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I pretty much put dinner on the table Monday through Friday.  On the weekends, I don’t worry about it too much.  There’s leftovers and Mary Tyler Dad is around to help “man” the kitchen.  Last night was one of those infrequent nights that we cooked dinner together.  Aside from me not having showered all weekend, or done my hair, it was a picture perfect moment of a happy couple slicing and dicing away.

We were making a chili recipe I had found a few weeks before.  It was a hit, so there it was back in rotation on the menu.  My husband is much more of a natural cook and something that might take me 20 or 30 minutes, he tackles in 5 or 10.  I set him up chopping and dicing (also known as the ‘laundry’ of kitchen duties) while I browned the meat and measured the spices.  We were good to go and making great time.

After the veggies had been added I stirred the chili and said out loud, “Huh.  Last time I made this it was red.  Why isn’t it red?” But there were corn muffins to get in the oven and stories to tell and two kids to tend to, so I didn’t think too much about it.

About 15 minutes later I pulled the corn muffins out and put them on the counter.  Dinner was ready!

That was when I saw the box of tomatoes and the jar of salsa.  I had a V-8 moment.  Dude.  I had completely forgotten to put the “red” ingredients into the chili, which would, of course, account for the odd brown color it was rocking.  Oh, yeah. um, maybe dinner would take a few minutes more.

Crisis averted by simply adding those tomatoes and salsa I had so absentmindedly left out.  And those muffins that so stubbornly clung to the tin?  Pfffft, muffin tops taste better anyway.  We were delayed about 15 minutes, but that’s the story of my life every day.  Why should dinner be any different than any time I try and leave the house?

As we sat down to eat and I admired and salivated over our food, I thought about what a great metaphor for parenting our dinner fail was.  And, yes, this is how the mind of a mom blogger works.  At all times.  It is exhausting, just ask my husband.

Last night’s dinner presented fails in two different kinds of ways.  With the chili, I simply got distracted and didn’t follow the recipe as written.  That was a clear and easy to identify mistake.  My mistake, which I own.  With the muffins, I had done exactly as the instructions on the box suggested.  Didn’t matter, as those suckers were stuck in that pan and not going anywhere.  But what’s this — you do as you’re told and something still gets mucked up?

This is where the parenting metaphor comes in, so stick with me.  And stop with the eye rolling already!

When we parent, there will be mistakes we make that will fall squarely on our shoulders.  The phone attended to more than the child, consciously opting not to wear boots on the first sunny, warm day in months, which results in massive puddles and soaking wet shoes and socks for your son on a long day out.  Those dots are easy to connect and you try to not make those mistakes regularly.

But the second kind of mistake, the stuck muffin mistake, well, those kind of mistakes are seemingly beyond your control.  You pay attention, you do everything you’re told to do to avoid the mistake, you expect the best, and then, fail.  Those kind of parenting mistakes suck the most.  There are fewer dots to connect, fewer clues as to how to make things right.  Sometimes muffins stick and sometimes we get stuck, too.

When we parent, we make mistakes.  They are a given, a fact of life, inevitable.  But if cancer has taught me anything, it’s that many things in life that you think are a problem, a fail, well, bluntly put, they’re not.  So many of our mistakes in parenting have a fix.  Time helps.  Talking helps.  Walking away helps sometimes, too.

Last night’s dinner had a happy ending.  The chili was delicious despite my original omissions.  Corn muffins taste good, top or bottom.  It worked out fine in the end.

Parenting doesn’t always.  Bad things can happen despite your best efforts, but most of the time, much of the time, things work out.  Our kids grow up to make mistakes of their own.  And that is comforting to me, just like chili on a cold winter’s night.

 

There is a meme floating about the Internet these days suggesting a great way to honor women with breast cancer is to opt out of wearing a bra on Sunday, October 13.  Just let it all hang out and have fun with it! seems to be the message.  Yada, yada, yada.  Yeah, no thank you.  Call me a stick in the mud, call me a prude, call me cranky, hell, call me a pink party pooper, but I don’t think a great way to support our sisters (and mothers and aunts and daughters and friends and neighbors) with breast cancer is to let our girls go flapping in the breeze.  This blogger, a woman coping with breast cancer herself, says it much better than I do.

