Her Name

In the pasta aisle at Hannaford there is a whole section of foods that are the Cora Brand. The label coloring is loud and has a picture of a young girl on the label.

I watch Downton Abbey and Once Upon a Time, two shows which have characters named Cora in them.

Kelly and I went to see the movie Argo tonight at the local dinner and a movie place. We were settled in, eating our dinner, and then it happened. One of the hostages was named Cora. Her name was said several times in the movie and also had a scene where her name was in writing.

I try to think of her name in these places as a reminder, a sign, a butterfly, but it guts me, hearing and seeing her name.




Making It Through

A huge thank you to everyone who helped us through the helliversary. The cards, messages, and calls were all welcomed, and filled with stories of how you remembered Cora. One of the things that caught me very off guard was a Facebook post started by one of the nurses who took care of Cora when she was born, and then many of the other nurses who took care of her commented on how they remembered caring for her. It was lovely to read how she was rocked and cuddled by these amazing women when I was not there.

Over the past year, many people have reached out to help us in ways we didn't even think we needed. One of these people is a woman from my church. I didn't know her well, but this summer my mother brought me a box with a gift from her. I opened the box and in it was a beautiful handmade pillow with Cora Lily's name on it. My mother told me that several years ago this woman lost her daughter and a friend of hers had given her a similar pillow. Over the years her pillow became worn. I thought the pillow was lovely, but it wasn't until a few days later that I understood how her pillow became so worn.

Last Sunday was All Saints Sunday, which is a day to remember those who have passed into Heaven. After the service the woman looked at me with a smile and said: "We'll see our girls again."
It was exactly what I needed to hear.

Cora's Eulogy

A year ago today we held Cora's funeral service. When we met with our minister, he asked if we wanted to speak at the service. Neither of us were able. I don't think I could have made it through without crying; I don't think I could make it through now if I had to read this aloud.

Shortly after I found out I was pregnant, but before I had an ultrasound, I told Kelly that I thought I was pregnant with twins. I had no evidence, simply a gut feeling. When we went for the first ultrasound and the tech told us that we were expecting twins, we started laughing ~ at first because we could not believe it, and then more nervously when we realized we would have four children under four!

We found out the genders for Rory and Kyan by ultrasound, and I had asked Kelly if he would be okay not finding out for baby three. He agreed, and even when we found out we were having twins, we decided to wait until they were born to learn their genders. So ultrasound after ultrasound I said no to finding out the gender(s). Until one day when the ultrasound tech slipped up and suddenly I knew. I knew Baby A was a girl and Baby B was a boy, and I instantly knew that one of each was exactly what our family needed. And I also knew every single name on our "girl" list was not right (and that the one name on our boy list was exactly right).

After Kelly and I settled on Cora, we then went to work on her middle name. The boys all have middle names based on family names, and I wanted Cora to have the same. We chose Lily, which is the meaning of Suzanne. Cora Lily Murphy ~ girly, but not frilly; unique, but not bizarre; the perfect name for our daughter.

We had a great team with us the day Cora and Crosby were born. One of our nurses took tons of pictures for us as Cora, who was older by a minute, and Crosby, were delivered. The nurses brought Cora over and put her into Kelly's arms and I just stared and her, and then at Crosby. I couldn't take my eyes off of them. One of the nurses asked me to say something about how I was feeling for a video and I didn't even have words. It was perfect. My family was complete and I was the blessed mother of four beautiful children.

In a eulogy we remember and celebrate a person's life, often through stories that capture the person's personality. We don't have many stories, but I can tell you that Cora was sweet, but also feisty. She quickly learned that her cries brought mommy or daddy running to her. She was working very hard on focusing on the little animals on her bouncer. And somehow, she had already mastered having her older brothers dote on her endlessly while being near her younger brother could soothe her when nothing else seemed to work.

I have thought a great deal about what I hoped for in Cora's life. I have thought about all the wonders in life that she will never experience. But I have also thought a great deal about her short time with us and what she experienced during that time. The pure joy and love she felt when the nurse placed her in Kelly's arms for the first time. The blurry smile she saw on her grandma's face in the operating room. The wonder her big brothers had when seeing her for the first time. The ease we brought to each other when I held her in my arms. And this one thing I know ~ Cora experienced love. She was truly and deeply loved. She is still truly and deeply loved.

