Tag Archives: family

The Struggle to Maintain Perspective

19 Friday Dec 2014

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It’s been a rough month.

Five years ago I had a double mastectomy. The girls turned against me so I had them taken off. My only concern was being here to raise my children, 6 and 7 at the time. There was no contest. I had the reconstructive surgery and moved on with my life and parenting my children. Till last month…..

Last month I went for routine blood tests and my cancer markers were high. Based on my history, my doctors are cautious and a roller coaster of medical tests began. X-rays, blood tests, sonograms, MRI’s, biopsies, Cat scans, PET scans….been there….done them…not happy to be doing them again.

The x-ray turned up a clear chest. I had an internal sonogram during which the doctor couldn’t find one of my ovaries. I joked that it was hiding – it knew what happened to my breasts when the girls turned against me so it was cowering in a corner. But ultimately, the sonogram proved to be normal.

What wasn’t normal was a breast MRI that showed a ‘suspicious mass’ in my mastectomy bed. I hate the term suspicious mass. I begin suspecting there’s bad news on the way. My mind goes directly to dark places.

In an effort to calm my nerves my oncologist assured me that if the biopsy ‘were something’ we’d just go in and get it. Although that was a bit reassuring, the thought of surgery and worse, the thought that cancer had reoccurred was far from settling.

It’s funny, not ha ha funny mind you, how you look at life differently when you think there may be less of it to experience. And it’s sad that the perspective gained when in that position is one that is difficult to maintain in the daily hustle and bustle of a ‘healthy’ existence.

For the second time in my life I began imagining my children without a mother. Wondering who would be there to care for them.  Who would rush in to cover Lara at 3am when she’d wake up calling out because she was cold.  Who would sit with JJ at night and talk about his day, what made him happy…what made him sad.

I began imagining missing their proms, graduations, weddings and the birth of their children.  It killed me to think there was a possibility I couldn’t be here for them.  To love them.  To mother them. I made myself have a little longer fuse when they acted out, let them stay up a little later at bedtime and looked at them….really looked at them – not just their faces, but their smiles, their eyes, the way their hair framed their faces.

I always hug my children and tell them how much I love them. But I hugged them a little tighter, conscious of their beating hearts. And when I told them I loved them I looked them straight in the eyes and followed it up with, “Don’t you ever forget that. Understand?” My heart was breaking.

With Christmas coming I began giving serious thought to buying the kids iPhones. I had planned to get them regular phones – no bells or whistles – just talk and limited text. But I was feeling extremely generous considering the uncertainty of my future.

“Don’t do it,” cautioned my friend Linda. “Don’t buy a guilt gift because you think you won’t be around next Christmas. Wait till you KNOW you’re going to die before you buy them iPhones. It’s a two year contract.” We both laughed at the absurdity.

My doctors scheduled me for a biopsy of the ‘mass’ and a PET scan. The biopsy was first. Not knowing what was lurking in my mastectomy bed just plain pissed me off. But needle biopsies are no fun and even though I was desperate to know what was there – I wasn’t looking forward to the procedure. I’m a big baby when it comes to physical pain so my doctor prescribed Xanax. I’d never taken it before. He suggested taking two before the procedure. I took four. They could have biopsied my brain.

Today was my PET scan. Although it’s not a difficult or painful procedure – fear of the results can be consuming. It’s quite the push and pull.  You want to know but you’re afraid of what you could find out. So all day I tossed myself into work and reassured myself that if something else were discovered “we’d just go in and get it.”

Tonight my children had their annual Christmas Concert at school. It was a jovial evening. I couldn’t help but smile while watching them sing Christmas carols with their classmates.  Then I felt my phone’s vibrating ring in my bag.  I checked quickly to see who was calling.  It was my doctor – it was 9pm. I hesitated, not wanting to ‘know’ anything that would ruin the night but my morbid curiosity had me rushing into the hall so I could hear his voice at the other end of the phone.

“The PET scan came back normal except for the area where you had your biopsy Monday,” he said. “But the actual biopsy isn’t showing any signs of cancer. They’re going to run more tests but you’re clear so far.”  Tears of relief rolled down my cheeks.

