Never Surrender

It’s been a few months since I last blogged. Bet you all thought I was done with this writing thing, huh? The truth of the matter is that I’ve had both nothing and everything to blog about, which leads me to…avoid blogging altogether.

I wanted to craft a post on how miserable catching Covid was and all the secondary problems I ended up with that caused me to be sick for over a month. (Still considered a “mild” case.) I wanted to talk about how amazing my community was for coming together to deliver food and medicine when I was in absolutely no condition to go out and husband was fishing in the remote wilderness of Canada.

I thought about writing a post on the difficulties and disappointments of being a still-querying writer after almost 8 years, of having 9 manuscripts finished, having queried 5 of them and still not having agent representation. On the last book, 9 agents requested the full manuscript to review. Most of those came back as form rejections with no feedback. 2 came back as R&Rs, which means revise & resubmit. Translation: “The agent loves it, but there are some aspects that aren’t going to be marketable. Change those up and send it back.” I’m still working on those changes. (And 2 of the 9 are still out for consideration with agents.)

I debated writing about accepting life as a spoonie, about knowing my own limitations and realizing I need to live within them. My hiking days are over. Guess I’ll just have to find new things to dive into… But only after I figure out how to walk without pain. Realizing at age 43 that my mobility is already affected, I’m concerned for what the future holds. In a world that is already so intolerant of those with disabilities, it’s difficult not to be fearful of where I may eventually end up.

Today’s appointment with the podiatrist who did my surgery in 2020 resulted in a script for custom ankle braces to help stabilize my very unstable ankles when I walk. Maybe I’ll have the older teen paint iridescent dragon scales on my ankle braces. But first, I actually have to get them, which requires another appointment in two weeks for a custom mold. Who knows how long after that until I actually receive them? (Hope I can walk without (much) pain during our first college tour next month…) In the meantime, I’ve used the wait time as an excuse to purchase myself a much needed gift that I plan on using daily for my foot pain.

I thought of writing about healthcare in general. About the $1400 in medical bills we received in the mail for husband’s monthly injections to keep his cancer from advancing despite having met our deductible in – wait for it – FEBRUARY. I wanted to talk about having to spend hours on the phone to sort out the mishap to find out we don’t owe that money at all (as we already knew and the people issuing the bills did not). The mental gymnastics already ill people have to go through in this country every time they have to deal with doctors and hospitals is exhausting.

So here it is. My post about nothing and everything. And it’s not all bad. My kids are thriving, one involved in ice skating, one in volleyball. They are excelling in middle and high school and enjoying various clubs – art, science, language, and more. They love the school atmosphere. It’s gratifying to see how much they’ve persevered despite all that’s happened in the past two years.

Their perseverance is also a lesson for me, teaching me never to give up. Giving in? Sure. Life is all about making adjustments.

Giving up? Never.

Dropping the Ball

A parent’s job is never done. There’s always appointments and therapy and lessons and endless testing and school projects to keep track of. By the end of May, most parents (and teachers, really) are ready to collapse in a heap of exhaustion.

Myself, included.

Amidst the current Covid spike, there are also a handful of other viruses floating around right now, including the flu, and the cold I got from my kid three days ago. At the time, we had her PCR tested for Covid, even after her rapid antigen tests came up negative 4 times. (With her father having cancer, we can’t ever be *too* cautious.) She came up Covid negative with the PCR test, too, so you can bet there was much lamenting about missing the AJR concert she was supposed to attend on Sunday.

Anyway, she was kind enough to give the non-Covid virus to me despite our masking and isolation, and, suffice it to say, I’m not functioning on all cylinders, which feels very wrong at this time of year.

I forgot to RSVP to the school awards ceremony she was attending this morning, so we missed it, though I have high hopes she receives something other than ‘Most Dedicated for Gym’ today. (Seriously, she just texted me. That was the award she received. She’s mortified.)

Younger kiddo has a school dance tonight, so I had to take her shopping *yesterday* for something to wear because it slipped my mind all week long.

