Category Archives: cancer

For the sake of doodling

Posted on by
6

Edie got the highest score of the day on the basketball shooting game at the arcade last weekend. My husband and the kids came to Minnesota to spend the Easter holiday with me while I’m here doing radiation treatments for several weeks, and so we took the time to spoil them a bit and do some fun things together as a family—and one of those things was putting time in at the arcade. 

My kids, like all kids, love a good game and competition, and so they set out to win tickets on air hockey, pin ball, ski ball, Pac Man, a weird duck game, a motorcycle driving course and countless others, but every time I turned around, Edie was making her way back to the basketball hoop game where the goal was simple—make as many shots as you can in two minutes.

My oldest daughter joined a basketball team for the first time in December, and slowly it has become her 10-year-old obsession. Remember that? Remember when we were that age and we stumbled upon our thing and locked in? Watching Edie dribble the basketball incessantly in the house and then out on driveway to shoot hoops for hours, listening to her report what she knows, search up videos of Steph Curry, and seek out any chance to stand in front of a hoop, reminded me that the ability to really hone-in is what makes childhood such a special part of the whole human journey. And it made me wonder why and how so many of us lose that part of us along the route.

After I said my goodbyes to my family for the week, I found myself alone in Rochester once again faced with more quiet time than I’ve had since I became a mom ten years ago. And while my schedule is busy enough with appointments, treatments and whatever work I can get done remotely, facing down an empty house and a schedule that is entirely mine for the time being had me wondering if, at 42, I am able to lock-in to something that is purely for the sake of joy, like Edie. 

Now, I will say, that I could answer this question with songwriting. When I get behind the guitar following an idea, time does that thing where it doesn’t really exist. Writing music for the sake of writing music has always been my joy, but now that it’s part of making my living, it’s shifted a bit and I’m not entirely sure it counts in the same way.  I did the same thing with my love for photography—turning a hobby into a business might be a generational defect, but I digress…

I want to know:  when’s the last time I’ve been obsessed with something besides my children? Something that I do, not to improve the look and shape of my body, or to develop a skill to be monetized, not to be mindlessly entertained, but something that I would rush home to do without an ounce of productivity behind the thought? Like dribbling the basketball on the concrete slab? 

It’s a good question to ask ourselves, especially in this time of constant device distraction. Having the ability to be entertained at every whim has really threatened our ability to find things within us that light a spark simply for the spark’s sake.

When I was Edie’s age my thing was riding my horse, Rindy. I was old enough and big enough to go out to the pens and catch her myself whenever I wanted, and that’s what I did any chance I got. There was no hope of rodeo royalty in my future, she wasn’t a fast horse or a young horse or a beautiful horse. She was just a horse, and she was mine, and I loved to climb on her bareback and go trotting through the trees, humming to myself. I close my eyes in this quiet house now hundreds of miles away from the ranch and decades from the girl I used to be. I can remember the feeling—no agenda, only time that felt slow and the freedom to kill it.

I stopped at the Walgreens yesterday to pick up some medications. I filled my cart with grown-up things: heartburn medication and lotion, Tylenol and shampoo. I strolled by the small section of art supplies and spotted a pad of blank paper and some fresh markers that looked like they would glide nicely across the page. Before I had kids I used to sit down with my nieces and color with them. I couldn’t wait to have kids of my own so I could drop all my other responsibilities and join them just to color for the sake of coloring. I think about that now and even that feels like duty, like I would only allow myself a coloring page if it was a productive in the way that it was CARING FOR MY CHILDREN!? 

What’s wrong with us? 

I grabbed the markers and the sketch pad and I put them in my basket on top of my mascara and said quietly, “I’ll allow it.” 

I’ll allow it. 

If you need me, I’ll be doodling badly for the sake of doodling. 

And you should too… 

Promise?

A doodle from Edie

Firefighters Everywhere

Posted on by
7

I stood in line with my husband at the pharmacy in the Subway level of Mayo Clinic. It was Tuesday, which means we survived a week of worry and wondering if our insurance was going to cooperate so that I could continue the doctor’s recommended path for proton radiation to treat the cancer that has grown back outside of my esophagus. I could spend some time here describing how derailing and mentally defeating it was to get news that puts you completely out of control of your healthcare plan even though you’ve done all the right things to be prepared by way of paying plenty of our paycheck for insurance, but I don’t want to dwell and you can about imagine. It was awful and frustrating and distracting. But when I got the call on Thursday that the third appeal was the charm, I couldn’t help but laugh at the fact that my definition of a reason to celebrate has come down to getting the radiation treatment I wanted. It’s like I won the lottery. Everyone in the room with me at work had to be interrupted to hear the news, and they all cheered too. 

