"Things happen..."

“....when you leave the house.”  - Kelly Corrigan - Glitter and Glue

And they did.  A couple of months ago my phone rang and since it was a Nashville number, I hit answer, then speaker, and waited for the automated Vanderbilt lady to tell me what time to show up again.  But there was silence, then a real voice that said, “hello?”  Uh, well, that was Dr. Sosman asking me to speak at his cancer retreat.  Since I was already such a ding-dong for not saying hello, I said yes.  

Now there were no instructions given except that he said I didn’t have to say anything profound, which I assured would not be an issue.  I floundered over what to say, prayed for guidance, and finally sat down last Friday and wrote the words.  I am a forward thinker, forward mover, and not a looker-backer.  So this looking back business was tough.  Four and a half years of cancer drama in less than 10 minutes with the goal to make a room full of oncologists and scientists believe that their job is absolutely worth it.  Not to mention that I haven’t given a speech since I graduated from high school and before that it was probably kindergarten which my daddy paid me a quarter to do.  

It was a one foot in front of the other kind of two days.  The kind people at Vanderbilt put us up in a nice hotel - the kind with valet parking.  We pulled up in our Ford Fusion with our empty Sonic cups in the console - I got myself an Oreo blast on the way - big living, people.  I get a little confused on those spinny doors so I went the wrong way through it only once and then started to feel a bit insecure about the water I had spilled on my jeans among the suits in the lobby.  And then there was dinner.  

Nice restaurant.  First ones there.  Sign saying “terrace room, third floor.”  We saw one fella standing in the “terrace room” and I headed back to the elevator where I was then cornered by two lovely and smiling ladies who obviously knew who we were.  Big hint - every other person at dinner was either famous in the cancer world or head of something or another at Vanderbilt.  Cue the sore thumbs.  Second big hint - “So, you’re our survivor!” Uh, yeah that’s me.  There were immediate cancer questions, “When were you diagnosed?  What drug did you take? How did you end up at Vandy? and then, YOU HAVE WHAT?”  Either my story was that riveting or they just wanted us to talk so they could hear our Mississippi accents.  Stephen and I sat right next to each other but didn’t see each other for four hours.  I’m not sure what I ate, pretty sure I used the wrong fork, and the conversation spanned from Memphis barbeque to melanoma.  We walked out and headed aimlessly down the street before we could get enough wits about us to call a cab.

At dinner, I learned my target audience for the next day (most people would have already asked these questions) - about 350 oncologists, researchers, and scientists.  I was first, followed by the 4 keynote speakers who have spent their entire careers in cancer research.  These are the people who have uncovered the pathways to how these drugs work and started the clinical trials which I benefitted from.  Dr. Topalian looked at me at dinner and said, “It takes a lot of courage to sign up for something so experimental.”  I said, “When that is your only option, courage is thrown out the window.”

It was at dinner that I began to realize what was happening here.  I was basically their life’s work in human flesh - living, breathing, talking, joking, and showing pictures of my children.  This means something to them.  I am a statistic but this day, it came alive.  I found myself standing on a playing field that was in twisted sort of way, insanely level.  

Thursday morning’s breakfast was a repeat of dinner.  I talked about my kids, I explained the difference in North Mississippi and South Mississippi and had another conversation with Dr. Topalian about how I go into homes and daycares in the inner city for my job.  She asked if I was ever scared.  I said, “not really,” bit my tongue from saying that I was a lot more scared of cancer and instead said, “I just try to find common ground, we’re all people and we’ve all got something.”  She agreed with me.  Meanwhile, Stephen was sipping orange juice and discussing research with Dr. Pardoll.  

So, our original plan was that I would speak at 8:15 or so, wait until the break and then make our exit.  We had already looked at the program and I had plans to swing by H&M and grab me some queso at the SATCO.  I started kind of seeing this plan unravel at breakfast when our new friends were telling us how exciting the information they were presenting would be.  I made it through my speech without vomiting, crying, or bolting.  I looked up and this cast of characters with all the publications, credentials, and whatnot were cheering, high-fiving, and beaming from ear to ear.  When I sat down, Stephen said, “You know we can’t leave, right?”  

“Yes, I’m aware.”

Anyway, it was the next four hours that made me understand where they were and where I was in relation to that trajectory.  I watched four of the top oncologists and researchers in the country, present data on studies - most of them related to melanoma.  There were graphs and charts and words that looked like the alphabet written backwards.  The words “cancer” and “melanoma” were said more times than I’ve ever heard in my life.  (I’m so chicken that I couldn’t say either until about 2012).  And there was survival data.  Survival data from the actual study that I was a part of.  Yes, the results were on a power point slide the joke of the day was which green line was I.  Funny.  What’s even more sobering is that most of it didn’t go past 18 months or above 40 percent.  Well, no wonder, Dr. Wolchok turned around and gave me a thumb’s up, but then said, “Until that number is 100 percent, we won’t stop.” I hugged him for that later. 

Topalian et al.
I confirmed that I might be the top yellow line and my arrow is still pointing to the right - a good sign.

