brain cancer

We had no plans for Passover. No one wants to do anything. My mother has always hosted the Seder and led the planning, and this year, as her voice broke, she told me she didn't want to do it. I offered to do something, anything, even just a nod to tradition, in our home. No takers. So I let it go (go ahead and sing. I am one of 4 people on the planet that has not seen this movie. We no longer have a child of the age that enjoys animated features). Passover 2012-Pre-Diagnosis We used to be the Friday night service type. On a regular basis Abby, Sam and I would attend shul. Sam sat with his friends in the front row, and Abby and I sat with my friends, the parents of Sam's friends, right behind them-within shushing and blessing distance. Three times a year we hosted oneg Shabbat after services in honor of our children's birthdays (Oneg Shabbat means joy of Shabbat so we brought snacks and treats because food = joy, right?). We always had cake, and it had to be from costco. Whe...

From John, March 31st, 2014: I�ve been feeling pretty good lately.  We had a wonderful memorial celebration for Sam at Happy Time pre-school, where �Sammy� the Samasourus (a new playground Dinosaur) was unveiled, and a lemon tree was planted in Sam�s memory and honor.  And the cutest little wooden bench, with a memorial plaque, was made by a Happy Time family�s grandfather.  And I didn�t even cry. Ben and I drove out to Sam�s grave recently, while we were in the area.  And neither of us cried. Abby and her friends made a really cool camo-cake and Crabby Patty cupcakes in honor of Sam�s upcoming birthday on April 2.  He would have been 9.  I loved the cake and the mini-celebration we had.  And I didn�t cry.  And yet today, sitting at my desk alone and working, it hit me.  Yes, again, like an iron shovel.  He is gone .  He is not coming back.  I cannot see him.  I cannot touch him.  I cannot hug him or hold his little w...

There are days when I can't budge. I am angry and cranky and the tears come and come until my head hurts, and then they come some more. I weep and I rage and it's not fair to my family. They take the brunt of my outbursts. Then there are days when I want to do something. Anything. I don't care what it is. I just want progress. I will share the fundraiser for the family of the newly diagnosed child because I know what it's like to be there. To be scared. To be full of hope. I will promote the collection of shoes that are sold to raise money for childhood cancer research. Blood drive? Sure. I'll help with that.I'll give blood. I'll pass out juice to the donors. I will buy cookies at the bake sale for childhood cancer research on the folding table down the street put on by the little girls who went to school with my son and miss him on Valentine's day. I do too. I'll shave my head. I'll do anything. I am pulled in a million directions and I wonder i...

I should write something. No, not because I think you expect me to. Because I want to. Several times a day I have thought-about Sam, about cancer, about siblings, about grief-and I think, "I should write that down." Writing helps me to process my thoughts and emotions, and I want to share this with you. I don't want to hold anything back. I want you to know how crappy it is live without Sam. I also want to remember. I want you to remember. If we stop thinking, talking, writing about him, then was he ever really here? It's been almost 2 weeks since I put my thoughts on paper-that's how I used to explain writing to my students. Whether they were in 1st grade or 6th grade, they were always afraid to write. "Don't stress out. It's just thoughts on paper," I would tell them. There's always time later to go back, reread, fix, adjust, perfect. "Just get your ideas out before you forget them." Here's one idea spinning in my head today-f...

During one of our visits with a hospice counselor soon after Sam died we were told (wisely) to be prepared for a time that would come where we would feel that the rest of the world has moved on, and left us alone in our grief.  The cards and gifts would slow down or stop; the visits, the special events, the overt outpouring of love, kindness and understanding would  gradually  meld with the reality that �life goes on�.  At least, that�s how it would  feel  to us, and we likely wouldn't be ready to just �move on� at the  rest of the  world�s fast pace. I think to a certain extent that has happened, although we have such good friends and a kind community that it hasn't been  nearly  as bad as  it could be.   From cookies sent from relatives to camaraderie on long hikes, people are still showing us lots of love.  And t his past weekend, for example, our temple�Congregation Beth David�planted a lemon tree in Sammy�s honor. ...

Monday morning I jumped in the car with the teens for a 2-day, 2-school tour. It was the first time I went any further south than Nipomo since we stopped Sam's treatment because it wasn't doing any good (did it ever?). As we approached that invisible hurdle, the tears and quiet sounds I can't describe but feel desperate began to well up. I cried intermittently from Willow Road to Winchester Canyon. Either the teens were too into their books and knitting, or they are used to me sniffling all the time, because neither of them said anything. After the Winchester Canyon exit I snapped to attention, remembering our goal was visiting a college and I didn't know where I was going so I needed a kid to navigate. We did fine visiting schools. We had the usual. "Sam should be here," and "What would Sam think?" moments (especially as we ate lunch beside a pond that was home to ginormous koi, who I am convinced were capable of leaping out of the water and snappin...

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 ...