I missed pilling the cat twice this past week, too. She’s on regular meds – one for her thyroid and one to keep swelling off her brain from the terminal cancer that’s taken residence there. Thankfully, she didn’t seem much affected, nor was she angry with me. Frankly, I don’t think she noticed. I still feel guilty.

My point? Sometimes, the balls drop. Right to the floor. I’m tired. You’re tired. We’re all so, so tired. Are my kids fed? Do they have a safe place to exist? Do I encourage them? Have I given them what they need to succeed?

If the answer is yes, then nothing else matters. So yeah, I’m going to lie down on the floor now. I need a rest.

Oh, hey, look… there’s a ball down here.

#8pmWritingSprint

Any artist will tell you the key to progressing in an artistic endeavor is consistency. This applies to painting, drawing, digital art, music composition, and yes, writing. Maybe especially writing.

It should come as a surprise to exactly no one that, six months ago, I was deep in a writer’s block. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to write–I really, REALLY did. Putting aside the very unexpected whirlwind that stemmed from my husband’s second cancer diagnosis in four years, I didn’t know where the story was going, I didn’t have a reliable outline, and I had zero motivation to sit down and get the words down. I was so paralyzed by my fear of taking the story in the wrong direction and disappointing readers that I basically took it in no direction.

Fast forward to November, a month when writers simultaneously delight and despair in NaNoWriMo, an attempt to get 50k words written in a single month, and I forced myself to get words written. I still didn’t know where the story was going, but I knew I could definitely bullshit my way through at least 10-20k words with random scenes that would probably find their way into the novel somewhere. So that’s what I did.

Hooray, block over!

If only.

I added 10k words to the already existing 30k I had for a grand total of–drumroll, please–40k. Or less than half the word count needed for this novel.

It wasn’t until January that I really found my motivation again. In chatting with author Margot Ryan on Twitter, who also seemed to be lacking proper motivation, we decided to sprint.

What’s that? Oh, no no! Not sprint-sprint. (I think we’ve covered this in earlier blogs. Lorraine doesn’t run. Lorraine’s joints will not allow such a thing to happen.) Anyway, I’m talking about a writing sprint. Set the timer, write as many words as you can get down in 25 minutes, take a 5-minute break, then do it all over again for another 25 minutes. Report back on Twitter each time with word count, and boom–sprint is over.

In January, I added 20k words to my novel. Yes, my 40k was now 60k. We’re a week into February, and guess what? My 60k is now 70k. I don’t know what it is about this sprint that forces my brain to work, but suddenly, plot lines are falling into place, characters are setting up perfectly for their next scenes, and everything about this book is cruising.

So apparently, my brain just needs the threat of being judged by my friends and peers. I didn’t want to report back that I’d stared at a blank screen the entire time, right??? I couldn’t possibly let everyone down by getting in only half a dozen words! That would be mortifying! I had to succeed. I had to shine. I had to win. Is this my leftover AP Honors student mentality from high school? Who knows? But it worked.

Accountability apparently really is key to my productivity. And consistency has played a big part because ever since that day, Margot Ryan and I have been running the #8pmwritingsprint every night, where writers at any stage of the game (outlining, writing, editing – whatever!) have joined us to focus on their WIPs in two 25 minute sessions. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. The writing community on Twitter is beyond anything I could have imagined when I first joined. I’ve met so many amazing people I’m proud to call my friends.

So if you’re in the mood to write, but you don’t know what, come sprint with us. I promise the looming threat of your peers judging you will kick your brain right into a productive session. If nothing else, we’ll be there to cheer you on! (Because no one in the #8pmwritingsprint actually judges anyone. It’s not a competition. It’s a mini-intensive. Every night.)

Community is where it’s at. And the #8pmwritingsprint has it in spades. Come join us!

