jennethink

WHEN A FATHER DIES

I was 13.

I was 13 the first time I realized the impact of a father’s death.  It was the first time I grasped just how big the stone is, just how small the pond is and just how enormous the ripples are that pulse out from the point of that impact.

When I was called to the office of my Jr. High School I was not concerned.  I was a good student.  I was liked by the office staff.  Perhaps I’d won a special award or was needed to show a new kid around school.  Things like that happened.  When I saw my sister was already in the glass walled school office, I was not concerned.  We were from a small town.  Jr. High and High School shared the same building.  I often saw my sister during the day.  Perhaps she too had won an award.  Perhaps she was needed somewhere for something.  When I realized my sister was there waiting FOR ME a creepiness started at my toes.  When I saw she wasn’t smiling … when I saw no one in the office was smiling, the creepy grew.

“Grandpa died.”

Oh.  Okay.  This was not a shock.  We’d been warned, properly prepared.  We’d had the run-down given at the dinner table a handful of nights before.  Grandpa not doing well…Not much longer left…Loves you both very much.  And then back to not eating my peas. 

“Dad’s coming to pick us up.  We’re going to Ohio.”

Now this was news.  I hate to say it now but I had a much more powerful reaction to the news that I’d be leaving school in the middle of the week than I did to the news that I’d never see my grandfather again.  I’d known other kids who left school in the middle of the week.  Kids who for one reason or another were set free for an unheard of 2 or 3 days in a row – without being sick.  I even had a friend who once went on a week long vacation right in the middle of the school year.  But I was never this kid.  I wasn’t the kid who missed school.  Ever.  Even my dentist appointments were scheduled on Saturdays.  So hearing that I’d be leaving on a Wednesday, traveling to Ohio and quite possibly not returning to school until the next … what?  Monday?  Maybe Tuesday?  Well, it rocked me.

I loved my Grandpa, of course I did.  And as my sister and I gathered up our things and waited on the curb outside the school building I thought about what it would be like to have no grandfather.  My mother’s father had died long before I was born so this grandpa – my dad’s dad – was my only grandpa.  And now, I was Grandpa-less.  I was without a Grandpa at all.  I already felt a little gypped in this area what with only having one grandpa to begin with and he lived 4 hours away.  And now … zilcho.  No Grandpa for you.  No funny faces at the holiday dinner table when he’d take out his teeth just far enough to make me scream.  No more checkers with Paw-Paw in the middle of the night when we visited while he sipped scotch – ice cubes clinking in the highball glass.  No more going to sleep with the sound of the CB radio crackling and hissing in the corner of the kitchen.  No more silver dollars flipped from his pocket into the palm of my outstretched hand.  No more.

It was a bummer.  And I sat there on that curb, with my chin on my knees, hugging my legs and thought about how sad this was for me.  And I waited for my father.

When he pulled into the parking lot, my sister and I stood.
There was a glare on the windshield as the Buick approached us.
He was driving slowly – as he should in a school parking lot.

As he came closer, the glare lifted.  And I saw my father through the glass.  His left hand was on top of the steering wheel.  His right elbow rested on the console.  He was shifted to the passenger’s side and his lips were pressed against his right fist.  His handkerchief was laying on the dashboard.

He was crying.

It was that moment.  That very moment when I realized – my grandfather is my father’s dad.  He’s crying because his dad died.  He’s crying.  His dad died.  His dad.

It was the first time I got it.  The first time I realized how huge death can be.  The first time I realized the man that used to carry me piggyback was once carried himself.  My father was strong and wise. But once upon a time, he was small and skinny and his father held him in his lap and played catch with him and taught him lessons and told him stories.  My dad was a grown-up.  And he’d grown up under the watchful eyes of his father.  My dad was one of the best parents I knew – and he’d once been parented by this man who was now dead – with whom he could no longer ask questions, or share joys or play cards or talk politics.  My dad was shaping my future.  His dad had formed his past.  He’d raised him, kept food on the table, a roof over his head, kept jokes in his ears and challenges in front of him.  He did some things wrong.  He did many things right.  Through the years they’d fought and argued and debated.  And they’d laughed and sung and cooked.  They were alike.  They were completely different.  And my father would now have to put him in the ground.  His father.  His dad. 