I never cease to be amazed where God shows up.   Smack dab in the middle of some big fancy speaking engagement at the same hospital I walked into four years ago to learn about my cancer.  Apparently, now I’m teaching them.  Over the last four and a half years, He has been priming these doctors to find a cure for this mess.  The cancer that had no options has 3 new approved drugs that can be used.  Dr. Sosman elbowed me and said, “You know this will become the standard of care.”  God has closed doors, opened doors, and strategically planned every dramatic, painful, and heart wrenching incident and decision in my life.  He has moved every chess piece into just the right position.  The statistics were on the screen in front of my face and He said, “I told you so.” 

I asked why, and He said “Wait.”

I told Him enough and He said “Not yet.”

I finally quit asking and said, “Fine. Use me.” 

And, what I know to be true with all my heart is that He’s not done.  

So, what to you do after a day like this?  I’ll be honest.  I put on my ripped up jeans and Converse and headed to the park to watch my son play ball.  I sat with God for an hour in silence and tried to make sense of it.  Then, I determined that it’s not possible.  I gathered what I have and held them tight - my people.  I went to dinner and sat on the patio while I watched my two greatest accomplishments swing and throw a tennis ball at a rather unruly Boston Terrier.  I watched my Daisy become a Brownie and my 56 pound slugger pound a baseball across a field harder than I thought was possible.  I pulled out that research article that Dr. Sosman gave me a few months ago and read through it.  It means way more to me now.

I let my husband be proud of me but he should be more proud of himself.  

Because folks, “Things happen when you leave the house.”  

Dr. Sosman

They called themselves my posse.  Dr. Fong, Dr. Wolchok, Dr. Topalian to my right, Dr. Pardoll to my left.
Look them up if you're bored.

Just because I know you’re wondering what I said, Here it is:

I thought a lot about what to say today and more about what you needed to hear from me.  Obviously, I’m a cancer survivor - stage IV melanoma is what landed me this gig.  

I’m also the wife to my biggest fan on earth - Stephen, a mother of two - a boy and a girl, and a pediatric physical therapist. I spend my days shuffling kids to dance class and baseball practice, packing lunches, teaching babies how to walk, paying bills, making meals, and sometimes the most interesting thing I read all day is about the Mayan civilization from my son’s fourth grade social studies book. 

I represent the girl next door, the mom in Target, the 30 something year old at a country music concert - or rock concert if my husband has anything to do with it.  

I am as stubborn as a cockroach in a puddle of raid, and I do not like for people to tell me what to do - so you can only imagine how well I took on the “sick” role.

I get to live this way because of what you do everyday.  And, if you are wondering - it’s totally worth it.  

I was diagnosed in 2010 with stage 4 melanoma.  I was 33 and had a 2 year old and a 5 year old.  One minute I was making all my own decisions and the next minute my choices were flying out the window like paper money.  I was told where to be and what time to be there and somebody always wanted blood or tissue samples when I got there.  

Dr. Sosman and I met in early 2011 when I walked into his clinic one Wednesday afternoon.  He was the third doctor to tell me I had cancer so I guess I decided to believe him. 

As he talked and wrote drug names on a piece of paper I tried to listen thinking I’d need to look all that up later.   There was one I remember - a clinical trial drug MDX 1106.

or Anti- PD1 - you may have heard of it.

It seemed a little new and sketchy to me since there were only a few people on it.  

I remember very little else about that day other than that scrap piece of paper and the feeling that this is where we should be. 

 I kept listening for the easy but since I never heard it, I went on with a lovely little treatment called IL2.  

26 doses later, I had more tumors than I started with, so I signed a bunch of papers and gave a lot of blood to get this tiny bag of medicine every 2 weeks that would ultimately save my life.   

I had a few detours along the way - a lot more drama than I cared for.  I like to be in control, hate being in the spotlight, and I hate disrupting other people, especially my family. I also happen to live about 3 hours away so it really was inconvenient but worth it.  

About 9 months into this process, I started having back pain and weakness which turned out to be a tumor compressing my spinal cord.  

Uh-oh.  I was in trouble and I knew it when I saw that big slug on the screen.  

This landed me an emergency surgery, a lifetime of MRIs, and resulted in a lot of people really freaking out around me. It was at that point that I decided that this was definitely bad - the kind of bad that when you google the statistics, it doesn’t turn out well - so I also decided that if I woke up from that and I could walk, there was absolutely some reason that I was here.  

That’s probably why about 6 months later, when my wacky white blood cell count turned out to be Chronic Myeloid Leukemia, I just moved on to the next thing.  

Now, next thing included a bone marrow biopsy - without sedation - which I later had a few words to share about and may or may not have ended up at the bar before I went home.  But it also included my friend, Dr. Mohan and a targeted drug that worked.  

It’s been over 2 years since that point.  My bloodwork is probably better than yours.  There are no tumors to measure and this molecular leukemia number we’ve been watching - it’s almost non-existent.  

My blood pressure only goes up when I enter the doors of Vanderbilt Ingram Cancer Center.

The lessons I’ve learned are invaluable.  

I learned to make choices. 

For example, when I found out that the imaging center down the street had a Keurig, I started going there.  I chose to make lemonade out of the pile of lemons I’ve been handed.  

I choose how I show up - I honestly believe that makes a difference so I always wear lipstick and earrings and I have a really good game face.

I learned that I’m the one with cancer and the people who are scheduling me are not.  

I am the one living in the anxiety waiting on test results and what’s convenient for them may not be for me. 

I plan my appointments around my vacation, not my vacation around my appointments.  

If my kids have something at school, I’m there.  

