All Of Your Pieces

My parents used to have a card table set up in the corner of our basement.  The table often had pieces of a jigsaw puzzle scattered across it and the empty box propped up so we could see the picture. We would work to put all those pieces together to make a beautiful masterpiece.  Usually, the puzzles were nature pictures- a babbling brook in the middle of the woods or a magnificent waterfall. Although I wasn’t a big fan of puzzles, I often found myself sifting through the countless pieces searching for the ‘all blue one’ or the one that had a bit of the sky and a bit of the trees. There was something therapeutic about turning all those ‘pieces’ into a ‘whole’.  When you picked up a single piece, it didn’t look like much; however, when you fit all those pieces perfectly together, you could see the whole picture and all those individual pieces made sense.

Everyone has a different strategy. Some are very methodical and find all the corner and edge pieces first. Some take a different approach and find all the pieces that seem to match, like the blue ones that made the ocean, and build from the inside out. Some seem to have no strategy at all and pick up random pieces to see if they fit.  Although one may find that a certain strategy works better or gets the job done faster; in the end, they all work. The puzzle is complete and the picture is clear.

At the cancer center where I had treatment, there was a card table with a puzzle on it in the waiting room. Instead of sitting in a chair while waiting to be called for chemo, some patients sat at the table and worked on the puzzle. One time, the room was pretty full so I sat down at that puzzle table and contributed a few pieces to the cause. It was a pretty picture – a bunch of colorful sailboats floating on the water. My name was called and I went to my appointment. When I came back the next time, I glanced over at the table hoping to see the finished sailboat puzzle but it was a picture of two baby deer in a grassy meadow. An older woman wearing a scarf to cover her head left smooth from treatment was concentrating on finding the brown pieces that made the baby deer. When she got called back, an older gentleman with an oxygen tank rolled up to the table in his wheelchair and started working on the blue sky. I wondered how many patients worked together on those puzzles, not knowing who was responsible for which pieces, picking up where another left off and with only a few ever seeing the end result of their work. Still, every time I was in that office, someone was always working at that puzzle table. I think that we, as patients, found putting those pieces back into place was a reminder that although we were broken at the moment, we were doing what we could to put ourselves back together again.

We are all like those jigsaw puzzles. We just don’t get to see the picture on the box  while we build our puzzles. Only God knows what that picture looks like and how our pieces fit together. He has a master plan. All those little pieces may not make sense to us now but one day, those pieces will come together and it will all become clear and it will be amazing. Nothing is an accident. No event is unplanned. Even the bad stuff is part of our puzzles. Those dark pieces blend in with the light ones to make one beautiful picture. We just don’t understand that until the puzzle starts to come together.

We go through life assembling our pieces. Some of us try to build a foundation, plan things out… like the person who finds all the corners and edges first. Some of us jump in with both feet and figure it out once we get there… like the person who starts in the middle and works their way out. Some of us go through life without direction and somehow muddle through… like the person who tries random pieces to see if they fit. Our lives don’t come with directions. We have to find our own way. It may be difficult at times but we have to trust that our box came with the right number of pieces. We have to have faith that the picture on our box is beautiful, even when we can’t see it. We have to know that God will always be there to help us put all our pieces together, even when they don’t seem to fit.

Just like the puzzles at the cancer center, our pieces are put together by many different people. Some will form your edges. Some will fill up your insides. Some will add a piece and walk away. Some will still be there when your puzzle is complete. Some will tear a few pieces away but there will always be someone else who will put those pieces back together again. We can only be “whole” if we have all our “pieces”, the good and the bad. Our pieces tell our story and our experiences paint our picture.  Whether good or bad, the experiences we share with others become a part of their puzzles and affect their pictures. Our actions serve to build up or to break apart puzzles too. We really do have the power to add beauty to the picture on their box or to strip away a few pieces so that their picture may never be complete. Unkind words, selfish actions and lack of caring can forever change someone’s picture. Think about how easily a small puzzle piece can be lost and how frustrating it is to work on a 1000 piece puzzle only to find there are only 997 pieces in the box. We should do our best to remember that we are all brothers and sisters and God wants us to take care of each other.  God wants us to walk through this life, gathering our pieces and fitting them together while helping to complete the puzzles of others… with caring, with compassion and with love. When we help others to gather their pieces, we also help the pictures on our puzzle boxes become even more beautiful.  My wish for everyone reading this is that your box is full of all the right pieces and you are blessed with many who will help you fit them together.  May God bless all the ‘puzzle builders’ in this world.