The next few days were a blur.  I don’t remember the drive over or the funeral or the drive back.  I don’t remember much from that block of time.  But I cannot shake the sight of my father though that windshield.  Just a broken boy who lost his dad.

Adulthood changes so many things. But men were always once boys.  And boys need their dads. 

And every child will share the long, lonely night.

THOUGHTS ABOUT BEING A SURVIVOR

Jenné, has having cancer changed you?

I get asked that question so often.  It’s right up there with, Does your mom get mad when you write about her in your blog? and, Are you going to wear that?  The short answer is, Yes.  Yes, cancer has changed me.  But I don’t like to give that answer.  I don’t like to because inevitably you’re going to ask the next question.  How?  You are going to say:  How has it changed you, Jenné? And that one … that one’s a little tougher.  And truthfully, I’m not sure I have an answer for that one.  Yet.

I was talking with a couple of new friends last week about cancer survivors.  Neither of these people has had cancer but they work with people who have.  One of them mentioned that most cancer survivors will at some point say something like, Cancer was one of the best things that’s happened to me!  And they were expressing how incredible they think this is.  Then there was a pause.  A dead, empty pause in the conversation where it would have been most appropriate for me to say, Yes!  Indeed!  Cancer is for sure the best thing that’s happened to me too!  But I didn’t say that.  Because I don’t feel that.  And when I hear other people say that, when I hear people say cancer is the best thing that’s happened to them, I feel alien.  I feel like I don’t belong at the cancer survivor’s table.  Like I’m an imposter.  Like in freshman year in college when I accidentally went into the wrong classroom at the beginning of second semester.  It was an advanced literature class.  I thought it was a history 101 class.  The professor called role.  My name, of course, wasn’t on the list.  The professor asked if anyone’s name wasn’t called.  Still unaware I was in the wrong place, I raised my hand.  The professor asked my name.  I told him.  The professor then said lightly, You know this is Advanced American Literature, right?  You’re in the right class, right?  And my stomach morphed into a cannon ball.  I did the only thing I could think of.  The only logical thing to do.  I lied my face off.  Yes! I laughed.  Oh yes, I’m in the right class, ha ha!  Advanced American Literature, uh huh!  That’s the one!  Ha ha.  And then I spelled my name for the professor.  Letter by letter the professor wrote my name down.  And I sat there for 120 minutes and took notes in my history notebook and nodded along - never more interested in literature in my whole life.  Just buying time until I could flee that classroom, never return and then spend the next 18 weeks avoiding every single upperclassmen in that class.  And of course the professor.  That entire 120 minute class I was certain someone was going to turn around and point their literatured finger at me and shout, You don’t belong here! You aren’t one of us!  Get out! 

And then of course, my only option would be to change colleges. 

When I’m around other cancer survivors or other people talking about cancer survivors I’m back in that classroom again, nodding along.  I’m listening intently.  I’m cueing off their laughter and adding an occasional chuckle myself just so I don’t look out of place.  But inside … inside I’m just buying time. Buying time until I can flee. Because I don’t feel like I belong here.  I don’t feel like I fit with other cancer survivors. I feel like I’m a fraud, a phony.  I’m the girl who doesn’t think her cancer is the best thing that’s ever happened to her.  I don’t even wear the yellow LiveStrong bracelet.   

And it’s not as if I think my cancer is the WORST thing that’s ever happened either.  It’s just a thing – a thing that happened.  Not the best.  Not the worst.  Traumatic?  Yes.  Scary?  Oh boy yes.  Difficult?  Um, have you read my posts?  But not the worst thing ever … no no. 

And of course I learned things.  Things about my body and my family and my relationships.  I made amazing connections and was exposed to some of the most beautiful people on this earth who, in many cases, are no longer on this earth.  I found new ways of coping and new depths of patience and new love for old friends.  And for all of that I am so grateful – grateful for the experience, for the learning, for the cancer.  But grateful enough to say it was the best thing that’s ever happened to me?  No.  No, I’m not that grateful.

So when you ask … when you look at me and say, Has cancer changed you, Jenné?  Forgive me if I give a shallow answer.  Let me off the hook if I just nod and then change the subject.  Maybe it’s too soon to know.  Or maybe I’ll never know.  I’m sure cancer has changed me.  You don’t go through something like that and come out exactly the same on the other side.  But I don’t know how.  Not yet. 

