It's nearly impossible to do unless you're one of the lucky chosen few to have an uneventful life. I read an email this morning that took me back to October 2005, right there like I never left—that cruelly sunny afternoon I spent with my dying mother and a "Dear John" note. A friend is going through something similar to what I was going through at the time, and they asked advice on how to go on, how to make breathing feel like less of a gasping effort.

What I wouldn't have given to have had the answer.

Nothing hit me as hard as my life crumbling to pieces at my feet. I was broken. I remember the feeling of being undesirable and unwanted all too well, and I spent too many nights praying that I wouldn't wake the next day. There was something very close to the stitching of my self worth about that particular cut, and I was a shell of a friend, of a daughter, of a person.

But, as Aunt Brenda predicted, Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Once the haze of hurt thinned, all I could think was, "Hadn't I earned more respect than that?" I had. And, finally, I found the desire to look forward, closing the curtain on my vigil of the past.

My friend said they read from the archives of this site and surmised, "I see it was for the best for you, it really was." Take time to grieve. You are mourning the loss of something that was living not so very long ago. Open your eyes to the wealth of love and care around you, open them more quickly than I did...you are ending a chapter, not your story. You go on to be a great conqueror of that which will try to hold you back, and you will redefine happily ever after to a splendor you didn't know to dream. It will be best for you too. You will make it so.

Dad asked me to go this year—I hadn't been planning to do so as last year's reduced me to a sniveling mess. It was a cold rainy night and Brenda and I hightailed it out of there partway through the opening ceremony. There was a woman speaking about how we have to be proactive in our own health, how she felt sick and the doctors couldn't find what was wrong...but she still felt sick so she kept going back and kept going back...and Brenda and I had enough of that going on in our immediate lives just then—the feeling not right and nobody being able to figure out why. We were not of the mentality to hear a similar story that ended with "You have Cancer."

But my excuses ran dry when the sunny 90° day dawned, a good 40°-50° warmer than last year, and I had received an answer to my health woes that didn't involve the "c" word anywhere by the end.

I got all the way through the opening ceremony this time, and nearly lost it when it was announced that my mother's old company had dedicated a lane in her name again this year. It warms me that she was so well loved, and that her memory is kept alive by those that she cherished so deeply: her friends. I remember the 2005 Relay for Life...I spent it with her at the house. Dad went off to the event, leaving us to hide. There is and honor in fighting a disease and publicly proclaiming that you WILL overcome, and I don't mean to insinuate otherwise...but for Mom, she was handed a death sentence from the get-go.

"You will never be Cancer free."
"Good news is, at the rate of growth, you have about fifteen years."
"At this rate of growth, you have about two years."
"This is growing much more rapidly than we had expected. You have about three months."

She found it difficult to face her killer when she really was in no mood to die.

So, this was really the first opening ceremony that I have ever attended, and I didn't know about the survivor lap. I didn't know how tight my chest would feel as I imagined her down there in a purple shirt. I didn't know that tears would blur my vision and show her image to me down there on the track, only to lose her all over again when I blinked. I didn't know how much it still hurt. They released their balloons into the air and I tilted my face toward the sky to watch, looking through firmaments that I don't know to actually exist to see her face...and, there, I know where I can find her.



It was a beautiful night.

For the longest time, I would be standing at the present, and looking back at the way things were the previous year. I suppose it began when the really tough times began to hit, and I longed for that other time back, the time before I truly understood mortality and pain. Gradually, it transitioned that my thinking that life is so good and looking back to remind myself that things were really hard there for awhile. It was my affirmation that I am strong, that I can overcome, and that I will always survive.

But this is the last weird anniversary for me, the next several days—the last time I had to force myself to do something that scared the bejeezus out of me. A year ago today was my last day at one job, which I left for lack of benefits (A very timely move considering that medical emergency thing that popped up 6 weeks later). That night was Relay for Life and ABS Global, where my mother was employed, had a lane dedicated to her. I spent the next day packing up Miles' things, purging albums of the photographic memories we had had together. The day after that, I saw him to go over the divorce papers—the first time I had seen him since I returned home that October day to find him gone. The day after that, I stood before a judge and declared that my marriage was irreconcilably broken. And, the day after that, I began working at my current job.

Easily one of the most tumultuous five-day stretches in my life, it was a series of endings colliding with a series of beginnings...and it left me absolutely exhausted. I needed Mommy, and she didn't come when I called. I ended one life and stumbled upon the start line of the next. But I'll tell you, I started that next life and haven't looked back. It was something I needed to do but truly dreaded doing so...and, being that I forged through and all, perhaps Mom came running after all.

Sometimes I catch myself smiling for no reason and I take stock. It almost doesn't feel natural to be this far out from some sort of trial and at times I wonder when the other shoe will drop. It was one thing after another after another for so long that I truly believed what Aunt Brenda said at the center of our family crises: "We had too many good years." Well if that be the case, and we travel through phases of good, then bad instead of a constant balance, I'm standing at the entrance to some really great times.