Through My Daughter’s Eyes

It had been a really long day.  After a few hectic weeks at work and weekends full of activities, I was grateful for an unusual  evening at home, just hanging out with the kids and watching television.  It was nearing bedtime so everyone was winding down. My nine-year old daughter, Kalea, asked me if she could look something up on my phone. At first, I told her, “No”.  She was always on my phone and it drove me crazy. She said that she wanted to look something up that I was “really going to like”.  I figured it was going to be another one of those videos of kids doing silly things on YouTube but I reluctantly handed over my phone. She played around on the phone and handed it back to me.  It was a video of the music and lyrics to Rachel Platten’s “Fight Song”.  (Watch video below)   I was confused and then she said, “Mom, it reminds me of you because you had cancer”.  I didn’t understand.  Then, she said, “Mom, it’s called Fight Song” and you fought cancer. It reminds me of you.” Her words took my breath away. I think my heart stopped for a second too. My mind was trying to wrap around what she just said to me. Tears poured out of my eyes as I hugged my daughter and we watched the rest of the lyrics play on the video.

I gave her an extra hug at bedtime and then went in my room so I could process what she just said.  It seemed so simple.  I did fight cancer. That was true but it was so much more than that. When I got sick, my kids were my first concern. Once I accepted that I had cancer and had a battle ahead of me, I was really worried about how it was going to affect them. I didn’t want them to know. Kalea was going into first grade and Kade was starting kindergarten. They were too young. I wanted to protect them from all of it.

When I had what seemed like 100’s of medical appointments and tests after my initial diagnosis, I scheduled them during the school day. The kids weren’t even aware of what was happening at first.  When a treatment plan was in place and chemotherapy drew near, we told the kids that I was “sick” but the doctor was going to make me better. I was going to have to take medicine that might make me tired or make my stomach hurt. My kids didn’t know a lot about cancer but they knew it was bad. We never used the word ‘cancer’ when we talked to them. I didn’t like saying that word out loud yet either.

I wasn’t sure how the kids were going to deal with my hair falling out. I had a wig before my treatment started because I didn’t want the kids to see me bald or see my hair coming out in clumps. The day I picked it up, I didn’t have time to hide it well.  Kalea happened to find it in my closet. Because Halloween was approaching, she assumed it was for a costume and asked me about it. I took the opportunity to tell her that the medicine I had to take was going to make me lose my hair. I saw the fear in her eyes and tried to lighten the mood by telling her it would grow back but it would take a while and that I was embarrassed about it so I got a wig. She was excited about that and felt like we had a special secret. We took turns trying it on. We were giggling and making silly faces in the mirror.

I remember being really tired after a chemo treatment one weekend. Two days after my treatment, I had to get a shot that boosted my white blood cell count.  Every time I got the shot, like clockwork, about 5 hours later, the effects would hit me. I guess my body was so busy making white blood cells that it robbed me of the energy to do anything else. I used to feel like my limbs were soaking in cement.  I seriously couldn’t move. Those effects lasted a few hours and then for days, I had a cycle of symptoms. I was feeling particularly awful but my kids were missing me and wanted my attention.  They wanted me to play a game, sit on the floor with them, do all the things that I used to do with them…but I simply couldn’t.  I knew they were disappointed and I felt horrible.  I had to come up with something quick so I asked them to put on a show for me.  The kids loved that idea and they quickly went to work.  It was one of the best afternoons as the kids sang and danced and performed skits for me and I was able to be entertained and engaged with them all from the comfort of my couch. It is one of my fondest memories.

