I feel that I’ve been a hundred different versions of myself since my last blog post, and every time I tried to write about one, I’d inherit another. Faster than I can recall, I have somersaulted through so many personalities.
The cancer patient turned workout guru.
The workout guru gets a job.
The non-profit administrator finishes hormone therapy and all active cancer treatment.
The ex-patient sends her son to preschool and becomes the classroom parent.
The Room Parent fills her days with e-mails, office hours, and laundry.
She now has spreadsheets for work and preschool parents.
The nature preserves that nursed her sanity during early motherhood and cancer treatment now employ her for their protection. The circle is unbroken.
But she’s also just the same as she’s ever been. Panting as she stumbles into her side door with an arm full of groceries. She’ll realize she forgot half of the recipe when she makes dinner in a few hours. After ordering the takeout that she went grocery shopping to avoid, a revolt will occur against teeth brushing. Bath time will soothe the sting of a kid’s flosser before she tucks two wild humans into their beds.
An alert on her Apple watch goes off twenty minutes after she said goodnight the first time to congratulate her on her workout achievement- 8 FLIGHTS CLIMBED. These flights of stairs are not a workout goal, but the number of times her kids have screamed for a drink of water, to explain “how to break a werewolf,” to put on lotion, or to re-pile on each blanket.
If her perfect husband hasn’t started stuffing the dishwasher, she is glaring at him to get started. She lumbers an overfilled laundry basket down to the basement washer and curses that she must stay up to move it to the dryer. Because tonight, she WAS going to be in bed by 9:30.
It is almost 11 p.m. when she startles out of bed, realizing that she never moved the laundry, and runs into the cold basement to move it.
So goes on the plights of motherhood.
The last six months have spun me through dizzying seasonal landmarks. The heatwaves died down just after our very first school bus started to stop in front of the house. Not long after that, Gable picked out a golden skeleton to greet it from our front porch (whom the kids have affectionally named Steve). By the time I was folding Steve’s limbs into a plastic container, I was bringing up the other ones for Christmas.
In between dead leaves and decorations, I also-
-finished cancer treatment
-landed a dream job
-sent Jet to preschool
-signed up to be Jet’s Pre-K parent
-am still on full-time duty with the now fanatical prima donna, Lennox
-finished the Livestrong program at the YMCA and renewed strength from my old, weak, cancer body
Life is busier than ever. Jet’s seasonal colorings litter across every crevice of my counter space and refrigerator. I’ve tried to sort piles by month, but new piles are strewn across the house by the time I do. Life imitates art.
In true parent fashion, the colder months have also brought a new role that most had warned me about over the last year. The echoes of my oncologist’s resounding refusal to put Jet into preschool before chemo play in my mind as he gets off of the school bus a year later with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes, the preschool germs.
We’ve experienced everything from the common cold to a full-on spell of stomach flu. Cupping midnight toddler vomit into my hands while gesturing an alarmed child through the dark, all while trying not to spill, is now a rite of passage that has been added to my rap sheet. I have never been more thankful or in love with my husband than when he offered to clean up a middle-of-the-night puke blowout from Jet’s bed frame. I refresh the bedding, and he does the dirty work.
Then, there are the typical colds. The runny noses that children pick at while I chase them around the living room with a tissue and a water bottle. A triple beep from the thermometer ques the fear of what I’ll have to bargain to get a single dose of Tylenol into their fevered bodies.
If I can pay with a single M&M per 5mL of medicine, it is an accomplishment. They’ll see if they can get away with another one by naming all the colors they want, and I remind them that they don’t need any at all. Lennox will shyly take a brown while Jet sheepishly picks blue, and they leave the kitchen with sticky red medicine still on the sides of their mouths.
A single M&M for the price of my shredded sanity in caring for a sick household. One less tantrum in the landscape of toys to disinfect, cracker crumbs to vacuum, and the ever-constant tidal waves of laundry that spill out of their multiple designated baskets.