The Train

I wrote this essay months ago, just as schools across the country opened amidst a worldwide pandemic, and we faced yet another unique set of challenges in the Storms household. Months later, as 2021 comes to a close and the schools plan to open on schedule starting January 3, 2022 regardless of the dramatic spike in local Covid cases, I feel, again, that I’ve boarded a train I just can’t seem to disembark no matter how hard I try.


“You’re waiting for a train. A train that will take you far away. You know where you hope this train will take you, but you don’t know for sure. Yet it doesn’t matter, because we’ll be together.”

The words are from Inception, a 2010 blockbuster film that delved deep into dreams, and challenged the nature of reality with delightful, mind-boggling cinematic special effects. I introduced it to my kids recently, and after initially groaning about having to watch my choice of movie, my teen and tween couldn’t tear their eyes from the television.

Now, several weeks later, the quote about the train strikes me as particularly relevant. Facing a secondary liver cancer diagnosis after four years of being free from a rare pancreatic cancer diagnosis, husband and I feel as though we’ve boarded a train with no idea of our destination.

When people say “Cancer sucks,” the phrase should be taken literally. Cancer sucks your life away. It sucks away your dreams, your plans, your future, your hopes. It sucks away your children’s innocence and their childhood, leaving worry and anxiety in its wake. Cancer sucks away your motivation and your ability to do things as simple as figure out what’s for dinner tonight. Your mind is no longer yours because the thoughts you once dwelled on no longer seem important.

We don’t know how or why Nate developed a pancreatic neuroendocrine tumor four years ago, and having seen some of the best doctors in the country, we were confident that the cancer had been eradicated through a surgical procedure that left him with half a pancreas, no spleen, and no gallbladder. (That’s a distal pancreatectomy with splenectomy and cholecystectomy, if you’re in the market for medical terminology. Try saying that to your friends and family for months on end.) Even though he had complications that left him with increasingly larger drain tubes in his abdomen for six months, which meant we took nineteen trips to Philadelphia in a matter of twenty-three weeks—sometimes spending more hours on a train and in a car than we did in Interventional Radiology—we were optimistic that his cancer was history.

Since Nate’s most recent diagnosis, my mind is like a laundry room dryer, endlessly spinning the same pieces of clothing in dizzying circles. Only, the “pieces of clothing” are my thoughts, tumbling round and round, trying to piece together the information I’ve been given, sure that if I just think hard enough, I’ll be able to make sense of this diagnosis, to solve this hundred-thousand-piece puzzle that has no marked beginning and no good end.

And yet, once you’ve been given a cancer diagnosis, the idea of cancer never really goes away, even when you’ve been pronounced “cured.” Each time Nate gets a follow-up CT scan, we hold our breath. With each clear result, we release a sigh and get back to living, to work and school, to navigating the challenges of living in Covid-pandemic times. To celebrate his 3-year cancer-free anniversary, we donated blood together last year.

Then, two-weeks ago came the scan we’d been dreading since the start—the one with glaring anomalies on his liver. If a first-time cancer diagnosis was the earthquake of uncertainty that brought our world to a grinding halt, a secondary cancer diagnosis eighteen months into a worldwide pandemic is the tsunami that threatens to take down everything we’ve built.

The future we’ve allowed ourselves to envision in our imagination after those first shaky months and years since the initial diagnosis has once again been wiped clean to a blank slate of the unknown. His oncologist seems optimistic. The embolization procedure they want to use to starve the tumors by killing the blood flow that feeds them has a history of success.

But long-term success? That’s an outcome no one can predict.

We’ve unwittingly boarded a train with a mystery itinerary, and I have a funny feeling our journey won’t be like the tours offered by travel agencies to globetrotting hodophiles, since I sincerely doubt we’ll be allowed to disembark in Curaçao or Portugal.

Somehow we’ve managed to climb aboard the cancer train in the middle of a pandemic. This feels grossly unfair as we can’t even actually travel right now, and yet, the cancer train is still making all its regularly scheduled stops. To add insult to injury, once we’re on the cancer train, we’re not allowed off until the train comes to a complete stop and the doors open, which means we’re in for one hell of a ride. One might say the train is more like a roller coaster, and my family knows exactly how much I loathe noisy, rickety, vomit-inducing roller coasters.

