WOTY2.0: Phases

Liv and I went prom dress shopping last Saturday.  She had no idea what she wanted, but knew immediately what she didn’t like (zip it, please, I know).   After trying on what seemed like three dozen dresses, she announced, “This one is fine, it’ll work.”

A Mom knows when her kid is settling (yes, again, I know).  And while that dress looked okay, fit decently, and would have been fine, something was missing.  I ran into the back room – the one which by that point welcomed me like The Hatch on LOST – to find the one.  I was going to find it, because I knew it had to exist.

Exasperated, Liv grabbed the dress from behind the curtain and I sat down.  And waited.  And listened.  And wondered.  Nothing was happening, but I knew not to say a word.  The boutique owner walked along the creaky hardwood floor to the front door, flipped the old-fashioned sign to CLOSED and then - out of that dressing room she came, beaming with the biggest, brightest smile any Mom could ever hope to see.

Better late than never, as I like to say.  I know, I know, we ALL know… (It was a looong day, let me have this.)

The store takes what they call “once loved” wedding dresses, bridesmaid dresses, and prom dresses on consignment.  I wasn’t about to point out the irony in their nomenclature, but I will be dropping off two once loved dresses later this week when I am there picking up that perfect prom dress find.  And for those of you whispering right now, both are Liv's.

When I confirmed with her that it was alright to ditch them, I also asked what she thought of my super sweet red lace c.1987 prom dress.  “Think they’d want THIS once loved treasure?”  It horrified her so much she had no comment, even though her mouth was hanging wide open.

My point is this.  Time flies; yet, life is absolutely cyclical.  Proms have existed for as long as any of us can remember, and so has cancer.

But thankfully and mercifully, both look vastly different than they did years ago.

In the last 50 years, survival rates for blood cancer patients have doubled, tripled and in some cases, even quadrupled as a result of research and innovation.  We need to keep this trend on pace.  We need to fight harder than ever.  We need to never give up, because settling should never be an option.   

Why would it be?  Settling isn’t an answer, it’s merely a Band-Aid that keeps curling up on the ends, threatening to rip completely off the moment you stop trying to habitually and begrudgingly smooth it back down.

Our lives are a series of phases.  And while our cyclical experiences are each unique, each differing in terms of joys and pains, triumphs and tragedies, we are all interconnected. 

Woven in the beautiful tapestry of our lives are similar themes:  childhood in all its magical innocence, adolescence in all its ugly confusion, early, impetuous twenties and all of their prideful “I got this!” proclamations…

And sometimes cancer.

--------------------------

This is an email we received last Friday from Mel, our Campaign Director:

Candidates & Committee,

It was great to see so many of you at last night’s Halfway Happy Hour! I’m really glad Caleb and his family were able to join us. Seth and Andrea have said time and time again how much they are inspired by each of you and your dedication to our mission and our cause.

This morning, Andrea sent me an email with the attached picture, which she calls “Caleb’s Phases of Leukemia.”

 

 

-          Top left:
At Riley getting a blood transfusion to prepare for chemo

-          Top right:
At Riley for his first chemotherapy treatment

-          Bottom left:
Induction Phase, where he had to take steroids twice a day for a month. He couldn’t walk because he was so big and Seth & Andrea had to re-teach him how to walk.

-          Bottom right:
3 months before his 2^nd birthday he lost all his hair

 

She closed the email by saying, “2 years down, 15 months to go!”

This MWOY journey certainly isn’t always easy, but I think that’s enough to keep us all going…

Thanks for ALL you do – it can never be said enough!

Enjoy the weekend,

Melanie

---------------------------------------

Anything short of a cure is like walking into a high school gymnasium wearing the wrong dress on the arm of the wrong guy.

Refuse to settle.

One month to go.

Post-Boston

I really only have two things to say before I copy and paste the article the Journal Gazette (pre-editing edition) asked me to write:

1.  I am beyond humbled by the whole stinkin' thing.  It was and will forever be an unforgettable life event. 
2.  To the person who actually read this article before its final submission, thank you for doing so.  I think you are beautiful, too.

----------------------------------------------------

WeRunTogether

By:  Beth Schrader

After loading the suitcase into the car last Saturday morning, I ran back into the house to grab my iPhone.  Completely apropos, Boston’s “More Than A Feeling” was blaring through the speakers, the perfect send-off to a long awaited trip.

I was seated in between a fellow runner and her husband (“No, it’s ok, don’t move, we’ve been together forever…”) on the flight from Indy to Charlotte.  She had run Boston before and was giving me the lowdown on how to approach the course.

