Hurricane Matthew and an Act of God

Dear Hurricane Matthew:

I am so mad at you. I had a family vacation planned to Hilton Head Island for fall break. It is the PERFECT time of year there, you know? My family doesn’t get a lot of vacation opportunities so I am TICKED that you are taking this away from us.

But Matthew, I am a person with perspective. I learned early that life isn’t fair and superfluous things like cancelled vacations are minor disappointments. My heart is protected and its aches are reserved for the “biggies” in life.

Here is what I know: Matthew, you are an act of God. Your power and the destruction you may cause is understood as something only the great Mother Nature could produce. It is fascinating for me to watch all media outlets plea with the residents of Florida and the eastern seaboard… Matthew, your incoming dominance is undisputed and those in authority are acknowledging your power. “An act of God is coming. We need to be responsible, evacuate, protect ourselves, and ask for prayers.”  

I believe in Al Roker. When that sweet man tells me an ‘act of God’ or an “extremely dangerous storm” is headed in our direction, I am going to listen.

Matthew, as it pertains specifically to you, I am going to respectfully ask that you pull your punch. Our country is in enough pain. A natural disaster would feel like a kick in the shins when we already have a nose bleed. Like all of us, Matthew, God has clearly sent you with a purpose. However, like all of us,we beseech you to use and temper your strength in the best ways possible. If you must flex your muscle, please land at Washington University in St. Louis this Sunday at 9 pm.  An orange man and an angry woman will be debating. Your power could be useful there.

You see, my friend Matthew, you intrigue me because you get introduced as an act of God without any question. And yet, the unfortunate piece of that, is you are perceived as a pretty bad guy.  If you do what you were born to do, you are going to destroy a lot of things and cause a lot of pain.  Matthew, in living out your purpose you may even kill some people. The God that I know doesn’t create bad events, He provides relief.

Matthew, like all of us, you are not responsible for the nicknames you have been given. You didn't ask to be called an act of God. For me, I want to defend that assignment. An act of God is a lot of things and it matters to me that all of those things are not bad things.

For example, an act of God is being present for someone who is struggling. An act of God is loving someone when they seem wholly unloveable.  An act of God is giving your time, your energy, your talent to something worthy. An act of God is saying, “I don’t even know what to say right now, but I am so glad you shared that with me.” It will be many ‘acts of God” that will help the people that may be hurt by the destruction you will cause.

Matthew, I am not going to argue that you are an act of God- something as powerful as you can only be understood by someone as powerful as Him. But since I am mad at you for ruining my vacation, I just want to say this: the assignment of “act of God” shouldn’t be just for something destructive- it is rightfully assigned to something powerful and a lot of those things happen well before us every day.
 

And Matthew, whenever it is I get back to the beaches of HHI with my family and watch the waves reach the sand and search for the dolphins on the horizon, I am going to hold close to my heart my own definition of act of God.

Pink Ribbon 2016 and the HOPE it brought

HOPEspotters, HELLO!

We are close to our first birthday and that is very exciting to me. I am thinking about that because this time last year I posted a lot of “stuff” about the Pink Ribbon Classic on social media and got such good feedback that I began to believe HOPEspot could launch.

Tonight, I return to you with Pink Ribbon giddiness. And if you are a non-local follower, please don’t go away: my Pink Ribbon experience “transcends”.

Let me be brief in catching everyone up. The Pink Ribbon Classic is the nation’s largest women’s golf tournament and it happens to raise A LOT of money for the American Cancer Society (specifics to follow). In addition to a day of golf, the Pink Ribbon offers a kick ass kick off party with silent and live auction AND it provides an incredible opening ceremony that sets the tone for sponsors and players alike.

Now, let me offer full disclosure for those late to the story. My mom,  Pat Lane, is the “grand poo-bah” of the Pink Ribbon Classic. She chairs the Executive Committee and every dollar in and out is under her nose. As a cancer survivor, wife of survivor, and parent of two survivors, her passion is unmatched. It takes tremendous effort to pull all the pieces together to make the Pink Ribbon Classic the success that it is. She would, rightfully, credit her committee, and then she would shun all attention away from her. And I will. After I mention that the Pink Ribbon Classic of 2015 was enormously successful and raised $183,500.  I just gotta say that this year raised $265, 500!! Pat Lane will not take credit for that sum, but Pat Lane was part of every dollar raised. I’m crazy proud of her and she knows it.

This blog, however, tonight’s message, is about something much more universal. HOPE, friends - it is about HOPE! I have to describe the event and how special it is, but I promise, there is a larger message.

More than any other charity/ fundraising event I’ve been a part of, the Pink Ribbon Classic makes sure that it never strays off the point of WHY we are here raising all this money. With annual honorees, some of whom are presently engaged in a battle with breast cancer, there is a spotlighted opportunity for these women to tell their stories of fear, hope, battle and courage, to the audience at large.  The honorees message is the annual anchor to the event, punctuated the WHY for all of the effort.

