“500 Miles” *

Jeff's been encouraging me to write for months, and I've been so overwhelmed that I just didn't know where to start. It's a bit like right after Lily was born--I knew I wanted to share her birth story, but I had no idea how to make it matter, how to give it the weight it deserved, how to write my heart down in words that would convey the enormity of where we were.

So here's where our journey (or at least this leg of our journey) began.

That’s right: five girlfriends, celebrating a fabulous birthday. We’d gotten our hair done, and I love the dress I’m wearing.

But what you can’t see—what you may not know—is that my left breast is really hurting because I'd had a biopsy the day before. And that biopsy was done by the kindest, most gentle, most honest radiologist. And it was she who confirmed what I’d been fearing since my annual mammogram got flagged: the two masses in my left breast were “quite concerning.” She left little room for doubt—which I appreciated beyond all measure—as she told me and Jeff that we should line up doctors right away—before results confirming a diagnosis were even in—because it was so clear what the outcome would be.

And so we arrived for our annual visit in Connecticut, expecting a phone call around every corner to confirm what we already knew. It finally came on Wednesday—a day my parents kept Lily at their house and Jeff and I nestled ourselves at an outdoor table at a pizza place we love in Kent, CT. And so, with a glass of wine in hand, I answered the call that told me “you have invasive ductal cancer.”

By this time, Lily knew what was going on, and she was smothered in love. She knew who to get hugs from (Aunt Karen is ALWAYS a top choice), who she could ask questions of, and who would just let her play and be a kid (thanks, awesome VT cousins!). She quickly moved from “If you have cancer, will you die?” to “Because you’re having surgery, you need a bigger bedside table to hold your water and books and medicine.” (Our kid has bananas levels of empathy.)

Coming back home could’ve been a crash landing into reality, but it wasn’t because our friends padded the runway. A joyful front walk greeted us, and then there was a new family member to love on: our brand new goddaughter, Vivi (the daughter of Lily’s godmother).

For a couple of weeks, there was chaos: there were plastic surgeons and breast surgeons and MRIs, but they were balanced with roller skating birthday parties and long nights with wine and friends. By this point, we had a few more answers (partial mastectomy recommended instead of full was perhaps the most memorable one!), but still a lot of uncertainty around when and where and how. (And, if you’re reading this, you must love me; and if you love me, you know unscheduled and unplanned isn’t really in my wheelhouse.)  But I couldn’t dwell on this, because another adventure awaited.

Because then we were on a trip we dreamed up in 2019. A trip that 2020 stole from us. But a trip that 2023 gave us back—and that both of my surgeons happily approved. And so we traveled to Paris (worth its own post for Lily’s encounter with escargots) and then to Stratford-upon-Avon to finally reunite with dear friends (who also happen to be our godson’s parents, who also happen to be my oldest friends I adore, our bonds having originated in 2000).

We spent a week walking along the Avon river, grabbing a pint (or a G&T for me), seeing shows at the RSC, snuggling our beloved godson and “godsister,” watching trebuchets shot from castles, and spending hours just sitting soft, soaking in the joy of being together again.

And then the world crashed back.

Lily had her first day of fourth grade (complete with a uniform). I navigated sharing that I’d be out on medical leave balanced with proving (to me alone?) that I was completely still myself. I wasn’t interested in being told how strong I was or how much I’d be missed; I just wanted to be on the step I was on without looking ahead.

I needed to be strong THAT DAY. I needed Lily to know I was strong. And so I started CrossFit, and I challenged myself to a ropes course, and I ran a 10K (the morning before surgery, the same morning I hosted brunch for our friends at our house to say “Goodbye to the OG Boobies”—a party my plastic surgeon was very disgruntled he wasn’t invited to).

And then Monday, September 25, arrived.

I carried that little bluebird as long as they’d let me, before I handed it to Jeff and (with both of us teary) I was wheeled into the operating room. The matching bluebird (a gift from a dear friend) was in a bag around Lily’s wrist for surgery day, letting her know we were connected. That night, Lily stayed with a best friend, a house she’s known since she was 2, and she and her bestie celebrated mom’s surgery in a way that made me laugh even that night.

And thus began recovery—with a cat who has never sat with me but suddenly did, with gorgeous flowers and care packages, with colleagues who chose to wear pink to show their love for me. In those early days, though I decidedly do NOT sit still easily, I tried to rest.

And then (as many have told me since, unsurprisingly) that plan failed.

It started with small walks that got bigger and bigger, it started with acknowledging I needed rest (but refusing it) and getting sicker and sicker. Apparently, despite my grins in the photos above, I don’t play nicely with “clearance to walk” from my surgeon.

