Generation gaps

Once again my weekend was full. Full of family. Full of friends.

Though Saturday night with friends – old and new – was a major highlight, a fun event for all involved, the greatest part of my weekend was spent with my family.

On Wednesday of last week a cousin e-mailed to say she’d be in town from out of town. For her kids’ hockey games.

I looked over the schedule of games included in the e-mail and checked it against my calendar.

And bright and early on Saturday morning, I was there. At a rink I know. Watching my little cousin (cousin’s kid, second cousins, my mom’s cousin – I refer to all of them as just “cousins”).

And we talked. About life. My cousin (and my parents who were also in attendance) sat and smiled at the young kids skating around the large sheet of ice, missing the puck and colliding into the boards to stop. We reminisced on past games. Games we watched together. Talked about “last times” and “at the State Tournament” like it was a hundred years ago.

Inevitably, the topic of cancer and chemo came up. And my mom shared her latest updates with her niece. Updates that are uplifting and good. She talked about her radiation treatments, sleeping patterns, and growing hair.

While discussing cancer may not be a normal sporting event conversation, for our family, it kind of is. Because twenty years ago when Grandpa was sick with cancer, I used to sit in rinks and watch my big cousins play their Pee Wee and Bantam games in an effort to maintain routine and get outside the world of cancer and chemo. And I know that there were questions in between whistles and periods, thoughtful friends who inquired on my grandpa’s condition.

And as I sat there, watching my little cousin, I thought about the generations. The fact that I once sat in that very arena, possibly the exact rink, and watched his uncle (Cousin B) play in his USHL games back in the day. Back when I was just a kid. Back when Cousin B was just a kid. Back when none of my cousin’s kids were even born.

What an honor. What a privilege. What a blessing.

To be there. To be part of this. Family. The generations.

After the game, we waited in the lobby. And though the youngins don’t shower, it still “took forever” according to my cousin’s oldest kid.

When the un-showered kid emerged from the dressing room, wheeling his Easton hockey bag, I couldn’t help but think about all those games – a hundred years ago – when I waited for my big cousins to come out of the locker room (after waiting a million hours) and say hi. To congratulate or console.

To be there. To be part of this. Family. The generations.

The gaps may be large. Years in between. But the generations represented in my family continually remind me that no gap is large enough to separate the love we hold for one another.

April. My month of a lifetime of memories

My little cousins crashed the neighbor’s Easter egg hunt. I tagged along. Played soccer with the neighbor kids and giggled at my little cousins. I smelled like Northern Minnesota. Obviously, I enjoyed it.

I spent the other parts of my Easter weekend with family. Sitting and talking. Laughing and remembering. Hearing stories I’ve never heard. Telling stories I love to tell. Watching and talking hockey. Shopping in a local shop I love.

I visited my Grandma in the care center on Friday. Just for a little bit while she ate her unappetizing carrots and meatballs with questionable colors and items stuffed into them. Unfortunately, a flu virus broke out in the care center and millions and billions of tiny germs kept us from visiting again – especially my mom who cannot subject her immune system to influenza since cancer and chemo completely wiped her cells cleaner than a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser.

My weekend was a bit of surprise to me. See, I’m not a big fan of the month of April. I see it as a month to endure. Yes, there is college hockey (ending) and NHL Playoff hockey (beginning), but that hardly helps in my case.

April 1992. That was a long time ago. 20 years to be exact. But I remember the month. I was in Kindergarten. And had spent most of my days out of school. Up North. Because of cancer and chemo. My Grandpa’s (maternal). He had battled it for a long time. Suffered through tough rounds of chemo. Lost lots of weight and hair. But never lost his smile. I remember seeing that smile many times. And for whatever reason, maybe because I needed those memories to carry with me for a lifetime, I remember. I remember a lot of things from my year as a Kindergartener. None of them related to school.

The day my grandpa died was a grey, cold April day. A day that has come and gone for 20 years. A day that is marked on my calendar. This week.