Ramblings

A long, rambling update since I want Kelli and Meg to practice their editing skills (Bob, you can feel free to get out your red pen too. Heck, anyone is welcome. Just don't tell me about it.):
Physically, I feel pretty good. I have been out of aggressive treatment for about 6 weeks now, and the more distance I get from treatment, the better I feel. I am swimming and slogging, wait, I mean jogging, again. My strength is not where it was at the beginning of the summer, but I am able to at least keep up with my "Lane 4" swimming friends.
I do have some side effects from the treatments - my fingers and toes tingle and/or go numb due to nerve damage and I have some ringing in my ears (so forgive me if I ask you to repeat yourself ~ especially in noisy areas!). But I really cannot complain ~ swimming and jogging feel odd with numb toes, but I am getting used it it.
Where things are at:
Liver tumors: scan in September showed that they are stable and there are no symptoms that indicate they are changing; each month I get a shot in the arse to control the symptoms and that med is also thought to, in some cases, help keep the tumors in check. I will get another scan in November to see how things are looking.
My hope is that at some point my oncologists will say that these tumors are not high grade, they are low grade. This type of low grade tumor is called carcinoid and it can stay stable for long-ish periods of time. My oncologists hint that it could be carcinoid, but I think my diagnosis has gone back and forth so many times, no one wants to jump the gun on revising it again without more data.
Cervical cancer: next Friday (10/26) I will have my cervical biopsy. Once those results are in there are three options (a) no cancer cells (woo hoo!) (b) cancer cells, hysterectomy required (c) cancer cells, but we can take a watch and wait approach. I am eager to get this done and hopefully hear that (a) is the outcome. I would love to have this "off the plate."
[An amusing side story: My very, very serious surgeon and I were discussing my biopsy date and he referred to my "hot pelvis." I had to laugh at that term ~ radioactively hot or otherwise, it amused the seventh grader in me.]
Oh, and I did not have a hysterectomy in the beginning because the cancer was too widespread. They would not have been able to get clear margins and oncologists like to avoid combining radiation and surgery due to the potential complications. 
Emotionally, this has been a painful time. The time from the day Cora was born until the day she died is feeling like a very slow crawl. A year ago our daughter was with us. This coming Saturday night was the night we raced to the ER with her; the date was the 22nd, but for me, I am dreading this Saturday, the third Saturday in October. I keep thinking I just need to make it from then until the 28th, the day of her funeral.

On Being a Penguin

Today was the Adirondack Half Marathon (13.1 miles). Turns out that jogging while Rory and Kyan rode their bikes around the block was not the best training plan I could have used, but at the end of the day I crossed the finish line!

There was large Team SMAC contingent today. Here is a picture of a bunch of us:

These awesome folks are top row: Larry, me, Liz, Karen, Kate, Shawn; middle row: my Kelly, Amy; bottom row: Heather, Beth, Kelly, and Andrew. Our friend Pat is missing from the photo. Also missing were the two full marathon Team SMAC members ~ Jill and Kevin.

I made the decision to walk since I had not trained and my Kelly and Amy walked with me.  Our first few miles flew by ~ chatting, checking out the beautiful scenery, saying hi to the folks cheering us along the path, being dumbfounded as the full marathon leader flew by us.

We walked through the Word of Life campus, which is a religious camp, and all the kids were out there cheering us on, hollering that we were almost there. Mind you, this was around miles 4-5, so we had quite a trip still ahead of us. But, there was fantastic energy there that helped add a little spring into our step.

Around mile 7 we ran into a woman who had a butterfly resting on her jacket. I pointed it out to her and she said it had been with her for several miles. When Cora passed away a friend told me a story of butterflies being signs from heaven. I couldn't help but think of that today. It is the 23rd and the emotion of losing Cora eleven months ago was weighing heavily on me. Kelly and I saw that butterfly and it helped lift the sadness.

By mile 8, I was starting to get tired when Kelly and I heard the voices of our friends Kevin and Jill (the full marathoners!). They slowed for a few moments to say hi and then continued their awesome run. Around mile 10 I looked up and saw three people walking towards us in Team SMAC shirts. It was my brother, brother-in-law, and sister-in-law. They finished their races, then walked back to walk the rest of the way in with us. It was a great diversion. I think Amy, Kelly, and I were all getting a little tired (we'd been walking for about 3 hours), and even though I told them they were totally obnoxious for coming back, it was nice to have their conversation for the last leg of the trip.