Really hold back the first four miles.  It’s all downhill, it’s early, the adrenaline will be on overload and you’ll want to fly, but don’t because you’ll pay for it on the back half.

This sound advice echoed what my running buddies had already told me, so I shook my head as if I knew.  I had no idea.

When we landed in Charlotte, we bid each other farewell and good luck, and continued on our respective treks into the city which has eluded me for the last 4 years.  I had zero intention of ever visiting “just because.”  I was ONLY going to make the trip through one means:  qualifying.

After arriving and settling into The Westin, one block from Boylston and the finish line, I met my good friend and co-hort, Angela, for dinner.  If you knew her, this would be even more exceptional of a story because, by her own admission, she’s “not thoughtful” nor does she “ever do things like this.”  She’s also a good liar, because I find her incredibly thoughtful for making this trip with me, kind of last minute to boot.  I’m not sure I can ever properly repay her for all she did to get me through the weekend – from making sure we knew where we had to be and when -  to calming my nerves through her precision timing of comedic sarcasm (“I found the perfect guy for you.  Four words:  lime green pajama pants.”).

Her selflessness not only will always be remembered, but was in very good company in Boston.  The vibe everywhere was one of constant emotion:  resilience, catharsis, healing, closure, companionship, and camaraderie.  Everyone was incredibly welcoming, from the stereotypical  Bostonian Super Shuttle guy in all his thick-accented glory (“Welcome to Bah-stun”), to the folks lining the jam-packed streets.  People would smile and take the time to thank individuals for coming back to their city, or showing up at all on the heels of last year’s tragedy.

On the ride into the City from the airport, I was sitting next to a woman who ran in 2013 and had just finished when the bombs went off.  She told me she had contemplated whether or not to return, as it was scary and not something she was quite over yet. 

“Thank you for coming back to Bah-stun,” the driver with bat-like hearing yelled gruffly from the front seat.  “This is OUR city, and people like you being here are helping us take it back.”

After a late dinner on a dicey back alley road Saturday night (our favorite kind of place), I walked back to my hotel.  I purposely took Boylston, where the Finish Line was brightly illuminated.  It was the first time I had seen it in person.  As I slowly approached, I could sense the respect of everyone in the vicinity.  While there were lots and lots of people there, it was eerily quiet.  People were taking photographs, but mostly, we all just stood in disbelief, and in deference.

There was a memorial erected for the people who lost their lives last year.  And as you stood there looking at it, the only thing you could do is begin shake your head as tears streamed down your face.  By all intents and purposes, it was a “normal” street.  Same pavement we have in Fort Wayne, same sidewalks, same kinds of stores and restaurants.  The whole scene was simply surreal.  To think that one minute you could be standing, sitting, or running right there…right there…and then, your world changes in an instant.  It was a lot to take in and even harder to try and process.

On Sunday, we went to the Convention Center.   The logistics which must go into providing 36,000 runners with everything they need prior to the race is incredible.  And man, they nail it in Boston.  As we arrived, I walked immediately to the appropriate section of bib numbers to receive my packet.  Another proud and smiling Bostonian greeted us, thanked us for being there, and wished me luck on the course.  The sense of communal pride continued to be evident.

Angela and I checked out the expo which was wall to wall people, bought a few things, and hit the streets of downtown.  The history is rich; the buildings architecturally interesting.  We walked to Boston Common so we would know where I needed to go in the morning to load the bus for the drive to Hopkinton. 

It was a beautiful, sunny day out so I detoured on the way back to my hotel and sat on some steps people watching.  Everyone was smiling and many people were wearing their Boston Marathon jackets or other attire from years past.  Many others still were adorned with “Boston Strong” hats, T-shirts, and bracelets.  It was a peaceful hour or so, as I felt connected to this group of strangers in a very meaningful and intense way.

The day had finally come….BOSTON.  The alarm never needs to wake me on race morning.  I awakened at 5:30am and looked out my window at Boylston Street.  It was beginning to come alive, with people walking to and fro as final preparations for such an historic day were being made.  Patriot’s Day in Boston is an historic day; but today was even more profound, even more sentimental.

As we stood on the back side of Boston Common staring at a continual line of school buses waiting to transport runners over 26 miles into Hopkinton, I saw him.  Well, actually I saw the CBS News Anchor holding a microphone in front of his happy face – a man wearing the bright orange 2014 Boston Marathon jacket, a ravishing smile, and one shoe.  He was clearly a survivor, and he was clearly getting ready to run this race with his prosthetic leg.