Maybe not ever.

ON WORKING TOGETHER

Last night The Hub and I moved his office from upstairs to downstairs.  My office was already downstairs, so our offices are now in the same space.  We did this because his office was quite cramped up there (shoved in the corner of the guest room) and I thought it would increase our efficiency when we work on projects together.  Instead of having to yell up the stairs and climb up and down a hundred times when I need him to modify a file for me or photoshop a stray hair from a publicity photo, now all I have to do is spin around and ask him.

Today is the first day we are both home using the office at the same time. 

We just spent 20 minutes trying to trace the dog. 

Maybe moving in together wasn’t such a good idea.

YOU MAY SAY I'M A DREAMER, BUT YOU TALK A LOT

I’ve been dreaming lately. 

I take dreaming as a very good sign since it must mean I’m actually sleeping.  Normally I’m a hopeless insomniac – sleeping only a handful of hours in a week. Some loved ones have asked me how I stand to sleep so little but the truth is, despite the occasional frustrating midnight, my insomnia is comforting -  not annoying.  It isn’t aggressive. It’s more of a companion than a nemesis and over the years I’ve learned how to twilight.  How to drift even when I’m not sleeping.  I spend hours in a strange half-state.  I lay still. I relax.  I find these nights to be neutral – neither frustrating or invigorating.  Most early mornings when the alarm goes off or when the yellow dog whimpers to be let out I realize I’ve been awake for hours already …

awake, but not aware. 

Which is why I like dreaming.  It is one of the ways I know I actually banked some shut eye.  Some nights the only way I know I’ve slept is because the unicorn in the pink tu-tu told me so.  It’s my dreams – not my waking up – that let’s me know I’ve been asleep in the first place.

Dreams fascinate me.  If you google “meaning of dreams” you’ll find a gazillion pages about what your dreams mean.  Just like any topic, there are varied opinions.  Different people think dreaming of different objects mean different things. Dreaming of your teeth, for example, can mean illness is approaching or you’ve recently made a physical change – like started a diet. Unless you dream you are brushing your teeth then it means you are confident and self-assured  and why wouldn’t you be what with those dazzling whites to flash at everyone? Dreaming of elevators can mean an increase in wealth or spiritual awareness.  If the elevator is out of order and not letting you get off then it means you’ve let your emotions get out of control.  Barnum AND Bailey making a nightly appearance in your bedroom? You are filled with childlike joy and pleased with your surroundings … unless you aren’t having a good time at the circus, then your dream may mean you are misunderstood.  Or an elephant. 

Some interpretations leave you wondering, Did I really need a website to tell me that?  For example, if you dream you’re celibate it could mean you are afraid of sexual intimacy. Hmm.  Deep. 

I prefer the interpretations that seem totally out there and unrelated to what I’m dreaming about.  I don’t want dreaming of a dog to mean I’m loyal and prone to shedding.  I want it to mean something crazy and unrelated – like I secretly yearn to be in politics or crave the attention of tomatoes or something.  But really, there aren’t enough of those.  Tomatoes I mean.

Regardless of interpretation, my dreams make me so proud.  I’m so proud that I can put together entire Broadway-style shows complete with dance routines and musical numbers that would give Andrew Lloyd Webber a run for his money.  And occasionally I’ll create the most amazing menus for dinner parties and even have enough sense and time to create a clever little word game to be played as Tim Curry and I host the whole thing. And the fact that in my dreams I know how to craft a cable-knit sweater for my neighbor’s dinosaur – well my buttons on my pjs are just bursting when I awake. 

It is dreams like that that give me hope.

THE BREAKUP

My trainer is leaving me.

We’ve been together forever – like 5 weeks. He’s made me do the craziest things – like throw a gazillion pound medicine ball over my head and then run get it only to throw it back over my head again.  And hang with my arms in slings and then bring my knees to my elbows – or thereabouts.  And a strange little exercise called “over the fence, under the fence” which I swear he made up only to be able to laugh at me later when he pictures me doing it – or not doing it as the case may be.