Now...about the penguin. Karen told me that in the Marine Corps marathon the last-place finisher gets a prize of a penguin for the accomplishment of completing. I had a pretty good idea that our trio was at the end of the half marathon group, so I insisted Amy and Kelly walk over the finish mat first, which means I came in last place. The penguin. Another year, I would probably be embarrassed by such a showing. This year, I couldn't be happier. I finished. My friends finished (with amazing times, I might add). Tons of runners asked about Team SMAC when they saw our shirts. Spectators cheered for Team SMAC. For a million reasons I wish Team SMAC never had to exist, but I am always proud to be a member.

I must now be off to attempt to climb the stairs to bed. Or curl up on the landing and sleep there. We'll see how it goes.

Healing

Today marks three weeks from my last radiation treatment. The past five days or so I have felt a marked upswing in my energy level. It is not at 100% yet, but I am also not taking to my bed each afternoon for an hour or more. I also have noted that mentally I am feeling better. I knew that the challenge of the internal radiation treatments was wearing me down, I just don't think I realized quite how down I had become.

Monday I was feeling pretty zippy, so I put on my sneakers and went out for an hour. That felt okay so I decided to go to swim practice for the first time since July. The first 200 yards felt pretty sluggish, but then I started to feel better. Until there was a set of swimming 100 yards (for my non-swimming friends, that is up-back-up-back) and then getting out for push ups. And repeat. That did me in. I hopped out of the pool after half the practice, but was glad to have done a little distance.

During the day I am feeling more like I am getting back into the swing of things with the kids. Case in point: on Tuesday I was working on making lunch for all three kids. My mom was over and had gone up to get Crosby from his nap. While she getting him, I assembled the majority of all three lunches. When she came into the kitchen she went to start all three lunches, not even thinking that I would have done it since I have been zombie-woman of late. We had a pretty good laugh when we realized it was impressive I could make a grilled cheese sandwich. It is little stuff, like making lunches, that is nice to get back into again.

Last Saturday evening some of our dear friends stopped over to introduce us to their two month old son. As we sat and chatted there were several instances where I referenced "the twins" and it felt like a natural part of conversation. No tears (though now I am teary), simply sharing newborn stories with our friends. I can also make it through the little girls' clothing department without a near breakdown. I consider these small signs of healing. Though we are also in the fall, with what would have been her first birthday and what will be the first hell-aversary right around the corner. I feel although I have made these tiny steps of healing, I may take a huge step back.

John Todd's Letter

Two of "my" ministers have recently given moving sermons about the architecture of heaven. These sermons deeply resonated with me as I think of and pray for Cora, and as I think what awaits me.

I also have several friends who have recently lost one or both parents, and hope that this excerpt from the sermons helps to provide some small comfort to them. 

[Thank you to John Barclay and David Lukov]

Let me share with you a wonderful story from the theologian John Claypool.   He tells the story of a child born in 1800 in Rutland, Vermont, named John Todd, who would go on to become a prominent Congregational preacher in his day.  When he was six years old, his mother became insane and his father died.  He was sent to live with an aunt who had never married and had no children and whom he had never seen before.  The aunt turned out to be a very tender and loving person.  He grew up well in her home.  She put him through college and saw him into young manhood.

Some years after he was grown, John got word that his aunt was seriously ill and was, in fact, at the end of her life, and that as warm and tender and loving as he had been to John, she seemed petrified and terrorized at the prospect of dying. So John Todd, the grown man, wrote her this letter:

“It is now 35 years since I, a little boy of six, was left alone in the world.  I will never forget the day I made the long journey to your house.  I was disappointed that you sent your hired man, Caesar, to come and fetch me.  I remember my tears and anxiety as I clung on to Caesar’s back as we started for my new home.  I became more frightened as we rode along.  ‘Do you think she will have gone to bed when we get there’ I asked Caesar.  ‘Oh no,’ he said.  ‘When we get out of these here woods, you’re going to be able to see her candle shining in the window.’  Sure enough, we rode out into the clearing, and there was your candle, and there you were waiting at the door, and there were your arms lifting me off my horse, and there was a fire you built for me in the fireplace, and there was a good warm supper, and there you were taking me to bed and hearing my prayers, and not leaving me alone until I had fallen off to sleep.”