I’m the girl who checks the orders in the lab to make sure they are coded correctly because I’m the one getting the bill, not them.  

When the wrong cancer code is on the test, it won’t get paid for.  Apparently that’s confusing when you have more than one.

I’ve learned that people want to help. If you could have cured cancer with brownies and tupperware, I wouldn’t need all of you people, because I had plenty. 

I’ve learned that I didn’t get here alone.  I’ve got a very persistent husband, a big God, and a bunch of praying people.  If you had anything to do with me, you were prayed for.

I’ve learned about research.  I used to ignore the “more birthday” commercials from the American Cancer Society.  Now, I know that’s why I have more birthdays.   

I’ve learned that you need me to live as much as I need you to keep me alive.  

And, when you see tumors on a screen that you need to go after, I see the faces and futures of my children - and all really I want is for you to see that too.  

I am grateful for the host of friends and family that have stuck with me and for Dr. Sosman and Dr. Mohan - because I’m no cupcake.  

I’m thankful that you continue to do what you do, so that I can continue to do what I do. 

And now for my shameless plug.  You may have heard we brought a little race to Memphis.  Go join TEAM KJ for Miles for Melanoma Memphis so we can make it a big race!
Here's the link:
Miles for Melanoma Memphis TEAM KJ

Thrive

I’m officially saying goodbye to winter.  Everyone else can do what they want but I’m done.  I’m so used to being cold that I brace myself just to open the door.  Now that Downton Abbey’s season is over, I just have no use for it.  For the first time this week, I opened my front door and my core body temperature remained the same.  So, that’s it.  I’m done.  Winter’s over.  Be gone, coat.  

I got a little glimpse of the sun last week, and it felt good.  Not the actual sun, because when the snow leaves, the rain surely comes, but there was at least one ray shining down on me at Vanderbilt Ingram Cancer Center and I was warm and toasty, on the inside anyway.  As routine for my life as this process is, I still find it unnerving and uncomfortable, and downright exhausting.  I have resolved myself to the fact that I can change nothing about what is or will be there from one scan to the next but still have a hard time lying still inside the magnetic tortilla knowing that someone on the other side of the window is looking inside my brain.  One of the nurse practitioners who saw me said, “Yeah, people tend to get a little more freaked out when they have scans.”  Clearly she’s never had even one cancer or one scan one so I shot back with, “yeah, well if you’ve had scans that looked like mine have, you would too.”  (I was hungry.  She left quickly.) The scans are still unremarkable, but remarkable is the only way to describe this.  

  

As we rounded the corner on 21st Avenue, I heard the words to this song, “We know we were made for so much more than ordinary lives.  It’s time for us to more than just survive.  We were made to thrive.” (“Thrive” by Casting Crowns).  I’m sure what I derived from that is completely out of context but how true it is that we were put on this earth not just to live it, but to thrive in whatever situation comes our way.  I remember a time when all I wanted was a smidgen of ordinary in my life.  The same ordinary that people were living where you drive kids places and complain about it being too hot or too cold outside.  I now get to live that in four month increments.    

Our last month has been highlighted with ice, snow days, flu, more snow, viruses and none were simultaneous.  It has been a pattern of wake up and figure out who will work, not work, and who will or will not go to school.  We have done this type of chaos before, but it was because we were really surviving.  As exhausted as I was over this unpredictability, so was everyone else in the free world.  The laundry and wet clothes, constant cycle of feeding, cleaning up the mess and then feeding again, the fever, the children arguing, schedule rearranging, and incessant requesting was exhausting but the beauty of it is that every other mother in this town was doing very same thing. We were all sitting in the midst of dirty laundry, dirty dishes, and sick kids dreaming of being in a hotel.  This is exactly what I asked for.  This is thriving, people.  So, rather than wallow in my self pity over lack of sunshine and free time, I played in the snow, gave out a lot of tylenol, and did a lot of laundry.  Well, I might have wallowed a little but then I thought back to the snow that hit four years ago when I was anxiously awaiting genetic tumor results to determine what treatment options I had.  This year, between working and sledding, I awaited the next time somebody says, “I’m hungry.”  I’ll take it, scans and all.  

2011

2015

Yes sir, we are thriving at our house.  Every Saturday morning I drink coffee in my pajamas until my kids wake up and the noise starts.  I’ve watched them round the corner from the staircase every week since they didn’t wake us up first and every week they look taller and older.  The pajamas that fit last year are too short and the baby cheeks are chiseling away at their little grown up faces.  They still grin and walk to the same spot - right on top of me, and wrap their snaky long legs all over mine.  His sense of humor is growing almost at the same rate as his legs and her legs will never catch her imagination.  Thriving.  

A few weeks ago when their school raised money for childhood leukemia, Kate was gathering her change and giving me facts about “lukenia.”  I said to her, “You know, mommy has that too.”  Her face twisted up and her mouth gaped open, “YOU DO? YOU DO NOT HAVE LUKENIA!”  In walks older wiser brother who then starts an argument complete with elbowing and eye rolling about the fact that it’s “LU-KEE-MEE-UH” and of course she has it.  Poor thing, I guess she was just as confused about the melanoma word and that word as the rest of us but it left me giggling that they were throwing cancer terms out just as easy as “pass the butter.”  Thriving, I guess you’d say.