When we first started meeting I couldn’t do the simplest things – like remember to pay him on time each week.  And now I’ve worked all the way up to writing the check IN THE CAR on the way to my first workout each week.  Now that’s progress.  And just today I actually remembered which way to roll when he was stretching me out after my work out.  That’s huge.  I usually just lay there in a daze, twitching like I’ve been tasered.  But today I remembered everything.  And I could see it on his face – he was proud as a new papa.  A new papa staring down at a giant, sweaty infant – in a workout bra … my analogy just fell apart.  Okay maybe not just fell apart.  But it doesn’t matter.  It’s all for nothing.  He’s leaving.  He taking his clean jerks and weighted squats and moving to Colorado where people are born knowing how to do the inchworm and walk around with stability balls permanently attached to their hineys.   

Darn hippies.

OPEN LETTER TO THE JUST DIAGNOSED

Every 25 seconds someone in the U.S. is diagnosed with cancer. Isn’t that crazy?  It’s like hearing for the first time just how many calories are in a single slice of cheesecake – the number is shocking and the only thing you know how to do is ignore it and keep eating.

Because I decided to post about my cancer experience, a handful of the newly diagnosed land here looking for information.  Some of them even email me.  They tell me they are going through chemo or they’ve just been diagnosed and then they do the most unthinkable thing ever.  They thank me.  Which blows my often-distracted mind.

I feel a clunk in my tummy every time I read those words, “I’ve just been diagnosed” because I know what’s coming.  And even though the person is no closer to me than a telemarketer or a random spammer, it makes me hurt.  My brow knits together and I take a deep breath and get that look on my face.  The  I’m. So. Sorry. look.  And that’s for perfect strangers.

And then last week someone who isn’t a perfect stranger came at me with the same news.  The same gut-wrenching news.  Mass. Cancer.  Stage 3a. 

Clunk. Again.

Sometimes I think I have a bigger reaction to others’ diagnosis than to my own.  It’s surreal, hearing the news that you have cancer.  I wish I could adequately describe it for you but to tell you the truth, in the few hours and days immediately following my diagnosis, I don’t remember much.  It’s a blur – like watching a ceiling fan on high speed – you feel the breeze but you can’t make out the individual blades making the air move.  I can’t remember details only the wind.

I do remember having to make phone call after phone call to tell person after person the awful news.  The Hub and I made the gigantic mistake of not letting anyone in on what we were going through prior to diagnosis.  Which means he was alone in the waiting room during my biopsy and had to sit solo while the surgeon came out and told him the news.  He had no one to turn to, no one to lock eyes with, no one to say “You’re going to be okay. She’s going to be okay.”  He was alone because we didn’t want to worry anyone else unnecessarily.

We’re smart but we aren’t always too bright.

Because of our lack of brightness, we had to spend way too much time in those first few days bringing people up to speed.  We immediately had a thousand phone calls to make.  It was awful every time.  Dialing that phone over and over was like hitting a remote on a firing squad.

“Hi.  It’s me. Um. I have some news …” < RAT A TAT TAT TAT >

I never got used to telling people.  I tried a thousand different ways.  I started conversations with “So, there was a lump” and “So, here’s something unexpected..” and “We’ve been presented with a new challenge..” and (after 100 or so of these conversations) “I’ve been diagnosed with cancer, what’s new with you?”  I can even remember being really careful about not saying “I HAVE cancer”  it was always “I’ve been DIAGNOSED with cancer”  which was, for some reason, incredibly important to me at the time. 

It was impossible for me to figure out who to tell and who to not tell.  My family – of course, they needed to know.  My friends, yes, they would want to know.  But what about clients?  Do I tell clients?  And which clients?  All of them?  Do I put it in a newsletter?  Do I call friends I haven’t seen in a long while but who are very important to me?  and how do I have THAT conversation?  Do I let them fill me in first on their life or do I jump right in?  Do I tell my dermatologist?  And if I do, will she make me fill out a new form?  What about the kid that bags my groceries?  Does he need to know?  It’s all very surreal.

The thing is, no matter how many times I said it, and no matter who I told, I never got used to it.  And I don’t think I ever did it right.  I fumbled it again and again – I told the right people the wrong way and I told people who didn’t need to know way too much information.  I just screwed it up.  And this is important.  This is what I want to say to everyone who walks this path. I screwed it up and you will too.  And that is okay.  This is YOUR walk – not theirs and you are now your number one concern.  Don’t worry about if you say it right or if you’ve made them worry or if you’ve answered all of their questions.  You don’t have to be strong or positive or upbeat.  You don’t even have to “do this well” you just have to do it. 

