With Ava's bat mitzvah over and the blurr of planning and preparing is resting, I can sum up the entire day in a word...juxtapositioning. An interesting way to remember it but it's true. Ava was amazing...well, Ava IS amazing but on this particular day she truly was. She was poised, graceful and chanted Torah like a rabbi but in very typical Ava fashion, she beamed like a beacon and in that light sat me, her mother, like a puffer fish. Pride doesn't even cut it. But with all the hoopla and craziness that goes into the party AFTER the light, I noticed some interesting things - sort of a memo from the Reality Express. As we were walking into the sanctuary after all had been seated and Ava was positioned beautifully on the bimah, my friend Susanne shared with me some tragic news that she knew would be mentioned in the rabbi's sermon and wanted me to be prepared...a soldier friend of ours was killed in Afghanistan. I felt as if I was kicked in the stomach...yeah can I make his death about me for five more seconds? It was a combination of great sadness, great pain and great irony. Here we were celebrating the culmination of study and life in our daughter and one of our own was taken on the lines. I cried, I felt torn in this celebration and it was overwhelming...preparing to walk into the sanctuary smiling when in my heart I knew that not far from me, two children were greiving the loss of their dad and one woman is without the love of her life. It wasn't long ago that I stayed up late at night watching CNN hoping to Gd the Khost province of Afghanistan remained calm. I remember hearing my brother and my husband missed each other by hours at the same base in Kabul...my husband and my brother. Long days indeed. Susanne reminds me of the circle...within the cirle are layers - layers that matter. The immediate circle now was Ava. I had to keep her in that circle and protect it from anything else - for this moment. So I composed myself and with Joseph - grieving as well, walked in together to join Ava in the light. We celebrated, cried, laughed and shared with Ava and at the closing, honored Paul who was taken far too soon. The party was exciting and fun...a very appropriate beach themed night with slushies, games, dancing and Ava's favorite...a build your own nacho bar (thank you Amy Gold - best. idea. ever.) Without my sister wives, it could not be done. Pam and Susan swooped in to take over - set up, decorations, organization...an army formed on Ava's behalf and even Joseph said when in Pam's presence he felt scared to be standing around taking a break. Catering arrived, DJ set up, balloon lady arrived (who can remember her name? Balloon lady works, cake, slushie truck...yeah it was a party alright) - all in Ava's honor and I could not have been more thrilled. As the night moved (and so did we), it was wonderful to watch Ava so happy and dancing with her friends. Adriana and Elana wrote a poem for her, Adriana sang a song, we made a video, toasts and dancing and of course, the Hora...the Jewish hustle, all in celebration. Paul wasn't far away in our minds but we did what we came to do - celebrate Ava. As the night ended and clean up began, I found myself overwhelmed with what to do with all the food. Much was left over, it's now about midnight and I knew there was no room in my fridge to store or even use it all. I was mulling over what to keep and what to throw away when one of the helpers approached me saying she had no food at home and could she please take the left over beans..."so good to keep the kids going during the day"...words I can't imagine saying when referring to how to make a meal last for several hours for children I can't always feed. For the second time in one night, juxtapostioning. Suddenly the overwhelming task of how to clean this all up became a mission of rightousness. Susan and I boxed up every single crumb of food and drink and gave it to her. Gluttony meet mercy. I can still see her waiting for the car to be pulled up because she had five boxes of food that needed to be loaded in her car - I wondered if the kids would be excited, I wondered how much peace this might give her, I wondered what not knowing how to feed your kids must be really like...and I knew it didn't fix the problem. I knew those kids would be hungry again in a few days, but for now... As we drove home - exhausted and elated I saw the coorelations unfold. As we celebrated Ava's life, Pauls' was taken. A combination of great pain and great pride -crashing into each other at the same time. And then...60 kids left a party without ever knowing some of their own will eat tonight because of what they left behind. No music, no fanfare - leftovers on a party platter. But y'know what? I don't feel guilty for what we have and I don't teach my children to either. I have been without enough times to still feel it and even though our kids' can't relate to poverty, they get it and by sharing with Ava what we did do for those kids, it brought us back to what a bat mitzvah really is...responsibility and awareness of what your role is in life. When we shared with Ava what her party brought to those kids she smiled and said, "can we invite them to dinner?" - sure Ava...bringing anyone struggling into the fold is how Ava rolls...and the focus moves back to her and how she wants to help. And the puffer fish is back.