And now, well, we’re kind of at now. I’m back to work; I’m reminded to take half days; I presented at a conference (first time!) and balanced it with a lot of sleep. I know what’s next: not chemo (so grateful!) but radiation starting at Thanksgiving.

 *

* And here is the title of the post--the "500 miles" that Jeff has walked by my side in this journey, the celebration of him I requested via an incredible artist at a dueling piano bar who saw our love for each other and chose to invite us on stage to dance while he and his partner played. And while I wish I had a recording of that moment, I am so grateful for the images and audio that plays in my head of that night.

For now, this is enough. I am loved and cared for and watched over. I am finding time for me and for every version of “us” that our family takes. I am running and CrossFit-ing (who knew I’d love that!!). And I am doing my best to ask for what I need when I need it.

And I am so, so grateful. My story is the best outcome, my friends and family the most incredible support system. 

BUT…

(and this is hard for me to admit...)

That doesn’t negate how I feel (physically and mentally) which I have to remind myself of daily. That is, perhaps, the greatest lesson of all of this: it’s okay to be “selfist”—to put one’s own needs first and model that for others. I’m not very good at it yet.

But I’m so fortunate those around me know that, love me in spite of that, have patience to remind me of that, and celebrate that when I do.

More to come…

Handsomest Boy

Because of the abrupt and traumatic way Ozzy left our lives last week, it's hard for me to erase the images of the final moments we had with him in the vet's office as he purred bravely and attempted to climb onto our shoulders one final time, then gently laid his chin into the cup I formed with my hands as Lily and Jeff whispered love to him and buried their faces in his soft fur. It's not that those scenes (that play on a loop through my brain quite a bit) were awful for Ozzy; we know we made the right decision in light of the catastrophic stroke he'd clearly suffered. But I don't want them to eclipse all the other pictures and stories that make up the tableau of our fourteen years with him. And so I've decided that, as Ozzy's final post, I'll share those with you so that they aren't lost to me.

As we shared with friends that Ozzy was gone, a word came up over and over: "shoulder." Friends shared pictures and stories from the last decade that were from different states and houses, but one thing was in common: they remembered our boy as the cat who hung out on their shoulders. The process began with Ozzy arriving at our feet, sitting expectantly, and then beginning to bob his head up and down, lifting his body slightly off the floor each time. He'd carefully judge the distance to our shoulder--always the left one--and then, with a sudden bound, launch himself the necessary 5+ feet to land securely before wrapping himself around our necks, head tucked over the right side, waiting for head scratches that would have him burying his chin and ears in our cupped fingers. As he aged, sometimes a boost was needed--we'd catch the back end and give him an aid for the final inches, or we'd bend our knees so that he could spring off of them on the way. But once he was there--no matter how he got there--a deep purr would begin and we could continue about our tasks as we cooked dinner, changed a load of laundry, or chatted with friends.

When we were first introduced to Creature Comforts, we immediately recognized Ozzy in the panther who sprawls across a tree branch, lazily offering his perspective on a variety of topics. Though Jeff complained endlessly about Ozzy's favorite place to sprawl out--arguing that it resulted in extra-frequent vacuuming in a hard-to-reach location--Ozzy knew exactly what he was doing. Trip hazard or not, he was making himself irresistible to anyone passing by, whether headed upstairs to grab a book or down to the basement to check on Lily playing with friends. In the latter instance, he relished the time Jeff would spend attacking him from down below, and he'd happily spend hours chasing our fingers as we scratched them across the underside of the steps. In one memorable instance, he even surprised himself by making a full loop around, though it was a daredevil stunt he never again repeated.

As anyone who ever cat-sat for us can attest, Ozzy had a gift for turning sad eyes or a plaintive meow in the direction of anyone with the potential to use their opposable thumbs to acquire food. Somewhat indiscriminate in his tastes, favorite dishes included butter, roast chicken, and anything Lily had on her plate. Our favorite story, though, is of a young Ozzy who, one Saturday morning, scrutinized Jeff's consumption of a particularly spicy batch of huevos rancheros. Once Jeff discarded the empty plate on the coffee table, Ozzy crept closer to investigate. Discovering that the only edible item remaining was a streak of hot sauce, he wasn't dissuaded; rather, he dropped his head and took his first taste. As Jeff and I watched in amazement, he became more and more invested in his culinary exploration, only pausing to raise his head, tears leaking out of his eyes, before returning to his self-imposed torture.

