Wake me up when September ends

Dear Mama,

When I was a kid and I had a nightmare, I'd crawl in on your side of the bed. 

I'd wake you up and whisper, "I had a bad dream."

You would always pull back the covers, and I'd snuggle under, safely tucked in against you, shielded by your arm. (The same arm you'd fling in front of me when you braked the car suddenly. Vestigial behavior from pre-seatbelt days.)

That particular feeling of safety, of being ensconced in protective maternal love, love that requests nothing in return, is one I crave so badly right now.

Today is your birthday, and ordinarily, your birthday post would be about you.

This date has loomed large since you left us. Birthdays hurt.

And it's not that I don't miss you, because my gosh, I do. I occasionally smell you as I pass through a room. I cry. 

It's not that I don't think about you and all the things I love about you.

It's just that in the most brutal year of my life, a year I could not imagine getting worse, it somehow did.

I've been diagnosed with breast cancer. 

Because I needed one more club to be in: dead dads, suicide loss survivors, dead moms...

I fully intend to be in the breast cancer survivors club down the road. Right now I'm in the havers club.

The lucky/awful thing is, it's a very popular club. There are lots and lots of incredible women in it. Loving, fabulous women who are generous with time and information.

But still. It's scary. And devastating. 

I don't yet know all the details for necessarily treatment, but I know I'll be having surgery.

I just keep thinking, I need my mama. I really, really need my mama.

You'd hug me and kiss me. Make me food, bring me drinks and snacks, pick up my medication. You'd comfort and love on and distract the kids.

But more important than physical assistance--and I know at some point I will need a tremendous amount--you'd just be here. 

You'd worry about me and love me and wish you could make it all better.

You'd mother me.

Since reaching adulthood, I've not needed maternal comfort more.

I have Nick, of course, and he's going to take good care of me. I have the kids, who are loving and terrific.

You wouldn't believe how much they grew over the summer, both physically and emotionally. Jordan towers over me, and India is almost as tall as I am.

They've become so competent and, while not totally self-sufficient, really heading in that direction.

Who'd have thought we'd be able to make a grocery list and either one of them could run up to the store?

India was concerned about choosing radishes when I sent her yesterday, and I said just to make sure they didn't look like the poor unfortunate souls in The Little Mermaid.

And then she chose nice ones and I made salad.

I've told them both the news, and assured them that I'll be OK. Jordan asked, and I said yes. I will be find.

I'm trying to normalize conversation around it, because we're going to be living with me in treatment for some intense period of time.

Honestly, I don't know what's going to happen. I have consults with surgeons the week after this coming on. 

I'd decided in January that if that biopsy showed cancer, I'd go the most extreme and have a double mastectomy.

Eliminate the potential constant fear of it happening on the other side. Although now that I'm researching, I don't know if that's the approach that makes the most sense.

Obviously, I have to talk to the doctors about risk and benefits to that approach.

Maude told me that a friend of hers took this approach, and for some period of time after surgery, you're restricted from using your arm and chest muscles.

"So," she said, "you basically have arms like a T-Rex for a while."

Which sounds extremely inconvenient. T-Rexes couldn't do anything with those stupid little arms. 

And they didn't even have to wear pants. Or use their hands to eat.

I guess I could hold a sippy bottle in one arm. I have one that's tall enough to hold in my hand wtih my elbow tucked to my ribs, and I can still drink out of the straw.

I just tried.

It's helpful for me to focus on things like that. And I'd rather the kids focus on ridiculous image of me having T-Rex arms than focus on fear of losing me.

I'll feel better once I know what the deal is, and what I need to do.

I know too well that even in huge trauma, I put one foot in front of the other and plod forward. 

What else can I do?

It sucks, it super sucks. But I fortunately have such a loving, generous community. I have recommendations for great doctors.

And the week of my appointments, Maude will already be here. Thank god. And so many friends will be coming for your celebration of life.

It's going to be a party filled with people you love. I've encouraged people to dress joyfully and wear hats. We'll have beautiful music and gorgeous flowers.

I sure wish you could be there.

Happy birthday, mama.

Love,

Lisa