Life is weird. 

All the things I think I’ll need

And so anyway, there I was in line at the pharmacy after we packed up that Jeep again, made the mental preparations and care preparations for our daughters, again, and drove the eleven hours to Rochester to start the process. The first dose of radiation went easier than I thought, despite the fact I made it awkward by having them play a podcast over the system that turned inappropriate for mixed company. But the radiation team didn’t seem phased at all by the detailed conversation about prostate checks coming through the loudspeakers, and in hindsight I was so focused on my poor entertainment choice and my sweaty armpits that maybe it was a good distraction. And so, we moved on to the next day’s appointments of blood draws and MRIs and a long conversation about chemo treatment that I wasn’t prepared for. By the time I was in line to pick up a second round of medication that included three different prescriptions for anti-nausea medication before my first round of weekly chemo started, I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for myself.

But among the many life lessons and gifts that time spent at the Mayo Clinic gives you, maybe the most important one is to put your circumstances in context—or to put you in your place, so to speak. Which is exactly what happened when a mom pulled in line behind us pushing her seven-year-old son in a wheelchair with a little chicken fuzz of blond, balding hair coming out of his beanie, holding a stuffed cat, wearing a mask. My throat tightened for him instead of me as I walked up to the counter to get my lesson in nausea care, which I’m glad to report, I haven’t needed to be implemented thus far. 

So that’s where we are on the details of it all. I wanted to catch you up, so many of you have expressed so much kindness and concern. But this brings me to the sentiment I really wanted to share, and I’m not sure if I’m going to articulate it the way it deserves to be articulated, but I’ll try. 

My husband drove me eleven hours to Rochester and back, and Rochester again. He made arrangements for his business and to be home for the kids when I’m gone and kept his duties as soccer coach and goat wrangler so the girls don’t have to miss out on a thing. He sat with me in every waiting room so far, which in just these last two days totaled nearly twenty hours. He makes sure we have a plan for our meals and navigates construction and parking garages and helps me stay out of my head by annoying me just the right amount on purpose. And he has never complained once, only that he wishes it was happening to him instead (And also at our GPS).  But all around us in one of the best clinics in the country, thousands and thousands of people are caring for the ones they love in similar ways, day in and day out. They push a wheelchair, they hold a hand, they write down questions and listen for the answers, they read the maps and park the cars and ask for a blanket and push the call buttons and worry but try not to show it. They buy the lunch and deliver the lunch and don’t get frustrated if only a few bites are taken. They tell jokes and read things out loud that they find funny. They say, “It’s ok. You’re going to be ok,” and “What can I do for you?” and “I’ll get this.”   I’ve heard kind and soothing words spoken in every corner of this facility, except for that one lady in the surgery waiting room who told her husband to shut up, but that was fair. He was talking on speaker phone and everyone agreed, quietly chuckling to themselves in total understanding. 

We’re all so vulnerable here, in varying states of worry, panic, grief and relief. To be surrounded by it every day is a lesson in humanity and humility, and I want to declare that I notice it. Your world is on fire the same as the hundreds of other fires sitting with you in the waiting room, passing you by in the halls, pushing the elevator button…standing in line for medication with their baby.

I dropped my husband off at the airport this morning. He’s flying home to drive the girls back to me for Easter, so for a couple days I’ll be alone in a house that a generous couple offered me as a place to stay during my treatment. There are fire-fighters everywhere. 

Thank you for reading and tending to this flame. If you need me, I’ll be here setting up a more appropriate listening choice for my treatment tonight.

Dear Daughters:Make Lemonade

Posted on by
6

Before I share this week’s column I just want to send a heartfelt thank you to everyone who has reached out the past week with support and love regarding this recent development in my cancer story. Every word has been held closely to our hearts and we love you.

We are home now and packing for a family spring break trip and when we get back I’ll be headed straight to Rochester for 6 1/2 weeks of radiation with a small weekly dose of chemo for good measure. I have a place to stay there and a good doctor who says we have like a 95 percent chance of getting rid of it this go ‘round. So I’ll take those odds and I’ll cuss a little and head that way to do the thing with all your words of encouragement as my wings.