The last time we went through this, we were reluctant to allow close friends and family to get wholly involved, but there were times we had no other choice. When Nate needed surgery during the last week of school, it was my newly-retired father who came to stay with my kids and pets while local friends drove the kids to and from school.

When Nate spiked a fever in the middle of the night two weeks after his drain tube was put in, we counted our blessings that our kids’ piano teacher could come over at midnight to stay with our already-sleeping seven- and eleven-year-olds.

When I was distraught because I had to tell the kids we couldn’t go out for simple treats like movies or ice cream because money was stretched thin and we just didn’t know what the next day would bring, an internet-made friend from halfway across the country begged for my address and sent gift cards so the kids could experience what kids should, even in—and maybe especially in—the worst of times.

When our trips to Philadelphia took longer than anticipated, or the train (the real train, not the metaphorical one) broke down and we had to walk twenty blocks, our neighbors were here to pick up our children from school, watch them, help them with homework, and feed them dinner until we came home, deflated and utterly exhausted.

So when he received the diagnosis this time, I wasn’t surprised by the outpouring of love and support from friends and family near and far. Offers to watch our pets, our house, our kids, make meals, or start a crowdfunding campaign were endless. Despite their own exhaustion, regardless of pandemic fatigue, friends and family provided us with a safety net of physical, emotional, and practical support.

“Whatever you need,” they said.

But what happens when you don’t know what you need?

Personally, I think I could use a two-hour full body massage and a week sitting at the beach to forget about the world, but that’s not going to happen right now. Instead, I get to homeschool an eleven-year-old who’s on our public school’s virtual learning platform due to Covid, but who, only months ago, was diagnosed with severe anxiety and OCD with ADHD tendencies, which means there’s no way she can tackle this amount of work on her own without my help. I play the role of a sixth grade teacher frequently in our house, and we’re only a week and a half into school. The pandemic may have made virtual schooling necessary, but cancer has made me not near as patient a teacher as I should be.

I’m a writer who is two and a half books deep into a fantasy trilogy, who promised my readers a third book by February of 2022, but who may have to break that promise for no reason other than that my brain won’t let me process words, let alone figure out plot and character arcs. So cancer has taken that, too, or at least pushed the completion of that final book to a distant train platform somewhere in my future.

I’m a mother who’s responsible for getting kids to volleyball practice, piano lessons, doctor appointments, dentist visits, and therapy appointments (because after a cancer diagnosis, we all have anxiety disorders in this house). That was the deal my husband and I made when I quit my full-time job five years ago in exchange for part-time work that allowed me more time to focus on writing, but cancer has taken that time and filled it instead with phone calls, emails, appointments, and endless, endless research.

And now I once again play the role of caregiver to a two-time cancer patient. (Which, for the record, is not nearly as exciting as being a two-time Academy Award winner.) I made a promise to my husband eighteen years ago that I’d be here for him in sickness and in health. As many times as it takes, no matter the destination, I’ll board any train with him, anywhere, always.

I am grateful for our support network. I’m grateful that no matter how fast this cancer train seems to have whisked us away, we have dozens, maybe hundreds, of people who are banging on the doors, breaking the windows, clinging to the roof, or hanging onto the steps of that train, ready to help us in whatever way possible.

I just wish I knew where the train was going.

2021 Wrap Up

Every year I do a quick summary of what I’ve accomplished in my writing career and sometimes what I’ve accomplished in life. It’s a great way to look back and realize I actually *have* been pretty busy, no, I *wasn’t* slacking as much as I thought, and hey, this year wasn’t so bad. (Covid and cancer aside.)