Felt up

So today involved the grocery store, laundry and then I got felt up by a middle aged woman with a soft voice...how many of you can say that? Today was the day I was putting off for a while. I generally loathe all things breast cancer. I hate my treatment, I hate my appts, I hate the pink ribbon - I really do. But...I needed a new "mastectomy prosthesis" or for common folk, a new boob and a few bras with pockets forever ending Jack's job of scooping up the flying tits at the grocery store when I bend over to grab something. I really do hate this. The pomp and circumstance of it all. The store is out in Waldorf, about an hour away and it's run by a woman named Fran - store is aptly named, "Fran's Nu You"...really? Nu? ME??? Same me, minus a boob - let's just call it like it is, shall we? She speaks in hushed tones, the walls are pink and the door sign reads "Mastectomy Salon"...as if calling it a salon will somehow soften the blow that I am there to buy a boob so people don't stare. Fran begins asking me about my family, how old are my children (my...four kids...you must be busy). Get on with it is all I am thinking. Maybe she thinks familiarizing herself with me and my family will make it more acceptable when she gropes me to determine size. And I mean GROPED. No warning, no wine - just straight in. She even has a framed certification on the wall..."Certified Mastectomy Fitter"...really? REALLY? As she leaves to select a few bras and boobs, I find myself in the company of mannequin heads wearing wigs...lots of wigs. I never did wigs. Not my style. I went for the biker chic look of a bandanna or head covering - I considered it my own personal bad ass facade...I could be anyone I wanted and for those who weren't sure what they thought, screw them, I had cancer. Who cares. She returns smiling with these bras that look like they could fit the front end of a trans am. Straps and pockets - a virtual elastic and polyester contraption that can double as birth control because I am NOT getting laid in this thing. I try it on, wiggle it around, pretend I am looking at myself in the mirror when really I am wondering how I will EVER feel comfortable again. Fran does a few more gropes...checking symmetry, lining up the rack, telling me how great the prosthesis looks (Day one of Certified Mastectomy Fitter class - make the patient feel beautiful) and offering me a plethora of options: fake lace, semi silk, black... essentially nothing is making the cover of the Victoria Secret catalog and yet I resign myself to the contraption, smile and thank her. Fran makes a few more trips to the "back" and I am staring down the nipple shelf, more wigs, the pink ribbons, the empowerment posters and the pepto walls and realize I don't have to be a cheer leader for this. I don't have to be pink and proud because I'm not. You won't see me walking up to survivors to hug them and you won't see me embracing my "nu" image. I cut cancer out and have the scars to prove it but proud? Are you serious? Proud of what exactly? That I survived? Well grateful yes, but proud? No. Not by a long shot. I did what I had to do to survive, to keep my kids' mother in tact and to keep Joseph from dating again - so basically, I did it for selfish reasons. See - it's totally about me. :-)

Am I WHAT enough?

Every time I am at the grocery store I find myself face to face with Time Magazine asking me if I am "mom enough". I am chasing Jack and Olivia through the candy check out, praying for a non trainee with a master register technique and yet I am confronted with the thought - well am I? Why because I don't sleep with them? Well I do but that's because they crawl into my bed like ninjas and I can't always feel them until I am riding the edge of the mattress with no blankets. Because I don't nurse them until their braces interfere with the latch on? Because I don't wear them until they start 3rd grade? Are you serious? THAT'S what makes me mom enough? Do I need this? Do my sister moms need the stress of being asked if we are mom enough? The ones juggling to put food on the table and still have the energy to read If You Give a Pig a Pancake for the 10th time? The ones who power through a Gymboree class and smile a lot because wine night is coming? Swim lessons? Pediatricians? Wegmans on a SUNDAY? Do I need another reason to feel insecure about my mothering? No, I don't. And especially from some 20 something in skinny jeans exploiting the very child she claims to pioneer the parenting trails for. After nearly 17 years at this I refuse to allow myself to be manipulated into thinking if I chew their food and wear them, they will feel more embraced. Embraced by what? What about confidence? What about personal development? What about a sense of appropriate DEtachment? What about me getting a fucking break in my bed? I have never missed a swim meet, a game, a choral concert or a flu; never a moment I didn't pride myself on being there for me and for them. I stay at home by choice and yeah, it kicks my ass at times - I trade in brain cells for chuck e cheese tokens but I remain without regret until now...Time Magazine begs the question - am I mom enough because my children are not (still) dangling from my breast. Well y'know what? I am BUSY. I am busy raising adults. I am being training and negotiating, rewarding and molding, yelling (okay well yeah there's that) and planning and what I don't need is another reason to feel like a failure. What I LOVE about the women I have in my life is that they are ALL busting their ass, loving their kids and supporting each other and none of us ask each other if we are mom enough because we are. So to the Time Cover Girl. Shut up and pray Google takes a dump before your kid enters middle school and those images are there to "embrace" him. That is all.