It’s not about others right now.  It’s about you.

IT'S NOT HARD TO FALL WHEN YOU FLOAT LIKE A CANNONBALL

Holy crap, that was awesome.

Last night The Hub and I went to see Damien Rice in concert.  And I came  this <-> close to leaving my dear husband and becoming a roadie.  Er, wait, not a roadie – they have to lift things – a groupie!  That’s it.  I almost became a Damien Rice groupie. 

If you don’t know Damien Rice, you should.  You really, really should.  His music is powerful and lyrical and if I was Rev. Sharpton I’d come up with another word that rhymes with those two but I can’t think of one – besides awesomical.  And it is.  It is totally awesomical.  With chocolate on top.

Damien (we’re on a first name basis) has some of the coolest music ever.  It’s folksy and also edgy and somehow he’s able to put into words every feeling I’m having, have had or one day hope to have.  He’s so poetic, coming up with lines like:

Still a little bit of your taste in my mouth / Still a little bit of you laced with my doubt / Still a little hard to say what's going on …

And

I remember it well / The first time that I saw / Your head around the door /'Cause mine stopped working

And

Among the afflictions / With which i've been marked / I'm not so prententious / And not quite so dark

And

You can hold her eggs / But your basket has a hole / You can lie between her legs / And go lookin' for: Tell her you're searching for her soul

You can wait for ages / And watch your compost turn to coal /Time is contagious: Everybody's getting old.

He also is Irish.  And well, that pretty much seals the deal for me.  If for no other reason than the way he says “foo-kers” – it totally doesn’t even sound like a curse word when he says it.  It sounds like candy.  He’s has two CDs I play over and over and over again.  One of them, 9, I play when I’m making art in the basement.  I also play it when I’m making cookies in the kitchen and when I’m making pee-pee in the bathroom.  Yes.  It is THAT good. 

The most surprising thing about the concert was how incredibly passionate and funky and loud he was.  And I mean it – he was loud … LOUD!  And it was awesome.  He’s got the lyrics of a folk artist and the look of a bar rat and the attitude of a punk.  I’m just ga-ga.  It was like a weird combination of folk and thrash and punk and church.  Which, I know seems like it doesn’t go together but it really does. 

The whole thing just made me happy.  Happy because he made me feel … and there have been so many times in the past few months that I’ve felt hollow.  Last night I felt something.  I was rattled and it was good.  As he soulfully sang Accidental Babies, I cried.  And I just think that’s real talent to make an audience of however many fade away and cross that divide between me and him and reach into my chest and squeeze. 

Squeezing is good.

SURVIVAL GUIDE FOR STEPMOTHERS ON MOTHER’S DAY

Remember when you were a little girl and you’d take your mom to Mother’s Day brunch?  Remember painstakingly creating a card with your handprint and misspelled, scrawled words?  Remember suffering over the stove trying to scramble eggs and flip pancakes to present the perfect breakfast in bed to your mom? 

Me too.  And I remember thinking, Someday this will be me.

Growing up I kept a scrapbook of sorts.  It was called “School Days” and it had a page for each grade.  Along with a place to glue that year’s school picture there were questions to answer:

My name is
I am ___ years old
My teacher’s name is
My favorite subjects are
My best friend is

And, my favorite, When I grow up I want to be ___________________.

I still have that little book.  Sometimes I flip thorough it.  Some things are disturbing – my handwriting hasn’t gotten much better since 3rd grade –but mostly …it’s really cute.  You can imagine how things change year to year.  Someone who was my very very very very best friend (I added all the verys in crayon) in 2nd grade was not even listed as an “other friends” by 3rd grade.  My favorite subject never stayed the same and of course, the hobbies and interests changed radically from year to year.  But one thing stayed the same all through grade school – the When I Grow Up I Want to Be line. 

It always said “A mommy”

Sometimes I added other things – a ballerina, a doctor, a famous horseback rider – but always I listed “A mommy” as the thing I most wanted to be when I grow up.

Fast forward …
I’ve had 5 miscarriages and (due to my cancer diagnosis) a failed adoption

Some things don’t work out the way we think.

Painful.  Disappointing.  Crushing.  Those are understatements.