“I’m reminding you of these things, now, dear Aunt, because soon God will send for you and take you to your new home.  I want you not to fear that summons.  I want you not to fear the strange journey or even dark messenger of death because I am sure at the end of the road you will find love and welcome.  You will find that you will be as safe as here, safer indeed, in God’s love and care.  Because surely, dear Aunt, God can be trusted to be as kind to you as you were to me.  Love, John.”

The 23rd

At first, weekends were the hardest. Every Saturday night I would be reminded that "one week ago" or "three weeks ago" I screamed Kelly's name twice and then called 911. Sunday night at 9:05 brought tears for weeks and weeks.

The date, the 23rd, is a painful reminder ~ an anniversary that I wish we didn't have. I try very hard to stay busy on each 23rd, but no matter how busy I am, the memory creeps in. It plays over and over...trying to find what I could have done differently. I have been told this is a hallmark of a traumatic memory.

Recently I could only remember what Cora looked like when we were in the pediatric ICU and then later, at the funeral home. I couldn't remember her at the hospital when she was born or at home. I was absolutely devastated. It passed, but it was horrifying to me. What parent can't remember what their child look liked without a picture?

In one of my drawers I have a little box that Cora's last PICU nurse gave to us. In it are two little hearts with impressions of each of Cora's hands. I am grateful to have something physical to remind me of her.

We lost Cora 8 months and 2 days ago, on Sunday, October 23 at 9:05 PM.

One Plan

I have never had "big plans" of things I wanted to do with my kids. I always thought we would come up with special things to do as the children found what they enjoyed.

The one exception was piercing Cora's ears. I know a lot of people who had their daughters' ears pierced as infants and I didn't want that. I thought one day we would go when she was older, she could pick out her own ear studs, and then we would go celebrate with lunch out. Just the girls.

We lost Cora seven months ago today. I went to the cemetery and her headstone was placed. We also planted a tree-a seven sons-that will bloom in the fall, close to her birthday. It is heartbreaking going there, but now with her grave properly marked and the tree, it doesn't feel so cold.

Gift

I can't tell you how many times I have read about "cancer as a gift." Worst. Gift. Ever. I want my gift receipt (receipts, actually) and I am returning for a full refund.

I "get" the idea that having terminal cancer suddenly makes you see the world filled with rainbows and people who sing their way through each day (kind of like the Buffy musical!), but really ~ I think that is a load of crap.

Cancer sucks. I can't find anything good about spending lots of time at the cancer center (actually, I can, the people...all of them...are great). I don't think this port in my chest had any wrapping paper or a bow on it. I am positive that the bags the chemo drugs come in are not gift bags. And if they are, we really need to talk about marketing. The handful of pills I get to swallow each day are an exciting combination, but again, not a present.

I have read the same phrase used to describe the way people see life after losing a loved one. By losing someone close, suddenly people embrace each day and the people in it. But I wasn't throwing any time by the wayside before we lost Cora ~ I knew that our kids would only be little for a short time and I was savoring that time. Savoring the moments when they want to sit near you, and give you kisses and hugs in public, and would rather play with you than their buddies. I loved it. I still love it.

I think the term "gift" in this sense is bullshit. I think it is used by people who knew all along that they worked too much, or were in crappy relationships, or never attempted to find the good in things. I didn't need this "gift." I didn't suddenly start finding the good in life when I found out I had cancer or when Cora died. I already had it, I still have it.

Putting Things Away

On January 2, Kelly and I went shopping for a chest. We wanted something to store Cora's "things" in, and I deemed a plastic tote in the basement unacceptable (as did Kelly). So we ordered a beautiful chest where we could put her things.

I had piles of things that remind me of Cora around the house. For months I had a box in the dining room of all of the cards and letters we received after she passed away. In our bedroom alcove I had a bag with the guest book, prayer cards, a memory candle, and other things from her calling hours and funeral. Under a guest bed I had a box of clothing that she would never wear. In the nursery closet I had a basket of blankets, sweaters, and hats that people had made for her.

At the end of February we got a call that the chest we ordered had been discontinued and it would not be arriving. In early March I ordered a different one that was back ordered for 2 weeks, then 4 weeks, then 6 weeks. It finally arrived last week. It was placed in our bedroom and I did nothing. I didn't clean it out. I didn't gather her things. It just sat there for a week.