The following column I wrote on my phone in between scans and pokes and prods last week. I turned it in three minutes to deadline while the girls were at home with my parents and then Chad’s parents. Dealing with health issues and kids who are old enough to be worried is new for me. I hope I do right by them.

(Also, before I left, Chad put on a timer for three minutes and let them say as many and whatever cuss words they wanted in that time, which is probably not the best parenting choice, but I would highly recommend. In fact, I’m about to go do it myself…)

Anyways, here’s to zapping some tumors and being pissed and annoyed and grateful and worried and hopeful…and here’s my letter to my daughters.

Mayo Clinic

Dear Daughters,

I’m writing to you 694 miles away from the ranch, drinking coffee from a paper cup with your dad outside a big hospital. We drove all day yesterday to get here, or I should say, your dad drove all day while I managed what we were going to listen to, where we would stop to eat and how to get there. 

I’ve spent thousands of hours driving thousands of miles beside this man, for dozens of reasons. This reason, in particular, is so doctors can take pictures of the inside of my body to make a plan to get rid of cancer that has slowly crept back into our lives.

Yes, it’s in my body, but it affects our lives, your lives especially. It means that for a time I will have to be away, and I won’t get to drive you to school, or pick you up, or make you supper, or do your hair, or argue with you about bedtime and cleaning your rooms. And that’s hard for me and you, too.

But it’s all just temporary. A blip. And it gives you a chance to spend more time with your grandparents, who love you and want to help. And your aunts and uncles, too. And your dad, which will be fun, you’ll have him to yourself for a bit, even though he’ll probably make you do the laundry. You’ll make memories through this bump in our ordinary lives, and they will be good ones, even though I know you’re nervous.

This is what I’ve learned in my life — that good stuff comes from the hard stuff. Almost always the best stuff actually. And I want to say I’m sorry you have to learn it early, daughters, but actually I’m not. The earlier you can learn that life, no matter how much we’ve tried to make it comfortable and uncomplicated for you so far, eventually has a way of showing us we have limited control, and we need to manage what we have carefully.

What does that mean exactly? You’ve probably heard the phrase, “When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.” And that sounds cute, because lemons can be sweetened easily with sugar. But real life lemons vary in scope and scariness, like losing a friend or missing a buzzer-beating shot or failing a major test or crashing a car or getting sick or your mom having cancer.

But the lemonade part is the attitude you choose to keep at the forefront of your actions. And it’s also the people who love you and how you love them back in the hard times.

So here’s a real example of how you can make lemonade now, dear daughters, while I’m gone for a couple of months zapping this cancer: stand by your dad in the kitchen and let him teach you how to cook your favorite supper. Or pick a new recipe every week to try together. He will love to show you, and you will gain a new skill. Then break the rules and pile in the big bed together to sleep every night. Shoot more hoops together because it makes you happy, play more cards because it makes you laugh.

Or, when Nana is here, ask her to bring her sewing machine and make a fluffy pillow together. Or read your dragon book to her at night and ask for one more chapter.

Have Grandma Beth take you shopping, that’s her love language. Ask Papa Gene if you can help him feed cows and cut the twine with your little pocket knife.

But most importantly, I think, is to be helpful. Do the dishes without being asked, and turn the music up loud and sing while you do it. Learn to fold your laundry, and put it away. Take care of your pets, give the dogs more attention. Wipe the bathroom sink after you brush your teeth. Organize your drawers. Being helpful makes you feel useful and more brave and less scared. 

I know, I’ve been practicing it my whole life. I’m practicing it right now actually.

Dear daughters, in your life you will be the driver and the one who needs to be driven, and we are lucky to have people in our lives willing to take the wheel. Learn from them, let them love on you and be grateful.

It’s all gonna be in the rearview mirror soon, kids. And we’re going to be sweeter for it.

Make Art. It’s an Emergency.

Posted on by
7

“Make art now. It’s an emergency.”

I saw this sentiment come across my feed the other day and it made me pause for a minute. Art as an emergency? It shouldn’t make sense, but it does. Entirely. In fact, I wish I would have thought to put it as bluntly. 

Emergency indicates a frantic moment forward to fix something that is broken, but the process of making art and music is quite often slow and methodical, one that’s personal, meditative, trial and error and try again. To make a painting, for most of us, is not lucrative. To sing at the top of our lungs in the car or out in the hills with your kids makes us no money at all. Dancing in the kitchen, you may argue, is not going to save a life. 

But could it? 