If the sun ever dries up the fields, we will be spending over half of our week at the baseball park. 
Even though I barely know the difference in a touchdown and a home run and never know who’s playing in the Super Bowl or what a bracket is, I will suddenly become the biggest Yankees fan this side of the Mississippi, complete with visor.  Bailey will be playing, Stephen will be coaching and I will be thriving it up in the stands.

And, Martha Kate - well, she may not be running for president of anything but rest assured she will continue to beat her own drum.  She won’t give math facts the time of day but she gets compliments on how attentive she is in dance class.  She starts lining up her social calendar the moment she wakes up, is becoming an expert at matching my jewelry to my clothes, and looks forward to warmer weather for two reasons: too short shorts and the absence of shoes.  She’s convinced that fairies are real and maybe she’s convinced me too.  She never stops thriving.  

Apparently my doctor thinks I’m thriving too as he has asked me to speak at his cancer retreat next month.  This was more of a topic of conversation at my last appointment than the scans and I think I’m actually more concerned about this than the scans.  Speaking is not writing and I’m much better on someone’s living room sofa than standing in the spotlight, but I said yes.  Because, if my mama taught me one thing it’s that when someone who helps you (or helps save your life) asks for a favor, you do it.  I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say to a bunch of research doctors other than thank you but maybe I’ll start with how hard I’ve worked at being ordinary.  After all, “perhaps the greatest risk any of us will ever take (is) to be seen as we really are” (the Fairy Godmother).  Either way, I hope I do it justice. 

1998

And, speaking of research, Stephen is working on a project of his own that will bring more melanoma awareness to Memphis and hopefully raise money to support melanoma research.  I could not be more proud of his efforts because a) this will give us yet another chance to give back and b) if we needed any more evidence, it’s all because he loves his wife.  More on this to come, but you might want to go dig out those pink shirts.  

So here we are, living this ordinary life and it has taken extraordinary acts of kindness, love, prayer, friendship, and patience.  I get the opportunity to watch my children learn, grow, and thrive and that makes ordinary seem priceless.  Sometimes I don’t get why people remain interested because as someone told me last week, “it feels like you’ve been doing this a long time.”  No kidding, buddy, this gets old and I plan to do this a lot longer.  But, you are still there, cheering us on and we are grateful.  I continue to be amazed at what God chooses to do with these cancers.  I look forward to spring where sunshine brings sidewalk chalk, bike riding, baseball games, tulips, and Reese's peanut butter eggs.  

"Spring is Alsome"

“Joy unthinkable, faith unsinkable, love unstoppable, anything is possible.”  - Thrive.

Love, 

KJ

thriving snow people

thriving to hold up a rock

thriving smarty pants

thriving musicians 

the thriving pooches

  

Ten

Dear Bailey, 

You are ten today!  Ten years old!  In honor of your tenth birthday I decided to list 10 of my favorite things about you.  Today is all about you, but you have to know that you being ten is really big for me too.  It is a whole decade and a whole decade ago you started teaching me how to be a mother.  It’s the best job I’ll ever have.  And, because you wanted to make sure I was ready for your sister, you did an extra good job of it.  You made sure that my job wouldn’t be a piece of cake and that if I wanted to be one step ahead of you, I needed to always be on top of my game.  For that, I am grateful.  Sometimes I am tired, but I am always grateful.  I have learned to be patient, learned to have empathy, and learned that even though I don’t like to discipline you, it is what you need sometimes.  You, my friend, are one good boy.  You are one great kid and I am beyond lucky to be your mother.  So here goes:

1. You are honest.  Yep.  You tell on yourself before I would even have a chance to know.  People always know where they stand with you and you can see right through a faker almost as fast as I can.  You have been sizing people up since you could sit up in a grocery cart and your instincts are usually right.
2. You are thoughtful.  You always remember to remember.  If I forget a date or a birthday or what someone, likes, you know.  You remind me to do things for friends and for family and you remind me of the little things I said I would do.  You remember to get your sister gum if I buy you some and you hold me accountable to making everything fair.  Your memory is better than anyone I know - I love when you tell me things that you remember when you were little because it reminds me to pay more attention and that you are always paying attention.
3. You are funny.  I love your sense of humor.  You are especially good at impressions and can repeat movie lines and scenes word for word.  You use one-liners so well that it makes me proud to be your mom.  It’s even funnier when you get so tickled at your own jokes that you have a hard time telling them. 
4. You get the details.  While most people are diving in head first, you dip one toe in at a time and take it all in.  This quality in you has made me learn to slow down in life and look at the things that I might not have seen, like the eyes of a frog, the stripes on a lizard, and the emblems on every car that passes.  It has always been hard to impress you especially with big things or big events.  I can tell you are excited when you are completely silent, soaking it all in and later when it’s all over, you have more to tell than anyone else.
5. You are persistent.  You absolutely refuse to give up on whatever it is no matter how long it takes or how frustrated you become.  This worked well for your daddy when I gave him a hard time once and it will hopefully work well for you too.  It will also make victory that much sweeter.
6. You are responsible.  I can count on you to get it done, especially if it’s something important or something to remember.  You always make sure your sister is safe and watch out for her probably a little more than she would like, but that’s okay with me.  We all know she needs an extra set of eyes on her sometimes.
7. You are creative.  I am amazed at the things you can think, build, draw, and create.  You have great ideas and it’s fun to watch those little wheels in your brain turn when you are thinking.
8. You know stuff and you teach me stuff.  In the last 10 years, I’ve learned more about trains, bugs, reptiles, dinosaurs, Star Wars, rescue dogs, foreign cars, and other subjects than I ever dreamed.  I love learning about them because you do.  You also know how to work my phone better than I do and I even had to get you out of class one day to fix something on it.  You also teach me perseverance, patience, empathy, and compassion.
9. You are loving.  You are not too old or cool to hug your mama, well maybe in public, but otherwise I can get all the hugs I want.
10. You are good.  You are a just a good boy with a good soul.  You don’t pretend to be something you are not, and you let me know when I don’t get it right but you love me anyway.  And, I love you back.  

