Is it enough?

I think this is what I sat down to write last week but couldn’t so I’ll try again. Sometimes things go in a different direction.  I now know why.  

Last May, I met a lady named Amy who I referred to as my mirror (http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/kimberlyjessop/journal/index/2/0/desc - windows, walls, and mirrors).  She inspired me to run.  Over the weekend my mirror ran too - straight into the  arms of Jesus, cancer free.  We only met twice - that one weird awkward meeting in the “bad news room” and then at the Miles for Melanoma race.  I might have showed up at the race or walked it or I might have just gone to a football game, but I trained for 6 months because she sat in that room and told me that she did it last year and made it about 400 feet.  I was so ashamed that it took that big of a kick in the pants to motivate me.  She was at the race in October, watched me cross the finish line, I hugged I gave her a an obnoxious Got Sunscreen shirt - she wore it because she told me.  I had a medal, but she was the real winner.  Her being there was way more effort than it took for me to run those 3 miles.  I knew it and it hurt.  Our stories were so similar - she had 3 kids, I had 2, her dad died of cancer a month before she was diagnosed and my mom a year before I was, she was stubborn and some people say that about me, same sense of humor - some people say I have one, she hated scans and I do too, same doctor, same desire to do nothing but be a mother, same kind of loving devoted husband, same frustration with medical crap, stupid things people say, cancer getting in the way of life, and same comfort from the God who made us.  She was running out of options and starting on the same drug that worked for me.  She said, “It has to work.  I have 3 kids.”

In her last blog post 3 weeks ago, entitled “the brilliant new road” she was clearly at peace.  I read it and went numb. 

I started reading the latest book Glitter and Glue from an author who’s work I love - Kelly Corrigan - last weekend.  I read her first book, The Middle Place, on my way back from Chicago in October of 2010.  I don’t read much because I devour books like dark chocolate covered cashews and the laundry doesn’t get done.  But, for some reason I have a bad habit of picking ones about people with cancer, who’ve had it, or known somebody with it that inspired them to write.  (Is this where I fit?)  It’s like I’ve got some sort of radar to pick those books - I swear I don’t know what they’re about before I read them - or maybe it’s that cancer is becoming more like the latest trend - like alternating your 2 colors of scrunchie socks.  Except, very not cool.  This book was about her diagnosis of breast cancer as a mother with 2 young girls to care for.  It was straight to the the gut, hilarious, and real.  After a few ugly cries I made it through the book but so many times I was torn between tossing it in the trash it and wanting desperately to finish. I got my own cancer a couple of months later.  I was thrilled when I skimmed the synopsis of this latest book and learned was not about her life with cancer, but was not another family somewhere across the world.  And, I love glitter! Awesome.  Breaking the streak.  It turned out to be about her connection and appreciation for her mother through an experience she had as a nanny of children who had just lost their mother.  To cancer, no less.  Told ya I know how to pick ‘em.  I blubbered my way through that one too.  Again, way to close to home but so real, and I really dig real. 

Add all of this together and you’ve got a basketcase who’s facing 3 month scans in a few days, misses her mama, aches for children who’ve lost their mama, and desperately clings to each day on earth honored with the privilege of the greatest and most coveted title God grants to women - Mother.  What a hot freakin’ mess. 

The book obviously brought back painful yet sacred memories of some of the last moments with my mom.  There was a point when I realized that somewhere at the end of her illness, I had started to mother her - to protect her from the scary, to keep her from worrying - she wasn’t worrying about herself, only us.  Truth be known, she hated it and loved it too.  Loved it because it was me and she knew I’d be there and hated it because this is where we were.  She trained me persevere, to take care of who needed taking care of, to finish what I start.  She knew I wouldn’t back out.  I think she was proud and miserable at the same time. 
I remember desperately wanting to play the “not fair” card but yet desperately wanting to curl up next to her.  I put on my best poker face for small talk, followed ridiculous orders to get Chik-fil-a ice cream for us - and make sure I get money from her purse, and when she no longer responded, still read the paper or notes from friends to her or the parts I could get through, because for heaven's sakes people, tell people how you feel about them when they can appreciate it.  There was an afternoon a couple of days before she died, that I was sitting beside her at my post as usual and I looked over to see her awake, eyes wide open and looking at me, for a long time.  I scooted closer and held her hand, not quite sure what to say or do.  I think she was asking permission, if she’d taught me enough.  Enough to make decisions, to raise my kids, to do the important stuff.  I squeezed her hand in assurance that she had.  That was the last time I saw her awake.  
It was enough.  At 31 years old, I’d barely scratched the surface of life with college, career, marriage, birth to two babies, but I didn’t know that.  I’m starting to get a better idea.  I didn’t know how I’d survive the next fever my kid gets without calling her to see what to do.  I didn’t know how I’d cook a real dinner without calling her to figure out what goes where, how long, and what temperature.  But I had it.  I had God on my side, the prayer where I beg for a little more strength memorized, instincts, enough to wing it, and enough stubbornness to keep a roach alive in a puddle of Raid.  I’ve had people say how upset they were when I was diagnosed with cancer because I didn’t have my mother.  Truth is, I’ve never once been angry that she wasn’t here for this.  It was better that way.  As much as I would have loved to have her here, it would have killed her and I’ve taken down plenty of people in my path.   


So, I do what every blubbering mother with cancer from a mother with cancer would do.  I love the heck out of my kids and my husband.  I’ve learned from my mistakes and God bless her, some of hers.  I’ve learned to delegate and make myself understand that people are capable.  She wasn’t good at that and wouldn’t mind me saying but I figured out how important letting other people do the dirty work can be if you want to enjoy the good stuff.  And, how much they want to do it so you can enjoy the good stuff.  I say things like, “I didn’t fall off the pumpkin truck on the way here” to my kids because she would.  I cook cornbread like nobody’s business and don’t use recipes because she didn’t either.  She had the good ones memorized and so do I.  I feel the blow in the gut when a mother with cancer loses the battle on earth or another mother gets diagnosed and I know what she’s about to feel and face.  I try to remember to say thank you, to tell people they matter, to keep the glass half full.  I send emails to authors of books I read to thank them for being real and writing about real.  I pray for strangers with cancer.  I’ve stockpiled a stash of big girl panties to choose from because I need a lot.  I keep my boots on hand and my lipstick ready.  I try to make each day enough.  

check out page 6
MRFMattersDecember2013.pdf