I have once again been humbled by fear, but I feel like I’ve been given another chance and I am grateful to God.  I have another opportunity to get this right.  I’m hoping I can be a better mother to my children, have more patience with them and myself.  Allow myself the time to experience their days with them – even when mine are hectic and I’m stressed.  I’m hoping I can stay in the moment and truly appreciate everything around me. I’m hoping that I can maintain perspective on what is and what is not important in life and for my children.  And I’m hoping that my children learn those lessons from me.

Oh, and I texted Linda immediately to let her know the outcome of the tests: “Lyn. Got my results. No iPhones for the kids this Christmas. : ) ”

(c) 2014 SeptemberMom.com

My Little Black Belt

06 Saturday Dec 2014

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While folding laundry today my mind wandered as I hung my children’s Tae Kwon Do uniforms.  Both JJ and Lara have been taking Tae Kwon Do lessons since they were four. I can still see them swimming in oversized uniforms, pant legs rolled up and cinched tightly at their waists by a thick white belt. They didn’t kick very high or punch very hard, but as the years passed they have grown into larger outfits while earning higher degree colored belts.

When I left my children’s father I wanted to ensure that I didn’t leave little JJ or Lara without a positive male influence in their lives. A healthy, productive influence. One they could emulate.  So Tae Kwon Do classes twice a week, I thought, would help. They’d get exercise, they’d learn an art form that – one day – they may have to use for protection, and they would have a strong male teaching them.

It has been eight years of hard work for them but they thoroughly enjoy the ride. Honestly, I can’t say that I always enjoy the ride. Getting homework done while cooking, shoving food in them so they can make class on time, running out to drop them off, rushing back to wash dishes and toss in a load of laundry, then hiking out again to pick them up. In rain, snow, sleet or hail…you get it. There are many nights I just want to stay home. Stop the running, the rushing.  But we go twice a week with some exceptions. And it’s not cheap. I’d be lying if I said I never fantasized about what I would do with the extra money if I didn’t have to pay for the lessons, continual tests, higher ranking belts, wood to break, larger uniforms, sparing equipment, accessories….etc.

There were times when JJ and/or Lara wanted to toss in their belt. I’d make a call to their Master for guidance. He has always been there for us. He has visited the house to speak with the kids and help work through whatever hurdle they were up against. And he has worked his magic more than once to encourage them to continue.  Through the years, their Master has helped to instill morals and good behavior in both my children. I especially like his ‘be good to your mom’ speeches.

I have a deep satisfaction when I see their hard work and my hard earned money in action. Recently I moved to head slap JJ but before my palm could make contact with the golden locks on the back of his head, he instinctively jerked around and blocked my arm with a huge grin on his face. First I laughed. Then I made it clear that he was not to block my head slaps. They are my given right as his mother and the payer of his classes.

Lara is currently a red belt and she has her sights set on achieving her black belt. I smile to myself when I hear her boxing the punching bag downstairs. My son took a grueling nine-hour black belt test two years ago. He was the youngest in the room. The morning of his test I packed his cooler with water, Gatorade, bananas, sandwiches, a candy bar, extra clothing and a note that read, “I don’t care whether or not you pass the test. You are my little black belt and I am so very proud that you have come this far. I love you, Mom.”  JJ left the test exhausted but invigorated by the fact that he made it through the day – and yes, he passed.

A framed photo of JJ taken during his black belt test sat on our table at the black belt award banquet. The photo caught JJ mid-kick while jumping in the air. Sweat was flying off his long blond hair. I remember holding the photo, then looking up at my then 10-year-old who was standing tall on stage with his Tae Kwon Do Master, the school’s Grand Master and the Great Grand Master. JJ was beaming with pride as he accepted his hard earned black belt certification.  Applause filled the air.

As I surveyed the room, I became aware of an unforeseen gift that my children were receiving from their martial arts education. They had carved a place for themselves – a safe, welcoming place – within a group of individuals who started out as strangers and are sharing their lives as a very diverse, caring community with a common interest.