You are 10, and you are awesome! 

Happy Birthday, Bailey! 

        

Oscar

Age 10

First 5K

Age 3

Herdmanity

It took my kids 12 minutes tear through their gifts and make our living room look like a bomb went off at 5:30 am.  They opened every. single. package.  Even the gum - which was dried up and stuck to the bottom of the trash can that I later scraped out.  This is the first actual Christmas that we’ve been home as a family all day on Christmas Day.  Apparently, we have trained them to hurry so we can get in the car and leave.  Maybe we need to work on that.  And, because I didn’t know what to do with myself either, I started packing up the decorations - not everything - just a little garland and a couple of wreaths to give myself a little clarity.  I finished the takedown when we got back in town, except for baby Jesus.  I have a real hard time putting him back in the box.  So, for the last week, I have left him out to enjoy after the rest of Christmas is gone.  That’s the part I really like anyway - you can have your red and green and that dead tree, but give me a good nativity.  And, I’ve decided to keep a few reminders out this year.  Couldn’t hurt and I think the rest of the mess really gets in the way of what matters.  

Among the other events this season, Kate and I stole a Sunday afternoon out to see “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever” at one of the local theaters.  It’s one of my favorite stories - I remember my mother loving it too and reading it to her class every year.  It’s a lovely story of the Herdmans who sabotage the church’s perfect Christmas pageant with their raw and uncensored lack of baby Jesus knowledge.  The church people are appalled and judgmental the poor Herdman kids who just want the free food.  But, somewhere in the middle of the chaos and they figure it out and can’t help but be mesmerized by the miracle.  

I think I love the Herdmans so much because I can relate.  My people look more like Herdmans than church people most of the time.  I watch as other people’s kids say “cheese” on command and when I try to take a single picture of my kids in front of the Christmas tree at church, they are pinching and hitting like a bunch of nuts.  Right in front of the sanctuary.  One day during the break I was working from home and as I typed, our puppy was pulling Kate in circles around the kitchen table by her footed pajamas.  And, nothing beats Bailey training the dog to howl using an air-horn app on the iPad.  In addition to the usual, “did you brush your hair, teeth, flush, etc.?”  I’ve said things like, “take off the roller skates before you go up the stairs,” “I don’t think the dog likes being pick up by his neck,” “no, you cannot shoot the BB gun at the fence,” and, “how did you not see the mud until after you were rolling on the ground?”  We’ve done our best to entertain with movies, outings, and friends, but after some particularly challenging moments, I officially declared to Stephen that I was out of parenting about mid-day on Saturday.  Fortunately, they survived the next 12 hours with little guidance and I am happy to report that they are still alive. 

But there’s another thing about the Herdmans that I really like.   They come with no expectations, no pre-conceived notions of how Christmas should be, and yet they give more to the story than everyone else.  We all watch at how everyone else is on their best behavior, continuing on with their rehearsed lives, and the Herdmans, with their dirty clothes and filthy mouths stumble upon a miracle - the same one that He gave to everyone else.  So, as I think about the new year and what I’d like to accomplish, I remember the Herdmans.  I think about how imperfectly perfect my children are and how completely imperfect and inadequate I am.  I vow to enjoy how unrehearsed they are and how I can laugh with them as they navigate through a world where expectations vary in every direction.  I think about how even when I miss the boat, and have to apologize, they still climb in my lap and have unconditional love - because that’s the boat I didn’t miss.  I will continue to try and prepare them for this world by explaining why it is important to say thank you and I’m sorry, wear pants in the winter, exposing them to the tough and uncomfortable, explaining why dry erase markers should not be used to decorate clothes or furniture, why coating a toothpick with wax or a band-aid will not prevent it from catching on fire, and why some people will always have more/less stuff/opportunity/fun activities than they do, but never more love.  I will use lines like, “if so and so jumped off a bridge, would you?” and “it’s hard to put the toothpaste back in the tube.” (thanks, Mike).

I intend to take the time to reflect before I react.  I’m not one to set lofty goals because so much of my life has been consumed with survival but I think I can handle reflection.  And, maybe in the midst of it, I can teach my children to do the same - reflect on what you have, reflect on what you have to give, reflect on what the cost will be to yourself and others, before you react rather than tearing through life like gifts on Christmas morning.  Now, we won’t get this right all the time but I’m giving it a shot. 

A week from today will mark the 10 year anniversary of my gift of motherhood.  It is without a doubt the single greatest gift that God gave - to me, to Mary, to the world.   Motherhood has fueled my survival, my sense of humor, my tenacity, and my capacity to love beyond what I could imagine.  God knows what you need and He prepared this tool for me way before I knew it was a tool.  I’m leaving baby Jesus out of the box - at least one, probably the one with the broken arm - as a gentle reminder of my humanity, my Herdmanity.  After all, Jesus loves the Herdmans just as much.