Mothers...

It's not a secret to anyone who knows me well that I was raised by a woman who probably shouldn't have been a mother. I was more or less raised by my best friends' mother who I still remember causing me to tremble when I disappointed her but always, always hugging me. I can still smell her sometimes. This Sunday will be my 17th Mothers' Day and if I can offer anything to myself or to my friends, it's hold on...that's it, just hold on. Hold onto the first moments, the belly laughs, the sand castles, the soccer games, the cupcakes, the exploration, the playground...Having children ranging from 16 to 4 offers me a chance to parent two childhoods...my starter children and my raised by a less neurotic ones. The older girls had organic foods, early bedtimes, a hundred books a day, prayers, museums, poetry, long carefully worded discussions and home grown vegetables, no sugar, no pesticides, no red dye 341. The second two - Mc Donalds drive thru, video in the car, noise, fish, late to Hebrew school because I'm tired, a few "because I said so's" and salt water taffy before dinner because who cares...and y'know, both will be just fine. I am holding on. Holding on sometimes with my teeth because when it really matters, I am holding on even tighter - to them, from crisis to unsavory boyfriends to bad grades, to rained out beach vacations to slamming doors. It's almost unbearable at times to watch them tap dance on a minefield and yet, I do...okay sometimes I fire a "you really should..." but then I know, they will do what they will do and it's part of the process. I think if they aren't trying to push boundaries, I haven't done it right and yet in the darkness of the night, I know they will be okay. I know because the value system we set up, that they take down brick by brick will be reconstructed in their honor, by them and truth be told, it will appear shockingly like ours. I feel sometimes like I am pulling them out of quick sand but I will never stop...I will never give up, I will never back off because being a mother, to me, is my greatest life work and since the second I laid eyes on Maddie, it became so. I make a hell of a lot of mistakes, I place judgement, I second guess myself and I talk too much but when each one goes to bed, they know I would get up early to let the sun out for them and perhaps my mother's greatest gift to me was to give me the need to parent with wild abandon, passion and commitment. I hold their memories, their hands and their hearts and I will never stop...holding. So to my 19 year old mother who held herself hostage with a newborn, you are free to go and to my four children, forgive me for meddling, prying and helicopter parenting but know how deeply you are loved. Being loved and desired is the greatest of all gifts we can give our children...I love how they roll their eyes when I joke about never letting them leave home...but I know they do it because they don't know another feeling so for that, I have done my job. Happy Mothers' Day to me...

My own exodus

The similarities are interesting; the Jews of ancient Egypt and me. We both got knocked down by a primary evil, we both endured illness, fatigue, torture, faith testing, plagues (with boils making a cameo in both stories) but in the end, we stood up to the evil and we walked out. Moses took 40 years to get it together, I took 40 treatments but both of us crossed over beaten down, a bit more wounded, slightly less idealistic but triumphant and victorious...and after the exodus across the sea and mine, across the hospital, neither of us could eat bread. :)

It was a 19 month war. I don't have the prolific words that so many of my surviving sisters have. I am not grateful. I don't pray and I don't give thanks to Gd for recovery because then I would have to blame him for cancer...and I don't. I got cancer because I got cancer. To over think it means to give it more energy than it deserves. I remember the day I learned I had it. Susan came over with a pad while I sat stunned over a laptop trying to figure out the best way to get my husband, then fighting his own war in Afghanistan home safely. She and I tried our best to map out a solution but we had none. She sat with me and I sat in a numbed state. Lynn came over that night...I can still see her sweeping my living room in her business suit at 9pm while I remained on the couch rehearsing my speech to the kids. She could only clean, it's how she coped. I could only see their eyes. I knew she was suffering. I wasn't there yet. I was uncomfortably numb. I went to bed alone. Faked a flu to the kids until I had the right words...the ones that said "Mommy has cancer" and prepared answers for when they ask if I am going to die. For Maddie, she suffers quietly, I had to make sure I could reach her even in her silence. Ava deflects. I had to give her just enough information but not a drop more than she can take. Olivia will want to hug me. She won't know. Jack will just want his dad home. I can do this.

