My Mom

My mom passed away on October 20th, 2012, after fighting a vicious 11 month battle with Merkel Cell Carcinoma.  Here is the tribute I wrote for her memorial service...

It is possible that many of you have heard this poem, but I want to share it with you anyway. I know my mom read it and believed it...

What Cancer Cannot Do

Cancer is so limited...

It cannot cripple love.

It cannot shatter hope.

It cannot corrode faith.

It cannot eat away peace.

It cannot destroy confidence.

It cannot kill friendship.

It cannot shut out memories.

It cannot silence courage.

It cannot reduce eternal life.

It cannot quench the spirit.

You see, my mom fought cancer for 11 months. She fought it with grace and with courage and hope and faith. And, though we sit here today, I still think she won. Cancer did not take her love for us or our love for her. It did not take our memories or her friendships or courage or spirit. In fact, it did not even take her peace. In the end, my mom knew where she was going, and she wasn't worried about it. After all, cancer cannot reduce eternal life, either. Because it's eternal. This life here is a little drop in the bucket of Eternal. But what she taught me here matters a whole lot to eternity. This little drop in the bucket has changed many people for all eternity.

My mom taught me what it is to love because she loved me. How can I even begin to describe her? She is the one I still want when I'm sick. She's the one I want to call with all my news. She is the one, who, despite her smallness, was always ready to protect me. When she knew she was passing from this world she wasn't worried about herself, she was worried about me and my dad and her grandchildren...and the many others who have come to rely on her...for support, for encouragement, for a listening ear, for friendship, and for practical help. My mom knew how to get things done - to make lists, plan, and organize. She didn't spend a lot of time talking about how to do something. She just made it happen. My mom also knew how to make peace with people without being a pushover. She had a strength and confidence that was all her own, but she didn't use it to trample other people or even to outshine them. She used it to see past differences and make things happen.

My mom taught me courage, as I saw her suffer losses and tackle tough challenges (like caring for foster children and moving across the continent and learning Spanish). I am so proud of her for doing the hard things. Because I know they were hard for her, and she did them anyway.

My mom also taught me to value people and relationships over material things. A person doesn't need a big house or a lot of stuff to be happy and content. If you ever visited any of the small houses my parents lived in over the last 15 years or so - from the trailer in Mexicali to their little cottage in Isanti - you know what I mean. My mom knew that wherever the people you love are, that is where home is. My parents made a great team, making a home beautiful and functional, without being big or cluttered. Their little home in Isanti is full of creative small-house solutions. (Did you know that you can store coffee cups in a cake pan in the oven, making use of all that empty space in the oven AND keeping the cups warm?) In spite of the small space, my mom stashed away games and craft projects - things that connect people and build relationships. We have spent many Christmases, my family of 5 all piled into my parent's house, laughing, talking, and playing games. My mom and Aurora worked on notebooks full of magazine cut-out collages, and later she taught Aurora to make crafty clipboards. The time mattered more than the things. 

One day my mom sent Aurora home with her shoes because she was decluttering...and I thought of how she used to let me dig through her closet when I still lived at home and I couldn't figure out what to wear. How frustrating that must have been for her some Junior High mornings. :) And I used to wear her shoes, too. I finally grew out of her shoes...and then one day Aurora grew out of her shoes, too!

She always had such tiny feet.

She was my  little Mama.

My little Mama with a big, big smile and a spirit that could not be quenched.

Her love was not crippled.

Her hope was not shattered.

Her faith was not even a little bit corroded.

Her courage was not silenced...

even to the end of her days.  

Lenten Change

For those of you who have been following, I've been declared free of carcinoids. My lab results came in last week...after Ash Wednesday. I can't begin to tell you how my mind has reeled for the last few months, or even how I feel right at this moment. I felt light and relieved for a time. To tell you the truth, though, I feel like there's something new about my life that just won't change now that I've been to this place...now that I've rolled the word cancer off my tongue a few several dozen times. Lent is a good time for change. I'm glad I'm taking the space to breathe and focus this Lent, and really give the changes the time and space to settle. There are so many things that change us...we humans. We are changed by marriage and children, sickness, weather, food, caffeine, sleep, money, movies, the cars we drive and the clothes we wear. We change those things and they change us. They're part of identity, whether we choose them or not.