I was looking forward to Valentine’s Day. I bought all the fixings for a chocolate fondue night with my husband and the kids to celebrate. Unfortunately, I was in the middle of the reconstruction process and the way the calendar fell, I had to have an appointment that morning. The reconstruction process was extremely painful.  After each treatment, I would often be bedridden, forced to stay completely still, flat on my back for about 8 or 9 hours before I could breathe without being in tremendous pain. It was the worst part of my treatment. I remember lying there with tears running down the side of my face but I was unable to wipe them because that would require me to move and that would simply be too painful. My kids came home from school, excited about their valentines and looking forward to our family fun night. My wonderful husband salvaged the night for the kids as he muddled through the chocolate fondue, without me. They had a blast. I could hear them from upstairs. I so desperately wanted to be a part of it. I remember feeling so separated from my normal life at that time. The kids came upstairs to give me hugs (careful hugs) and kisses at bedtime. My kids had fun but they were upset that I wasn’t a part of it. I always resented the time cancer took away from my family.

The end of my radiation treatments was the official end of my treatment or in medical jargon, my EOT. I got to ring the celebration bell at the treatment center when I finished that 28th treatment. When I walked outside, my friends had placed balloons on my car.  When I came home, my Mom had put pink balloons everywhere — they were on the mailbox outside and she filled the house with 28 pink balloons to celebrate the end of the 28 radiation treatments I endured. My kids were a part of the celebration. After dinner that night, we went outside and we released those balloons…and released all the pain, fear and everything else we went through right along with them. It was such a wonderful feeling.

I tried my best to protect my children from the harsh realities of a cancer diagnosis. I kept things as normal as possible for them even when I felt like my world was upside down. For 406 days, I battled cancer. For 406 days, we still functioned as a family.  I fought for my life without surrendering my life to my illness.  The lyrics in this video will forever stay in my heart. My daughter put them there.  What an amazing gift she gave me. Although I like to think I shielded my kids from what I went through, the truth is that they lived it right along with me. My hope was that they wouldn’t remember much about those days. Then, tonight, Kalea showed me that she knew way more than I thought she did.  I realize now that they were watching me.  I realize now that Kalea knows I fought hard to beat cancer. I realize now that she is proud of me. I realize now that my daughter thinks I am strong. I realize now… just how strong she is too.

My Armor of Sunshine

My Mom surprised me with a bright yellow raincoat the other day. I had a blue one that had a rip in the shoulder. As a busy Mom, I typically put function over fashion and continued to wear the coat with the rip in it. Over time, the rip got bigger and bigger until a bit of fabric on the shoulder flopped over allowing water and cold air to go right through it. Like a hole in a roof, the ripped coat no longer protected me from the rain. My Mom knew that I was constantly on the go, in and out of the car, with the kids and for work. My Mom pointed out the rip in the coat but I was always too busy to go buy a new one. Springtime brought with it lots of rain showers and stormy afternoons. My Mom wasn’t having it anymore. She bought me the coat because she was my Mom and she wanted to make sure I was protected.
When she gave it to me, she was concerned that I wouldn’t like it. She was afraid I wouldn’t like the color. It was the brightest, most cheery shade of yellow. It was the color of the crayon a child chose to draw the sun on their picture. It was the color  those “lemon drops” would be that you sang about in the childhood song. It was the color of the first daffodil that popped up in the springtime. It was the color of happy. My Mom had nothing to worry about because I thought the color was absolutely perfect!
This coat made a statement. Imagine the most dreary day full of gray clouds and pouring rain. I loved the thought of putting on that bright yellow coat, zipping it up and pulling up the hood on a day like that. I could go out into the cold, the wind, and the rain wearing my own little piece of sunshine. The waterproof material was seamless. Not a single raindrop was going to seep through to the inside. The water rolled right off. The oversized hood covered my head and offered an extra bit of fabric that shielded my face. The super soft yellow-and-white checkered lining kept me warm inside. Like a mother’s love, the bright yellow coat hugged and protected me from the elements. When I took off the coat, I found that my armor of sunshine kept me warm, dry and unscathed by the outside world.
Even when I wasn’t wearing that coat, I walked through this world with an armor of sunshine. In my lifetime, I weathered many storms just like everyone did. We all had our own stories. I was betrayed by people I trusted. I suffered great losses. I battled a deadly disease. Still, just as that yellow coat allowed the rain to bounce off of me, my own personal armor of sunshine left my soul untouched. I remained positive through the most dire of circumstances. I could have allowed myself to become bitter and jaded and mad at the world but instead, I chose to put on my bright yellow raincoat, splash a smile across my face and say “Take that, world! You won’t break me”.
Daily, I struggled with the negativity in this world. It was often difficult to watch the news or to read a local paper.  The stories were heartbreaking. A simple trip to the grocery store or local restaurant included example after example of how horribly people treated each other. Rude customers shouted at cashiers over coupons or humiliated a waitress over a lunch order. Aggressive drivers honked their horns and yelled out the window in parking lots . I never watched scary movies. There was enough scary stuff in the everyday.  I tried to avoid people and places where bad things might happen. I made my social circle smaller and smaller.  I surrounded myself with people who were pure of heart.  Still, I had to interact with the outside world which could be a very cold, dark place.

