I am a liar. Not to you, my family, friends, etc. I lie to myself. I lie to myself all the time. What do I lie about you may ask? Well, I’ve been doing it for so long that I am having trouble distinguishing between the truth and the lies. I mostly lie to myself about how I truly feel or how something makes me feel. I tend to push those things aside or down.

Here’s the truth, you may lie to yourself but the truth surfaces. It may surface in how you react to something when you’ve had enough or your body may tell on you. So much of my own self-worth has been wrapped up in the emotions of others, mostly the ones I love dearly. I am learning that I can’t own their emotions, much less, control them. That only leads to disappointment.

I am not quite sure how to feel what I feel- identify, welcome it, and kick it out the door. So much has been just ushering the feelings out the door, I haven’t had time to feel and be okay with that feeling. I pour every ounce of energy into work, kids, and my husband that I can literally no longer pour from an empty cup. The only person that can truly take care of me is me and I am failing miserably.

Now with a 2nd battle in the midst of radiation, I am trying to be okay with simply not being okay, being a human. Rest when I need to rest. Don’t do something just to silence my mind. Live. Be in the moment. The world tells us to seize the moment, lose weight, get enough rest, stay at home, be a working mom, don’t drink Diet Coke (that’s crazy, lol!), eat this, don’t eat that, buy the shoes, thrift, buy the house, have a tiny home, stay mentally focused, sleep, be happy, be sad. I feel like we live in a twisted Dr. Suess world where down is up and up is down. Or is up sideways? When does the cat arrive to play with Thing 1 and Thing 2? No, he’s not politically correct; he’s been canceled. And don’t get me started with Thing 1 and Thing 2. They represent all the evil in this world!

Whew. Inundated. So, here’s the truth. I am not perfect and will never be. I have to be okay with that. I am doing the best I can and that’s okay. As my preacher reminded us yesterday, we can’t compare ourselves to others. Run your own race.

1. I have to own my feelings-recognize and process- not push down.
2. I can’t own the feelings of others. Stop over analyzing their breathing and thinking the worst. (The breathing refers to huffs and puffs).
3. Rest
4. Find something I enjoy and do it!
5. Be okay with not being okay. This too shall pass.
6. Take it literally a day at a time. Reward yourself for the little things. I got up at 5:45 AM today and eased into my day!
7. Don’t take yourself too seriously.
8. What the world tells you is probably not the best for you. You know what’s best for you.
9. Dance
10. Live.

I share this in hopes it helps someone like me that may be struggling and hiding behind sunglasses with tears down their face. It happens. It has happened to me recently. Don’t suffer in silence. Choose to love yourself and accept that you are trying. Say, it again, for the cheap seats- you are trying and that my friend is enough. You are enough.

Reminding myself with this photo that it’s okay to relax. It’s okay your toes aren’t done.

I was born in 1985. My parents were in their early thirties. My sister was born in 1979. My dad was teaching 6th grade math wearing a brown corduroy jacket with patches on the elbows. My mom worked at a place called Grave’s company. My parents were young; we were young. When I was born, we rented a little blue house on Main Street owned by the late T.M. Culpepper, one of my favorite people in my own home town. Knight, my family’s dog, died the same year, and my sister commented, “Well, at least we have Ashley.” She was five and a half at the time. Sound reasoning. A baby would make it better.

We later moved to where my parents still live- South Walnut, the same house my dad walked by on his way to school each day as a kid. Meant to be? In the stars? I like to think so. This is the house that became a home and where all my memories live.

As a kid, my favorite times at home, were when my parents, sister, and I were all at home- doing the usual- family things- dinner which meant, buttering the bread, fixing the ice, and setting the table. I sat to the left of my dad. My sister sat across from me beside my mom.

Most mornings, mom had a record playing and if you ask Andi or me, we knew it was a “cleaning day” if “On the Dark Side” was playing. I now am the proud owner of this record and have my own record player.