Writing Life

Books published: 0
eBooks published: 0
Signing events attended: 2
Independent Book Award Entries: 6
Book Awards Won for A Thousand Years to Wait: 1 first place (Young Adult Fiction), 1 second place (Cover Design) , 1 honorable mention (New Author Award), (plus 3 outstanding until 2022)
Online Writing Retreats Attended: 3
Failed In-Person Writing Retreat Attempted: 2
Online Writing Webinars Taught: 1
Personal Essays Written: 1
Manuscript words written: >125,000
YA manuscripts finished: 1
PB manuscripts finished: 5
YA manuscript WIP: 1
Adult manuscript WIP: 1
Manscripts queried: 3
Queries sent: 104
Query rejections: 57
Query no response: 23
Queries still open: 20
Partial Manuscript Requests: 3 (1 from a 2020 query)
Full Manuscript Requests: 2
Total accumulative completed manuscripts (2011-2021): 13
Online pitch contests entered: 1
Blog posts written: 16
Books read: 50
Friends’ Manuscripts read: 3
Blurbs appearing on published books: 1
Writing friends made: Never enough! Writers, find me on Twitter.

Personal Life

Returning cancer diagnosis: 1 (husband😭)
Days spent helping to kick cancer’s ass: 126
Bland Embolization procedures & hospitalizations for husband: 2
Family Covid tests taken: 8 (all negative)
Medical Bills: Infinite
Days spent as 6th grade homeschool/virtual school teacher: 119
Stray animals found: 2 dogs, 1 cat, 1 chicken
Stray animals rescued: 2 dogs, 1 cat, don’t ask about the chicken (I tried!)

Mom’s Not Here

I’m tempted to leave the title and the title alone here in this blog post. Because damn. I am tired.

I worked eighteen hours this week on a job that’s supposed to take up no more than ten. And I did it all from home while supervising-slash-teaching my 11-year-old her ratios and fractions and comparisons for 6th grade math class on the virtual platform. I did it while scheduling my Covid booster and her first Covid vaccine. I worked while husband was on conference call after conference call, working with my Loop earplugs jammed in my ears to try to keep the auditory distraction to a dull roar. I played email and text tag with four different coworkers to make sure the work that needed to get done got done.

I worked at the dining room table so I could let my chickens out of their coop to roam the yard without fear of a hawk taking them. (We had several scares this week.) I worked sitting in bed. I worked at my desk and on the floor. I worked with the ever-present malodorous fog of incessant dog farts lingering in the air because my chicken-poop-loving dogs just can’t be more than two feet from me at any time on any given day.

I listened to dogs popping their gums while they lick, lick, lick, intent on driving me madder than any of Alice’s friends. And after the annoyance comes the worry. Wait. Are they licking because something is wrong? (Beyond the fleas we’re still battling. We’re winning, but not by much.) Is there something bothering our greyhound internally? Aches and pains? Or just dry skin? Is his mouth hurting and that’s why he keeps licking, or is it a deeper ache in his bones? And all of this reminds me, I have to run to the vet (like, now) to go pick up his medication. They close at seven.

Do I need to take him to the vet for something more urgent? And is the cat okay? The one with the terminal illness who is obviously not okay, but who is, at least, moderately comfortable since being put on steroids? At what point do we, as pet owners need to make a decision that the quality of life just isn’t there any longer?

And as if to prove my point, the greyhound (literally, just now) tried to attack the terminal cat, as though she’s any threat to him. In actuality, he’s just losing his marbles and doesn’t know what to do anymore, so he gets weird and just starts barking in the cats’ faces, then lunges when they hiss at him. So now the cat is on my lap as I type the rest of this post.

When the 11-year-old gets her Covid vaccine, she plans to go back to school after the holidays and leave virtual learning behind her. Of the two of us, I’m not sure who’s more excited. I think I’ll sob introvert tears of pure joy if I’m ever home alone in this house again. Time that used to be mine to work and write has been stolen by a pandemic ever since mid-March 2020.

Add in the ever present knowledge that husband has liver cancer and we won’t know until next year if the embolization procedures they performed over the last two months had any impact, and I’m basically an electric ball of nerves just waiting to be fried. Seriously, I’m a walking lightning bolt. Don’t get too close.