At that moment I knew that the years of running, rushing and yes – payments, for classes, uniforms, tests and belts…weren’t half as important or meaningful as the priceless emotions of pride and confidence that my son was experiencing – qualities that will hopefully shadow him and Lara throughout their lives.

(c) 2014 SeptemberMom.com

Father’s Day Fallout

21 Saturday Jun 2014

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I think I’ve finally gotten over Father’s Day.  It took a week and a good amount of wine, but I’m glad it’s over.  At this age, and after the amount of therapy I’ve been through, you’d think I’d be past all this.  But I’m not.   

I’ve never been one for Father’s Day. I guess I feel like I’ve never had a ‘father.’ Sure there was the guy who lived with us, he put food on the table and a roof over our heads.  I wasn’t abused and I believe – or try to believe – that he did his best. But his best wasn’t anything near what the little girl in me needed. While other children’s dads doted over them, my father never hid the fact that he believe other children were better, smarter, more well-behaved. 

I’m well aware of how this affected my life. I spent early dating years with older men.  Then I realized what I was doing, began praying that I’d never marry a man like my father and to this day I question my judgement. No surprise, I never married.  Not even my children’s father. I like to tell myself that I just haven’t found ‘the one.’ But there are nights I lay awake wondering if maybe I’m just not good enough. Now, I’m old enough to know that I must take responsibility for my own life and move on. But it seems that no amount of therapy can change how I feel every Father’s Day. 

So my Father’s Day tradition is much different from that of many other people.  It starts in the card store while trying to find the perfect card.  One that’s not thankful for the support, love or example my dad set for me.  Tearfully I read card after card with Hallmark emotions I can’t relate to. If another customer catches my sniffle I casually brush it off by commenting how wonderful it is that writers can so beautifully describe  the love we feel for our fathers. Then I continue my search through the cards till I find the perfect one for me.  The one that just says, Happy Father’s Day. 

I wasn’t always this way. Way back in the day when I was still clamoring for his acceptance, I wrote an article for a magazine with quotes from celebrities about their fathers.  I closed it with a tribute to my own. I beautifully framed the piece and gave it to my father – sure it would be taken as the very special gift I intended it to be. It ended up in the garage before making its way to the garbage. 

Facebook made it markedly worse this year. I should have known better than to log on last Sunday. My heart broke with every post I read that gushed about who was daddy’s little girl, who was the best father in the world and how special dads made their children feel. Then there were the photos. The father daughter dances at weddings. Fathers walking their precious little bundles down the aisle. And the sad remembrances about dads who had passed – and were so missed. 

When my father passes, I’ll cry.  Not because he’s gone.  But because I’ll never have the chance to have the father I needed. The father I wanted. The one who made me feel special. The one who thought the sun rose and set on me. The one any little girl deserves.

The Ride

11 Sunday May 2014

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I took my children to an amusement park today. They love the rides. The higher and faster – the better. I’m not one for ‘thrill’ rides.  In fact, I’m not one for rides at all anymore. They terrify me. Even with my eyes closed, my heart races, I sweat and can’t catch my breath.

When JJ was a child I took him to Sesame Place in Pennsylvania.  Although I hoped that seeing Ernie and Big Bird was enough, his eyes lit up when he saw the roller coaster.  I hedged, he begged, I broke down. Reasoning with myself that the coaster wasn’t very high and if it’s safe enough for a 3-year-old it’s safe enough for me, I begrudgingly boarded.

We climbed in the car and I pulled him close to protect him from what I thought would frighten him. JJ wiggled away from my arms and grasped the bar holding us back. He was beaming with excitement and grinning from ear to ear.  As the car slowly climbed I snuggled closer to him, sure he would want to cover his eyes and huddle when he realized we were headed down – fast.  That moment never came…for him.

As most amusement parks do, a photo was taken when our car reached the top, seconds before the speedy decent. Now mind you, the ‘top’ wasn’t very high but you couldn’t tell from the photo. My arms were tightly clutching JJ and I was crying. His arms were tossed high in the air and he was smiling. I’ll never live that down.