This afternoon I decided it was time. I did okay as I put the box of cards and items that were never "hers" away, but then I came to the onsie she was wearing when she died. It was so little. Then I came to the shirt I had on at the hospital and one of her onsies that had not been washed. I had to just sit for a while, to catch my breath, to remember that it has not yet been 6 months, but it feels like so much longer.

The Articles

Today our local paper ran two pieces today on my family. This came about from the fall, when Cora's sand pictures were first on Facebook. The reporter, Meg, got wind of the pictures from a mutual friend, Cory, and asked if we would be willing to talk to her for a story. At that time we said no ~ it did not feel right ~ but we would be willing to revisit the idea down the road.

After I found out my cancer was stage 4, I was going through my emails and found the email from Meg. Kelly and I talked about it and decided to contact her about the story. We wanted Cora's story to be shared, and we also wanted to let other grieving parents know that they are not alone.

My diagnosis changed Meg's approach to the story (I was glad to see there were two stories, so that Cora's story did not get "lost."), and I will not lie...I was very nervous about how it would be covered. I noticed many people shared the story on Facebook today. So many people were very supportive, but I also noticed that some people who do not know me often commented on the article with statements such as, "That is so sad/tragic/etc." It is hard for me to comprehend others thinking of my life in that way. The loss of Cora is devastating. My stage 4 cancer diagnosis is devastating. But is my life sad? I don't think so. I think it has some very sad moments that affect every single day. But it also has amazing, funny, happy moments that make it so worth living.

Links to the articles:

About Cora's sand pictures: http://m.poststar.com/photos-from-around-the-world-honor-lost-daughter/article_c0e2625e-86a0-11e1-9b4c-001a4bcf887a.html

About my family: http://m.poststar.com/news/local/family-tries-to-find-strength-to-go-on/article_7b2f5898-86a0-11e1-9e05-001a4bcf887a.html

Dealing with Death

I used to be horrible at knowing what to do when someone passed away ~ what was enough? Should I call? Is an email to impersonal? What do they want/need to eat? What about flowers? Should I go to the funeral?
I think knowing what to do when the someone is a child is even harder. In the two years before we lost Cora two of my dearest friends lost children. I had no idea what to do. Of course, even though it is not anything I ever wanted to learn, I now know what can be done. I wanted to share a few of those things with you because I think grief is such an intensely personal journey that sometimes people are afraid that if they act, they will somehow make things worse.
1) Go to the calling hours and funeral.
Both can be emotionally draining. Both can mean shuffling around your schedule because they are unlikely to be at the perfect time for you. But seeing your face, hugging you, and sharing a few words with you can make a world of difference. At Cora's funeral I couldn't even look at everyone who was there, but just knowing how loved she was, and how loved we were, helped.
2) Consider basic needs of the family.
Food. Childcare. Dog care. Groceries.
Our vet took care of our dogs for us for a week. People brought food that we didn't even realize we needed. My brother went to the grocery store. My brother-in-law and his wife took care of our older boys so we could take care of all the things we needed to (and to keep the little boys as sheltered as possible).
3) Share your gifts.
One of my mom's best friends wrote a poem for Cora that I still read. I have three necklaces given to me in memory of Cora. I have a beautiful shawl I snuggled up in night after night that one of the OB nurses made for me. I could go on and on, but the point is that each one of these things reminds me both of Cora and the giver.
4) Send a card. Send an email. Send a FB message.
It doesn't matter how you contacted us, we appreciated you taking the time. We didn't respond to most, but we read every single one.
5) Share your stories.
It is okay to tell us what you have been through. My two close friends who lost children would call me, always with the qualifier that I didn't need to call them back. One day when I could barely function I called one simply to ask: "How did you get out of bed?" Another day I talked to my other friend about losing our daughters. They were tear-filled conversations, but they made me feel like I wasn't alone or crazy.
6) Talk to the person.
I returned to my swim group a few weeks after Cora died. It was awkward and I just wanted to swim, but we had to wait for the pool to be available. In that time, two friends came over and talked to me - clearly just to keep me occupied so I wouldn't lose it on deck - and then another friend came over and put his arm around me. Grief is very isolating in so many ways ~ it is a good thing to remind the person that they are not alone.
7) Follow your gut.
Do what you think you should do. If you feel like calling, call. If you would like to stop over, stop over. If you feel like you should do something, do it. Good people have good instincts - trust them.
In no way am I suggesting you need to do all of these things or exactly one of these things. Rather, don't hesitate to do something. If you don't get a response, don't think the person was upset or offended or didn't care. Quite the opposite will be true.

