I Have This Hope

When someone you love has cancer, people try to tell you to be positive. They encourage you to live your life to the fullest, to cherish every moment, to take one step at a time. And for the most part, you can do that. You can take a deep breath and move forward, living life as normally as you can, accepting that cancer is just a little extra burden that you have to carry around.

But, because cancer is unpredictable, sometimes it decides to sucker punch you in the gut. You lose your positivity. Your strength starts to fade. You can't imagine how you're going to take one step forward, because you're so damn tired. And you try so hard to be positive, to look on the bright side, to hold onto hope, but cancer puts a dreariness over your world that you didn't even know was possible.

I've said before that cancer is a rollercoaster. One minute things are fine, the next you're going downhill fast, until someone or something sends you back up again.

My family has been on the cancer rollercoaster for almost four years now, and frankly, I hate it. We seem to have jumped ship to an even rockier, scarier rollercoaster now. I never asked for that, thank you very much.

It's been about 4 weeks since we found out that my dad's cancer had spread to his spinal fluid. He was put on chemo, which (we think) sent him into a weird state of confusion/unresponsiveness. He has pulled out of that now, but the poor guy is very weak, and very sick of being in the hospital. Of course, we know must also decide how to proceed, if he truly cannot handle the chemo. The medical team is running more tests and discussing options. While that's happening, we wait. We sit by his side and try to keep his spirits up. We test his memory. We support each other. We break down into tears, or fall apart laughing over the most ridiculous things.

I'm used to riding this rollercoaster with my family. But this time around, I told my coworkers, and basically anyone who will listen, that I need everyone to jump on with us. We know how serious this diagnosis is, and that it can be extremely difficult to treat. We have no idea what the next days, weeks, months will bring, but I am certain that they will bring a whole lot of emotion with them, and I am not going to lie and say that we can do this alone. We need prayers, hugs, etc.

Oh, and I'm getting married in just a little under 4 months. So on top of the journey with my dad, I am preparing for a life long commitment to my best friend, and planning for a celebration of that marriage. I have had a few people make suggestions for how I should handle my wedding (or ask what I am planning to do). I really didn't feel like I could write this blog without addressing the elephant in the room. So I will say this: My dad and I have talked. Tom and I have talked. We've got it covered. Trust me, the emotions I feel on this subject are quite intense, but I assure you all, everyone over here on my end is on the same page. I think that's really all anyone needs to know.

I will close this by saying thank you. Thank you for the prayers- if anyone is ever doubting the power of prayer you just need to come hang out with us for a while. Your prayers are working, and giving us both the grace and comfort that we need to power through. Thank you for the sweet texts, cards, messages, etc. Thank you for stepping up when we need someone to fill in for us. Thank you for the meals, treats and snacks. Thank you for being such wonderful, compassionate, beautiful souls. Thank you for everyone who sees me in Church and takes the time to ask how I am doing. Thank you for my coworkers for the coffee dates, encouragement, hugs, and for working so hard to put an end to this disease. And finally, thank you for hopping in a cart and taking this ride with us.

So, so, so much love. Like, an insane amount of love.

Oh- one more thing- of all the emotions I have been feeling as of late, the greatest of them all is hope. I have gotten a lot of that hope through all of you and your stories and your empathy. So thank you for giving me hope.

Give me strength for the fight

Today as I was leaving the hospital, after visiting my dad, I began to feel incredibly overwhelmed. My stomach felt like it was being punched repeatedly, my hands were a bit shaky and I just wanted to go lay down somewhere. This feeling has come over me several times over the last few days. I know the feeling well. It's called anxiety.

After I talked myself through the physical feelings, I started to sort out the mental. I came home, collapsed into my bed head first, and had a heart to hear with myself.

Me "Dude! Why are you having such a hard time this time around? You should be an old pro by now!"

Me "I don't know. Maybe it's because I'm also moving in a week and because work is so busy right now"

Me "But when Dad was in the steroid psychosis you were in the midst of Strides season- and you were a Strides manager! and you handled that just fine!"

I sat with that for a while. Why do I feel like I handled it fine, maybe even handled it better, back then, but that I'm barely holding on now? At first, I started to see this as a sign of weakness. Maybe I'm not as strong as I think I am.

Or maybe I just don't remember how much I struggled. You know how people always tell pregnant women that they will never remember how much pain they felt during delivery? They'll just remember holding onto their sweet baby for the first time? Maybe it's kind of like that. Maybe I just remember my dad coming out of the psychosis, and the incredible sense of relief we all felt. I bet if I looked back at some of my posts from those days, I would find plenty of examples of when I was "barely holding on".

Or, maybe, I shouldn't compare. I preach all the time that we shouldn't compare ourselves to others. But I guess we also shouldn't compare ourselves to...ourselves. We're not always going to be 100%. We're not always going to be strong. Life brings different circumstances and surroundings every single day and not one day can be exactly the same as the next.

I'm working on accepting that- that I have a right to be where I am now, emotionally. That I don't have to "stay strong" (even though those are the words people love to say the most). I can just BE. I don't need to feel guilty about how I am or am not acting. I don't need to worry about making everyone else happy. I can only do what I can do in these moments. I can't promise you all that you are getting the very best version of me right now, but I can promise you that you're getting the real, raw me.