This weekend I watched with both feet planted safety on the ground as JJ and Lara sped over tracks of hairpin turns and vertical drops on an adult roller coaster. I heard their joyful screams seconds before they came careening around the turn with arms flung high and bright smiles lighting up their faces.

I felt a deep contentment. There is nothing like the pleasure of seeing your child ecstatically happy. I was grateful, and amazed that such a simple experience could bring them such intense joyfulness. Nothing crowded their minds but the moment.  And the moment – to them – was euphoric.

As they faded from view my thoughts turned bittersweet. I tried to remember when I’d felt that kind of joy. I couldn’t. I sifted through memories and mentally sorted through my life’s highs. But life’s lows rushed up to steal their thunder pulling me down – fast. I smiled to myself as I realized that even with feet planted firmly on the ground, I too was riding, my personal emotional roller coaster.

As my children rounded the corner for another pass, they were still screaming, arms still flung high and still enjoying the ride. Ascending slowly, they taunted me as they motioned that they were headed for the top and the inevitable decline. But their eyes were wide with anticipation and their faces alight with grins.

Their laughter and delighted screams were washed out by the coaster car as it thundered down and rounded the last turn. I stood there hoping they’d never lose their childhood ability to experience nothing but innocent happiness.  But I realized that was a futile wish.

Much like the roller coaster, life is a series ups and downs, hairpin turns and quick stops. But what I could hope for was that they always enjoy the ride and continue to take the swift changes of direction with their arms held high and a smile on their face.

As the coaster cars rumbled to a screeching stop, I waited for them to rush off and wondered which ride we’d be headed for next. However, beaming with excitement, they ran to me and in unison bunny-hopped yelling, “Can we go on again?”

“Sure….go ahead,” I answered, thinking it would be good life practice for the ups and downs to come, and hoping one day they’d see the correlation.

Mothers Who Leave

30 Sunday Mar 2014

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I recently heard of three mothers who’ve left their husband – and children.  One even left the state in which her ex-husband and three children live.  Sacrilege!

Although it’s not acceptable, it almost seems natural, how easily fathers can separate themselves from their children’s lives.  Sadly it’s the more-often-than-not experience.  But it’s hard for me to grasp that a mother could do the same. Mothers are the nurturers, the comforters, the arms children seek to feel safe and loved.  So I get judgmental – gasp!  How can a mother leave her child?  Leaving her husband is one thing.  But her children?!  What kind of woman does that?

When I get past my initial reaction, I take an honest tumble off my high horse. Although I don’t understand how a woman could leave her children – I can see why she would want to head for the hills and leave them in the valley. Parenting is hard.

As a single mom who left her ex, sometimes the guilt is crushing.  More often than not I can’t sleep at night.  My mind wanders, worries, is consumed with thoughts of my children.  Will they be well-adjusted?  Am I doing enough for them?  Will they get the right education? Will they grow into self-sufficient adults with a healthy sense of right and wrong?

My waking hours aren’t much better.  More often than not I’m exhausted from running kids here and there, caring for their every need, managing a house and working.  My kids wear me down with constant bickering between themselves – and with me.  Yea, those hills look pretty green.  But I know me and I’ll be staying in the valley.

Does that make me a better mother? Not by a long-shot.  I’ll admit, I fantasize about laying on a deserted beach, spending intimate evenings with a man, shopping for myself with no concern of a price tag.  Some days I want to get in the car – and drive far, far away.  Take an extended bath.  Listen to the music I want to hear.  Recapture the life I had before my existence revolved around my children. I’m not above the fantasy.

As it turns out, the men who are raising their children alone are doing amazing jobs.   They are the mothers – and fathers – in their house. So I wonder, do the moms who left deserve a little more respect?  Did they realize they could no longer handle their lives?  Were they at a breaking point?  Did they do their children a favor by leaving?  Maybe they weren’t being selfish.  Maybe they were overwhelmed.

Still my heart breaks for the children.  Even if it was the right thing to do, it will be years before they understand.  What’s unsettling to me is that I can understand it now.