Happy New Year! 

Love, 

The Herdmans. I mean, the Jessops.

Our coconut cake adventure.  I enlisted expert help from my lovely and nearly perfect Aunt Wilma.

Bailey's book from his party book swap.  A good sense of humor will carry you far.

Christmas Party Kate

Four.

Seven months is what the statistics read.  
Four years is where I am.  

Four years.  

I just read my first journal entry from four years ago - actually 3 years and 11 months because that’s when I got the guts to write it down.  I realize that I didn’t start from the beginning.  And, since the beginning is just as miraculous and adventurous as the rest, it seemed like a proper time to share.

There’s a handful of folks who remember this day four years ago - where they were and what they were doing.  For me, it would be my first of many attempts at trying to keep a calm exterior to hold in the Jello inside.  I handed my 5 year old a Lego set from the Target check out I had stashed to keep him occupied so I could process.  I poked a pacifier into my drooly little 2 year old’s mouth so she wouldn’t whine because I couldn’t possibly handle it.  The entire earth was spinning but my world had come to a complete standstill.  I don’t know if they ate that night but I somehow got through bedtime and curled in ball and sat without sleeping for the next 24 hours.  I looked at my life without me in it and didn’t like what I saw.  I tried to imagine how I could possibly teach my children what they needed for life in the next seven months.   

My first visit to a cancer clinic is forever imprinted.  They took my picture, took my blood, stuck a needle the size of a coat hanger through my lower back, and attempted to take my dignity with it.  It was like airport security - sitting elbow to elbow with other cancer people, removing clothes, the pat-down, waiting for the next step to xray your luggage, but instead of looking at the contents of your suitcase, you’re looking at your insides and counting your tumors on the screen wondering how that even happened.  I left with the words, “This is not good, but it doesn’t have to be hopeless” and instructions to go home, pray, and find somewhere else to get treatment.  Not only did I get bad cancer but I got bad cancer with no good treatment options and absolutely none in this town. Nice.

And here’s where it started to get good.  Well, the good part can only be seen in reflection, but it is very good.  My first appointment with Vanderbilt was January the 5th - a month away. When you’ve got that many tumors floating around, yesterday is not soon enough and a month is enough time to spontaneously combust - if not from cancer, from anxiety.  We started with the clinical trial website from the US government and called every cancer treatment center in the US with anything promising or open.  I was not mentally prepared to spend months in California or New York away from my children but I prayed for an open mind and assurance that our decision would be the right one.  

Everyone pointed us to MD Anderson in Texas so Stephen set his sights on that and sweet talked some lady into an appointment on December 27th at 8 o’clock in the morning.  That Christmas will certainly never be forgotten.  We booked last minute flights on the busiest travel day of the year in what would be the middle of a winter storm.  The beginning of God’s provisions poured in and our travel expenses were completely covered.  We did a good fake imitation of Christmas for our kids, but mostly we all sat around on staring and waiting for Monday.  And, while everyone was taking down their tree and watching their kids play with their new Christmas toys, we were on a plane to get after some tumors.  

The trip was nothing if not one comedy of errors after another.  The fear, exhaustion, and impending doom got the best of me and I took that opportunity to check out.  I was absolutely no help to Stephen who thankfully was in control.  We got off the plane in Atlanta and walked by the window and both commented on how it was snowing, then sat down for our connecting flight.   It was canceled.  Of course it was.  Stephen looked at me for signs of panic and got nothing.  Considering what I was facing and what I left at home, I was kind of ok with sitting in the airport.  He was apparently not after all of his work to get me the appointment and I am assuming won us a seat on another flight because my dramatic cancer story trumped everyone else’s need to get to work the next day.  We landed in Houston at midnight - in a different airport on the other side of town.  We rented a car and because he’s awesome, he pulled his GPS out of his suitcase and drove us an hour to the hotel.  

The appointment was equally as awesome as the trip there.  We walked through the main lobby of MD Anderson and were totally creeped out.  I met the nurse, she asked about my symptoms, and wanted a recap of the last 16 days. She was not exactly upbeat.  Her comments were “well, it’s not everywhere, so you’ve got some time” and “It’s a tough battle but some people do better than we think they will.”  I would have bolted right there if I could get to my clothes. The doctor came in and reviewed my case, explained the trials he had which equalled about one that I could possibly do anytime soon or another option of biochemotherapy which I interpreted as, “we’ll try chemical warfare on your body and let’s just see who wins.”  And, the icing - you’ll need a brain MRI before we can do any of this.  Of course I do.  I’ve managed to have cancer 16 days before somebody realized they haven’t looked at my brain.  I immediately got dizzy and had a headache.  

The MRI was scheduled for the next morning and there was some talk about biopsies and consents which I think in the end, we might have left before we got to that part.  We spent the rest of the day wandering aimlessly through the sea of people in a shopping mall in the midst of after Christmas sales and trying to process the information we had just heard.  We had dinner at a Mexican restaurant because that’s all there was in that town, and we went to our hotel where I had a complete and total meltdown about what someone might think be going on in my brain.  Stephen told me to take a sedative and go to sleep.  So, I did.  That’s when the hotel caught on fire.  Literally.  There were firetrucks and sirens and a full evacuation of people in their pajamas standing in the parking lot.  We sat in our car for an hour and a half, freezing.  Unbelievable. This is how God likes to speak to me - loud and clear.  