The opening ceremony is something all together extraordinarily special and I will never be able to describe it in words. I will try: a large sum of women, most of whom have had some up close experience with breast cancer arrive and register. Ladies dressed in pink, excited for a fun day, happy about their player gifts. But after registration, the “show” starts. The chair woman (Ok, my Mom) offers a greeting and thanks for all participants. After proper acknowledgements, she turns the ceremony to the mistress of ceremonies.

Here is where is gets big. Participants are invited to take a pink balloon in honor of those fighting the battle with cancer.  One by one, women and men sheepishly and then boldly come to take pink balloons- in their minds they are saying: I am praying for you, my friend-- or You are bigger than cancer,brother…  Before long, it is equally heartbreaking and heart lifting to see the ENTIRE group of participants with pink balloons in their hands.

Cancer is indiscriminate. The evil is everywhere.

After a pause, with a bagpiper playing in the background, the group is invited to release their balloons: launch the prayers for wellness, send the good thoughts into the universe.

Send Cancer away.  That’s what we wish with the pink balloons. Good- bye.  

The next step is the genius of the Pink Ribbon Classic and it is honest heart breaking reality. Participants are invited to take a white balloon, honoring a loved one who has lost his or her battle with cancer.

Lost.  The word doesn’t feel like it has a place in this day.

So the group goes back and takes white balloons and with each balloon comes a complimentary heart dagger, because as the bag piper continues to play, the loss represented by the white balloon becomes new all over again.

It is gut wrenching. Most participants, ready for a fun day and dressed in pink, cry.  As the bag piper continues to play, more tears are shed.Cancer.  Loss.  Defeat. Sad.

I HOPE you are still with me because here is where the HOPE comes in the story. This isn’t a news report, it is a HOPE homily.

The moment after the white balloons are launched, the HOPE miracle occurs. Into this population of sponsors and players, survivors and caregivers, the spirit of survivorship blows through like the Holy Grail in an Indiana Jones movie.

Every person there, after the white balloon launch, is emboldened, initiated and inspired into the battle against cancer. Each white balloon launcher, sending a piece of her heart with that balloon, doesn’t want to launch another white balloon - ever again.

And then there was one more part. A professional  athlete, shared his feelings about his wife’s battle with breast cancer.  If you were there, or if you weren’t, what this gentleman showed so eloquently is that cancer is an indiscriminate and hideous equalizer.  His observable fear, on behalf of his beloved wife, was only matched by his undeniable gratitude for the support they have received.

Look, HOPEspotters, it all comes down to this, and let me be perfectly clear about it: from the beginning of my blog, I wanted to share the stories of battle of cancer and terminally ill people, mixed with my own experience, and, God willing, blend in some HOPE in the message. To that end, the Pink Ribbon Classic is the absolute best story I can tell. I don’t get to participate every day in an event that launches pink balloons for those in battle and white ones for those who have lost.  But to be clear, the Pink Ribbons balloons live in my heart every day and I encourage you to launch your own mental balloons.

Fight. Survive. Remember. Battle. HOPE.

Cancer. Go Home.

More often than not, people perceive my work as a hospice nurse as depressing. I always beg to differ. On any given day, I have the unique opportunity to observe and participate in families hope and strength and bear witness to tremendous love. It isn’t always pretty, but it usually more certainly remarkable.

In my particular position, I get to be a part of many different experiences- not all of them at the bedside. As a community educator, I have been privileged to be a part of many different special events that bring end of life discussions to the forefront. On HOPEspot, I have written before about my participation with a phenomenal theater event called “Turning Thirty” that uniquely chronicles one man’s battle with testicular cancer. In this play, Cancer is a character that battles the surgeon in a duel like scene. It is brilliant in personifying the trickery, evil, easily intoxicating nature of this most insidious disease. I think Tom Wilner’s portrayal of Cancer in “Turning Thirty” resonated with me so deeply because I have been dueling with cancer, in different capacities since I was 11 years old.

I am going to cut to the punch line now as to why I am writing about this tonight. Today is September 12, 2016. Three years ago, I was laying on a cot beside my sister, my person, after her double mastectomy and reconstruction. The strongest person I’ve ever known was on her 9th hour of sleep and I couldn’t stop thinking, as I waited beside her, how unbelievably PISSED I was that cancer had knocked on HER door. Katie doesn’t entertain nonsense and breast cancer’s descent upon her was equally shocking and unnerving.

