I met younger me for the first time in decades this past Sunday. I asked my parents if they still had their video tapes. They did! It also happened that someone had a working VCR in town. Thanks Tim for letting us journey down memory lane.
Hearing my grandmother’s voice and seeing her house again after 20 plus years was magical.
I began wondering what I would tell younger me at 7, 11, and 16.
To my 7 year old self, you won’t be this shy forever. Enjoy being a kid.
To 11 year old me, spoiler alert you don’t end up with the guy you wrote about in your Lisa Frank journal, but it works out better. Believe in yourself.
To 16 year old me, don’t grow up too fast.
Then there were my parents in the videos when they were my age currently. Seeing our interactions then and how it shaped me. Thankful is all I can say.
The time machine of home videos made me both happy and sad – missing those that were part of my life. Seeing them, hearing them- oh my heart.
My oldest son said I still had the same mannerisms. Maybe none of us really do change. We just grow older.
I sat in my cousin’s backyard this weekend in Auburn listening to his wife’s wind chimes. The sun shined on my face. Earlier in the week, after a pet scan, I learned that part of my cancer was responding well to treatment but a new spot has appeared in my left sternum.
At first I was okay but as the day progressed onto the evening when there was more time to think I began to worry over this spot. It made me mad and sad. I tried to tell God but my words fell short.
Fast forward to this weekend and the wind chimes. Somehow they reminded me of God’s presence telling me to stay still, one day, one moment at a time. I finally felt relaxed.
Every 4 weeks I wait with abated breath and then I’m left mentally exhausted. I’ve decided now however to choose how I react and plan for these appointments. I have a choice in my actions.
I choose joy. I choose goals. I choose me.
I choose to want it more than I fear it. I want to be here. I want to do so many things and Lord willing I will. I will.
I watched in awe as you got up at 5:30 before school to practice soccer. Then, you asked to practice on Saturday, and I watched you practice. Neither of these times includes regularly scheduled practices with the high school team on Sundays and Mondays, nor games on Tuesdays and Thursdays with the league.
Your grit and determination at such a young age are truly inspiring. I told myself I’d start getting up when you do during the week to prepare myself for the next year when I plan to attend UAB and get my doctorate in Healthcare Leadership. My reasoning is that when I add coursework to my mom life and regular work, I’d have an extra hour to study, do laundry, pray, or whatever.
I remember the feeling I imagine you are feeling. The rush of playing a sport you love. For me, it was tennis. Like you, I’d get up early and play with Poppy. I loved how the racquet felt in my hand and the feeling of smashing the ball onto the other side or down the competitor’s throat, where they couldn’t return the shot. As the sweat poured from my brow, I wiped it off and reset to serve again, again, and again. I see this in you. I see your footwork, research in the best angle. You reset the ball again, again, and again. I think to myself, “Where did this kid come from?” Surely, not me. I’d like to take all the credit, but you are you.
I write this for myself selfishly, as I do not know what the future holds, but I do know I am here for whatever your plans may be with this sport or whatever you choose. I daydream that one day I am watching you in the stands when they call your name, and they happen to mention mine in association.
I am writing to let you know that I am incredibly proud of you. I cherish every moment we have together- in the car, watching scary movies, and watching you play your sport. I pray God gives me all the chances in the world to be a part of it.
You have inspired me to pursue what I’ve always wanted to do: a doctorate. Now, I have to muster my grit and prepare for the following year. I look to you for that motivation.
Together, at 5:30 AM, we will follow our dreams. This old lady will get her doctorate and maybe have an opportunity to teach college kids (a dream come true). You, my son, will play soccer at a higher level. I feel in my heart and know it in my mind.
Thanks for the inspiration and the reminder that dreams can come true, but they take hard work, perseverance, and determination. Something you already encompass. Don’t lose focus, my son. Don’t lose focus.
It started with the big blue ribbons that the cheerleaders sold, each with a giant football sticker attached. Then, the annual spend the night company in grade school waiting for the announcer to say it’s time for the “victory” line. We hurriedly took our place to run as the Tigers burst through the decorated banner. The bonfire the night before, with the funeral procession for the opposing team, as the casket was tossed onto the fire. The anticipation of getting out early for the parade. We watched in awe of the older high school students who passed by. They seemed so much older at the time. Then we became old enough to build floats and stuff chicken wire. Getting out of school to decorate these floats at the old armory was a privilege. Riding on your decorated float or walking beside it as you wave to your hometown was a rite of passage. And the thrill of victory tasted so sweet when your float wins the competition as announced at the evening’s football game.
