brain cancer

Or at least I want to be. I realize I'm trying to freeze time for myself. I'm helping my surviving children to move forward by supporting their endeavors at school and encouraging Teen the Elder as he applies to colleges and completes the testing the schools require (770 on his Literature and Math 2 SAT subjects tests, and 800 on his Physics SAT subjects test-it's my blog. I can brag if I want to). John has made progress with setting up his home office with my assistance. But me, I'm frozen, content to sit on the couch all day. I think I figured out why I don't feel ready to go back to work. I mean besides the crying off and on all day long. Besides the lack of focus and lack of sleep. Besides the angry outbursts. I don't want to go anywhere or do anything. I go for walks. I take care of my family-plan meals for the week, shop, cook, do laundry. But none of that's my life really.  You see if I go back to work then I'd be moving on with my life, and if I ...

People keep asking me if I am sleeping. I lie and tell them I am. Well, it's not really lying. I do sleep. Maybe not enough.  Every night I lie in bed and read until I nod off. My book (or Sam's kindle, or iPad) will fall onto my chest, and startle me into the realization that I am no longer reading but I am, in fact, sleeping. So I set the book (or device) aside, and burrow down under the covers next to my husband, and wait. Pretty much every night without fail my brain springs back to life, and the broken record of Sam's last hours, minutes, and moments begins.  I tell myself I don't have to do this. I tell myself it's ok not to think about Sam in order to sleep. It doesn't work. I search for a memory of the day that's pleasant-like today's paddle board outing-and try to remember every detail, in order, in hopes of distracting myself to sleep. It doesn't work. Emptying my mind does not help-that just leaves space for the memory of his labored breat...

The death of Superman Sam has had me thinking. Although my own Sam has only been gone 56 days, or maybe because he's only been gone 56 days, I feel like I can offer some advice to those that love and want to support the Sommer family. I don't have advice on what to say. I haven't figured that out yet. I do know that it does not help to talk about G-d's plan, heaven, angels, being in a better place, etc. There is nothing you can say that will make them feel better. There is nothing you can say that will make them feel better. Just be with them. Hold hands. Tell them you love them. Say his name. Here you go-thoughts on paper (or a screen. Whatever): Do not ask, "Is there anything I can do?" "Is there anything you need?" The bereaved parent will likely answer, "No." Unless you can bring the dead back to life or build a time machine, these open-ended questions are not helpful. Just offer to do something. Guess at what they might need and offer ...

I've been sitting in this spot on the couch since 7am. It's almost 10:30am. It's Sunday, so if you're lucky enough to have a day off and have no plans, which occasionally happens to most of us, you could get away with this. This doing nothing. Thing is, I did the same thing yesterday. Yesterday I folded half of the clothes in a laundry basket that's been sitting here since Friday night. I'm still in pjs. I haven't brushed my teeth. I do have plans. They're not big. I keep them small on purpose-being gentle with myself: Finish folding the laundry, get dressed (no shower), brush my teeth, read a book, go for a walk, do some yoga, bake granola bars (a pre-cancer Sunday ritual I'm trying to bring back), cook dinner (what's the point, without my Sam?). I've become fairly comfortable with these small, daily goals. I feel downright accomplished when I complete the small tasks I set out for myself. It's a good day if everyone has food to eat, clo...

From John, because I have no words... After May 29, 2013 I struggled with a question off-and-on, the answer to which I�m pretty sure I knew, and probably because I didn�t like the answer, I continued struggling with the question.  The question was:  What�s worse, having a child whom you know is going to die and having to deal with all the horror that itself presents; or, actually having him die? At the time, the feeling of being �buried alive� while we struggled to make the most of each day we had with Sam seemed to be the most difficult.  How can you �enjoy� life with such a dark cloud hanging over your head?  But, of course, we did.  We had many absolutely wonderful times with Sam after we were told he was going to die.  But at the end of each day (and many times throughout the day) we had to inwardly confront the reality that our little boy was dying.  So each day was a struggle, a mental and emotional obstacle course that exhausted us and left us t...