I’ll stop here to say: don’t get me wrong. No one knows better than me, both personally and professionally, how indiscriminate Cancer can be. And while I can say that intellectually, I will admit that seeing Cancer touch MY sister, MY rock, was an unexpected, low blow violation from an enemy I met long ago. Just like “Turning Thirty” duels with Cancer, I, too, felt like I’d met this foe and, albeit magically, I felt like we had a deal.

For those new to the story, let me recap. My Mom was diagnosed with metastatic malignant melanoma when I was 11. Her prognosis in 1983 was as poor as my family’s response to her illness. We were, in a word, hopeless. Facing the awful fear of losing my Mom as a fifth grader will never leave me, nor will the knowledge that my big sister had my back every day. I was suddenly less annoying and more welcome to watch General Hospital with Katie. My Mom’s inexplicable recovery was never discussed, mostly because we didn’t have much time before I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. At 13, in 1985, this was a reasonably big deal that required surgery and follow up hospitalizations. I can tell you right now that the day my big sister came to visit me at the hospital and gifted me with a Billy Idol cassette that her and her high school buddy listened to driving to school in a car that I considered sacred, I was sure I was cured. Recovery for me was clearer than cure, but after a short time, suffice to say, cancer didn’t sleep in my bedroom anymore. It moved back to my parent’s room. My Dad was diagnosed with testicular cancer in 1987 and my family’s tolerance for cancer’s presence had grown extremely thin.

To be clear, Cancer was the uninvited over staying visitor in my family’s home in the 1980s. When my Mom, Dad, and I felt like we could say good bye to it, we did with complete conviction: for our minds, we were exorcised.

So imagine my complete disgust and rage, when I received a call from my sister after our family beach vacation at the end of July 2013. “I REALLY don’t want to tell you this, but I have to have a breast biopsy and I want you to come with me.” As life will do, there had been other significant challenges since our “cancer exorcism” in 1989: big life things- our collective threshold for another gut punch was gone.

The details of the ensuing events are largely irrelevant. It is fun, however, to remember how Katie and I (mostly Katie - because she’s a boss) bullied the team into letting me be present for her biopsy. We also had some laughs talking about her new boobs with the plastic surgeon and being creative with a sharpie. But you know what isn’t fun? Watching your sister tell your nieces that she has breast cancer and hearing them beg for a promise that she won’t die. Or listening to your parents, who’ve already taken care of a child with cancer, but are now significantly older, try to process this new reality.

Katie wasn’t supposed to get cancer. Katie and I used to play so many games as kids, and kickball was one of our favorites. Katie, for me, has always been home base - if I could get to her, I was safe. Cancer was supposed to follow those same rules. When the rest of our family was at play, Katie was supposed to be safe. I was INCENSED at this violation. Old friend, the gloves are OFF!

So now we are back to September 12, 2013. After consulting with surgeons and oncologists (and being there as the family nurse like I knew a FREAKING thing!), Katie is in surgery. I sit with her husband and my Mom. We chat easily because we are no stranger to the surgical waiting room.

Eventually, we get to see Katie and in a fog of anesthesia, she asks about her nodes. Her husband tells her what we know which is that they are clear. Eyes closed, tongue thick, the ultimate competitor gives a thumbs up and a hell yes.

And then we follow her to her room. After basic assessment, her care is essentially left to me and my Mom. She is sleeping. We believe nodes are clear. As she continues to sleep, my Mom and I create our sleeping spaces next to her so we can be there at a moment’s notice. Katie, however, continues to sleep.

So it is at this moment, just as Tom Wilner depicts in “Turning Thirty”, I imagine a duel. I remember meeting Cancer under the Christmas tree when my parents told us that my Mom had cancer and my grandparents would be staying indefinitely. I was happy about my grandparents staying and yet that seemed wrong. I remember Cancer at the dinner table  when my Mom was sick and there were a lot of bad moods. Then, I was diagnosed with cancer and the tsunami of support, care, fear that overcame me as a 13 year old person was overwhelming. Then, I was in isolation with Cancer and I hated it like nothing I have ever known. I didn’t feel like I was over that when my Dad got Cancer and I was mostly just beyond sick at its presence. By the time I was 17, I hoped/ believed I said to Cancer “good game - go away.”

And here I am- praying next to the one who nursed us all-albeit unwillingly- and CANCER has come back?? I am forced to think about the number of amazing patients and families I meet who are bulldozed by the diagnoses their loved ones fall prey to. They are ill prepared and scared as hell.

We are tonight three years away and I am so thankful. The NHI and ACS are ready to give stats about years of survivorship and I pay attention to each and every one as it pertains to my sister. A lot has happened in those three years and I am always left to wonder how those agencies account for those variables.