Recently I received confirmation the cancer that was cut out of my airway over five years ago has slowly crept back, this time on the outside of my esophagus. After a month or so in the weird and worried place of not really knowing what it all means, I’ve learned that it’s time to head back to Mayo clinic to handle it. After some testing and intake in Rochester this week, I’ll be there for six weeks of radiation treatment and a low dose of once-a-week chemo. We’ve been keeping an eye on this, it’s treatable and I’m going to be fine, but ugh. It’s annoying. 

Is that a word anyone uses for a cancer diagnosis? I don’t know, but I think I’m grateful for it. To be annoyed means I’m not in imminent danger, or in pain. It just means I’m inconvenienced.

But let me tell you the worst part about a reoccurring cancer diagnosis for me (and maybe some of you who have found yourselves in similar situations can agree) it’s hands down sharing the news with the people who love and worry about you. 

I hate it. I don’t want to be the reason anyone worries. That’s a big one for me. Don’t worry. Don’t worry about me. There’s that part. 

And I don’t want to be away from them. 

That’s the other one.

But what you want in times like these doesn’t matter. You do what you have to do and then you get called brave, even though brave indicates a choice. There’s no choice. There’s just the next step. 

Which brings me to the art. I’ve spent most of my career working to figure out how to bring more of it to rooms of people in rural communities. And over the course of six months or so I’ve seen that vision really blossom in the work we’re doing with our arts foundation. And I’ve felt it more profoundly on the stages on which I have been so fortunate to stand and sing. The rooms have been full, every seat in the crowd there waiting to listen, to tap their toes, to feel connected to something. Every chair sat behind an easel waiting for instruction, or body hovered over a paint pallet looking to create, is there to make something that wasn’t there before. Not for money. Not for acclaim. Not for anything but the learning, the sitting together, the laughing, the making. 

What is that?

 What brings people out of their homes or out of the everyday tasks of being human to create or witness art? And why is it hard to explain? Maybe because it’s primal? Like, we weren’t born to live behind computer screens, or to move eighty-miles-per-hour down a four-lane highway for hours a day. We weren’t born to know tax structure or the best product made to clean our floors. But turn on some music and watch a baby start to wiggle. Give a toddler a brush and watch her create circles. Grab your husband’s hands and he might just spin you around. Sing “You are my Sunshine” to your ailing grandmother and watch her toes tap and her lips move to sing along.

I told my kids the news the other day. They cried a bit because cancer is scary. I told them I was going to be just fine, but daddy might make them do the laundry when I’m gone. I showed them my muscles; they showed me theirs and then hit the ground to do some pushups. They can do more than me. Way more.  

After school, they asked me if it was still ok to feel happy. It hadn’t occurred to me that I needed to give them that permission, but now I know. We turned up the music loud on the way home, they sang the National Anthem at the top of their lungs in the kitchen while I made supper. They sit at the table and draw pictures of aliens and unicorns and a girl on a hill with long black hair. They dance down the hallway with the music on blast on the way to bed. I sit behind my guitar in the dark when they’re sleeping and things I didn’t know I had to say come out of my mouth in a song. 

We lose this instinct, and we lose ourselves in the sorrow and callouses that living creates.  We can’t let it happen. It’s an emergency.

The heartbeats in between

Posted on by
16

The heartbeats in between 
Forum Communications

My husband and I celebrated our wedding anniversary in my surgeon’s office on the fourth floor of Mayo Clinic, almost 700 miles from the oak tree on the ranch in western North Dakota where we were married 14 years ago when I was on the edge of turning 23. We vowed for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, as if we really knew what that meant at all.

But we never know what’s coming, do we? We’ve sure learned that lesson in these 14 years, watching our plans try their hardest to fly out the window while we hang on for dear life. Turns out, even when you think you might never come up for air, there’s always the surface, the other side of the hard things. We just have to wait for it.

And so we treated our latest visit to Rochester as if we already knew the news. Eight weeks out of a sternotomy to remove a cancerous tumor attached to my airway, I was feeling a bit more like myself, a bit more like laughing, a bit lighter from the weight of pain easing. After dropping the kids with the in-laws we took to the road like we were going on vacation. Because why not? We were together. We were OK. We were driving along Interstate and highway surrounded by sunflower fields reaching toward the sky and corn taller than two of us stacked up.

We spent the five days between doctors and tests eating as much as we could and finding shelter from the rain and sun under Minnesota trees and patio umbrellas. Once, as we were indulging in a 2 p.m. cocktail and late lunch, the woman a table over stood up to tell us that we really know how to live. We didn’t know if it was the calamari, the drinks or the loud laughter, but we decided it was the best compliment we could have received.