The next morning, I got my first ever brain scan, put my jewelry on, and didn’t pass go.  We headed to the airport 5 hours early because we had no where else to go and didn’t want any more Mexican food or medical advice.  And, that’s when I saw the boot.  The big boot in the sky, that is.  I told Stephen to take a left and because he was now afraid to ask, he did.  “Pull over, I’m buying some boots.” Maybe it was my crazed eyes, but he just said he’d wait in the car.  I’m sure he was becoming even more concerned about the brain scan after this incident.  I walked into 10,000 square feet of Wranglers and boots.  I picked out a pair of Tony Lama’s with little stars on the side - it was after Christmas so there were only two choices in my size.  I bought them, put them on, and threw the box away in the parking lot.  Goodbye Texas, hello boots.  

The short of it is, my brain was fine.  Still is, most days.  I rescheduled my Vandy appointment to exactly the same day that it was in the first place but with a different  doctor, my doctor, who agreed to see me on an off-clinic day only because his oncologist friend in Houston that I had just met, asked him to.  It was the first of many ways God would provide assurance and peace and the first of many realizations that this would never be quick, cut and dry, or in any way easy.  My first meeting in Vandy was different, maybe because it was the third time I’d heard it in a month, but mostly because it was right.  

It was foreshadowing for dummies.  God would say, “Hey, this is what it could look like” and then give us what we’ve got.  My first oncologist could have tried to treat me here instead of shipping me out.  I could have been in Texas for a month at a time, or for weeks a time, but instead I was 3 hours away - day trips that began and ended with seeing my kids.  I could have struggled with which trial to pick, but instead, He closed it at exactly the time I had to make the decision, leaving me with one choice. After that failed, He opened the door to another choice.  And, when I ran out of choices, He took care of the rest.  I could have been paralyzed.  Or worse.  But instead, He put the tumor just on the edge of my spinal cord so it could be removed.  I could have had other leukemias, but He gave me one with a drug to treat it.  I could have had invasive squamous cell or more melanoma but I got a nose job.  The drugs could not have continued to work.  But, they did.  They do.

And, as for the boots.  I wore them proudly.  Still do.  To every appointment, to every scan.  With hospital gowns, to church, wherever.  They are not magical by any means but they did hold me up a time or two.  They might be a little powerful, like a cape.  They make a little clicking noise on tile cancer floors that lets people know I’m coming.  Their heels make me stand a little taller.  The verses on the bottom remind me to repeat what I know is true - the Lord will fight for me and He has plans for me.  And, really they just look cool - even cooler now that they are broken in.   They were definitely the best thing that came out of Texas.  

So on this day, I will celebrate.  For a life that is more than promised, more than deserved.  For the 5 games of Uno that I played with my kids before bed last night, and the little boy who is now almost 10 but got out of his bed to kiss me goodnight one more time.  For the picture I took last week of my husband taking my little girl to a dance where she spent more time waiting in line for candy than dancing.  For the school plays, the choir programs, the constant dialogue of this and that, the animal facts, the jokes from a developing sense of humor, the made-up dances, the obsession with the SEC, the persistent husband with the tattoo of my name, and for the Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cake that I put my four candles in.  

I will celebrate four years.

Happy Cancerversary!

latest caring bridge post

latest caring bridge post

what thirty-seven looks like...

“How old are you?”

Thirty-Seven.  

“I’ve got ties older than that.”
One of my favorite quotes from my daddy.  He’s said it all my life and I think I might need to go clean out his tie closet but it always makes me laugh. 

There were moments in my life when thirty-seven seemed unattainable.  There were moments when I’m sure I thought thirty-seven was on the older side.  And, now I think thirty-seven is just grand and maybe slightly young.  But, young is a relative term.  The thirties in general are deemed too young to do a lot of things such as have cancer or lose a parent.  And they are also deemed too old for a lot more things like wearing leggings as pants, throwing tantrums in public, and hanging out in college bars.  I looked down at my wrist 4 years ago and saw an armband stamped 33 with my name on it and a diagnosis that pointed more toward subtraction of years than adding.  I was definitely too young for all of this.  

I got a very interesting phone call the other day that kind of jarred me into thirty-seven.  

“Mrs. Jessop?”
Yes?
“You participated in a research study at Vanderbilt a couple of years ago and we periodically need to update our data.”
Yep.  Sure did.
“Well, I was just calling to see, um....well, if you are still alive.”
Yes ma’am.  The last time I checked  I mean, I would actually say very much so since I answered your call.
(awkward laugh and silence)
“Well, thank you.  And, I’ll call back in about three months to check on you again.”
Ok, great.  Well, I hope I answer.

So many thoughts on this conversation:  a) you might want to think about tweaking your script a little b) I’m guessing I’m the only one of my friends that gets phone calls like this, and c) I really AM very much alive.  