Though it might appear that Ozzy's allegiances were fickle, we knew that nothing was further from the truth. When he first joined our world and attempted to infiltrate the sibling alliance between Rosie and Guillie, he connected to Jeff most immediately, often perching on his shoulder like a tiny parrot for hours on end. When Lily arrived, Ozzy's disappointment in our parenting was palpable: if we'd leave Lily in her carseat on the kitchen floor for even a moment or turn away from her on the changing table as we grabbed a new diaper, he'd move himself closer, carefully keeping a watchful eye over her. As Lily grew older, they became frequent partners in crime, whether observing the world or making their mark on it. And in spite of Lily's insistence on locking Ozzy in her room to play with or adorning him with an array of bows and ribbons, he still would select her lap to sit on while watching TV or her bed to curl up in while saying prayers. For her part, Lily immortalized him in nearly every story she told or writing assignment she penned for class; those tales are sure to help him live on.

Whenever we introduced someone to Ozzy, it was with a quick caveat: "but don't worry, we've trained him to be a dog, not a cat." While a bit tongue-in-cheek, there was validity in our statement: Ozzy greeted us at the door when we came home, followed us from room to room as we moved about the house, and even fetched his toy mouse. When the original favorite, Green Mousy, was somehow misplaced, hours were spent finding a replacement as Jeff and Lily rattled every rodent at PetSmart, and Grey Mousy was tucked into Ozzy's stocking this Christmas. A quick rattle would bring Ozzy running, and he'd happily fetch up and down the upstairs hallway, trotting back to us with the tail in his mouth, the mouse itself swinging back and forth under his chin. 

Ozzy went by dozens of names: Mister, Ozymandias, Bravest Boy, Master of the Man Cave, Dudester, Handsome Man, and the list goes on. Whatever we used to call him to us, though, he would come racing, ready to be loved and admired, content to know that he was safe with us. For this reason, coming home to find him incapacitated last Tuesday night was so much harder; we wondered how long he'd been sitting in confusion or pain, wondering why we weren't home for dinner (Lily had her first night of swim practice), worried how he'd make it down the stairs to us. A friend who I shared these guilt-laden thoughts with offered me a comfort, though, when she wrote, "Ozzy spent his life knowing that you aren't around most days, and, instead of feeling confusion on where you were, he felt comfort when you arrived. He was able to feel your love before he moved on." I'm holding those words closely to my heart these days.

Mister, you have left giant, paw-shaped holes in our hearts. I miss the "thwack" across my forehead when your tail swipes me in the middle of the night, the deep purr that vibrated through the pillows on our bed, the comfort you offered a teary Lily any time she needed fur to bury her face in, and the sound of Jeff's voice as he quietly talked with you as he moved about the kitchen with you on his shoulder. We are so phenomenally lucky to have had you at the center of our lives for as many years as we did, and we will hold tight to our joyful memories of you even as our empty laps and grieving hearts ache.

"The time has come, the Mommy said, when all good kittens must go to bed."

The notes on my bedside table

My bedside table is tiny. The one night Jeff slept on my side of the bed (I apparently had sprawled across his before he came up), he complained incessantly the next morning about the lack of space to put even a water bottle and a phone.

He’s not wrong; it fits a small lamp, my water bottle, a little ceramic horse Lily painted for me, a stack of everything I’m convinced I’ll read next, and a haphazard pile up of my phone, glasses, night guard, medication, and Garmin watch. Everything is tipping slightly off a side or corner, and I live in fear of the cat deciding it would make a nice spot to perch at 3 in the morning.

Last night before bed, as I began the artful task of arranging the various necessities to have close at hand in the middle of the night, I knocked over the metal water bottle which collided with the lamp, tipping it into the stack of reading material, and a domino effect ensued as things began sliding onto the bed and floor. As I began to restack the novels like an oversized edition of Jenga, smaller envelopes and cards kept slipping out, far more than I’d realized had made their way into the pages and between the front and back covers.

The books restocked and the water bottle placed strategically apart from the lamp, I picked up the various notes and began to sift through them. A bedazzled Christmas hand turkey from our godson and his sister in Wales, a gift card for a favorite nail salon that I’d completely forgotten to enjoy, a handwritten note from Lily instructing me to look for an item she’d hidden under my bed, a letter of gratitude from a former student, an assortment of wreathed ducks from my brother’s Christmas card one year, a handwritten note from a close friend who was checking up on me, and a blue and yellow pair of sneakers racing across a finish line, a reminder from dad that my passion for running originates from his own.

