365 days

Well, Daddy, this is one letter I never pictured writing. Actually, I had avoided writing anything at all since you left. I like to come back and read your letters, and I kept telling myself that I should tell you about all of the ways the girls remember you. They look out the window and wave at the sky in the morning to tell you hello. When we had a picnic last week, the little ones did their new dance while they looked at the sky and said they were "showing Papa because he likes our dances." L calls you on her "phone" all the time to talk about the games you used to be able to play with her. K is so quiet. I can't get her to say much about you, but I know that's how she protects herself from her sadness.

This week you have been gone one year. 365 days without touching you or seeing your face. 365 days with no cancer in our lives. 365 days of stories that I didn't get to tell you. 365 days of memories you missed out on. 365 days to start to heal.
Then I went to the doctor.

In the midst of this story, let me tell you about all of the amazing ways you played a part. I dream about you pretty frequently. I get frustrated because you are always sick in my dreams. They are so realistic that I can't enjoy seeing and touching you again. A few months ago, I had 3 dreams in the course of about 2 months in which you and I both had cancer. One time I specifically remember telling you that I didn't want to die, and you told me that I wouldn't, but I didn't believe you. Finally, after the third dream and reading a story about a young mother who died of cancer at 38, I decided I must go to the doctor- just to make myself feel better.

I haven't been to the doctor in three years. It's easy to tell me how stupid that was- you're right. But I had just had a baby, so I figured I was good for a year. Then you got sick and I cancelled it last summer because I was too busy, and I figured it had only been two years. Then the dreams came, and I realized it had been three years, so I got the message- from you, the universe, God, whoever- and made an appointment in late June.

I went in on that day two weeks ago without even a second thought. I was excited to see my midwife, whom I hadn't seen since L was born. We talked about the girls, you, vacations, just life. And then she stopped and looked in my eyes and said, "do you feel that?" I realized that she kept touching the same spot. And I did feel it. She said, "It's probably nothing, but I am concerned enough that I want you to get it checked." I think I asked her if she was kidding. She wasn't.

While I waited for the next appointment, it was other people's concern that got me worried. I kept telling myself that we were all overreacting and we were going to feel so stupid when it was nothing. So we went to the follow-up- just to make ourselves feel better.

When you were sick and they made us go to that awful family meeting, I had this overwhelming urge to grab your hand and run. Just run. Because if they couldn't tell us, then we didn't have to know. We could just live. I felt that again as I was walking into the clinic. I felt the need to just run. If I didn't go, they couldn't tell me anything. After all, I've never been this healthy in my life so I'm probably just going through all of this expensive bullshit for nothing anyway.

Of course I didn't run. I didn't even run when they told me they needed "more pictures." I didn't run when they wouldn't say anything to me. I didn't run when they brought us into the quiet room with watercolor paintings and kleenex on the table. I didn't run when two doctors came in instead of one. I didn't run when they gave me a 50/50 chance of cancer. I didn't even run when they told me I had to come back right away for more tests. After all, I knew I was going to feel stupid when it was nothing. So I would go back for more tests- just to make myself feel better.

They did the tests and wouldn't tell me anything. They spoke in generalities and hypotheticals which made me so angry. They told me to sit and wait. Maybe 2 days, maybe 7, who knows. I asked them to call me as soon as they knew. I told them I was prepared.
I wasn't prepared.

They called at 1:20 on August 28th. My midwife was out, so someone else had to call. "Angela, are you at work?"
"Yes, but it's okay."
"Angela, are you alone?"
"Yes, but I'm okay."
"I'm so sorry, but it looks like you have cancer. It's what's called Invasive Ductal Carcinoma. We think it's a Stage 2. I'm sorry, but I'm not an expert so I can't really tell you more than that right now. The doctor can call you later. I'm so sorry."

I cried until I realized that she was just going to sit on the phone feeling sorry for me until I quit. So I quit long enough to convince her I was fine. I was thankful to have a sound proof office. On the way home, I found a friend who fought through the same thing two years ago. She let me ask anything I wanted. All I could think was, "what's going to be the worst part?"
"Pretty much everything for the next year is going to suck."
But I could look at her and see that there is an end. Or a new beginning. Or both. Someday maybe I would have trouble remembering this moment and the horrible depth of fear I was feeling.

The doctor called while I was on my way home to tell me that I could expect a mastectomy and probably four rounds of chemo. And I should know I would lose my hair. Thanks- I hadn't figured that one out already.

I drove really slowly because I wanted J to have as much time as possible living in normalcy before I told him. I thought about staying away for hours so he could be mad at me for being late instead of having to think about what was actually happening to our life. I remember walking into the house and the girls running up to me screaming and grabbing my legs like any other day. I felt so guilty for what they are undoubtedly going to see and experience over the next two years. Then I saw him, and all I had to do was nod my head.
It was a very long night.

I waited a few days to talk to the girls and to Mom. As soon as I asked the girls if they had heard of cancer, Claire said, "that's what Papa had." I explained to them that you can get cancer anywhere, and that not everyone dies. I tried to laugh about what was going to happen to my body so that they wouldn't be scared. They were still scared. The little girls kept asking me if I was going to die and go to heaven. They don't want me to leave them to go to the hospital. They don't want people to see me "with no hair on." But we got through that together. And you would be so happy to see how amazing your son has been. He is there for me every step of the way- taking care of Mom and me. He's brave and strong- just like you.

You know, Daddy, many people have mentioned how sad it is that this is the one year anniversary of you leaving, but to me it's not all sad. I was so scared, so angry when I found out, but I was also ready to fight. I saw you fight more valiantly than any person could imagine. You fought a monster that you could NOT beat- just to show me how it was done. You taught me how to do this, Daddy. You gave me a reason not to have a pity party- because I have a monster that I CAN beat. Remember that day we walked into the chemo room for the first time and we were horrified and scared to death? Well, I've been there with you, so when I do it this time, the monster has a name and I know the end game. Do you see, Daddy? I know why you had to go now. You had to prepare me for this fight. And even in my really, really dark moments when I think about the what-ifs, I am less scared because I know that my Daddy is there waiting for me.

Wednesday I will spend all day in the hospital. I have gained a new appreciation for what you must have experienced. I feel like a science experiment. All of the questions and the tests and the needles. I'll feel mad and scared and sick- and I'll feel like I really want to run away. But then it will be over and I'll go home and try to be Angela again and not the 34-year-old science experiment with a random case of cancer.

So thank you, Daddy. Thank you for showing me what to do. Thank you for holding my hand- in life and in death. I want you to know that God has blessed me with some seriously AMAZING people who will hold my hand now that you can't.
 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ufq8iMYvL0