At the same time …AT THE SAME TIME … I have to acknowledge the unbelievable joy that my stepdaughter has brought into my life.  I cannot describe adequately the love I feel for her.  I cannot put into words what goes on inside my chest when she runs across the room to me or when she reaches for my hand or when she snuggles in my lap.  And every day of the year I’m grateful to her father and to her mother for bringing her into the world.  Every day I am grateful.  Every day I am happy.  Every day I am okay.

And then comes Mother’s Day.

I can’t lie to you.  Mother’s Day is a toughie.

I have a cousin who is also a Stepmom – she’s awesome and she gets it and once she told me that a friend of hers who also carries the Stepmom title refuses to go to church on Mother’s Day – know why?  Because they always ask the Mothers to stand … and she doesn’t know what to do.

Another Stepmom friend tells me her stepdaughter bounds into the kitchen on Mother’s Day mornings and says “Happy … Day” to her.  Carefully leaving out any reference to her as her mother.

And still another friend confides that she feels abandoned on this day when her phone stays silent and there is no one to take her to brunch – after all, they are busy taking their real mom to breakfast.

If you aren’t a Stepmom, I’m sorry but you really don’t understand.  And that’s okay because this post isn’t for you.  This post is for those of us who live it, who get it, who will awaken Sunday morning with a little bit of dread, a little bit of pain and a lot of choices.  I’ve blundered Mother’s Day in the past.  I’ve had some downright awful ones.  But I’ve had some really great ones too and I’ve learned a few things in my short tenure as a Stepmom. 

Here they are …

JENNE’S SURVIVAL GUIDE FOR STEPMOTHERS ON MOTHER’S DAY

Focus on your stepchild, not on you. 
Well, here is a big life lesson.  If you want to feel better, about anything, quit thinking about how badly you have it.  Instead, focus on what you do have – you have a stepchild.  You have an enormous opportunity to make a difference in a child’s life.  You have a chance to reinforce in that child what is good and pure about them.  Focus on them.  Not on you.  Here's an idea - give your stepkid a card.  A "thanks for giving me a chance to be a mom" card.  You might have to make one yourself, this isn't a big money-maker for Hallmark. 

Do something nice for your stepchild’s mother.
This one is easy for me.  The Kid has a great mom and we all get along famously.  But even if we didn’t I think Mother’s Day would be a great time to let her know i’m grateful.  It doesn’t have to be much - a card, a call, maybe some flowers.  Even the smallest of gestures will be noticed by your stepchild and will communicate a powerful message.


Take cues from your stepchild but don’t assume. 
I used to introduce The Kid to people as my daughter.  I did this because I didn’t want her to think I thought less of her.  When she was seven I actually thought to ask her, Do you want me to introduce you as my daughter or step-daughter?  I was shocked when she answered, Step-daughter!  I was a little hurt but I asked her why.  And she said this, Because being a step-kid is really cool!  Well, there you go.  If your stepchild acknowledges the day – go with it.  But if they don’t, don’t assume it is because they have something against you.  They’re kids. It might not have dawned on them to include you.  After all, they still haven’t figured out where the laundry basket is.

Be grateful.
Look at how much you’ve grown since this kid came into your life.  Yes, I know it is hard sometimes and yes I know you get taken for granted and yes, it WOULD be nice if someone would notice but really, you don’t have it so bad.  And if it weren’t for that kid (or kids) you’d still be the same flakey 30-something you were all those years ago. 

Don’t expect your husband to buy you a gift, a card or even acknowledge the day for you. 
He might.  And if he does – good for him, I’m really proud of him.  But he might not.  And that’s nothing against you.  And it doesn't mean he doesn't appreciate you.  It’s just that he’s not used to thinking of you this way and really, come to think of it, you aren’t his mother … right?  You are his wife.  So give him a break.  After all, he still hasn’t figured out where the laundry basket is.

And finally, if you do go to church and they do ask mothers to stand, go ahead and stand proudly.  You deserve to.  You wipe the snotty noses and drive the minivans and stock the fridge full of chocolate milk and do every other thing a mother does.  And being a mother is so much more than pushing a baby out your hoo-ha … it’s the everything that comes after.  And you do that.  You do it so well.

Happy Mother’s Day – to you.

CHILDLESS STEPMOMS

I'm bugged.