This Lent I'm making an effort to choose things that change me in a good way. You may be asking if I've had any luck choosing grace this Lent. The answer is both yes and no, and I suppose it's the struggle that changes me. I've had exactly 2 moments since Lent began when I began the spiral into self-deprecations and doubt. I said, "The Lord longs to be gracious to me. The Lord longs to be gracious to me. The Lord longs to be gracious to me," and I thought, "I still feel like a miserable person, and I wish I could go hide." I realized that it's more difficult to step off that moving train than I had thought. But, you know, I didn't have to wait for the train wreck before I could get off this time. I stepped off before it crashed. Which, I'm sure, was nice for my husband, for a change.

I'm making some other changes...but I've run out of time to blog for now. So, stay tuned...

A Smooth Stone

It's been pretty quiet here at The Midnight Cafe. It's been a week of quiet contemplation. One year ago today Vespera & Mango walked into the U.S. Consulate together while I and my parents waited in the car in a dusty parking lot...the car that was just totaled a month ago, by the way. Some goodbyes are hard to say.

And yesterday I walked into an oncology clinic with Mango while Vespera and Niteo made food at home.

The colliding of last year's memories with this year's reality created some kind of emotional quietude for me...a pensive waiting...well, that and a really massive headache. Some things don't come easy.

Today I'm waiting for the results of a blood test. Last year we were waiting for a return appointment to the Consulate. Our capacity for waiting has been stretched.

Sometimes I'm resentful that there have been so many crisis, one crowding after another, with no room to really soak up the turns of events or even the answers to prayer. We just keep careening along. I want to stop. I want to really feel the relief of returning from Mexico, the joy of graduations, the steady rhythm of a new school year, and the sweet delight of a Christmas wedding. I feel as though I might forget these things entirely if I didn't write about them.

Writing here is where I stretch out the space and stop to soak things in for a minute.

My mind turns over this smooth stone of time...this year...last year...one side is the trip to Juarez...the other side is the trip to the oncology clinic. Both sides carry the marks of anxiety. And relief. For, at this point, my new doctor has declared me healthy. She is running tests for my peace of mind but is convinced that there are no current worries. And, friends, she is an expert. I have been blessed beyond belief with a doctor who is both caring and wise.

I roll the smooth stone in my hands and think of last year's expert...the Christian woman who conducted Vespera's interview at the Consulate, who prays over her job every morning, and who cried real tears with Mango while approving all of Vespera's paperwork.

...on one side a crisis...on the other side a miracle...rolling along the smooth stone of time...

I hold it warm in my hands, close my eyes, and breath space for myself to think.

Untitled

Not to be dramatic, but tonight is my last night before becoming an oncology patient. I have all the phone numbers ready, insurance plan figured out, and I'll be making an appointment in the morning.

As far as I know, I don't have cancer at this very moment. But I did 2 months ago...before I had my appendix removed. The doctor called last week with the pathology report. There was a carcinoid tumor in my appendix.

I haven't been able to write about it because I feel as though I should have a way to wrap my post up neatly somehow, like a little package with a bow on top. I can't wrap this one up. I can't even get my brain around it. I know who I am and who I have been called to be. And I'll just keep living those things.

I feel as though my world has tilted. I'm suddenly thinking a lot more about making the most of each moment, recognizing each day as the gift that it is...being grateful for love, for my family, for good food, soft clothes, the fireplace in my living room, and biodegradable soap. I don't know why those things in particular right now.

You see, we already had one near-miss last week. Mango was in a car accident that totaled our car. He kept apologizing, though it wasn't his fault, and I kept telling him that I'm just so grateful to have him here. I wouldn't care if it was his fault. I just want him here. I cannot get enough of him, being near him, hearing his voice, holding his hand, sleeping next to his warm self. Last night we made a fire and lay on a sleeping bag on the living room floor, just chatting and laughing and reading a little together. What I wouldn't give for the rest of my life to look like that.

The news about the tumor came the day after the car accident, the day we bought a new car (a minivan, by the way, but that's another story). We felt grateful for both of our near-misses. The tumor would have grown and it would have been too late if it hadn't been for the appendicitis. And maybe the appendicitis was God's way of telling us that it wasn't an ulcer. You see, the symptoms of a carcinoid tumor look an awful lot like an ulcer. If we'd kept treating it as an ulcer, we still wouldn't have found the tumor. The appendicitis saved me. Ironic, huh?

In any case, my dear, sweet Mango is here with me still. And I with him. And we are blessed to have Mane and Vespera and Niteo, our children, all three here with us in our snug house. We have been given much.

I'm still afraid. And I'm angry and frustrated and tired. But I'm hopeful, too. And not despairing. This is what life on the edge is always about...living with ambiguity, never getting too comfortable. It keeps me grateful, keeps me in the moment. Uncomfortable. Exhausted.

That's it. No neat wrapping paper or pretty bows.