The pride of being selected to be on the court and the preparations of the right suit- yes, that’s right, a suit. The proper evening gown for the parade was often borrowed rather than purchased. The giant mum that adorned that big blue ribbon with a blue pipe cleaner “D” and a gold football ornament attached. Oh, that big blue ribbon! Your hero, your dad, is leading you out onto the field. The dance afterwards. I am so thankful I got to be part of it all.
And to think, it all started with a big blue ribbon. Homecoming.
Team Conrad versus Team Jeremiah has been around since the beginning of my 8th grade year, when I once wrote on my notebook C or W with a question mark. For fear of finding out my two crushes, I secretly coded them by only placing the first letter of the prospectives’ first names. How brilliant was I? Lol. The Summer I Turned Pretty is a millennial dream. I think it’s Conrad’s hair as it mimics many of the covers of my Seventeen magazines in those days. Maybe it’s how the music intertwines the episodes much like the soundtrack of Dawson’s Creek. I was Team Pacey.
Maybe it comes from a need to find peace in this chaotic world that drags us millennials in. Since 2001 we’ve felt an uneasy that has not subsided. Whatever it is, I am here for it!
It’s nice to get caught up in something else for even a short period of time. After it ends next week, I’ll be searching for the next binge.
Whatever team you are on make sure you choose you too. I am learning that even at 40. Sometimes, we have to do things that bring us joy. It’s hard with work, family, kids but it makes you better when you can make yourself smile every once in a while. Team Ashley is going with friends to see Wicked on stage with friends. In college, in my attempt to be cool, I would have never admitted that I liked this story but as an adult, I have fallen in love with the characters, their development, etc. I watched Wizard of Oz (taped off television with commercials and all) a gazillion times according to my mom, so I guess it’s only fitting that I like Wicked.
Another lesson I’ve learned lately is that I can’t be everyone’s cup of tea because, “darling, I’m champagne!” It’s okay that things don’t always work out the way you planned because God has something better in store.
Spoiler alert, at the end of 8th grade, I chose C then ended up marrying a W. Life is like that. What may seem important at the moment changes as you change. I cherish every moment I have on this earth and the memories that made me who I am. For the most part, I don’t have regrets. Because to live is an awfully wonderful adventure, and I am glad to be here- the good, the bad and all of it. I am soaking it all in.
The words jumped from the page as I read about the study, I agreed to participate in regarding resilience in people living with metastatic breast cancer. “You’ve been selected” used to mean someone received a scholarship or a job. Now, it meant you’ve been diagnosed with something, and we want to study you. I’m flattered. Ed McMann didn’t present any balloons, just a knock on the door from a sweet lady almost timidly asking if I’d consider while I waited to see the oncologist. Yes, I want to help others, so the answer was a resounding yes but when you read the words it hits a little differently. You- who was you? It was me. I looked around at all the You’s in the waiting room later.
When God selects you for something, specifically a chronic disease. It’s easy to question things, almost automatic. Chronic is defined as a problem that is long lasting and not easy to eradicate. In the simplest terms it means it ain’t going away or if it is you are going to have to fight like hell.
Now mentally most days the word chronic doesn’t bother me as I have no obvious symptoms but when it’s time to see the oncologist, it’s a reminder of what my reality is. People with chronic diseases live everyday with the fact that they may not get better.
Two words that must sustain me are hope and faith while also being realistic. When “you’ve been selected” , a weird type of math plays in your mind. If x = the number of years, then y= how old my kids will be. Therefore, z= what I will be around to see. I understand that really only God knows x but when “you’ve been selected” you are more aware of time.
Time comes into factor with me when I go to the see the oncologist not before. I wait and let out an abated breath when I pass the test of this visit. I leave feeling mentally exhausted and have two hours to mull around the words spoken to me- scans, hope, as long as this works. Then magically, I try reappearing normal when it’s time to get my kids and go to soccer practice.