In looking back, I know I was probably an annoying younger sister. I admired my sister with her effortless style and many friends. She was popular and a cheerleader. I knew I’d never be a cheerleader. I was the black sheep in a sense as I had no rhythm. If you know my family then you know music is a huge part of it. My dad, a guitar player since 15. My mom and sister can sing. Me, not so much. I wanted to be part of everything my sister did but being 5.5 years younger made that difficult. We were at different places- elementary and middle school then middle school and high school. Still, at times, she let me sleep with her on Christmas Eve.

I often watched “Little House on the Prairie” comparing my parents to Carolyn and Charles. They had rules but they gave grace. They expected things of us but didn’t hesitate to help us. Now, as an adult, not much as changed, other than grand babies and now Sunday dinners on rotation from my sister (now known as NeNe), Nana and Poppy’s (mom and dad), and me (Aunty).

As I type this, I am forever grateful for my family; we affectionately refer to the original 4 as the “Fab Four”. We have had some ups and downs but what remains true is the love they have for me and, I too have for them. Other than my husband and children, they are my biggest blessings.

They taught me how to be proud of who I was and to stand on what was right, to always seek truth, and consider other’s opinions. Don’t judge others and accept all. Will I be able to live up to that with my own boys? I sure hope so.

As a teenager, I dreamed of moving to a big city but when I had my first child, I missed my mom. I moved back to our home town. I am thankful for that decision as now I can see my family as often as I’d like. My children get to spend time with both sets of grandparents. My kids have a NeNe that loves them as much as I do much like I love my nieces and nephews.

I hope that Lord willing one day, I’ll be a grandmother and live to tell the same stories family shared with me. Love passed down from generations of good, hard working people who lived and loved their children. Love passed down.

Being a cancer patient is a lot like Clark Kent/Superman. In one sense, you feel completely like a normal human being, similar to Clark Kent and his day job. You go to work, take care of the kids, and then suddenly you are at another oncology appointment. Yes, you look the same, but now you are fighting an evil force. Your weapon of choice is chemo, radiation, pills, shots or a combination thereof. What sets you apart and identifies you as a “superhero” is your wristband. It’s obvious that Clark Kent is Superman, but for those who don’t know us, it may not be as obvious that we are fighting a battle. Those who have hair loss may be more obvious, but for most of us, we have our hair back and appear fine- it’s the management part of the cancer people don’t see when you are now at Stage 4.

I thought about how many wristbands I have worn since my original diagnosis in 2021. I’ve lost count, but now know I will wear at least four a year (an appointment every three months). Multiply that now by how many years God blesses me with. I wish I had saved them all.

Kryptonite, as we are all familiar with, is Superman’s ultimate weakness, which causes severe pain, loss of power, and eventual death from prolonged exposure. Cancer patients realize that we have our own Kryptonite, and it’s when and if our medicine stops working. Unfortunately, for us, it doesn’t glow green like Kryptonite as a warning.

That all being said, Superman doesn’t give up, and neither will we. Our capes hide underneath our seemingly normal existence until it’s time for another appointment, scan, medicine change, etc. We face it as best we know how- dark humor, copious amounts of Diet Coke (don’t hate), and laughter. We silently grieve at night and return as Clark Kent, ready to be thought of as a normal member of society (which we will never be).

We live our lives wide open and grateful for the time given and the people who fight beside us. We are better people for our battle, with scars to prove it. In research, I found that the original Superman of 1938 could not fly; he could only “leap an eighth of a mile.” He didn’t gain the power of flight until 1944. Maybe that’s true of us- cancer patients- we may start out with small steps to fight this terrible fight (leaping an eighth of a mile), but ultimately we will prevail; we will fly.

Bryan Adams said that the summer seemed to last forever, and looking back, it did seem that way.

The mornings were spent at the ball field to prepare for all stars, then afternoons by the DA pool, a different kind of preparation (lemon juice and tanning oil).

The nights meant “watching” movies with friends. Why quotes, you may say? Well, if you had a summer boyfriend, you weren’t watching much of that movie. Kissing, OK?