In honor of this poor sweet lady who clearly volunteered (let’s hope she wasn’t getting paid) to make phone calls to see if the study participants still have vitals, I thought I would summarize the way I look at life at thirty-seven:

1. I live completely and totally by the Serenity Prayer.  The accept part sometimes comes after thinking I might could change it and trying but still I’m faster at accepting and have a better attitude
2. I wonder why jeans were ever made without 2% spandex so you can squat down.  
3. I buy fruit snacks, Pop Tarts, and Oreos because they are good and I like them.  I also can't resist a pronto pup. 
4. My prayer request list is full of people with cancer and people who have lost a parent or sibling and while I’m thankful that I’m not on the list, I grieve and empathize as I pray for them because I’ve been there.
5. There is an exact replica of a salamander in my car that is riding in the floorboard.  I see it all day long and he looks real and like he’s riding there and hanging onto the carpet.  I don’t move him because he makes my think of my son and how he would catch him if he was real. 
6. I tell my kids that life is not fair, that someone else always has more, and that they ALWAYS have more than someone else.  And, if they question that, I drive them to the parts of town where I work. 
7. I hold a small warm puppy that I got for my kids but realize that he is really mine to mother and that he better be glad he’s cute when he wakes up and poops on my floor.  
8. I spend the afternoon of my 37th birthday in a pile of magazines cutting out pictures for a fourth grade novel project, hours hot gluing tiny marshmallows to styrofoam to look like an igloo, and another hour collecting items for a lake habitat that will fit inside a shoebox and will surely be saved forever under someone’s bed.  
9. I ride in the passenger side of our jeep on the way to watch our son play baseball, and catch a glimpse of my signature on my husband’s wrist and know that he really is my favorite person and my biggest fan. 
10. I purposefully expose my kids to differently-abled people so that they learn to be sensitive to their needs and to give them empowerment and not fear.
11. I spend $6.99 on hair dye in the grocery store because I saw grey hair that probably came from trying to figure out how to get my son to love reading and my daughter to spell correctly, or maybe just thirty-seven. Besides, $8.99 was highway robbery.
12. I have no less than 10 hand made birthday cards displayed all over my house made by my precious little girl because she loves to draw and loves her mommy.  They even have turkey hands because I love those too.
13. I schedule my oncology appointments around my vacation, not my vacation around my oncology appointments.  
14. I have at least 10 people that I could text and they would drop what they are doing and help my family, anytime, any day and I would do the same for them.
15. I used to be embarrassed of the fanfare of blowing out candles in a public restaurant, but now I pack my own candles, my own personal cake, AND a lighter, because, IT’S ON.
16. I’m driving down the road and find myself crying for a few minutes on my 37th birthday because I wonder what my mom would say to me today.  I almost hear her and can see her walking through my door with the chocolate cake with chocolate nut icing, from scratch. 
17. I look at my daughter and see my exact profile and look at my son and see my exact eyes.  I give thanks for who they are and that they are mine.  
18. I still think Hootie and the Blowfish is good music and at 37, I am one inch from the stage, singing every word to every song and catching picks from the band.  My ears ring for 2 days because I’m 37.  
19. I volunteer in my daughter’s classroom every week to listen to children read.  She hugs me no less than 6 times while I’m there.  It’s worth my time.
20. I am not afraid to lay it out there.  Even the ugly stuff.  Everybody’s got it. 
21. I would likely get the same satisfaction from 30 minutes of alone time in Target with a Starbucks as I would an island getaway. 
22. I meet people everyday who are struggling.  I remember my own struggles and how no one could ever see all the way through me, and no one knows what I encountered before I saw them that day but it’s not their fault, and how I don’t know what others have encountered.  I think of this when they check me out at the grocery counter, sit by me in the hair salon, or before I knock on their door.  Everybody’s got something. 
23. I am still trying to figure out what kind of mom I am because it’s not a dance mom, play mom, baseball mom, or Disney mom.  
24. A guitar and an amp are pieces of furniture at my house.  I have more of them than furniture but they are a lot louder. 
25. There are a million fingerprints on my back door from the million kids that come in and out of it everyday.  As I clean it, I remember when they were all on the bottom half and now I have to clean the top half too.
26. I wonder if I’ve gotten to the point where random people see me they ask each other, “Isn’t she the girl with all that cancer?”
27. I give thanks for the scars.  They gave me life.
28. I set entertainment expectations low for my kids.  This way, they are pleasantly surprised when things are extra fun but mostly I’ve learned that they prefer simple over grand and time over money.
29. Research is not just about sitting in a lab.  It’s about saving people’s lives. I get it.  
30. If I were to sit in the smallest chair in my home at any given moment, both of my children would still try to sit in it with me.  
31. I ask myself how much it matters before I say yes.  Or no.  
32. Box macaroni is still good.
33. I know that sometimes cute earrings can completely change your day.  And your outfit. 
34. I am totally entertained by life, the people in mine, and the people that make it happen.  
35. I can’t live without text messaging.  It allows multi-tasking, an outlet for one-liners, and my coordination has greatly improved.  
36. I know that God really does have a sense of humor.  Or I do, and I’m comfortable enough to laugh at all of this mess. 
37. On my 37th birthday, I got gifts, cards, well wishes, cakes, messages, candles, and singing voicemails, but nothing compares to the silent high five that my God gave me and whispered, “You made it.  We made it.” 

This is Thirty-Seven. 
Thirty-Seven is good.

“You don’t have to live forever, you just have to live.” - Tuck Everlasting (from my fourth grade novel project). 

KJ

My mom at 37.  Lovely.