I get the call into Afghanistan - to the colonel who is getting Joseph. I have the Red Cross on the other line. I am planning. It's what I do best. Joseph knows it's bad but he also knows I rely heavily on his tone. We are going to do this, he says. We. He's never said anything but since. It's always been We. I head to preschool to pick up Jack and Olivia. I see Robyn and Susanne in the parking lot. I tell them stoically. I don't want questions, I don't want anything...they just know. Robyn hugs me. Susanne tells me she's sorry. So am I. I start to cry. It's as though I give them permission to feel something or maybe I just felt safe...they begin to cry too and the three of us, knowing what I am facing realize, maybe for the first time, I may actually die. As my knees buckle out from under me, I pick up my children and head to the car. I arrive home as Maddie is sitting with Patrick, her best friend. I pull them all outside...good news/bad news. Ava wants the good news first. Daddy is coming home. Joy, hugs...oh my gd why did I do good news first. With a hint of knowing Maddie wants to know why. I take a deep breath, pluck some grass, bite down on my lip and I tell them, in small, edible portions...I have cancer. But we have a plan, I am going to cut it out and the doctor believes I will be fine. It will be a long, tough road but we will win. Maddie folds in Patrick's arms as he holds her, Ava cries into my lap. They all sleep with me that night. I don't sleep at all. I text Ronni all evening...she knows. She's been there. She relives her own battle through me. Cancer has its way with her and shes now back in the trenches with me.

Red Cross calls - Joseph is airborne...five flights, 47 hours...he will be in my arms in less than two days.

And it begins...Susanne, Robyn, Anna and Amy coordinate meals, child care plan, Gail and Beth offer extra days at the preschool so I can rest, doctors visits, phone calls, surgery scheduled, getting Joseph home...the floodgates opened and there we were, on the edge, overlooking a canyon with only a broken down mule. When my chemo began I told Joseph I wanted us to decide when I would lose my hair. Cancer has done enough controlling. My turn. Joseph shaves his head and my son wants in - matching buzz cuts. Then me. He lovingly cuts my hair and then begins the razor as I cry and catch my fallen locks. Collateral damage I suppose. As my scalp is exposed I can't look in the mirror just yet. Joseph's tears are evident...he says I'm beautiful...that I look like a warrior. As Olivia enters the room she sees me and then sees all our hair piled up on the floor together. Look Mommy, she said, it's in the shape of a heart. I look down and there it was...a perfect heart of brown, blonde and red hair. Crestfallen but empowered I begin...

And here I am, victory is mine. But I was never alone...not once except in my mind, when I struggled the deepest with cancer. My worst battles are at night when I am tormented about my children losing a mother. My hideous showdowns are waged in my weakest state...sick, tired, strapped to a radiation table, handing over my hair and my breast. I read the Vikings used to cut off their breast to align themselves with the bow and arrow they used in protection...maybe that was my sacrifice as well.

I am tired, aged, burned, battle fatigued and perhaps a lot more cynical but my children saw the warrior - my gift to them. That deep within me, in the darkest of winter, they saw and experienced and invincible summer.

That will be my legacy...well that an my penchant for the f-bomb.

Burn and blow...

So my fourth week of radiation has gotten very interesting. Bright red burns and sores now cover the area that used to be just my scar, that used to be just my breast and it has made me a fairly miserable bitch all the time. I have all kinds of tricks...aloe, refrigerated aloe, prescription creams, Vitamin E, oatmeal baths, blah, blah blah. The only mild relief I can get really is pulling my shirt and prosthetic boob off and lay slathered in aloe under a ceiling fan. Like very, very, very low rent porn. But with four kids and a busy life, that's not feasible so I move to Phase B. Very unconscious pulling and tugging at my boob when the burn becomes fierce to relieve the pressure on the sores. The problem is, I am doing it so unconsciously, I am unaware of my surroundings when I do it. Exhibit A - I am at the grocery store talking to the check out person about stamps, I am writing my check, she is telling me how she wishes stores would leave that to the postal folks and without thinking, I reach in, pull forward my boob and blow on my chest. Recognizing the awkward moment between us I can go two ways...I can use the shocked look in her eyes as a way of permanently forcing my oblivious self into reality and pretend it was a rubber band snapping at my neck or I can just laugh it off. So I ignore it and hope she thinks...well I don't know what she thinks but I just keep writing. Jack begging for candy helped - a very fine distraction indeed. So I bend over to immerse myself in whatever M&M bag he is vying for when my dislodged boob drops to the floor. I am halfway back up when it makes its launch but I am faster and all would not have been lost had it not been for my sweet son proudly holding the gel blob and yelling "MOOOOOOOOOOOOOM! Here's your boobie!!!!!!!!!"

