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.

A Dear Friend Letter

A childhood friend is getting married. That’s nothing new or different. Pretty much all of my friends are married with children.

Why now? Why, after eight years of friends walking down the aisle, am I writing a letter to a soon-to-be-newlywed?

Two words: Cancer. Chemo.

Something I have come to understand in a very real world sort of way.

So, here is my attempt at sharing with my friend the emotions and thoughts that are running through my mind as she prepares for her big day.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Hey Friend,

How did we get here?! I’m pretty sure you were just at my house watching TV. Most likely something on the Disney Channel – “In a Heartbeat,” or “Lizzie McGuire,” or possibly a “TGIF” favorite like “Step By Step” or “Sister, Sister.” And the day before that, we were at camp, scoping out the boys and way-too-old-for-us-college-age counselors, making friends with girls from other towns, and fighting with the friends we actually went to camp with (oh, the cat fights!).

Then there were all those sleepovers with movies (remember when you had a crush on Jesse from “Free Willy 3″??) and popcorn, late-night discussions on every topic imaginable. There was that one time we played “LIFE” and got into the biggest fight of our life! And how can I forget all those underwear pranks? Weekend retreats and week-long trips to exciting places like Indiana and Rochester (remember the one pull-out couch we slept on in Rochester? The mattress caved in in the center and we were quite literally stuck together the whole night!). We never seemed to listen on those trips. Always laughing and giggling, whispering, and talking out of turn. Singing songs at the top of our lungs. Laughing past lights-out. Pointing at cute boys and yelling out childish things like, “MY FRIEND THINKS YOU’RE CUTE!” only to be hit and whacked in the arm until we begged for mercy. The people we met on those trips – the boys with the Light Sabres (from Pennsylvania) and the weird or annoying girls from “that one town,” will forever provide entertainment.

The times right after receiving our driver’s licenses – I’m surprised either of survived those car rides – going to and from the mall or movies. Eating out at Applebee’s with our gang of friends. Spending money to see chick flicks in the theater (why did we go to “Tuck Everlasting”? We didn’t actually like the movie, did we?!).

And, seriously, how did either one of us manage to escape our youth without an ambulance ride? The clumsiness and klutziness found us tripping up and down stairs, falling off of chairs, slipping on perfectly dry floors, and grabbing at whatever objects looked stabilizing (including garbage cans). Remember that one bike trip? You hit a tree or rock or something, and your bike veered violently off the dirt bike path. We watched as you avoided catastrophe and landed at the bottom of a tree-lined hill. The laughs (from me) and the cries of, “ARE YOU OK!?!” from our friend were met with your no-longer-breathing-laughter as you walked your bike up the hill and had all your limbs examined.

The incredibly brainless statements and questions we made to each other and in front of each other could fill an entire book. You were there when I made a fool of myself at Blockbuster. I was there for your, “That sounded better in my head,” moments. And together, we caused quite a scene.

And those times – at camp, sleepovers, road trips, and Friday night hang-outs were just the tip of the iceberg.

Because all those years are full of family memories, too.

How many Monday nights did we spend at playgrounds and ball fields watching our moms and dads slug it out on the softball field? The Friday nights spent at someone’s house, yelling at our annoying siblings, playing ping pong and watching “TGIF” while our parents sweat it out on the volleyball court are endless. Then there were the Sunday afternoons spent at fine-dining establishments like Taco Bell, Wendy’s, and Arby’s, our families laughing so loud the whole restaurant could hear.

Trips to Florida – riding in the backseat of mini-vans listening to BBMak and A*Teens, our heads buried in books, our fingers braiding bracelets. Splashing in swimming pools, swimming in the ocean, “looking for shells,” and shopping for swimsuits (glad you were there to see the little old store owner lady walk in on me in the dressing room!). Mini-golf and amusement parks, shuffle board, and Amish pie. The horror of hotels – the memory of your mom singing and knocking on the adjacent door in the Georgia motel – only to find out the room my family was to stay in was already occupied by a little old lady, will forever be a highlight of that Florida road trip. And the tornado that caused a stand-still in Atlanta traffic while we three (our other good friend was with us) had to pee! Almost missing our flight from Atlanta to Florida was quite the adrenaline rush!

Then there were those shorter road trips to camp grounds, tenting out with all of our friends’ families, running around with all the kids, biking on BMX bikes (trying to be cool), freaking out when someone called the police – all of us kids pointing fingers at someone else, sitting up at bonfires listening to the hilarious stories our parents shared, and reading whatever “it” series we were into at the time.

And if that isn’t enough, there are millions of memories with our dads. Father-daughter retreats. Father-daughter camp-outs (oh, the pranks and games!). Father-daughter days (the day we played “hair salon”!). Father-daughter teasing. Father-daughter eye-rolling.

Whether it was your dad or mine, we knew that hanging out at either of our houses involved teasing and sarcastic remarks from our dads. I’d try not to laugh at your dad’s jokes. You’d do the same for me. Never wanting to encourage the corniness.

And now, you’re a day away from your wedding. I won’t be able to make it to your big day to celebrate. Your dad will walk you down the aisle. And I won’t be there to see it.

But I can imagine every step, tear, and smile. Not like the imagining of a young girl dreaming with her friend about “when you get married.” This image I’m viewing is much more special. Much more sentimental. Because I know that it will be a good day. And a hard day.

You’ve always been the funny-girl with humor and ha’s to make anyone laugh. But I know that you are fighting a big fight with your dad right now. A fight I have recently fought with my mom. A fight with Cancer and Chemo. One you’ve fought with bravery and guts since our senior year of high school. And back then, I was clueless. I didn’t know how to be there for you – except to keep laughing with you and listening whenever I could. And back in October, you texted me at the number I’ve had since high school, and told me that you were sorry. You understood the monster of cancer. And you were there for me if I needed anything – thinking of me and praying for me and my mom.

And I guess all these memories and moments are my attempt to tell you that I’m here for you. As you prepare for a day of celebrating your new life with a new last name, one that I will never be able to remember or call you. As you ride the roller coaster of emotions, joy and happiness and tears and bittersweet sorrow as your dad gives you away to the man you’re going to marry. Your dad will hug you. Tell you he loves you. And it is in that moment that I would be watching from my seat, crying and wiping tears from my eyes. The sight of you in your gown, hugging your dad, frail with the Cancer and Chemo would remind me of all of our memories with and without our dads and families.

It’s a childhood we cannot revisit. Not completely or physically, at least. But a childhood that was filled with good. Good friends. Good families. Good memories. Good laughs. Good times.

And I wish that for you. A day of Good. A wedding day filled with the love of your family and friends. A wedding day filled with special, special moments with your dad. A great man. A man who passed on his humor and wit to you, the friend who made me laugh all those years.

So, on your wedding day, know that I’m thinking of you. Remembering all those memories. Remembering you, my dear friend.

Love,

Megan

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.