But this I know. That night. Three years ago. Just like so many of the other families I meet, I stood toe to toe with cancer. Katie, in the bed, was doing the hard work, but those of us that love her were there, pushing this unwanted, re-occurring BULLY out the door. I felt with confidence we got the upper hand that night and THANKFULLY the last three years have affirmed my suspicions.  I write this tonight, however, as an equal tribute and warning: leave my sister alone, Cancer. Leave. Her. Alone.  

Olympic Parenting

Hopespotters: I spoke to an old friend today who asked me how the “blog” was going.. I shamefully admitted that it needed some love. I told my friend that, like in the case of many things that were truly important to me, I lost sight of its importance over the summer. I told him, and I meant it, that I have every intention of reigniting my passion for my blog baby soon.

So tonight marks the end of the 2016 Summer Olympic Games in Rio. If you follow me on social media, you know I have truly enjoyed - and participated as one can from a couch in - these games. The past two weeks have brought in front of our eyes the whole enchilada of athletics that I so deeply love - the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat, and all the compelling human interest stories in between.

Back here in reality, something else epic happened in the last two weeks: school began. Whether it be for the first time kindergartener whose backpack goes from neck to ankles or the first time leaving for college freshman whose parents are trying to stand up from a gut punch, back to school is the parental Olympics.

Many of us have seen the footage of gymnast, Aly Raisman’s, parents watching her perform. It is the ultimate depiction of parenting- while Aly’s parents were in an uncommon placed while viewed, their leaning, peeking through hands, can’t watch - have to watch, body girations spoke volumes about parenting in general. Holy hell, as our babies go back to school, we, as parents, have to pretend to stay cool. And yet, like Aly’s parents, we are terrified: will you fail and we will have to provide comfort? Will you madly succeed and we will have to find the next best step for you? Will you be treated justly? Will you find worthy “teammates”?

To Aly Raisman’s parents, I offer a heartfelt slow clap. Check all the boxes in things done right. Successful? Check.  Leader? Check. Sportsman? Check. All the best things? Check. Check. Check.

How many of us parents entering into back to school pray for the same report from teacher? We pour our hearts and souls into these wonderful, wicked, weird human beings and after a summer of driving us crazy and pretending they’ve never abided by a rule, they go back to school.  Like Aly’s parents, I watch Ryan and Sean leave with my hand over my eyes, fingers offering a very slight peek. And I know I have great kids. For reals.

Back to the Olympics: I am so grateful for the personalities that played out and offered me, and millions of other parents, teachable moments. For example:

The Phelps:  Micheal Phelps is the most decorated Olympian of all time. And my sons enjoyed his impressive run in this year's games.  For my money, Micheal is my favorite, FAVORITE story, because there is nothing I love more than a redemption story. Michael, always awesome, hit rock bottom with addiction and CHOSE to FIGHT back to use the gifts God gave him. Dear Ryan and Sean, take note….

The Simone:  Excellent is excellent. I have always believed people are born with gifts and it is a HOLY act to behold them executing their gifts.  Micheal Phelps was born to swim. Mother Teresa was born to minister.  David Beckham was born to play soccer. No one ever has been born to be a better gymnast than Simone Biles. Ryan and Sean:  this girl wasn’t born into the best of circumstances. When God placed her in the right path she worked hard and she worked hard and she worked HARD.  And then when her hard work paid off with success, she celebrated her teammates and had class.  Viva. La. Simone.

The Lochte:  I have to bury this in the middle to not end with negative. At the beginning of the Rio games, when Ryan Lochte came out with his bleached hair, my Ryan asked, “ Am I the only one that finds Ryan Lochte unlikable?” The events surrounding Mr. Lochte and the vandalism in Rio sicken me. What I want Mr. Lochte’s antics to teach my sons is, don’t hang around with bad eggs and Ryan Lochte has proved to be a bad egg. I’m actually sorry for his compadres caught in the madness. . If you look for trouble, you find it.

The Gabby: So social media buried “crabby Gabby”. What an absolute shame. Gabby Douglas won gold for USA in London and did with absolute class. Gabby was a contributing part of the “final five” and mentored and celebrated alike. To Ryan and Sean: be classy and be yourselves. Social media is an unkind, disparate, uninformed jury.  Know who you are and what you contribute, like Gabby, and don't worry about anything else.

The Kerri Walsh- Jennings: Finally, cheers and bravo to Kerri Walsh Jennings. As the most decorated beach volleyball Olympian, she and her partner lost the gold medal round in a shocking upset. Her and her partner admirably battled back to win the bronze medal.  The sound byte I wanted Ryan and Sean to hear after Kerri lost the gold medal match to Brazil was, “I am a blessed woman. This loss makes me no less blessed.”

The Olympic Spirit:  there's nothing like it. I am so pleased to have that spirit so ever present in this back to school season that requires the toughest guts and the hardest hearts. Parents: you belong on a podium for bravery, grit and belief in the “relay team” that will receive your child.

Good night and God Bless!