Some people were just plain miserable. Some people looked for problems. Some people were hateful towards each other. Some people took pleasure in tearing others apart. Some people that I trusted disappointed me. I saw it every day but I tried to stay positive and to be that little bit of sunshine peeking out from behind the rain clouds. It wasn’t always easy but I chose to look for the sunshine even when everyone around me chose to walk around with dark clouds over their heads. I never understood why people chose to live their lives that way.  It really was a choice.
When bad weather approached, I wrapped up tightly to protect myself from the winds of negativity and the showers brought on by unsettled circumstances. I never wanted that misery to permeate into my soul and to dampen my spirit. I never wanted other people’s darkened views to cast a shadow over mine. I never wanted that … so I simply never let it happen.
The thoughtful gift of the perfectly yellow raincoat warmed my heart and soul. It was particularly fitting that my Mom was the one who gave it to me. When I was little, she always made it better. When I was growing up, she was always there to pick me up when I was down. When I became an adult, she became my best friend and my biggest cheerleader. When I was sick, my Mom fought right along with me. She helped me with the kids and the house when I was too exhausted from chemotherapy. She took care of me after I had surgery or wasn’t feeling well. She wrapped me up in the armor of a mother’s love. She prayed and she willed me back to health. Only now that I am a Mom did I truly understand just how difficult it was for her to watch me suffer during those hard times. She was my sunshine during my storm. She was that hopeful ray of sunlight peeking out from behind the clouds during my darkest hours. She was the one who taught me how to weather life’s storms with grace, with hope and with dignity. I thanked her for the gift that day but it was so much more than just a thoughtful gesture. That bright yellow coat protects me from the rain, wind and cold but my Mom was and always will be my true armor of sunshine.

Sprinkling Confetti

I love confetti.  It is so sparkly and festive.  It can add a touch of flair to a decorated table, offer a glittery surprise inside a birthday card. In large doses, it creates a sparkly rainfall that screams celebration. No matter what the occasion or the application, one thing that is always certain – confetti sticks around.  Think about it.  That confetti that added sparkle to your tabletop is all over the floor at the end of the night.  That confetti slipped into a birthday card spills out all over your lap.  After a huge celebration complete with falling confetti, you will find it through your hair and behind your ears for days.  Sometimes, it can be months later and a piece of that confetti might show up in unexpected places.  I admire confetti for its staying power.

Some people avoid confetti because it is a mess to clean up after the celebration is over.  I think that is a good thing.  Why do we have to clean up the celebration like it never happened?  Isn’t it a sweet surprise to find a bit of sparkle amongst the cookie crumbs and pet hair in your dustpan? Isn’t it a little reminder of all the fun you had during that celebration? We don’t need to sweep up all of our memories and throw them away.  I say, let’s spread that confetti around!

Of course, I’m not talking about strolling through the streets flinging real confetti wherever you go. As fun as that sounds, I am talking about spreading around our own personal confetti.  Everyone has it.  We all leave a little something behind wherever we go.  Some people leave a trail of sparkly, glittery, pearlescent pieces of themselves.  People walk away from a conversation with these confetti sprinklers with a smile on their face.  Just like the real stuff, that kind of confetti lingers too.  It doesn’t just get swept away and forgotten, that kind of confetti stays with them.  Every once in a while, long after the confetti was sprinkled, a piece of that confetti shows up in unexpected places, like in their hearts.