That moment, along with the seemingly endless bus ride to Hopkinton, turned me into contemplative and emotional mush.  How could this have happened here last year?  The bus was noisy.  Runners were chatting each other up asking one another how many Boston’s they had run before, what their goals were for the day, and mostly, if they were here last year.  Some runners were traveling and running together in packs; most, however, were total strangers like the woman sitting next to me from Laguna Beach, CA. 

And yet, we were united in a way which is almost inexplicable.  The level of true camaraderie was not only felt, it was seen – from the bibs adorning our torsos, to the bagels and protein bars being scarfed down, to the matching “Boston 2014” bracelets we had all been given – the ones made from last year’s banners which we wore as proud badges of honor.

We arrived to Athlete’s Village, which was a scene straight out of Lollapalooza.  There were jumbotrons, announcers, blankets, food, and rows and rows of port-o-potties with lines as far as the eye could see.  Oh, and runners.  Lots and lots of runners.

When it was finally time for Wave 3 to leave and walk to the starting corrals, I made my way alongside others who were equally as overwhelmed with the whole production – the whole day – the whole sense of what was about to go down.  The fly over had just occurred, and we now bowed our collective heads in a moment of silence.

And then?  A starting gun signaled it was time to start THE BOSTON MARATHON.  It was surreal, it was fun, it was hot, and it was a beast.  That course is literally the toughest one I’ve ever run. 

People much better and faster than I had warned me to be conservative the first four miles, which are all downhill.  I listened as well as I ever do, and by mile 9, I started doing the math:  26 minus 9 = how much farther?  This can’t be good.

My quads were a wreck, but my feelings were not.  For once in my life, I was actually enjoying the journey and not the destination.  Now, mind you, the destination of Boston WAS GOING TO HAPPEN no matter what.  I just knew it wasn’t going to happen nearly as fast as I had hoped.  And I was ok with that.

I was still hanging in as I approached mile 11.  I began to climb yet another ascent and noticed a woman walking off to the side.  It wasn’t all that uncommon, in and of itself, but she was crying a cry of emotional pain rather than physical.  I did the “Hey, let’s run together!” thing as I went by, but then I heard what she uttered through tears and heavy breathing and I stopped.

I’m scared to finish by myself.  There were thousands of people in front of us, beside us, and behind us, so I had no idea what she meant.  Until she told me she was a survivor from last year who had been stopped by the bombs at mile 25.5. 

Even though I’m quite sure my brain wasn’t functioning fully, it didn’t take long for me to tell her we’d finish together…if she wanted.  Luckily, she did.  We ran together from 11-23 until the last stretch narrowed and we lost each other at a water stop. 

We talked about family, friends, stupid hills, and an obscene craving for bananas.  We shared the pain, we shared those hills, and we shared a pretty big moment in both of our lives – lives which until now had been completely unknown to one another. 

And much like Boston itself, she and I will be forever connected through tears of pain and tears of joy.  To Michelle from Texas…thank you, my friend. 

As I turned left onto Boylston Street, I could see the waves of arms in the air.  I could hear the loud screams of cheer, elation, and pride for a city which was being healed.  And I remembered to throw my own limp and sunburned arms up in the air and smile as I FINALLY crossed that finish line.

It was everything I had hoped it would be.  More Than A Feeling, indeed.

 

 

 

WeRunTogether

(Written yesterday, posting today... "Really, Westin, $40 bucks for wireless from the already overpriced rooms?")

It's here.  And right now, the only place I know where to start is on Monday at 11:00am. 

The full-on emotion began first thing yesterday morning.  First cup of coffee in hand, I opened the sliding door, walked onto the deck and just took it all in.  The crisp air, the beautiful skyline, the simple serenity and peace in that moment – the upcoming moments I knew (know) would be a once in a lifetime experience.  And yes, I started to tear up, followed immediately by a laughter filled soliloquy which I very much hoped the neighbors would not witness.  I have zero time to be brought up on crazy charges.  This whole thing is crazy enough. 

I dialed the number.  The day before, I listened to a voice mail from Becky (always "Beck") - my very first girlfriend in life.  We met in Mrs. Mudrack's 2nd grade class; her in the ridiculously oversized circular glasses and me in the ridiculously unfashionable jeans with an embroidered roller skate on the back pocket.  That was 35 years ago... 

"What are you doin'?" she asked as she picked up the phone, no other greeting necessary.  (Mind you, it's been 8+ months since we've spoken). 