And, oh.

NaNoWriMo. I’m supposed to be writing today. At some point. Every day this month. So I still have that to do. I should enjoy writing, but after a day staring at the computer, I’m not looking forward to starting at the computer more.

In fact, wut r werds?

The only bright spot in all of this right now is that there is pizza. Yes, pizza is my happy place. 1. Because it is very yummy and tasty and good, and 2. Because I do not have lift a finger to prepare it.

So thank you pizza men and women. Because…right now? Mom’s just not here.

Mystery Delivery

Yesterday, we received a mystery package in the mail. We receive a lot of packages* in the mail, as husband is an avid collector of many things fishing-related. I assumed the small manila envelope contained a fly-fishing tin of some sort as I’d seen several of those make their way through his hands recently. So I did what any good spouse would do and placed it at his work desk for when he came out of the shower.

A half-hour later, he sat at his desk, held up the package and said, “What’s this?”

How can you not remember what you’ve ordered on eBay? I thought.

Well. Because he didn’t order it.

Mandee’s Lunchbox? I have no idea what this is.”

So I gave a sigh, took the small tin he’d unpackaged and read the text on the back.

Immediately, the two of us fell back to 2017 and our seemingly endless trips to Philadelphia for treatment not only for his rare pancreatic cancer, but to the Interventional Radiology Department of Thomas Jefferson University Hospital to check the drain tube that would eliminate the abscess caused by the pancreatic enzymes that leaked into his abdominal cavity after the surgery.

As part of almost every trip we took that year (19 trips in 23 weeks), we stopped either at Au Bon Pain or Dunkin’ Donuts somewhere along the way. Those treats were the highlight of our day, the only part of the whole miserable experience that we anticipated with any small piece of joy. Oh, for a chocolate croissant or a double-chocolate donut in those wretched times!

After reading the description on the back of the tin, we opened his Mandee’s Lunchbox to discover $50 in gift cards to Dunkin’, Starbucks, Panera, and Subway. And then we laughed because we’d thought enjoying those small things was unique to our situation, some small pleasure only we had managed to squeeze out of an utterly terrible situation.

We had no concept that these kinds of small treats could be so highly anticipated by cancer patients around the world. Mandee’s Lunchbox opened our eyes and reminded us, once again, that we’re not alone in our fight against this terrible disease that steals so much, and that even going through the worst of times, friends are still nearby.

Mandee’s Lunchbox sends anonymously, so there’s no way to know who might have sent your name to them. At least, theoretically.

Unless you use your powers of deduction on social media to find out which one of your friends ‘likes’ this organization, and then you realize who probably nominated you to receive a tin full of gift cards and smiles. (Then you send them a direct message full of gratitude because sometimes the smallest actions are the ones that mean the most.)

The last two weeks were rough. After his embolization procedure on the 21st, husband spent a couple of days in pain (which we expected), and then a week and a half running a generally low-grade fever that occasionally went as high as 102F (which was unexpected). He was miserable. To make matters worse? Migraines almost every morning.

We didn’t know whether this was the reaction they’d warned us might happen, whether this was a virus hitting him at the same time as the embolization (The two kids and I had bad colds literally the week leading up to his procedure. We did everything possible to stay away from him so as not to get him sick. We even tested for Covid, just to ensure it wasn’t that making its rounds in our household…), or whether this was a bacterial infection somehow persisting despite being on a prophylactic antibiotic.

We’ll likely never know. As of the last two days, he’s finally been feeling more like himself. (In fact, as I write this, he’s fishing. Yes. For real.) He goes for the second embolization procedure in 2 1/2 weeks, and I suppose we’ll know then if this reaction was more than ‘the norm’ where his body is concerned. I didn’t share most of this part on social media over the last couple of weeks (you might have noticed the increase in pet-related posts as a result) because I don’t know what to say. I don’t have the answers to the questions I know friends will ask. The doctors don’t know the answers. I don’t know the answers.