I told you recently I sometimes check to see what keywords bring people to my blog.  Always interesting, but recently a certain set of search words really set me off

Childless Stepmom

At first I didn’t understand – it read like an oxymoron to me.  How can you be childless AND be a stepmom?  And then it hit me … Ohhh.  Childless as in “I don’t have my OWN kid”.  It hit like a locomotive – a locomotive full of poop.

So then I did my own search.  I keyed in childless stepmom and childless stepmother into my google and what do you know?   It’s pretty common.  There are chat rooms and books and message boards and blogs and articles and entire websites dedicated to this topic.  Some of them were using the label simply as a designation – a way to identify a circumstance or choice.  Others – most in fact – used it as a lament.  And man oh man did that stick in my craw.

Now I know I’m dangerously close to sounding un-empathetic here … not to mention dangerously close to being named the A-numero-uno hypocrite since I’ve posted my own struggles with being a stepmom here and here.  But honestly, the whole thing just frosted me. 

I just think it is such a perfect example of how your perspective can have a major impact on your attitude.

Poor me
I have no child of my own
And I have to parent this child that isn’t mine
See how terrible my life is?

Vs.

If it weren’t for this man
And the child he brought into this world
I wouldn’t have the joy of parenting at all

And maybe because I technically fall into this category I feel okay being somewhat bitchy.  So here are a few things I would like to say to childless stepmoms.

• In most cases you knew what we were getting into – most men don’t lean over on the wedding day and say, oh hey, by the way, I have a kid – or three. 
• While being a stepmom presents unique challenges, you do have the opportunity to share in the crazy wonders of raising a kid – there are oceans of women who never will get to do this in any capacity – ever.
• I understand you are hoping that the “childless” part of your label changes, but maybe you really should consider not ever having children with your husband.  It could be that’s the best thing for his current child(ren). 
• To follow that up – when you get into a marriage with a man who has children you no longer get to be your number one concern.  There is a whole human being that needs you to be the bigger person and think about what’s best for them, not what you want.
• You aren't childless.  So knock it off.

I just can’t ever imagine labeling myself as a childless anything.  Especially since I cannot imagine ever looking into that Kid’s eyes and saying, You’re my step-daughter, but you don’t count. I am childless. 

You couldn’t pay me enough to do such a thing.

Rant over.

THE LITTLE THINGS MEAN THE MOST

There isn't much I remember about the few days and weeks immediately after my cancer diagnosis.  Maybe that's shock, maybe it's mercy, I don't know but those days and weeks are pretty foggy.  I do remember focusing on the tiniest things - I remember things that were previously low on my priority list became burning-hot important to me.  And not the typical stuff that you'd think would become important - like contacting people you haven't talked to in a while or pre-planning the funeral menu, but odd things.  Things like washing the baseboards and organizing my middle desk drawer and using fresh spices instead of dried

and planting a tree in the back yard.   

I sort of obsessed over the tree.  I got the idea that we needed a tree back there and once it was in my head, it was like trying to get The Kid away from a bowl of sherbet.  Impossible.  I took a couple of trips out to the tree farm and looked up trees online and basically went tree-crazy for a few days. There were plenty of other things to do.  Plenty of things we could have been (and probably should have been) spending money on but I really wanted to plant a tree, a big, beautiful leafy tree in my backyard.

And who is going to tell a cancer patient no?

So we bought a honker at the local Surburban.  Honker meaning it was large - that's not the type of tree.  It was a huge catalpa.  I changed my mind at least twice on what side of the yard to plant it on.  Which positively thrilled The Hub.  We had to eventually call a friend to come help us roll that sucker across the yard.  I sat on the deck and evaluated.  Here?  No. Here?   Um.  No.   Here?     No.  Well where?  I think over there.  Where we had it at first?  Uh. Yeah.   

That husband, he's a saint. 

Finally the tree was planted.  And it was beautiful - my Cancer Tree.  I loved it.  I watered it twice a day.  I talked to it.  I visited it out in the yard everyday for a week.  And then it got hot. And then chemo started. 

I know how important it is to tend to a tree when you put it in the ground. I know those first few weeks will determine if it will make it.  I know of everything a tree needs, it most needs water.  Especially if you plant a tree in July in Kansas City or in Hell …same weather patterns.  But looking back, I don't know if I did everything I should have.  I can remember being happy it was planted.  I can remember watering it for a day or two.  I can remember walking out there and talking to it but then, after chemo started - well, all memories fade. 