There are people who just naturally sprinkle confetti and there are those that sprinkle mud.  There are people who leave you feeling good about yourself while others leave your feeling bad.  Some people are in a constant state of happiness and others are just Grumpy Gusses, all day, every day.  I think if people were more aware of what they were ‘sprinkling’, maybe some of those Grumpy Gusses would turn into Happy Hannah’s.  Some people walk around miserable all the time.  I can’t help but think that maybe all they need is for someone to sprinkle a little confetti on them to brighten their days.

I like to think that I am a confetti sprinkler. I try to be friendly to everyone. I try to treat people the way I would like to be treated. I try to compliment people when I can.  Everyone likes to hear good things about themselves.  I remember hearing someone say that when we have an interaction with someone, we should leave them feeling better about themselves than they did before they met us.  So, in other words, you should leave some of your confetti behind.  Your confetti could be a smile, some praise, a few kind words…it really doesn’t matter.

I try to sprinkle my confetti in a lot of different ways. I smile at people, I say ‘hello’, I hold doors for people, lend a hand whenever I can.  It isn’t hard to brighten someone’s day.  It isn’t hard to go a little out of your way to help another person.  It usually turns out that the little extra effort we put forth pales in comparison to what those being sprinkled upon get out of it. I want to leave a little sparkle behind me wherever I go.  I want to sprinkle my own form of confetti.  It doesn’t need to be a cascading shower of confetti but just enough to add a little sparkle to someone’s day.  It makes me feel good to make someone happy.  The more confetti you sprinkle, the more your personal inventory of confetti grows.

I am a firm believer in what we put out into the world comes back to us. I plan on sprinkling lots of confetti around this world. By doing so, I can ensure that I will have an endless supply. Really, in this often scary world we live in, who can ever have too much confetti?

So, start building up your own supply and start sprinkling some of your own confetti around this world.


When I was in school, I used to get anxious when the teacher took attendance and I would have to raise my hand and call out “Here!”.  I absolutely hated that.  I was painfully shy and waiting for the teacher to call my name filled me with dread.  The last thing I wanted to do was call attention to myself.  I felt uncomfortable announcing my presence, I guess. Back then, I would have preferred crawling under a desk to talking in front of the class. It is funny how some things change and some things stay the same.

On Monday night, my daughter had a “Shoot Out” for her basketball league.  The girls had one minute to get as many baskets as they could.  My daughter, Kalea, was very nervous.  She told me that she didn’t care if she won but she wanted to get at least one basket so she wasn’t embarrassed.  Kalea is a pretty good shot so I didn’t think one would be a problem but I could tell that her stomach was in knots and she was unsure of herself.  During practice before the event, Kalea did really well.  She was making most of her baskets but she still was not feeling confident.  Finally, it was her turn.  Kalea got up and waited for the bell.  She shot the first basket from the “2 point line” and it went right in.  She stumbled a few times but once she caught her rhythm, she ended up with 11 points!  When she was done, she wore a very ‘quiet smile’.  I could tell though if you could turn that smile inside out and see what was going on inside of her, it would have been a very ‘loud smile’. She kept her cool though. She ended up placing third in her grade for the most baskets and got an extra medal for placing in the competition. She was beaming (quietly, of course).  When we got in the car, we had just shut the doors and that smile erupted into squeals and screams of, “Mom, I got third. I got third. I got third”. I was so happy for her and I was grateful I was there.

The next day was Tuesday and it was also St. Patrick’s Day. I planned a scavenger hunt for the kids.  They had 8 clues that led them around the house until they found their ‘pot of gold’ which was some green cupcakes, gold chocolate coins and some other holiday trinkets and treats. The kids enjoyed it.  They liked finding the clues and discovering their ‘treasure’ but most of all, they enjoyed the tradition we started a few years back.  I typically planned activities like these around all the holidays, even the silly ones. After I took pictures of the kids wearing their leprechaun beards and holding some of their ‘loot’, it was time to get my son ready for karate. Today was the day that he was going to get his yellow belt. My son, Kade, was very shy, a lot like me when I was younger.  He didn’t have a lot of confidence in himself. My husband signed him up for karate in an effort to boost that confidence. So far, it had been working.