One of the hardest things about cancer is the sheer number of unknowns. For Type A planners like me, we need to be prepared. And there is no preparing for what’s next because…well…there’s no way to know what comes next. Reading patient studies (because, hey, that’s what I do) is alternately depressing and hopeful depending on the outcome, and each time I find an element that’s similar to our situation, I find just as many pieces that are completely different, thus rendering any comparison impossible.

So for now we’ll do what we learned to do in 2017. We’ll follow what the doctors ask us to do, live our lives, and cherish our loved ones each and every day.

Oh. And now we’ll probably make a few Dunkin’ Donuts trips…


Mandee’s Lunchbox is a local organization formed in memory of Amanda Faidley Layton, pursuing her wish to brighten the lives of other adults and families battling cancer.

If you’d like to make a donation to Mandee’s Lunchbox, you can do so by clicking HERE.

If you know an adult who’s battling cancer, you can nominate them to receive a tin from Mandee’s Lunchbox HERE.


* Not fishing-related. One package received earlier this week? Thanks to local friends of ours, an unexpected box arrived from Harry & David’s, days late, so the pears were a bit…um…squishy. We still found a way to use them…

How to Make Lemonade

The day after husband’s oncologist used the ‘C’ word at his 4-year followup visit, he got up early to go fishing. (A common occurrence in our household, as our friends and acquaintances know well.) When he returned, he was mumbling to himself as he walked in the front door, but I caught only the tail end of the conversation as he headed through the house and to the shower.

“Just need to figure out how to make lemonade. That’s all.”

But making lemonade isn’t something you do with rotten lemons, and I’ve been pondering his words ever since. So I did something new today. I wrote an essay and submitted it for publication.

An essay.

Me.

I wrote an essay. Something that didn’t involve fictional characters, magic, and dragons.

I haven’t done that since my college days. But today, as my fifteen-year-old slogged through a 500-word essay on The Scarlet Letter (which, for the record, she hated, and let’s be real, who doesn’t?), I, too, tapped away at the computer keys, crafting a story of all we’ve been through in the past four years since Nate’s initial cancer diagnosis. Before I knew it, I had almost 1600 words of love, fear, support, uncertainty – pretty much everything that sums up life with a secondary cancer diagnosis in the middle of a worldwide pandemic.

Maybe it will go nowhere. Maybe it doesn’t need to go anywhere. Maybe I just needed to write it.

But I hope it’s accepted somewhere that will reach thousands of people, not because I want recognition, but because if my words can somehow help others who are also struggling through dark times, then I’ve succeeded in making lemonade out of some pretty nasty lemons. And that’s something.

Holding Patterns

How do you begin a blog post you never wanted to write? How do you type the very words you never wanted to see again? How do you convince yourself that there’s anything good or fair or right in the world when you get the news that your loved one has cancer?

Again.

I don’t have the words. My heart has broken into a thousand million billion pieces and I…don’t have the words.

Nate went for his yearly oncology visit last Friday- 4 years cancer-free (or so we thought). Instead, we were met with a giant, nasty surprise – spots on his liver. Spots that weren’t there six months ago. Spots that have no business being there now.

There’s no way to describe the cold dread that washed over me at hearing the news – the literal icy sensation that swept from my head to my toes when the doctor said the word ‘cancer’ aloud.

“No, no, no,” I wanted to scream. “We did this already. We beat this. He’s healthy. We did this years before the pandemic. We shouldn’t have to do it now, again, in the middle of a global pandemic!”

But cancer doesn’t care what we think, how we feel, or what our plans are. So once again, our schedules have been cleared, and we’re in yet another holding pattern, burning fuel, awaiting test result after test result, waiting for some direction on where to land and what kind of crash to prepare for.

Hold your loved ones close, my friends. It only takes a moment for everything to change.