As for my dad, he's hanging in there. The poor guy carried a look of sadness today that really tore at my heart, and maybe that's why I felt so defeated. I hate seeing him so down, and I wish I could snap my fingers and fix it. I feel helpless, and that's probably leading to a lot of my own emotional distress. I like to be able to help- and when I can't, I feel a little out of sorts. Please continue to keep my dad in your prayers, and send him all the positive vibes and sunshine you can muster up.

Remembering Susan.

I know that I was meant to know Susan. She came into my life at a very critical time. And had we not shared a connection, she probably would have just been another Hugo parent to me, no one special. But instead, she was a role model.

I was wrapping up my year at Cristo Rey when my mom told me about Susan. She mentioned she was going through a divorce and that she was looking for work as an English teacher. Teaching at risk youth was a passion of hers, so she was checking out Cristo Rey as an option. I didn't know Susan, but my mom told me some pretty fabulous things about her, so I offered to hand deliver her resume and cover letter to our principal. Unfortunately that job didn't work out, but I maintained in contact with Susan.

Fast forward a few months. Susan got a job at a high school in Rochester. This time, I was the one looking for work. I had quit my job at Boys Hope Girls Hope and was desperate for work. Susan offered me a small babysitting gig. She had to leave her house pretty early in the morning, so she wanted me to come over and help get her kids ready for school and to be sure they got on the bus. I gladly took her up on it, and even though she thinks I was doing her this mega favor, it was actually her helping me. It got me up in the mornings. I got to see her every morning, and she always had that bright smile on her face. I learned that she too had done a year of service, through the Jesuit Volunteer Corps. We could talk about that, openly. Most adults were somewhat hesitant of my volunteer experience, although they always told me it was admirable, I knew most of them could not understand why I did it. Susan understood. She and I had the same thought: we were servants of Jesus, and we were put on this earth to help other people to grow. We both loved teenagers, black coffee and the St. Hugo Community. She would leave each morning telling me thank you and to tell her kids she loved them. She did anything for those kids. She was so proud of them and of every accomplishment they had. She looked at them with these compassionate, loving eyes. I made a decision right then and there that when I became a mom, I was going to be like Susan.

When I got my job with Great Lakes Caring in April 2011 I had to stop going to the Jarrell house. It wasn't going to work out, I had to be out on the east side by 8 am. I felt horrible, but I also knew I had to move on. Susan was understanding. From then on she dropped the kids off at latchkey 15 minutes early so that she could still get to work on time. It was time for someone else to look after the three beautiful children every morning. I was a little sad, I liked those kids, and I loved seeing Susan every morning.

In the late summer months, I volunteered to serve as co leader of the youth group. Susan's oldest, her son, was now in high school and able to join the group. I got to see him, and to see Susan more often if she dropped him off or picked him up. We would always give each other very quick life updates, and I couldn't help but smile whenever I talked to her. The last time I ever saw her was early January. She was picking Nick up from youth group and I was walking outside to my car. She stopped the car and asked me how things were going, at work and with youth group. As she started to pull away she said "Just...thank you...for all that you do".

I never saw Susan again. I miss her terribly. I miss that smile and I miss her gentleness. I miss how important she made people feel, and how deeply and genuinely she cared about everyone. I hope that I can grow into the kind of woman that she was, because she was incredible. The sweetest person you've ever met.

One of the Sisters of Mercy asked me today, after allowing me to sob in her office, if I had been able to find any grace at all in this situation.

Yes. I have, although that is hard to believe. I have found that I am closer with my parents, a bit more protective of them and worried for them...but full of so much love for them and for all that they endure. I have gained the comfort and pride that my mom is one of the most loved people at St. Hugo. People were turning to her left and right when this tragedy struck, knowing how close she was to Susan and the kids. I have become more sensitive to tragedies like this, nearly falling to my knees when I hear a similar story. And, most of all, it has grown me closer to the students in my youth group. They carry so much pain and confusion on their shoulders, and whenever they walk in the room on Sunday nights I pray for each of them, pray that they are comforted, that they are happy, that they are safe. I have grieved with them, I know the losses they have felt. I'd do anything for those kids.

I want to sincerely thank everyone who has been there for me and who has been saying prayers for the family. I know tomorrow is going to be hard too. Last year I woke up on the 11th to my mom telling me the news. I won't ever forget that feeling even though I wish I could.

There is a very special person in my life these days, and this is what he said to me today. "Tomorrow will be hardest, but you will persevere and the pain will get better. All of the hurt and sorrow will be turned into motivation to embrace (your word for 2013) any challenges that come your way". Amen.

I miss you Susan. I know you are smiling down on all of us and bringing us through the pain.

Please join me in praying for Susan's Family:
Dear Lord, Wrap Your arms tightly around those three beautiful children. Help them to know that they are not alone, help them to see light when they close their eyes to sleep. Heal their hearts as they remember that awful night. Bring them happy memories, bring them strength and pour them with love. Amen.