What is the point of an exercise like this, exactly?  To me, it sounds a whole lot like “cancer cute.”  Cancer is a lot of things — profound, life changing, brutal, wrenching, exhausting, terrifying.  Cancer is not cute.  Cell mutation is hella serious.  Chemo?  Not cute. Radiation is a bitch.  And surgery is way too invasive to be cute.

But who am I to talk about breast cancer?  I am known as a pediatric cancer advocate and typically stay mum in October. No doubt, some of the month is spent recovering from the fatigue of making folks aware that September gold is the color of childhood cancer, much like pink is the color of breast cancer.  Some of the silence can be attributed to my daughter’s death anniversary falling in the same month.  And if I am really honest, it’s that breast cancer has simply not impacted my day-to-day the way childhood cancer has.

That feels different now.

The older I get and the broader my circles become through this here Internet, I now know people whose day-to-days have been drastically impacted by breast cancer.  And their experiences have nothing to do with pink or touting tatas or cancer cute.  It is hard to be light and cute when the reality of words like widower and relapse are your day-to-day.

Truth is, I have the utmost respect for people who have spent time in Cancerville.  There is a shorthand, a knowingness, that comes with the territory.  If that knowledge originated in your child or your brain or your breasts or your colon, well, the common denominator of cancer seems to be enough of a bond.

And, as a nod to that bond, and a show of love, admiration, and support, I wanted to introduce you to three folks in my life whose knowledge of and relationship with breast cancer runs a hell of a lot deeper than wearing a bra on October 13 will or will not impact.  Their efforts on behalf of breast cancer have nothing to do with trivializing it or being “cancer cute.”  They have all used their own experiences to reach out to others to educate and inform and empathize.  I am so proud of them.

Colleen.  The first person I want to introduce you to is my cousin Colleen. Just three months ago, Colleen was diagnosed with breast cancer.  She wrote about it recently through a Facebook status update in an attempt to make other women in her circle aware of the importance of early diagnosis, self-examination, and self-care.  Here are her words:

I am a 44 year old woman. I found a small hard lump in my left breast. I knew that it wasn’t there the month before, because I did monthly breast exams. As I gathered my composure, I thought about the conversation my Mom and I had before she died 11 years ago. “Col, ANYTIME you notice something different about your body, it is GOD’s way of saying that something is wrong! Don’t ignore it!!!!”  So, I took immediate action. I called and made an appointment with my gynecologist. She set me up for a mammogram and I had an appointment within days.

I told my family that I was diagnosed with early stage one breast cancer and I had found the lump through a self -breast examination. It was invasive ductal carcinoma and ductal carcinoma in situ of the left breast.

I go for yearly mammograms and within six months it was brewing in me and I didn’t know it? Within a month a lump appeared? My doctor told me that I was very lucky that I found that lump. She said that within that short amount of time it was already invasive and would have spread to the lymph nodes if it wasn’t for that self-breast exam. I am cancer free. Not many women are lucky enough to say that they had cancer for a MONTH!

I am not out of the woods completely. I still need 6 weeks of radiation five times a week, and may need chemo, but I no longer have cancer. If you remember reading this, and God forbid you find a lump, take immediate action. My heart breaks for all those brave women who are still fighting breast cancer. I am one of the lucky ones. – Colleen

Teppi.  Being part of a blogging network has exposed me to so many interesting and diverse people I never would have met otherwise.  One of those folks I have been lucky to meet is fellow ChicagoNow blogger, Teppi.  We got closer after I wrote Donna’s Cancer Story and Teppi shared her own experience as a breast cancer survivor.  I felt her empathy because of our proximity in Cancerville.  We both spoke the same language.