In class, he was a bundle of nerves waiting to get his yellow belt and certificate. As part of the ceremony, Kade was told to turn around and take off his white belt and fold it properly.  This was something that he did without a problem every day when he came home from class.  Today, though, he fumbled with the belt and he couldn’t seem to get it just right. A perfectionist like his mother, he worked at it until he did what he was supposed to do.  He turned around and when his turn came, Kade stepped in front of his teacher. The yellow belt was placed around his waist, the certificate was passed off with a handshake and Kade’s smile slowly crept across his face. He had that very same smile that Kalea wore the night before, the one that if you turned it inside out, it would have lit up the room. He was glowing from the inside out. I was so happy for him and I was so grateful I was there.

As I took my seat to watch the rest of the class, I was overcome with emotion. It was a happy moment but it took me back to a difficult time.  When I was sick, I used to sit on the side of the kids’ beds, watching them sleep and praying to God that He would allow me to be their mother for a while longer. They were only 5 and 6 years old. They shouldn’t have to grow up without a mother.  They needed me to be there for them. They needed me to wrap my arms around them and tell them I loved them. They needed me to kiss away their boo boos. They needed me to make everything better, like only a Mom can do. I remember staring at them, stroking their hair and regretting every moment that I missed, every moment that I rushed through, every milestone I couldn’t wait for them to reach. I was bargaining with God.  I would do anything, give anything…if He would just spare me for now, give me a little more time. I wanted nothing more than to have the honor of raising my little boy and my little girl. I wasn’t scared of dying but I was terrified of leaving my children.

As I sat along the wall after the ceremony, watching my son finish his class, wearing his new yellow belt and his deceptively ‘quiet’ smile and hearing echoes of Kalea’s excited squeals from the night before, my heart was bursting with love for my children and gratitude for all of life’s blessings. I promised myself and God that if I was going to be okay, I would not take one moment for granted. See, these are the moments I was afraid I would miss. I had the privilege of watching my baby girl shoot hoops all season and then earn a medal at the “Shoot Out” at the end of the year.  I had the privilege of watching my little man work on forms and kicks and then earn a yellow belt after all his hard work. I had the privilege to plan a fun surprise for my children after school on St. Patrick’s Day.  I had the privilege of making memories. I had the privilege of being their Mom.  I had the privilege of being present, right here, right now.  I used to be one of those people, one of those Moms, who rushed through life, who didn’t always take the time to celebrate all the little moments that make up that life. When I was sick and my life was uncertain, those little moments were all I wanted. I wasn’t going to take any of those moments for granted anymore, not when they could have so easily been taken away.

Celebrating special days (and ordinary days) with my children and family was now a priority.  Back then, I sat at my children’s  bedside, tears running down my face as I pictured my children at school functions and sporting events, looking out into the crowd… and seeing an empty seat. These days, I sat in the crowd, tears running down my face, watching my children do amazing things, thanking God for allowing me to be present.  Watching Kalea walk up to receive her medal, watching Kade accept his yellow belt and certificate, watching them both run through the house to find the next clue for our scavenger hunt…I was there for all of those moments. We made a lot of memories, just in the last few days.  Imagine the memories we can make in a lifetime.

It brings me back to my school days. Back then, I sat at my desk and nervously answered the teacher, afraid to announce my presence, preferring to stay quiet and remain unnoticed. Today, I excitedly raise my hand up to God, say a prayer of gratitude and shout to the heavens, “Here!”.

Kalea medals2015-03-18 22 24 00

Lessons Learned

I like to think that when bad stuff happens, we come out of it with a few scars and a lot of lessons.


Being a cancer survivor, I walk a fine line between feeling invincible because I kicked cancer’s butt…and knowing all too well just how fragile I really am, how life can change in an instant – for the good and for the bad.  Lately, I’ve heard from friends about people who had cancer and died.  I’ve heard stories about survivors who were living their lives, free from cancer and then boom…it comes back.  A dear childhood friend is currently watching her Mom fight cancer for the second time.  Surprised by the news, I mentioned to her that I thought she had been doing so well.  She simply said, “She was doing great…until she wasn’t”.  See, just as I didn’t get a warning that I would soon be diagnosed with cancer, I won’t get a warning if it ever came back. None of us do. So, I can sit and wait around for that to happen or I can live my life. I choose to do the latter.