As I ran my hands over the assorted letters and envelopes, noting the distinct writing styles, I was struck again by something I first realized as a freshman in high school. When someone writes you a note--handwrites you a note--they have to pause and just focus on that task. For those moments, whether they are seconds or minutes or hours, you are the sole item on their mind. That is an incredible gift--taking the time to pause and create something to bring another joy or hope. It's why, when quarantine began in March 2020 and school went fully virtual, I made a commitment to writing one letter a day to an individual faculty member. In a moment of isolation, I wanted them to know that they were not alone, that I was setting aside time to think of them specifically. When I couldn't physically give them a hug or see their smiles, I could put something my hands had designed into my mailbox and send it directly into their hands.

Before turning off the light last night, I carefully stacked the assorted cards and placed them beneath my Kindle, at the top of that towering stack of books. They serve as a reminder that I am held tightly by those I love, whether they are near or far.

And then, the next morning, I pulled out a notecard and a stamp and put pen to paper, just one person on my mind for a few moments.

It still takes a village.

The past several weeks have been hard. It's my job as a mom to protect my kid, and some of that in this era is about not putting her whole life on the internet before she has a say in it, so I'm not going to go into the details. Suffice to say, it's been a whole lot of tension, accompanied by shouting matches, with healthy doses of tears, and even a massive kitchen explosion when a particularly time-consuming dinner prep didn't turn out at all well. (Word to the wise: throwing baked sweet potatoes mixed with quinoa and lentils at a popcorn ceiling isn't worth it, no matter how cathartic it feels in the moment.)

By the start of last week (when an additional layer of information added to everything else), Jeff and I had no idea where to turn. He's usually the skeptic, the one who believes that things are a phase--and he's usually right. But by the time we hit Wednesday, it was clear to both of us that we needed help. 

Which is also when it became clear we hadn't asked for any. I didn't share with any friends what had been going on, and, when Monday's news just complicated everything further, I didn't know how to. All of the sudden, I could only see my daughter--my compassionate, sweet, creative, funny daughter--through the lenses of the concerns I had about her. And the result was that, whether I intended it or not, she felt the shift.

On Monday night, Jeff headed to a dance lesson, and my anxieties came to a head. The resulting evening with Lily was fraught with angst, and I provided no opportunities to hear her point of view. Frustrated and in tears, Lily raced upstairs before bed and slammed the office door.

Once the kitchen was clean, I dragged myself up after her, prepared for another battle. What I found instead was a note she'd slipped under the door and into the hallway.

Apparently, while I didn't know how to ask for help, my 7-year-old did. She'd learned something from her counselor at school (an amazing woman who joins her class regularly to help with social-emotional learning) called "I messages," in which she expresses how she feels and why ("way") she feels that way. And so, when she didn't have words--and when, quite frankly, I was steamrolling her spoken words with my anger, she found a way to talk to me. And not only that--she asked me to talk to her, too.

Over the course of the week, we went through a multitude of notes passed under doors at night--notes that revealed not her frustration but her heartache, not my anger but my fears. Jeff would come home at night to find stacks of messages on the half-wall upstairs and page through them, trying to decipher the conversations.

Finally, on Friday, I followed my daughter's lead: I asked for help. I reached out to her teacher about one issue and shared with a close friend about another. Both repeated the same words to me: "This is normal. We've seen this before. It's not your fault." They affirmed our daughter's character and spirit, reminding me of what I simply couldn't see.

Lily and I most recently traded "I messages" at the end of the week. In Lily's first one, she revealed her heart's hurt.

There were several messages that followed, a handwritten dialogue that allowed me the time and space to hear her. At the end of those many pages, covered in a multitude of marker colors and more than one with a few wet spots from tears, this one came.

When Lily was little, people told me it would take a village, but I was hesitant to rely on those around me in the early months--I thought I was supposed to handle it all on my own. On an epic night when Lily was several weeks old and Jeff was at work, I learned that just wasn't possible. Lily had pooped in the infant tub insert, then in the main tub (as I tried to clean the insert), then on the bathmat (as I tried to empty the tub). As the tears welled up and I looked at this infant that I was supposed to know how to clean and feed and care for, I sent an SOS text to her godfather who lives next door: "I know it's dinnertime, but can you send your girls to me to help?" Moments later, Lily's godmother and her daughter were racing in the door, the elder with a bottle of wine and the younger prepared to entertain Lily while I started loads of laundry.

We've told that story a hundred times--it's one of Lily's favorites--and it never fails to make us all laugh. But last night, when I showed Lily's godparents the image above, they both paused. And then her godmother reminded me of something: I can still text when I need a glass of wine and a friend to sit in the hallway with me while I cry or laugh or just try to ride the emotions as they come.

It takes a village. I'm glad I've been reminded of the importance of reaching out to mine.