I glance down at my hand and remember the grit and grime accumulated from softball. I remember the exhilaration of throwing someone out or striking them out. Oh, and the sound of the crack of the bat and running the bases as your teammates’ voices carried you across the home plate. Sliding into home was exciting and the “strawberries” that you wore as a badge of honor. Later, you would pick at those “strawberries” when you were at the pool.

I also remember the feeling of holding someone’s hand and the nerves in the pit or my stomach. I didn’t know hands could sweat.

The pool had its own buzz, especially if one’s crush was there. Don’t look stupid. Don’t say the wrong thing. Oh my God, he said hi. What does that mean? It’s time to overanalyze the hell of that “hi” with friends over the phone.

   “Those days seemed to last forever.”

A rumor circulated when I was in 6th Grade that if males drank soft drinks such as Mountain Dew (or was it Mello Yello?), their um.. you know.. manhood would shrink.  Why? These drinks contained Yellow 5. Now, none of us knew, and I still know what this ingredient actually is. However, the general rule is that if you caught a boy drinking these beverages, it was your duty to point this out with an embarrassed giggle.

To this day, I am unsure how or why this was a rumor.

Another rumor was not to mix pop rocks and Coke as you would die – contents in your stomach would explode. So, none of us drank this combination.

These were just a few rules we swore we’d live by – some unspoken oath similar to not stepping on the crack so you don’t break your mama’s back.

Facts? Who needed them at 11? Some made-up kid suffered the consequences of the choices above and never measured up in his manhood or, worse, succombed to an early death of pop rocks.

As these memories came back, I tried to remember other rumors or unspoken oaths that were a requirement in the middle school years. Jinx, touch red if you and a friend said the same thing at the same time.

Or if the back clasp of your necklace shifted to the front, it meant someone was thinking about you, which meant kissing the clasp and turning it around.

Also, moving the coke tab back and forth while stating the alphabet and praying, it broke off on the letter representing your crush.

There was no arguing. These rules were an assumed responsibility of every middle schooler ever. No questions asked.

I still think about them when walking on sidewalks and in conversations when I respond the same as someone else at the same time. I reframe from yelling “Jinx” for fear of a strange look, someone who clearly did not pledge the same oath. A shame, really!

Let’s not forget that MASH clearly prepared us for housing, spouse, kids, and car choices. 

Do they still make pop rocks? Did anyone not ever measure up for poor beverage choices and tell their spouse, “I’m sorry it was the Mello Yello.” Then, to make matters worse, their kid steps on a crack. A real, Shakespearean tragedy.

Jinx!

Did the Easter snap last longer this year? I decided to try planting zinnias today on the first hot day after Easter. It seemed fairly straightforward, according to Google.

What I didn’t take into account was the fact that my former magnolia tree left roots, lots of damn roots. Every strike of the shovel hit a root.

So here is an account of my thoughts as I attempted to plant zinnias.

Explicitive, this is harder than I thought. Another explicitive. My back already hurts. Who am I trying to impress? I can’t compete with Margaret and Cleveland (the neighbors who practically have botanical gardens in their backyard).

“Anderson, get me some Gatorade.” Anderson to me- “Are you sweating yet? ” Obviously, I’m dying but not enough sweat to deem a Gatorade from my youngest. Brings it finally and says, “You need Gatorade.”

Finally, make it around the deck, attempt another area, and decide to pot some seeds.  Directions said you can. Anderson is rambling on about something in the backyard. I probably just agreed to something so I can keep working. A blister is forming. Ouch.

Tries to measure consistently 6 inches a part. Gives up. Starts scattering and praying God will see my hard work and reward. Maybe not after my cuss words in my thoughts.

Re pots the olive tree. Rhae at Rooster Day said her neighbor’s olive tree has blooms. Mine is alive, no blooms. “Eeh,” said as Lucille Ball.

My grandmother is in heaven laughing, the one who had the green thumb. I’m not sure what color mine is and what it means.

I pray something will grow in time for my niece’s party. My son moons me.

Time to water the front. What a choice in a mid life crisis- planting and keeping plants alive. What was I thinking?