compliance Center labor posters, the full alphabet, and goals.
This week my niece filled out a timesheet that brought tears to me eyes. They grow up too fast. But it was the little parts of this one that got me. Her nickname, my nickname, the day of the week, and the fact that she got it approved by her mother. Their childhood goes by so fast, and I can’t speak for my sister but having the children at work with you alleviates huge piles of mother guilt when you feel pulled in multiple directions. It’s not all bad and more than a little bit of fun. You laugh more, you walk up the street for ice cream and popcorn, and you remember – and feel deeply – what a family business really is.
The law be damned. They just want to be like their mothers.
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Thankful
With all our love, Happy Thanksgiving.
Every time a stranger applauds us for bringing them a smile during the public radio fund drive, we are thankful.
Every time our Dad reaches another lymphoma milestone, we are thankful.
Every time a customer thanks us for donating to their school auction, we are thankful.
Every time an employee verbally appreciates payday, we are thankful.
Every time our Mom says another year of being cancer-free is behind her, we are thankful.
Every time a new artist joins the mix in the store, we are thankful.
Every time you say our name lovingly in a group of friends, we are thankful.
Every time our children remind us what unconditional love is, we are thankful.
Every time the store fills with customers, we are thankful.
And every year we thank our lucky stars for getting the chance to try and make a difference for local artists, for American hand craft, for community charities, and for small business.
With all our love, Happy Thanksgiving.
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Power of Transference
I have never been one for morbid sensibilities. I don’t dwell in sadness, nor do I dabble in unwholesome thoughts. I am not gloomy.
I have never been one for morbid sensibilities. I don’t dwell in sadness, nor do I dabble in unwholesome thoughts. I am not gloomy.
Early this morning, before the sun was up, cancer consumed the life of a friend’s father. I had time last night to hold her and sway a bit in a hug that didn’t want to end. She was moving quickly towards the silences that would come with her father’s death, but we were taking a few more minutes to talk about things that had nothing to do with the tasks at hand. Several good laughs, a few inappropriate comments, a touch of bad behavior and moments of quiet in an overly-bright waiting room.
I have small town ways about me. They have to have come from the branches above me in my family tree, as I was not raised in a small town. One of those “ways” is that I stop for funeral processions. I pull over. No matter what. When they are coming toward me and when they are on my tail. I take these moments for contemplation about the people I have lost in my life. I remember myself in dark and quiet limos. I remember deep sadness and overwhelming relief. I give these moments time, because it’s what I have to give. Time. What can my hurry possibly be that I can’t stop to honor a family in pain? It’s minutes, really. Blinks of an eye.
So, this morning, I took a moment and spent time looking for pictures of my father. He is living with cancer and doing a bang-up job at it. It’s hard, and it will be his forever. My friend’s father has just ended a very short dance with a wicked disease.
I ache for my friend. I can never feel her pain, but, through the power of transference, I can weep for her loss and be there when the smiles return.
“Hold ’em tight,” I said to myself and others this morning. “Time is fleeting.”
p.s. Here are photos of my Dad and members of my family over the past year. Some of these I have used in previous blogs, and some I have not.
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