Picture

Each night Kelly and I would take a twin to wake up with. The night before Cora stopped breathing, she was "my" twin for the night. I was such a bitch about it at first. I felt like I just fell asleep when she would wake up. But then at her 4 AM feeding, something changed. I remember just relaxing with her for a little while and enjoying holding her. She was WIDE awake and I was just talking to her...foolish little songs and things you say to babies. I don't really know how long I sat with her or if she fell asleep in my arms (I think she did...I hope she did), but I savored those moments holding her with her eyes wide open looking around. Suddenly it wasn't so bad that she didn't fall right to sleep.

That night, I took the photo above. I had no idea it would be the last picture I ever took of my baby girl.

Hypervigilance

Poor Crosby. He is going to be sleeping in our room until he is 18.

 Even before we knew that Cora's death would be classified as SIDS, I was on the phone with our pediatrician. WHAT. ABOUT. CROSBY?!?! Thankfully, the nurse who answered my call was Mrs. Lockwood, a longtime family friend. She arranged for me to bring him into see Dr. Wright. Of course, what I didn't think about at the time, was that the doctors were already pouring over the records they had to see if there was any warning signs ~ anything that could tell us what happened to her, and if Crosby was at risk. Dr. Wright examined Crosby and had me bring him for an echo cardiogram to check for a specific issue, and thankfully Crosby got a clean bill of health.

But the terrifying thing is, in cases like Cora's, where her death is classified as a SIDS death, but the "usual culprits" are not in play, researchers think it may be related to an unknown defect. Because it is unknown, they don't know if it is genetic or from something the baby was exposed to in the womb.

Professionals call it hypervigilance ~ I call it sanity. I think I put my hand on his chest 20 times a day while he is sleeping. Kelly sleeps closer to him than I do, so I wake Kelly in the middle of the night to check on Crosby if I don't hear him. (He is a loud sleeper for being a baby!) But I am finally starting to relax a little more around Crosby. We hired a babysitter for the first time since October last weekend and I didn't worry at all about him (in large part because our babysitter was fantastic). And I am simply able to enjoy him, and all his smiley, happy sweetness, more and more each day.

Sand Pictures

In the weeks after we lost Cora, we desperately were searching for some way to honor her memory, but we were too caught up in our grief to find something appropriate and tangible. Then one day, via email, my friend Meg sent me a picture of Cora's name written in the sand with an expanse of ocean in the background. She had given us a great gift, a way to honor Cora that deeply spoke to us and comforted us.

We then asked some friends to help us celebrate Cora's life by following suit and writing her name in the sand, taking a picture, and sending it to us. For us, these pictures act as small tokens of remembrance, fleeting memorials, that Cora lived and is remembered.

The link below will bring you to many, but not all, of the sand pictures that have been sent to us from all over the world. We expected a few close friends to participate. We have been overwhelmed by how many people have sent us pictures of Cora's name written in the sand. So many of them have wonderful backstories. Someday soon I hope to put each photo in a book along with the location, date, photographer, and backstory.


117 pictures
Click here to view these pictures larger
The filename of each picture tells the location and date of each photo.

It Pales in Comparison

Shortly after Cora passed away, my friend Chris came over. His brother passed away and he said to me that he lost a lot of people in his life because they didn't know how to be with him after that happened. I have found the same thing. Some people just don't know what to say or do. Do you dare mention Cora's name? Can you ask questions about my cancers and their treatments? Is it okay to talk about issues in your lives because you feel that they pale in comparison to what is going on in mine?

I am going to share a quotation from Elizabeth Edwards, since she says it far better than I ever could:
"If you know someone who has lost a child or lost anybody who's important to them, and you're afraid to mention them because you think you might make them sad by reminding them that they died, they didn't forget they died. You're not reminding them. What you're reminding them of is that you remember that they lived, and that's a great, great gift."
So, yes, you can say Cora's name. I can't guarantee my reaction. Some days I am okay, and other days I cry, but since you are my friend, you will understand that. You don't need to feel guilty if I cry (or if I don't) - your words have not caused my tears, and in many cases I am thankful when someone mentions her. Especially now, when suddenly I feel like the "cancer show," - I don't want her to be forgotten.