I can't see much out my bedroom window but I can see Cancer Tree.  This past winter, during all the treatment and crap I would look out and see bare branches.  It looked sad, dejected, dead.  But I knew it wasn't.  I knew under that snow and ice, it was okay.  It would grow again.  It would bloom.  And that helped.  It helped a lot.  Me and the tree.  In this together.  Don't count us out.  We may look dead.  We're not.  Just you wait.  Wait till spring.

Just you wait.   

And then the snow melted.  And treatment ended.  And spring came.

My tree, however, did not bloom.

When I was in fourth grade I was in love with Jamison Egler.  He rode my bus. He was blonde.  He had blue eyes and a Trapper Keeper.  His twin sister was in my class.  One day I dropped my pencil during map class and Old Ms Fry picked it up when she walked by.  Immediately after putting it on my desk, she said something to Jamison's sister.  Coincidence?  Maybe to you. To me, it was a sign.  I was connected to Jamison.  We were destined to be together forever.   

In high school I played basketball.  On game days, I would wear my underwear inside out.  It was an accident the first time and was pointed out after the game in the locker room.  We won that game.  Nobody do anything differently next game!  The coach said.  So I wore my cotton unders inside out again and again we won.  The next game after that I didn't wear them inside out.  We were playing Westfield.  We ALWAYS beat Westfield.  At halftime we were losing. I stayed behind in the locker room after the rest of the team went out.  I rectified the underpants situation.  We won that game.   

One day in college my roommate mentioned she never put any of the guys she was dating on speed dial.  I did that once in high school, she said, And the next day my boyfriend broke up with me.  I laughed and to prove to her how ridiculous it was, I put MY solid-as-a-rock boyfriend's number on speed dial.  He broke up with me the next week.  I've never put a number on speed dial since.

Jamison and I aren't married.  My college boyfriend was a flake.  And I seriously doubt anything I did affected any of my basketball games seeing as though I rode the bench.  Still, because of all those examples and more, I have this tendency to assign meaning to meaningless things.  Call it superstition.  Call it crazy.  Whatever.   It’s what I do.   

I'm telling you that because clearly somewhere along the way I assigned some deeper meaning to my Cancer Tree. Somewhere along the way I began to think that if Cancer Tree was okay, if Cancer Tree was alive, was more than bare branches, then it was a good sign that I was okay too.  And, of course, if Cancer Tree is nothing more than vertical kindling, then I was sunk.

So needless to say, for the past month, I've been watching my tree very closely.  Waiting for the blooms, for the buds, for great green leaves.  And, well, I've been quite worried.  Every other tree in the neighborhood bloomed and budded and started to leaf before Easter.  Cancer Tree did nothing.  By a week past Easter - every tree had at least some green wisps of leaves.  Not Cancer Tree.  Cancer Tree remained bare.  Then we had a cold snap and all the trees shriveled and I could no longer tell what other trees were doing.  But I knew was Cancer Tree was doing.  Goose egg.  Just a tall stick in the ground.  Naked. 

I finally mentioned my anxiety - but not what it meant - to the Hub.  He shooed it off.  No worries, he said.  All the other trees haven't leaved either.  But that was ridiculous because all the other trees HAD leaves on them.  One or two had small leaves but they all had leaves.  All except you know who.

The trees at Surburban come with a warranty. The Hub reminded me of this. If they die within one year of purchase, they will replace it.  Won't they replace it?  He asked.  I nodded.  Cold comfort.  I said nothing.  How could I explain?  I didn't want a replacement.  I wanted my tree.  I didn't think I could handle watching Cancer Tree get dug up and chopped to bits only to put another tree in its place.  If I lived that long. Which, clearly, I wouldn’t.  Not if my tree wasn’t alive.  It was a bad sign – clean scan or no, Cancer Tree not blooming was a bad, bad sign.

Last week I finally resigned myself to that fact that the tree was dead.  It couldn't be ignored anymore.  I had two choices - keep trying to fool myself or accept reality and deal with the fact that I just might want to save the wood to make myself a coffin. 

And then today I stepped outside.
And saw this.

Sigh.

Me and Cancer Tree.
Re-leaved.