I like to think that when the bad stuff happens in our lives, we come out of it with a few scars and a lot of lessons.  God gives us challenges in life because He is working on us. He is shaping and molding us and teaching us things we need to learn.  I think that every cancer survivor questions God’s motives at some point but in the end, we learn to accept the hardship and embrace the lessons. Everyone’s experience is different.  Everyone’s lessons are different.  We all change between the day we are diagnosed with cancer and the day we trade in the title of “patient” for “survivor”. We just need to remember what we learned along the way.

I learned many lessons but I highlighted some of the more important ones. I can’t speak for all survivors but I think that most people who have faced cancer head on and lived to tell about it probably feel the same way. I am writing them down both to share with others and to remind myself of what I have learned along the way. In the beginning, it was surreal stepping back into real life and then before you know it, you (almost) forget about all that you have gone through and start living life (almost) like before. That’s when I need a reality check. That’s when I have to remember the lessons God wanted me to learn so that I don’t forget.

I focus on the important people in my life.  Before cancer, I loved my family.  That is a given; however, I often spent way more hours at work than I should have.  That old saying about how you won’t wish you spent more time at work at the end of your days is so true. Many nights while I was going through treatment, unsure of the outcome, I cried at the edge of my children’s beds, watching them sleep and regretting every moment I spent away from them. I focus on my children, my husband, my Mom and my true friends. The important people in my life are my priority.

I’m selfish with my time.  I used to join committees and attend functions for which I didn’t have the time or a real interest. I didn’t want to miss an opportunity that might help me advance my business or open a new door. I used to accept invitations from acquaintances to home parties and silly outings. I don’t do that anymore. It takes a lot for me to give up a Friday night or a Saturday afternoon with my children.  I don’t mean to be rude. I just know that if I say ‘yes’ to something, it better be important enough to give up that amount of time with my children.

I’ve changed my priorities. Before cancer, I wanted a lot more professionally. I wanted more personally.  I wanted to get another degree. I wanted to grow my business much bigger. Now, I just don’t.  I am content with what I have, with what I am, right now.  I don’t need any more badges or notches on my belt. I’m doing just fine.  I am putting my efforts into enjoying my life and enjoying my family.

I appreciate the beautiful things. I am ashamed of all the beauty I missed before I got sick, the beauty I took for granted.  I notice everything now – the beautiful sunset, the fall leaves cascading down when the wind blows, the first daffodil popping up in spring. I see all those beautiful things. I take notice … and I take lots of pictures.

I look for the good.
I used to be easily annoyed with people. I used to pick out their flaws.  I don’t do that anymore. I look for the good in people, even when it is hard to find. If I don’t see it right away, then I really look for it. If I still don’t find it, I pray for them. Their lives must be very difficult if they make it so difficult for others.

I forgive more easily.  I used to hold grudges. I held on to grudges dating back to elementary school. I don’t do that anymore.  People have hurt me deeply.  I forgave them.  I did it because that is what God asks of me and because it brings peace to my soul.  Forgive…and move on.

I’ve made my circle smaller…and tighter. I used to have a lot of acquaintances and I considered them friends. I used to ‘collect’ contacts. I don’t do that anymore. I cling to the people I love the most.  I hold on tight to my family and am fiercely loyal to my friends. I am still an open person. I am just more selective of who I let into my circle and how far I let them in.

I have an intense need to give back. I was always doing charitable things. I always looked for ways to give.  Now, I need to give. I’ve heard that is part of ‘survivor’s guilt’, those thoughts about why I was spared when so many others weren’t so lucky. Maybe that is part of it but I like to think that God opened my heart up a little more.

Material things don’t matter. I don’t care about how big someone’s house is, how much money they make, what kind of car they drive. I don’t care about things. They may be beautiful but they have no relevance to the kind of person someone is.  I am more impressed by how people treat others.