As far as cancer questions, you can ask me anything. Off the top of my head I can't think of a question I wouldn't want to answer, but if you ask something I don't want to share/answer, I will tell you that.

And issues in your own lives. Let's be honest, chances are in the "big picture" they do pale in comparison to what is going on for me. But, those issues are important to you and matter to you, and so they are important to me and matter to me too. I do not only want to talk about me when I see you. As a matter of fact, I really don't want to talk only about me. Though I am awesome. I want to hear about everything I used to want to hear about, plus all the new stuff that is going on with you - good and bad. (Though if you whine about lame things, I am going to call you on that, but I always have done that.) Likewise, I want you to do the  same for me. I know you want to know how I am doing, but I also want you to know that all my "old" life ~ it is still there ~ and I am still living it. Because the minute I stop, that is the minute the cancer has won, and that is not going to happen if I can help it.

My friend Chris has a quotation by Leonard Cohen that I always found meaningful, that I think will serve as a good wrap up for the evening:  "It's the notion that there is no perfection ~ that this is a broken world and we live with broken hearts and broken lives but still that is no alibi for anything. On the contrary, you have to stand up and say hallelujah under those circumstances."

No Walls

One of my favorite sets in swimming used to be a "no walls" set. For the non-swimming folks, what that means is that you swim to right before the wall, do a flip turn, but instead of having the wall to push off from you essentially have to work against the current you just created and rebuild your speed. (Think of a salmon swimming upstream...only we don't do it to reproduce...at least in MY lane we don't do it for that!) I loved these sets because they really increased my endurance - a few times isn't too bad, but over and over again can be exhausting - working through the set was satisfying.

Today I was swimming solo and there was a long no walls set as part of the workout, and it was just tiring. I missed the little post-flip turn boost I get when pushing off the wall and it was frustrating feeling like I was struggling to even move, not to mention not even coming close to a passable stroke.

There is a very obvious analogy here to everything that is going on in my life lately. I have always liked a challenge, I have always liked to push myself harder, but right now I am tired. I would like a few moments to rest at the wall, to mourn Cora, and then push off again to battle these cancers, but there are no walls for me right now.

Evan

Several years ago, a friend and coworker lost her newborn grandson, Evan. Evan's mom fed him and was letting him sleep on her shoulder when she suddenly realized that Evan was not breathing. Evan's parents called 911 and for three days prayed for a miracle, but Evan passed away, surrounded by his loving family.

Over the years, especially after I had my own children, I would occasionally think about my friend and her family and wonder how Evan's parents were holding up.

The night Cora's heart stopped beating, as I was sitting in my family room, for some reason I thought of Evan and his family. Thinking of him is what made me look down at Cora - to check on her - because she was still at that tiny size that you can't feel them breathing. I saw her movements were not her own, but mine.

I have thought about this over and over. Why did I think of Evan right then?

Organs

When I was hugely pregnant with Rory, Kelly had his tonsils out. When I was hugely pregnant with Kyan, Kelly had is gallbladder out. When I became pregnant with the twins, we joked about which organ Kelly would be "donating." Well, he made it through my pregnancy, but his body knew...so today, a little over 5 months after the twins were born, Kelly "donated" his appendix after ending up in the ER last night. (He is a little groggy, but feeling better overall.)

Today a very new friend, Jamie, who is the wife of an old high school friend, was part of a true organ donation. She gave one of her kidneys to her mom. I could use words like courageous, brave, rooted, devoted to describe her, but I think her action alone tells you a great deal about her. Please keep Jamie, her mom, and her family in your thoughts and prayers.

Perhaps it was waiting in the hospital combined with the types of surgeries, but today I thought a great deal about one part of Cora's PICU time. When we learned that Cora would not survive, one of her nurses asked us (though I cannot even remember how she approached the topic) if we wanted to talk to someone about organ donation. We readily agreed, hoping such an act would provide a tiny glimmer of light. But then, as the organ donation team spoke with us the realization hit - Cora would die in a cold OR, without us, surrounded by strangers. I couldn't stand the thought of it. I still can't.

It was a selfish act, I wanted to be with her at the end. I wanted her in our arms. I keep thinking, someday I will feel guilty about that choice, but I don't.