Teppi, after ten years being cancer free, was recently diagnosed with a relapse of her breast cancer.  She is currently undergoing treatment.  After her relapse, Teppi learned that she was positive for the BRCA1 gene mutation, which happens to be the exact same gene mutation that prompted Angelina Jolie to have the double mastectomy surgery she wrote about in a New York Times op ed piece that was met with both support and concern.

As the mother of two beautiful (like total knock out beautiful) daughters in their 20s, Teppi has become a strong voice on behalf of testing for the BRCA gene mutation.  She understands that just as she carries the gene, so may her daughters.  Using her blog as a platform this month, Teppi has been sharing a series of guest posts each week day in October.  It is an extraordinary way of learning more about this tool and how women are integrating the information (knowledge = power) into their choices.  You can read the entire series here.

Other women should never have to go through what I have – there needs to be a raising of awareness about the BRCA gene and hereditary breast and ovarian cancer. This knowledge can help save lives. Sharing these women’s stories can do just that. – Teppi

Angelo.    I was introduced to Angelo’s work, a photo documentary of his wife Jennifer’s treatment for breast cancer called The Battle We Didn’t Choose, on the Facebook wall of a friend about two years ago.  I was immediately taken with not only the quality of Angelo’s art, but its beauty and intensity as well.  He does with photos what I try to do with words.  Our missions are similar, but the visual impact of seeing Jen captured in all phases of her treatment is powerful and immediate and magnetic.

Jen died in December 2011.  Angelo is now a young widower.  Such a hard word.  He, like Jen, is magnetic.  His work is purposeful and important and has helped people impacted by breast cancer across the globe feel seen and understood and less alone.  After Jen’s death, Angelo has worked tirelessly to tell the story of her cancer through gallery showings, magazine articles, news interviews, and an active Facebook community known as, My Wife’s Fight With Breast Cancer.

Last month, Angelo had a dream realized with the digital publishing of his book The Battle We Didn’t Choose:  My Wife’s Fight with Breast Cancer.  It can be purchased through the Apple iTunes store or directly through Angelo’s website in a PDF format.  50% of all profits generated by the book will be donated to The Love You Share, Angelo’s non-profit that works to provide financial assistance for cancer patients.  It is a moving and very human tribute to love and marriage and life and bonds that transcend.

So there it is.  I will wear my bra on Sunday in honor of Colleen and Teppi and Jen and Angelo and all of you who live a life impacted by breast cancer.  I don’t think what you experience is lightened in the least by gimmicks or ploys or pretty pink yogurt lids or electric mixers that corporate America profits from.  Cancer is some serious shit.  It deserves our respect because of the total command it is capable of in the lives it touches.  And I promise that the bra I wear won’t be pink.

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As someone who writes about grief and death, I wish to express my deep gratitude to NPR’s Scott Simon for live tweeting from the bedside of his mother’s vigil.  Little did he know it, but Mr. Simon, and his mom, have started somewhat of a revolution.

The thing is, we all have two things in common, each and every one of us. We are all born, and we will all die.  Truth.

I spend a lot of time writing about grief.  Initially, when I started this here blog in January 2011, it was a release from grief.  Having buried my daughter fifteen months earlier, I was ready to write about something other than loss and the sadness I felt.

This blog was my ticket out of grief.  There is more than coincidence to my choosing the name Mary Tyler Mom to write under.  “You’re gonna make it after all” is the theme song that I needed at the time.  Still do, truth be told.  I was ready.  ‘Forward motion,’ I told myself.

But then, six months into writing about working mom stuff and dishing on Gwyneth Paltrow, I knew I wasn’t being authentic.  For better or worse, I am a grieving mom.  It’s my thing, you know?  Do I wish it were different?  Abso-freaking-lutely.  It it heavy sometimes?   Yes sir, it is.  Do I feel better when I write about it and share the sadness with a virtual room full of supportive readers?  Yep, I most certainly do.

So thank you, Scott Simon, for shedding light on grief and loss.  Thank you for sharing that death, like life, is multi-faceted, beautiful, full of wonder, and sacred.  There is no mystery here, folks, and nothing to be afraid of.  I wish more of us understood this.