To know how to live.

BF134834-02BE-44CA-92B1-5D6B2FCDFBD3

I’ll tell you now that the doctor, on our 14th wedding anniversary, told us I am going to be OK. He said he couldn’t have done a better job repairing my airway. And that the cancer? Well, he got it all.

Life will now look like a big scar down the middle of my chest and a CT scan every six months for the foreseeable future to make sure the cancer stays gone, moving it to the back of my mind, instead of the center of our worries.

And for that we are the lucky ones.

Fourteen years ago I carried sunflowers in my bouquet as I walked down the “aisle” in that cow pasture, toward the man who would become my husband that day. Little did I know that it takes so much more than a wedding to make a marriage. Little did I know that the only thing you can really count on is that things go wrong.

And then, right again.

As we headed west out of Rochester and toward the rolling buttes of home, I imagined those fields of sunflowers waving us on into a new year, a new season, spectators with encouraging smiles, reminding me of the love and support we’ve received from our family, friends and community during these past several months.\

3A8043A5-9938-45F0-9FEB-2624DFA031C6

Reminding me that life is just a series of triumphs, roadblocks, joy and heartache. But my favorite times have always been the millions and billions of heartbeats in between.

On the road to recovery

Posted on by
1

I had an interview this morning with a local news station about my health this week. It’s still weird to be talking as a cancer patient, especially when I thought I would be using this time to perform and promote on behalf of the new album. But as we all know, plans change, you’re not promised tomorrow and I’m nothing if I’m not resilient. I’m happy to share my story if it inspires someone to fight for their health and for the life that they want.

You can watch the piece at the link below:

Watford City recording artist on the road to recovery after cancer diagnosis

Screen Shot 2020-08-01 at 1.29.42 PM

Pre-order a signed copy of the new album, Playing Favorites at jessieveedermusic.com 

Playing Favorites Album Art

Peace, love and good vibes only,

Jessie ❤️

On the other side of this…

Posted on by
6

On the other side of this…
Forum Communications

Water park visits, youth rodeos, T-ball games, street festivals and fairs, performing music almost every week in a different community, a state fair visit, backyard gatherings with friends and camping trips and work on the ranch, work on the house, work on planning community events…

That’s what summer looked like last year, and the year before, and the year before… a calendar full, the weekends penciled-in, not enough time to get to the lazing around part, the slow parts, the parts we stay home, bring Dad lunch in the hayfield and fight boredom with a homemade slip-‘n-slide — the summers I remember as a kid growing up on a ranch in the middle of nowhere.

Those summers looked more like mowing, barn painting, bareback horse rides to pick Juneberries, running through the lawn sprinklers with my best friend, bike rides, the county fair and an occasional trip to the outdoor pool.

Yesterday I made the girls homemade bubbles, the same way my grandma used to make them for us, and just like my daughters, we would go dancing across the lawn in the heat of the day with a string of sparkling orbs trailing behind us.

109928600_3290239271026295_2690564027348310330_o

Watching them brought me back to that little brown house next to the barnyard and eating Schwan’s push-up pops on the front steps.

I haven’t spent so many summer days (or any days) consecutively at home at the ranch since then, it seems. But with COVID canceling every singing and speaking job for months and a cancer diagnosis derailing and bypassing every other plan we made for ranch, business and housework, here I am shuffling around the house and yard, tossing feed to the animals and placing my lawn chair next to the sprinkler as the kids run, squeal and jump through this unexpected summer, seemingly (and thank goodness) no worse for the wear.

If you would have told me last year this is where we’d be, no one would have believed it. But I see now in so many ways that I was yearning for it. Not the cancer part. Not the terrifying, life-threatening, business-ending pandemic part. No. Not that.

But a chance to take it down a notch, to step back and remember why we live here. Why we built this family on this piece of land and what it really means to exist here.

IMG_7246

And I’m going to preface this by saying we are the lucky ones here. We are still working. We have land in which to social distance while we raise animals to help feed the nation. We have family close and we take care of one another. We are not on the front lines. We are keeping healthy, so far, and it’s because of that perhaps that I have the luxury of looking for lessons here.

But each day that passes in my recovery as a cancer patient (and a rancher, and a musician, an event planner and a mom and a daughter and a wife) in the time of COVID — each day that keeps us watching the news, arguing and discussing, staying close to home and riding the ponies and taking long walks to the grain bins — I’m looking and listening for how it’s speaking to me, how it’s changing me and my family, how it might affect our communities, our country and our world.