So, if you haven’t heard from me in the last couple of months, it’s not you. It’s the plague.
But now, January.
The heat flips on, and the dry air pushes through the vents. Gentle echoes of clanging metal vents hush through a quiet, dark house. The kids are in bed, and Gable is snoring on the couch. I’ve managed to cram all our holiday decor back into their dozen Rubbermaid containers. After trucking up each seasonally labeled container over the last 4 months, it will be a long while before I go to the basement for another.
Though, parenthood only encourages the insane collection of holiday items. I’m sure I have a St. Patrick’s Day one that I already forgot about. I’m sure I’ll have one for Valentine’s Day after this year.
I love January. I love a new blank calendar. I love new beginnings because change is my faith and constant. I lean into the ebbs and flows. Dancing while scrubbing the dishes through the highs and forcing myself into gym clothes on the lows. I ache for the spring, but this is the time for warm bread and soups. For listening to Jose Gonzalez by kitchen candlelight before pouring my nightly cup of tart cherry juice. The little moments that dangle before the edge of a new day, planning for groceries. For work. For sifting through Jet’s backpack. Lennox’s diaper bag. The kitchen drawer crammed full with envelopes of procrastination.
And still, some things are the same. I wince when pouring out my little nightly pill of Tamoxifen. I dream about flushing the bottle and telling no one. How much lighter would my days feel without its influence and constant shuffle on my hormones? I can’t remember what it’s like to have a day of clear thinking and the full-body prickle of an incoming hot flash.
But, with an eye roll, I declare I am alive.
With a lot less hair, but hair nonetheless.
I made it.
Now, without additional intravenous to add to the injury of my atrocious daily medication.
After everything, it’s just me, a little pill, and a couple of scars.
Life plunges forward to these corners of life, mine being Doctor Mom and Development & Outreach Administrator.
When not defending my children’s tiny immune systems or working at my dream job, I’m saying YES.
Yes, to dinner.
Yes, to a new work opportunity.
Yes, I’ll sign up as a school mom and make handcrafted ornaments for my entire healthcare team.
Yes, to pushing my entire family out of our house to get our asses out into the woods and breathe the fresh air.
Yes, to yanking myself into leggings like a sausage into her casing for a new workout class because I haven’t gone this week.
YES, to getting my port-a-cath out of my chest on February 22nd. I will put it on my keychain and cherish it forever.
YES, yes, yes to the other side of the grain because progress and discomfort often dwell together. They hold hands and flirt before me as I hesitate to say yes again. But most of the time, the discomfort gets up and leaves when it realizes I’m not going either. And progress comes over to ask me about my day. Asks me if I’m still bonding with the micro-communities I’ve immersed myself in. The YMCA, RCCA, RVC, PTO, YSC, AA – what am I doing to tether myself to these big letters?
And if I shrug and fret for some excuse, progress invites discomfort back in the room to walk me to my next meeting/workout/conference.
If the last year and a half has taught me anything, I have a higher power, higher than god herself and more tangible than my hand in front of my face.
My YES, spirit, heart, and everything is community.
The random congregations that smile and offer a sentence, sometimes just passing through, others as formal as a weekday. Before cancer, I’d hide from the skeletons in the closet by holding a phone screen in front of my face. An excuse would lead to sweatpants and pacing around until the a.m. My medically required quarantine made me a bit socially agoraphobic. And that’s okay! That’s what happens when treatment turns you into Gollum (physically and metaphorically).
But now, as an enthusiastic expat from Cancerland, I know YES is a response to a question. A question from someone, anyone. A receptionist, a coworker, another parent, fellow workout class attendees, the farmer at the milk stand, my favorite cashier; the amity is abundant. I depend on these interactions to fill my cup and propel me to the best version of these many selves.
To get dressed.
To say hi.
A smile to return.
From whoever I am, it’s nice to see you. Buzz buzz.
Kathlyn Ramsey Moore 