A Glass of Water

Early Sunday evening, Lily brought me a glass of water.

In and of itself, this is not an earth-shattering or life-altering event. Though it's remarkable to us that she's tall enough to get a plastic glass out of the cabinet and fill it with water from the dispenser on the top shelf of the fridge, it's a fairly normal act for a 7-year-old to complete.

What made this glass of water unusual was that it wasn't for Lily--and that no one specifically asked her to get it.

On Sunday morning at 7:30a, I went for a run with a friend who I haven't been out on the trail with in nearly a year. We logged four miles in 20-something degree weather at a good pace for us both. I got home in time to shower and change, then arrive in the kitchen to find Jeff had made me breakfast and had it waiting for me to eat with him in the ten minutes I had before racing out the door. For the next four hours, I gave tours to newly admitted students at my school before rushing to meet Jeff and Lily at a(n outdoor, socially distanced and masked) birthday party for one of the girls in her class. And while the drop-off nature of that party allowed Jeff and me time to sneak down to Georgetown for a late lunch date, our arrival back home in the early evening meant there was still a lot to do to get ready for school and work the next day.

I trudged upstairs almost immediately to begin working on the enormous basket of (at least) clean laundry waiting to be folded on our bed. As I kicked off my shoes and pulled out the first few articles, Jeff and Lily came into the room. As is her habit at the moment, Lily was instantly on our bed, bouncing around and testing her ability to hold gymnastic bridges--and effectively taking up any folding surface I might have. Jeff, meanwhile, was checking in to see the plan for the rest of the evening.

Continuing to attempt laying shirts flat amidst the chaos on the bed, I sighed deeply and told Jeff I had no motivation to even make dinner--I just wanted to be done with chores. I checked my watch to see how many hours I had to pack everything in and noted that my step count was above 20,000 for the day. With another sigh, I paused in my chore recitation to say, "I really haven't had enough water today."

And right then was the remarkably unexpected moment.

Lily popped down from her bridge and pushed herself off the bed, then began to move quickly to the door, calling back over her shoulder, "I can get you water, Mama. I'll be right back."

Sure enough, a few minutes later, she returned to the room, both hands carefully clutching the glass she'd gotten down, filled, and carried upstairs on her own. She handed it to me, and I drank half of it gratefully. With a smile and after quick squeeze around my waist, she darted past me and leapt back onto the bed, ready to resume her training.

The evening was still chaotic. There were still fresh masks to put in bags, themed clothes to lay out for Spirit Week, and email to check. Though the laundry got folded, I never did get around to cooking the chicken thighs in the fridge. 

But the evening also changed in that moment. It shifted from my lament at needing to do everything myself to my realization that my family is so tuned into my needs that they appear with what I ask for, even when I don't ask them for it. By the end of the night, I was able to snuggle with Lily on the sofa and watch an episode of her current favorite show, Full House, and laugh over the antics of Michelle and Stephanie.

Thanks, Lil' Bean. Your glass of water was a game changer.

A day like any other day... except, YOU were there.

When I was little, this was my dad's favorite response to the trite question, "How was your day?" I always took it at face value: my dad was acknowledging that each day was like the last (and the next) and little changed that fact.

These days, though, very few are like anything any of us have experienced before. Each day is exhausting in its own both completely predictable and completely unprecedented way. I've come to joke about the 15,000 steps I consistently have before noon, thanks to a pre-dawn run followed by hours of weaving serpentine patterns between my high school students, reminding them to keep their distance and keep us all safe. Lily's now used to wearing her mask at all times except lunch (when she's on a cushion outside six feet or more away from each classmate), and she's become an expert at washing her masks in the sink with me twice a week to make sure we have fresh ones for each day. Jeff rolls out of bed at his 6am alarm and manages to not only make Lily's breakfast but also have a fresh mug of coffee in my hand before I walk out the door.

So, no, these days are not like any other day.

I never went to the first day of in-person school with my daughter and I both masked.

But I also never had the freedom to paddle board with my family when I got home at 4pm.

Never had the joy of so many (two- and four-legged) family night dinners around the table during the week.

And never knew how much fun playing hopscotch with a first grader practicing her numbers and balance could be.

Dad, it's not a day like any other day--not like any other day any of us has ever experienced. But it is a better day because of those who are by my side (even if "by my side" is the phone call to my Mum and Dad as we drive home from school or the "picture phone" call between Lily and her best friend in Germany or the distance play date with her neighborhood buddies). The WHO makes the WHAT bearable.

I'm grateful to all the "YOU"s, who, by being there, make it actually feel like it might just be a day like any other day.