Aww Hello Humiliation, my old friend...just when I thought I had seen the last of you at Hot Yoga. So now I realize, burn and leave it, burn and leave it...do not pull boob and blow. I can assure you these are things I have never had to train myself to do so you can forgive me for the new world order of things.

And my valiant son who probably thinks all moms prop their boobs on the nightstand before going to bed got his M&Ms which to tell you truth, I could have really used.

Warning - High Radiation, enter with caution...

reads the sign on the door as I enter...no kidding. Enter with caution. Enter with fear. Enter with awareness. Enter with strength. And despite the overwhelming urge, do not run...especially in that gd awful gown.

It's what I battle every single day. For some radiation is completely tolerable. For me, it's a torture chamber full of exposure, humiliation and anguish. It's an active battle between me and cancer - it's loud, it's bright, it's destabilizing.

After I settle on the table, I begin to count. I know now it takes 150 seconds to get in position. 81 seconds for the first machine to begin. 24 seconds until the alarm sounds...and this is where it begins. Radiation techs scrambling to get the hell out of a room that will soon shoot radioactive poison into the air and there I am. The only thing in between the radiation and the cancer is me and I am defenseless on the table. 22, 23, 24, 25...it's almost there. There are three shots in every session and one is nearly over. Pause. I am deep breathing, I am willing the fear away, I am on the beach with my kids. Alarm. Machines move into place again. Laser beams light up...again...1, 2, 3...I am with Joseph at our favorite restaurant, I am wondering if I have paid my mortgage, 9, 10, 11, 12, I am planning Ava's bat mitzvah, I am losing 10lbs, 22, 23, 24. Done. Last one. Machines shift, alarm sounds, I remain still...again, I am mixing margaritas in my head, I am playing frisbee with my son...14, 15, 16, I am thinking about my day, wondering if I can get everything done, Ava needs a lacrosse stick, 21, 22, 23...almost there. I am counting the seconds until I can be done with this and hoping the weekend is kind. 25, 26, 27...running over a few. I am aware. Alarm sounds. Done. I want to ask why it ran over three seconds but maybe I missed counted, maybe I got three for the road. I don't care - don't talk...slows down the exodus I plan every day out of there.

I am up, off the table and fully dressed in less than 5 minutes. I am out of the clinic and nearly in the parking lot in 3. I am in the car, radio on and heading to the grocery store...trying to be normal. Trying not to feel like a victim. Trying to feel powerful. Trying to ignore that cancer has me yet again exposed, on my back, after taking my breast and 14 months of my life, it takes my peace, my sense of normalcy, my fight. I will keep going...this is never in question but there are days when I am tired of fighting. I am tired of going toe to toe with a disease that taunts me with my future, my children and my peace of mind.

I curl up with Joseph at night and pretend I am not scared to death he will brave this family and world without me and yet I also fear I will win but be so scarred and battle fatigued, I am permanently changed. Damaged somehow. Like an athlete who has lost her legs.

But I do know the longer I stay aware of this and of my battle fatigue, the faster I gain footing back into the ring. You see what cancer can't take from me is really...well me. I get it...I know what I am about and I am strong enough to admit when I am beat down. Radiation will fuck with my head everyday for the next five weeks and I hate every second of it. But y'know what? My children will see my legacy. That in the face of total adversity, I fought and scrapped and made cancer my bitch even when I couldn't look it in the eye.

Joseph and my children are who I see in all my moments of fight, of weakness, of victory...they aren't just my reasons for living, they are all my reasons. Joseph has always said "we"...I love the "we"...it means are in this together but late at night, I know it's me. It's me who lives and it's me who dies but the we keeps me going...especially when the me is just too tired.