Before cancer, before writing, before both my mother and daughter died of brain tumors, I worked as a clinical social worker.  The folks I worked with were older adults and I was beyond lucky to find a position in a fancy pants retirement community on Chicago’s North Shore.  I used to get in trouble for calling it “Disney World for older adults,” which was flip, yes, but also meant to be complimentary.  The people I worked with were well off and lived in a beautiful environment — the best that money could buy.

But death, as we’ve agreed, is the great equalizer.  No matter how fat your wallet or portfolio may be, death is still gonna come a-knocking.  None of us are exempt.  A few years into my position, the community started its own in-house hospice.  I was named Bereavement Coordinator, a position I lobbied hard for after helping dozens of my clients through the last hours of their lives.  And I was good at it.  Damn good.

Turns out, I had a great capacity to help people during their last hours of life. The most important thing I did was sit with older adults and their families.  Sit and witness and share their stories.  Those hours, those experiences, are something I am immensely privileged to have shared.  They prepared me, I think, for my Mom’s illness and death, and, yes, for my daughter’s, too.

I learned that death is not always easy, but it can be, when you stop fighting it.  I learned that in those moments of extreme vulnerability, people are often at their finest.  Or their worst.  I learned that there is beauty in the last stage of life.  I learned that if you were open to it, life-changing lessons were there for the taking.

There is so very much that death can teach us about life.

Ha!  Talk about having my finger on the pulse — as I write these words, Scott Simon is being interviewed about his tweets on NPR.  I hear his voice wafting in from the kitchen radio as I sit at the dining room table.  Here are a few snippets of his wisdom:

• “I found it very natural for someone to hold a thought for someone else in deep pain.”
•  “We’re all afraid of dying, but that doesn’t mean we don’t do it.”  
• “We should be afraid of dying, but there obviously will come a time . . . where I will let go of her, we let go of one another.”  
• “This was a way of taking notes for me, my children, her grandchildren.”  
• “I didn’t do anything that violated my mother’s privacy and dignity.”  
• “It was all part of a son’s love to share with the wider world.”
•  “I feel obliged to help keep that light alive and shining in people’s hearts.”

I get it, understanding every word and motive that Mr. Simon describes above.  He has done in Twitter form what I have attempted to do with words in Donna’s Cancer Story, and my friend Angelo has done with photographs at his blog, “My Wife’s Fight With Breast Cancer.”    Letting people into our grief does not cheapen or exploit it (as Angelo and I have both been accused of) — it allows us to share it.  Grief is one of the most basic of human emotions, and yet, we are taught, and teach our children, to bury it. Pun intended.

Social media, Facebook and Twitter and the Internet, have brought us back to the practice of sharing our grief, publicizing it, putting it out on the proverbial table for others to see.  Historically, grief was always a shared experience.  There is nothing odd about that.  To the contrary, it is natural to seek support and company in times of loss and sorrow.  Social media, as this excellent New Yorker article explores, simply gives a new venue to do that.

Let’s not be ashamed of our grief.  Perhaps if we are allowed to share it, and have it acknowledged by others, it will have less of a hold on us.  I certainly have found this to be the case.  I shake my head as I remember a therapy visit I had last year.  In preparation for adoption, our agency was concerned that we never sought professional treatment after the death of our daughter. Before we could be approved to parent again, my husband and I needed to be seen by a therapist.

You do what needs to be done in adoption, so we went.  I so distinctly remember telling the therapist that I grieve every day.  Her eyes widened and she corrected me (in the business, it is called re-framing, but it is really a correction), “You remember every day,” she said.  Sigh.  No, actually, I grieve.  Every day.  Changing the language does not change the reality.

I grieve every day, and it is okay, because grief is a part of life.  And when you look hard enough and get comfortable enough with it, you will see the beauty and wonder in grief, because grief is nothing more than the evidence of loving.  Thank you, Scott Simon, for reminding us of that.

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