I remember being confused. Trying to figure out all the conversations buzzing around me. Watching the cues from my cousins. Seeing people crying. I stood by the front door and watched two of my cousins make their way into the house. I turned around to see relatives consoling one another. It had been a long haul. Those months of cancer and chemo. There had been time to plan for the inevitable. But the inevitable was still not easy to bear.

The days between my grandpa’s passing and his funeral don’t register in my memory. I’m not sure if I was whisked back to my Kindergarten classroom to try and catch up on my ABC’s and 123′s or if I stayed Up North with cousins and family. We were spread out at the time, but not nearly as scattered as we are today. So, in a way, that was a good thing. We were all there. Together.

During the funeral, I remember sitting next to my mom and Cousin S (Cousin B’s older sister). When the casket was taken out of the church, I remember watching everyone cry. And I wanted to cry. So, I faked it. Somewhere in my mind, I told myself that I needed to look sad and act the part. Everyone was sad. And I needed to be, too.

The thing is, in the 20 years since that day, I have cried real tears. For 20 years, I was grandfatherless on my mom’s side of the family. Too young to remember memories from before the years of cancer and chemo. I’m fairly certain I’ve experienced the green monster of jealousy over the fact that I don’t remember much prior to my Kindergarten days in the hospital with my grandpa.

But even though I can’t recall specific moments and events before 1991/1992, I do know that my grandpa loved me. And my grandma carried that love on for the next 15 years for him. For all of us.

When she passed away in August of 2007, I was much further along in life. About to enter my senior year of college. My days with grandma had been many. My memories of birthdays and Christmases were plentiful. Yet, that still did not prepare me for the void I’d feel when she was gone. Since that day, every time I think of Up North, I think of her. I can’t help it. For 15 years after my grandpa died, I knew that there was still someone in that house who loved me. Someone who was there waiting for me. And when she died and the house was sold to someone else who doesn’t love me, it was a loss I didn’t know I’d miss.

My grandma would be 88 years old today. We’d probably have celebrated her birthday this past weekend. Cards and candles. Gifts and gift cards. Phone calls and greetings. She’d have sat in her chair. I would have opened up her gifts; helping her arthritic fingers tear the paper open to unveil presents of soft pink pajamas and sweaters from Nordstrom. And I can hear her telling us, “How nice. Oh, that’s lovely. But this is too much.”

It always was too much for her. But for us, it was never enough. To convey our love and appreciation for her. The head of the family for 15 years.

And my maternal grandma wasn’t alone in the April celebrations. My remaining grandparent – my paternal grandmother – is celebrating her 94th birthday tomorrow. Sick with the flu. Stuck in a nursing home.

Back when my grandpa was around, 7 years ago, we would have celebrated Easter and birthday at their house. Baked her a cake. She would have opened her gifts in the living room. Family gathered around. My grandpa would have some gift for her – a card and something special. Again, it would have been “too much.” Gifts from out West and East and phone calls from Chicago and Boston would have rang throughout the house. I can hear her on the phone, telling my cousins what she was doing. Laughing her little laugh.

I saw glimpses of her smile in the care center. Listened for a sign of her laugh. Wanted so badly to hear her tell a story. Use a full sentence. She didn’t. But I know she would. If she could.

She’s still here. Head of the family for 7 years. Her time after my grandpa has been different than we expected or hoped. But it has been time.

7 years. 5 years. 20 years. And now.

Years and moments I will always remember. Especially this month. Always on these days.

Crashing Easter Egg hunts and playing soccer outside. Those are new April memories. There may not be birthdays and Grandparents, but we are still here. Still a family. Minus our grandparents.

And though they left us with April – a month of nostalgic memories and sad tears – they left us with each other so that when these Aprils roll around year after year, we’d have each other. To make new memories with. Not to replace the old April memories, but to make them less painful.

 

Cancer in the past tense.

Admittedly, I hesitated to share this news. Not because I’m a Debbie Downer or Negative Nellie. I’m just a Cautious Cathy. I need to be 100% sure before I celebrate (or eat a bag of chips on the couch).

My mom’s lumpectomy occurred two weeks ago. And it went well. Very, very well.

There was a long waiting period. In the waiting room – multiple waiting rooms. And sometimes the waiting got to me. Made me worry and wonder. Caused me to pause and pray.