Well-meant people ask how I am, and I lie telling them “I’m great!” They say things like “you look so good.” Again, all well-intentioned but I know I can and may look worse down the road as cancer looms. Cancer is a bastard as that it can appear to be dormant but still be a seed waiting to sprout. When it’s chronic, it’s just waiting the right conditions and the medicine’s goal is literally to beat the hell out of the cancer so all it can do is lie.
After I have a day to reset and refocus, thanking God for a good appointment, I focus back on what really matters- my family, my work and living the best version of myself. I don’t let the word chronic mock me or cancer try to get the best of me. “You’ve been chosen” doesn’t seem so bad, a battle cry of sorts now, a way to do God’s work.
I’ve been chosen and I will help others with this ugly disease. I am glad to be chosen as I have the support and the means to fight. Chronic, pssh, in the words of the late Tom Petty, “I won’t back down. You can stand me at the gates of hell, but I won’t back down.”
I found myself this afternoon in a melancholy mood. I found The Wonder Years on Hulu and watched the first episode. In the first episode, Kevin Arnold starts his first day of Junior High. Winnie loses her brother to the Vietnam War. I wanted to cry. I had seen this episode at least a dozen times. It hit me differently today as I could see the loss of innocence in the death of her brother. I felt like innocence in today’s society has long been dead. When AI calls and threatens an elementary school on the first day, it’s a sad state of affairs, which we Demopolites all know too well from last week.
In these moods, I find myself yearning for a simpler time, pre-Columbine High School. I long for my children to grow up in the same world. Alas, when the towers came down in 2001 and the iPhone was created in 2007, there was no turning back.
I found myself ripping down old shingles off our shed that I’ve been wanting to knock down today. The only problem is I am a 5 feet 1 inch tall, 40-year-old woman who has no business ripping away at an old shed. With each swing and whack of the hammer, I released some frustrations out Twanda style. I am not sure why I get into such a state of unrest. I believe it’s genetically passed down from my grandmother, through my father, and to me.
Maybe it’s the anticipation of the next round of shots and visit to see the oncologist that has my mind in a mood. Perhaps it’s the menopause I was put in at 36. I’m not sure. I’ll get out of this funk. I talk to God about it. He knows already.
For now, I’ll reminisce, dive into writing, or into a book. I’ll miss the sense of wonder that existed so long ago. I might cry, laugh, and smile, or do all three. I’ll hug my boys, protect them a little longer. I’ll do what Paul said and let it be.
I didn’t know what a straightener was until 2005. I moved into the sorority house in the fall of my junior year. I bought one and have been using one ever since. Gasp, that means I survived Rush with just a blow dryer. Aw, the inhumanity of it all! Living in the sorority house meant sharing a room with a roommate that contained your clothes, computer, personal belongings, and sleeping in a sleeping porch (basically a room with nothing but beds). The bathroom had multiple showers and sinks. We watched a lot of Sex in the City in those days in the sorority house from DVDs borrowed from a sister. All of a sudden, the guys I dated got nicknames like Carrie’s men. Once upon there was a “John” and another time a “Bartender”. Real names were not used to protect the guilty. I didn’t call long distance until after 9 PM when it was free. There wasn’t much texting, and Facebook was only available if you had an @bama.ua.edu or any other college address. You weren’t checking Facebook on your phone because it was probably a flip phone, a crackberry (my favorite), or a Razor. Pictures were blurry at best on your phone, and no one was posting their life story online- only a bunch of “poking” and writing on people’s walls. I miss old Facebook- no politics, just college fun.
Going out meant jeans and/or jeans skirt with a spaghetti-strap shirt, think The Hills from MTV. Game days meant cocktail dresses with heels, with flip flops in tow. We frequented the original Houndstooth, then the Red Shed when it came into town, the Booth, Venue, and, as freshmen, the Jupiter and 4th and 23rd. Wednesdays after chapter meant half wine and pizza downtown at Cafe Venice. Thursday nights were for El Rincon. One margarita would kick your tail. Some weekends, you went to Harry’s for a crazy bucket or to Nick’s in the Sticks for a Nicodemus and an $8 filet.