Superficial has no place in my life. I don’t care about appearances. I know better now how little that has to do with the person you are.  I worried so much about losing my hair during chemotherapy. When I was bald, I wore a wig but I didn’t wear makeup.  Before cancer, I wouldn’t have left the house for work without makeup. I don’t worry about things like that any more. Don’t get me wrong. I am so happy to have hair that will go up into a ponytail again. I just don’t spend hours making sure every hair is in place. I have better things to do with my time. The people who matter don’t care whether my hair, clothes or outfit is perfect.

I have more compassion. I feel for people. I always have but now, I feel so much for people that it hurts sometimes. I want to help people. I want to make them feel better.

I’ve developed a strong aversion to negativity. I don’t like to hear negative things. People who are constantly complaining, constantly miserable turn me off right away. I avoid people like that. We should embrace the positive. If you can’t do that, I can’t embrace you…even if I want to.

I don’t care about your drama. I don’t have time to listen to it. I avoid that at all costs. I keep things simple. I say what I mean and mean what I say. I treat others the way I want to be treated. It takes too much precious energy to get involved in all that nonsense.

I am grateful.
I am thankful for every day that I wake up in the morning. I am thankful for the chaos that sometimes creeps into my life. As crazy as it sounds, I am even thankful for my cancer diagnosis. The road was difficult but I learned so much that I will carry with me through the rest of this life that I was blessed to live (and keep living).

I don’t know how much time I have left on this earth.  No one does.  When I found out I had cancer, I wasn’t sure what to expect.  When I beat cancer, I felt a responsibility to live the time I have left in a good way.  I will always remember the lessons that I learned as I went through my “journey” and will live this life the way God intended me to do so.

Boyhood Dreams Come True

Pirates Camp 

To say that my husband is a baseball fan is a bit of an understatement.  You know that seasonal affective disorder where people get depressed during the winter months? I believe my husband has a touch of baseball affective disorder.  He looks forward to opening day the way a child looks forward to Christmas morning.  He watches our local Pittsburgh Pirates and is a season ticket holder.  He has coached our children’s baseball and softball teams.  He plays on two adult baseball leagues.  When I first met him, he played up to four nights a week in local softball leagues.  He reads the Major League Baseball rule book every year ‘for fun’.  Even with all these details, I still find it hard to convey just how much he truly loves baseball in a few sentences. He eats, sleeps and breathes baseball.

Last year, I surprised my husband by signing him up for the Pittsburgh Pirates Fantasy Camp. He was an amazing husband and he was particularly wonderful while I was battling cancer.  This is a gift I wanted to give him.  The year before the camp had filled up so there were no spots available.  This year, I was determined to get him on that roster.  I contacted the man in charge and found out that there was one spot available.  I know God held that spot open for him. After all the details were finalized, I sent him on a scavenger hunt around our local area with clues that ended up here in our home where he was presented with the welcome letter for fantasy camp.

He couldn’t sleep the night before.  He was too excited.  He arrived at PNC Park and found a uniform hanging in the locker room with his name on the back along with his number, #9.  He sent me a picture from his phone.  The kids and I drove down to see him play his first game. He was suited up in a major league uniform, out on the field, ready to play the game he loved since he was a little boy.  I don’t think the smile ever left his face.

He was living his dream.  He played second. He played third. He played short stop.  He even had a chance to pitch from the pitcher’s mound at PNC Park. He had good hits. He made good plays.  He dove. He got his uniform dirty. He had an injury badge of honor. He was so happy.  I was so happy for him.

He had so much fun, he went again this year.  Although the second time around may not have been quite as ‘magical’, he still had an amazing time.  I got to watch him play again but this time, I was able to focus on the big picture. The year before, I don’t think I took my eyes off of him.  This year, I could watch the game, watch all the players and take in the whole experience.

These were all grown men. They had all lived a lot of ‘life’. They had families – wives, children, some had grandchildren. They had careers. They were strong.  They were heads of households, heads of departments, heads of companies. That following Monday, they would all go back to their mountain of responsibilities but until then, they could live out their childhood dreams. They were a million things but tonight, they were all just little boys playing the game of baseball. Like special effects in a movie, I could easily imagine the little boy inside each of those grown men, standing out there in a uniform way too big for them. I felt so blessed being able to sit there and watch those men, especially my husband, out on that field. We were all part of something very special. I can’t wait to do it again next year.