So, when the surgeon entered the waiting room and approached our seats, her smile said it all. She was pleased with her handiwork. The tumor was tiny and removed with ease. The margins were clean. One sentinel node was removed. Everything was biopsied and tested. Initial pathology pointed to clean results.

Translated: cancer free

Thanking the surgeon, my dad asked husbandly questions about when the final results would be in, what if they come back and show that cancer is still there, and would radiation still be necessary?

Good, thoughtful questions. Not doubtful, but worthy of raising.

In the post-op recovery room, my mom cried tears of joy when we told her the good news. She hugged us all. Crunched on ice chips. Her pain level was minimum and she was in great spirits. Alert and active. Ready to “rock and roll” (she actually said that!).

Her nurse was pleased with her recovery. Readied the paperwork. And we signed out.

The weather outside was gorgeous – sunshine and summertime-y; almost like it was welcoming us to life after cancer.

And after a few days resting and relaxing, doing the dishes and going on a 2 mile walk, my mom was back to work! And that spirit – that “get up and go” mentality is the mindset of a survivor. She never let cancer get her down; didn’t allow it to be her cop-out or excuse. Sometimes we had to remind her that she was fighting a monster and needed to take a nap. Because she just kept on keeping on.

Friday of last week, my mom called me to tell me that the pathology report – final report – was clean. No cancer. And today, this morning, she met with her surgeon again. Once again, the news was positive. Pathology did not lie. Cancer has left the building.

Radiation is still necessary; protocol in this situation.

Just as fast as this whole cancer and chemo thing took over our lives, it is over. Just as fast as she was a woman with breast cancer, she is now a survivor.

Whirlwind hardly describes it. Emotions were up and down, left and right. There were days when it seemed it would never end. And now? It’s done. Just. Like. That.

Cancer. She had it. She fought it.

Cancer. Past tense.

That’s how it should be.

 

 

Ta-Ta’s are being saved today

Crude is not my style. So, I mean no disrespect when I use the popularized term, “Ta-Ta’s.” But I’ve learned lately not to dance around issues. To say things straight. And today, Ta-Ta’s are being saved.

Saved from the cancer that has taken up residence in their precious space.

Doctors, nurses, and other hospital personnel have paraded in and out of waiting rooms, rooms I have sat in since 9a, asking my mom various and sundry questions.

They’ve checked her wrist band, blood pressure, and breast.

Because she’s here today to go through a procedure that is a necessary evil in today’s world of cancer and chemo. And I’m here, too. Moving from waiting room to waiting room. Waiting. Waiting for the day when cancer and chemo won’t be part of my Urban Dictionary.

Ironically, a dear friend is waiting, too. Her mom’s cancer and chemo journey has been a bit different from my mom’s. Her procedures and treatments occurred in opposite order from my mom’s. Yet, she is here. Somewhere in this busy hospital. She is most-likely in post-op; my mom is preparing for pre-op. Their journey’s with breast cancer, like their time in the hospital today, is not the same charted course. No two courses are alike in this “Save the Ta-Ta’s” race we run.

This friend has been a source of comfort and encouragement. We’ve updated our mom’s (connected because of Cousin B’s mom) on the mile markers the other woman has reached. In the midst of hockey updates, we always remember our main fight is not over the Fighting Sioux and Gophers; rather, it is with cancer and chemo. Even on such a big week in the WCHA, we remove our rivalry masks and put on our cancer and chemo hats because this fight is much, much bigger than pairwise rankings and titles.

Whether my Sioux friend and I talk about it or not, we are part of a growing demographic of people – men, women, and children – who are working hard to save something most people are either uncomfortable or too comfortable discussing: Ta-Ta’s.

We’re saving Ta-Ta’s today. Will you join us in our save the Ta-Ta’s efforts?

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I ask. You answer.

1. Have you ever journeyed with a friend or foe on the cancer and chemo track?
   
2. What causes have you fought for that some may find to be uncomfortable topics or body parts?
3. What is the best way to get involved in saving the Ta-Ta’s?