The Fall was the best time of the year at UA, even in the pre-Saban era of many coaches named Mike. You went to the game- you wanted to be there- win or lose. It didn’t matter. Homecoming pomps actually covered the front of your house and not some small side piece. You worked stuffing those holes in that chicken wire like your life depended on it as freshmen. Being an overall winner in Homecoming was a big deal in my sorority. We lost one year to another sorority and were mad. All I can say is that particular sorority had a ringer- daughter of the legendary Joe Namath; he rode on their damn float. All we could do to console ourselves (which was petty) was to say she looked like Joe, and that provided some type of solace. I apologize, Joe, and to your daughter. I cannot be held responsible for my 19-year-old self.
Formals meant Zaps and decorating a cooler and/or cup for your date and you. Pregaming happened before the bus, on the bus, and most of us slept on the way back. Chants at parties between classes were a thing.. Here’s to the Seniors, the Seniors in hopes we get laid! We were classy.
I met some of my closest friends back in those days, and I still talk to them today. Every time I do, I am transported back to Dixie Land Delight, Sweet Home Alabama, and Sweet Caroline. I am walking down sorority row, headed to class, at a bar with friends, or eating at Buffalo Phil’s because they take dining dollars. I am yelling “Roll Tide!” praying for a win and singing “Yea! Alabama!” I am eating at the Crimson Cafe (dining dollars), City Cafe, or the Waysider. I am dreading standing on a chair trying to clap in time with a dress on and doing a damn door song. I’m learning from my favorite professors in my favorite program in HES.
I’ll never forget my time at the University of Alabama. I’m grateful for that experience, and as the days count down to the Fall, I will remember a time and a place. I’ll smile. I’ll text my friends from those days. I’ll thank God for them. Roll Tide and yea, Alabama!
I first want to thank everyone for their thoughts and prayers during my 2nd cancer battle. I will be forever grateful, more than I can express or put into words, without fighting back tears. Thank you, thank you!
Fighting cancer requires a sense of humor and a sense of humility. I find ways to laugh throughout treatments and look for the brighter side of cancer. Just as I try to share the hard parts of my journey, I vow to also share some funny moments, beginning with my first two injections.
The first two injections were performed by two nurses, one on each side of, um, how shall I say, my backside. They sprayed to numb the area and administered the doses at the same time. It takes a literal minute for the medicine to go in. I found myself staring at the chair, wondering what type of conversation I should have while they administered the shots. “Should I ask about the weather?” “How did they meet their significant other?” “Do they have kids?” “Does it look okay back there?” “Are we now all dating as this has to be at least 2nd base?” I can only hope that I get the same nurses next time, as maybe this could be some kind of weird bonding thing.
Earlier in the day, as we prepared to go into the elevator at the Kirklin Clinic, a gentleman sped out of the elevator on a scooter that was surprisingly faster than any I had ever seen. Questions entered my mind- “Does he need a license to drive that thing?”Did he rig it to go that fast?” “Where can I get one?” I mentioned the scooter to another elevator passenger, and she said, “Well, sh*t, my mother would have gone too fast on one of those.”
The day continued to be interesting while waiting for the aforementioned injections. A lady stood up and commanded the audience in the waiting room adjacent to mine. She said, “Good morning” with a strong declaration that commanded the audience to respond back strongly, “Good morning.” Then, she delivered one of the most eloquent sermons I’ve heard- short but sweet. “There are people who wish they could be where you are; do not give up. You are going to be okay.” Now this was not verbatim, but you get the idea. The waiting room and I were lifted from her short sermon. I was reminded that God can use anyone to deliver his messages and Testimony.
Cancer has forced me to consider my diet and to exercise more frequently. Quite frankly, something I should have always been doing, but sometimes it takes a diagnosis to force my hand.
I started taking my medication this week as well, with no side effects, a blessing. My prayer is that it works in halting the growth and spread of my cancer. I pray for strength and focus, not letting my mind go down the wrong path. I pray for patience and understanding. I pray to use this journey in hopes of helping others. I pray for a continued sense of humor and to laugh even when it’s easier to cry.
When I started blogging about my journey, it was in 2021, and I had just joined the “C” club. Now, with my 2nd invitation to the club, I declare myself Madam President.
The Peach 