Because the greatest tragedy of it all, to me, would be that all this suffering, uncertainty, loss and worry at this moment in history and in my personal trials, would be in vain.

And that could send me into a panic, because there’s so much that needs to change…

But then I watch my girls run across the yard, bare feet, wild hair and bubbles flying against a blue sky, and I think — even if all we learn from this is how to sit still long enough to make homemade bubbles and eat push-up pops on the front porch, and turn the backyard sprinkler on in the heat and take good and better care — maybe, on the other side of this, we could be on our way to being OK…

 

It takes a village to heal

Posted on by
23

106481578_3240542355995987_2106877215332193429_o

It takes a village to heal
Forum Communications

It’s been over four weeks since surgeons at Mayo Clinic cut open my sternum, moved my ribs and lungs and heart valves (and whatever else was in the way) so they could remove the cancerous tumor attached to my airway.

And so they cut my airway, reattached it, then put my lungs back where they belonged and pulled and stapled my ribs back together.

They stitched my chin to my neck to make sure I didn’t move my head too far back, and then, day by day, during my stay in the hospital, a new tube or IV came out. And then the chin stitches were removed, and then three X-rays, one bronchoscopy and five days later, I was released back into the world that keeps on turning even while we hold our breath.

They think they got all the cancer. They think, but we’re still waiting to hear for sure.

I’m back at the ranch now with what I hope is the worst part behind me, slowly feeling a bit better and stronger each day.

IMG_7246

Time will do that for you if you let it. It will get you to where you need to be. I’ve learned this lesson in my life before, but I’m still humbled by how helpless I feel in my own home, surrounded by the mess and the laundry and the projects we’ve made for ourselves.

All of that has to wait now the same way I have to wait to be able to grab my young daughters, lift them up, hug them tight or push them on the swing. Every morning, little Rosie asks me if my “owie” is better, which is code for, “Can you hold me yet?” And when I tell her I can’t, she sits beside me and we hold hands.

109231795_3265351456848410_7033344889766592385_n

I wish I could tell you I’ve taken time to read the books I haven’t had a chance to read, or written some profound music or poetry, or had some major revelation, but mostly, when you’re healing from something as traumatic as this, it seems like it takes about all the energy you have to mend. And lots of terrible shows on Netflix.

I can tell you I have never been more physically vulnerable. And when you find yourself so helpless, your family, friends and community, they are illuminated. All of a sudden you see them, and the way their hearts open, because you can no longer afford to say, “Oh no, that’s OK, we got this.”

Because in times like these, without your village, you don’t have it. To survive it you have to be gone, displaced, completely distracted, and it takes all you have in you to get through days of pain and healing, let alone continue under any kind of normal. At least for now.

106492668_10157562174888233_6538849165120756784_n

First family photo, halfway home after surgery…

And so you can’t do it alone. You need someone you trust to take care of the kids. You need your sister to feed the pets and plants. You need all the prayers and the well wishes and meals sent to your door. And while you don’t need that Juneberry pie, or gift cards and cash for gas and hotel stays and hospital bills, it sure helps ease one part of the burden of worry.

And you need your husband or your partner to get you dressed and open your pills and wash your hair and shave your legs and try his best at a ponytail and give up all his pillows in the hotel bed to make sure that you are comfortable. You need him to sit next to you in the hospital for five days wearing a mask and not complain once.

Taking a walk around Rochester the day before surgery
Hanging and healing in the hospital

And so here I sit, feet up, a little worse for the wear, but on the other side of the scariest thing I’ve done since parachuting out of a plane over the ocean.

I am a lucky woman, so even if they call tomorrow and tell me I need to undergo radiation to become cancer-free, I know I can do it. Because this world we live in, while so genuinely heartbreaking, gives us miracles every day.

104440320_3211509835565906_8151760021747921105_o

And to me, those miracles look a lot like my children laughing, or the purr of a kitten, the smell of the ranch after a storm or the crunch of a garden pea. To me, those miracles wear scrubs and masks, take my kids for a tea party, come to live with us while I recover, send cards and raise money and call to check in, pick up my medicine and teach me what it means to truly take care of one another.

And now that I know how it feels to be on this side of things, I understand better the ways to take care, too.

But for now, if you need me, I’ll be here, holding my daughters’ hands, eating casserole, walking slowly to the mailbox and healing up…

IMG_7252