Belonging

We almost bought a brand new house today. Drove an hour and a half northeast and spent all day touring a beautiful, half-built, small mansion in a spacious 1-acre wooded lot in the Poconos. Then we deliberated long hours on whether it was right, where we’d put the garden, the pool, the chicken coop, and how we’d arrange each room, whether to finish part of the basement as a play room for the billiard table, the foosball table, and the poker table.

We drove the neighborhood (not that there was much to drive, it’s not even done being built yet) and checked out the other houses in the area. We drove past the schools the kids would go to, and looked up their ratings on Niche. I even moved the money for the down payment into our checking account so we could write a check and get started. It’s fun to dream. It’s exhilarating to imagine new things and new places and new adventures. What could the future hold? Yes, we said! Let’s do this.

And then, five minutes before we were to sign the papers and hand over the money, pure terror gripped my heart.

Reality came crashing in. This isn’t my house. This isn’t my neighborhood. This isn’t where I belong! Help! Someone take me home!

*Cue the waterworks.*

We stayed in the area, had lunch, discussed our options extensively. I proceeded to spend the next two hours alternately in tears, convincing myself we shouldn’t do it, then recovering and convincing myself we should, then crying again at the thought of leaving our close-knit community where we’ve lived for almost 18 years. When we bought our house in 2003, we planned to stay for maybe 5 – 10 years. Introduce children to the mix, and it never quite seems the right time to move.

Eventually, we stayed here so long that everything is just…comfortable. I like our little house. (I wish we had more space.) I like our little yard. (I wish we had more land.) We have some of the best neighbors, one family we even fondly call our neighbros. (I wish the noisy ones behind us would move out…or at least learn to be more considerate.)

But our tiny school district has some of the most caring, wonderful teachers I’ve ever known – people I’m glad teach my children every day, but also people I’ve come to think of as friends myself. They live and work here, in this small community. And three blocks away? We have a lovely little park that’s home to the local community partnership’s Christmas tree lighting, fundraiser dinners, and monthly farmers’ markets. Our community library (and my part-time job there) would be a thing of the past. The coworkers I’ve come to know and love, I’d never see again.

We often catch some of our favorite neighbors walking past our house on their daily route – walking, walking, always walking. And these neighbors are special. Because they’ve shared in our pain (and our joy) with regards to a pancreatic cancer diagnosis. And that’s a special kind of bond, too. Not many people know what it’s like to travel that path.

Here, we have the kind of neighbors who will pick up your kids from school at the drop of a hat if needed, those who will watch your kids if you need to make an emergency trip to the vet (and our geriatric doggo is already older than most dogs his breed live to see), who will mow your lawn because you’ve been taking care of a sick spouse or child, who will stop by with fresh bread for no reason at all, who will bring you homemade soup when you’re sick (or homemade chili when your kitchen is out of commission because the entire thing is gutted and being renovated).

Here, our children have friends and familiar bike routes and sledding hills. They have parks and schools within walking distance. And even though they haven’t been able to see their friends in person in over a year (minus a few masked visits on the back patio), this is where I want to emerge from our quarantine. This is where I want to celebrate the miracle of science and medicine with our friends and neighbors. This is where I want to have patio parties and barbecues.

It’s hard to give all that up for the bells and whistles of a beautiful new house with its shiny floors and inviting white farm sink. (It was a beautiful sink.) How could we trade the comfort of a community we love so dearly for a brand new place that feels sterile by comparison? In a time when Covid has most of us needing comfort more than ever, I feel like a move to someplace new (though deeply desired on some level) would make me feel somehow more lost.

And so we drove home in silence, my husband disappointed and frustrated, me sniffling from the passenger’s seat. I ran out of tissues. There was a lot of crying. I couldn’t even feel relief once we’d made the decision not to buy because I knew I was disappointing the husband, and that’s a whole other level of internal grief.

All this to say – here? Here, I feel a sense of belonging I haven’t felt many places in my life. And maybe it won’t always be that way. Maybe someday the time will be right to move. Maybe now I can stop feeling this incessant urge to pick up and go. Maybe.

But for now? For now, this is where I belong.