"Hey!  Got your message yesterday.  Having my morning coffee; where are you?" 

"Wal-Mart.  Shampoo aisle." 

"Yuck. You cracked me up in your message; I do NOT plan to pack my concealed carry for the trip." 

"Yeah, well...people are nuts.  THIS is nuts!  I can't believe you did it; you're going…you're almost there.  You did it, Nap." 

(welling up, but trying to remain stoic):  "Thanks, Beck.  Definitely ready to be there." 

"Remember when you first found out you were sick?  You almost died." (stoic wasn’t working and I couldn't shut it down because I was choking up)

"You know, you really are amazing.  You don't have to prove a thing to anyone, well, maybe yourself…is that who you’ve always been trying to prove something to?”

My stomach felt exactly like I know it’s going to feel at the start line on Monday.  She’s asking me this from our hometown, the one with a population roughly 1/7 of the number of runners who will be on the course Monday.  Thankfully, she didn’t really want an answer.

It went on like this for a while, seemingly out of nowhere.  She was pep talking me in a manner that only certain people have the authority or wherewithal to do.  I can't quite explain it, but to hear those words out of the mouth of someone who has known you - really known you - for your entire life is paralyzing.  Like, you kind of have to believe it...you want to believe it...but you have spent an entire lifetime pretty much not believing it.  Maybe out of disbelief; maybe out of fear; maybe out of one too many (of the wrong) silly boys telling you differently as they walk out the door in search of someone who isn’t always on a mission.  (Side note: my partner in crime on this Boston adventure told me she is going to make me wear a shirt emblazoned with “I LIKE BOYS” on the front, just in case anyone thought I gave up.)

Beck wished me luck, made me swear to text her my bib number so she could track me, and we hung up – right after the “love you’s” were said in all their soothing familiarity.

History.  Roots.  Friendship.  People who have stood by you through thick and thin, watched you fall, and are now genuinely happy that you’re standing again, as the person God designed you to be – those people I will love and cherish until the end of time. 

Speaking of the end of time, after composing myself from that conversation, I readied myself for Good Friday service.  Purposely arriving early, I grabbed an aisle seat, turned off my phone, closed my eyes, and became still.  I was physically still, but even more importantly, my mind was still.  The only thing I focused on in that moment was the reason I was there.  The reason we were there as a church body…the reason any of us are here at all.

And I started to cry all over again.

You know, when I qualified for this marathon last February, it was in the midst of a campaign supporting a 4 year-old boy with leukemia.  Every step I took, I thought of him and not only the cancer struggle before him, but the general struggle of “life” he will have after that.  The same one we ALL have.  The ups, the downs, the fears, the failures, the heartaches…God did not promise us it will be easy.  He did, however, promise to save us in the end if we just believe.

We must believe in something greater than ourselves.  Sure, sounds easy when you read it, but if you truly ponder it, what does it actually mean?  What does it actually take? 

When you qualify for Boston, you are not automatically just “in.”  You do it, you sign up with the hopes that not too many other faster runners either want in or will remember to sign up, and then you go on living your daily life as you always do until registration officially opens some 5 months later.  The excitement is instantly followed by anxiously waiting for the unknown, which is completely out of your hands.

The parallels are astounding.  As Jesus was walking that heart wrenching trail along the Via Dolorosa after everyone, including his best friend, had renounced him – He never looked back.  In physical pain more excruciating than any of us can fathom, on His way to bear even MORE pain on our behalf, He was the picture of selflessness.

As a man, He did nothing wrong.  Never.  Not once.  He was absolutely sinless.  But He also knew this day was coming; the day he had to anxiously await, for the sole reason of fulfilling the purpose for which He was sent.

There will be 36,000 runners lined up on Monday morning.  They all have stories.  They all have past hurts for which only they can understand the initial piercing, the subsequent scars, and the ongoing depth.  Indeed, they all have their own crosses to bear.  Some will be running in remembrance of someone.  Some will be running to take back what was stolen from them at one point in their life, including and especially last year.  Some will be running for closure.  Some will be running for hope.  I will be running for all those things and one thing is for sure:  Just as we are all in this thing called life together, we all run Boston on Monday together. 

We will be running as sinful, broken, and selfish people.  We won’t know the outcome until we cross that finish line on Boylston Street.  And all I can say, 2 days before that time comes, is I am incredibly thankful.  Never, especially on exactly race day 15 years ago, did I think I’d be crossing that finish line.  It would have been incomprehensible for me to imagine.  It still kind of is, actually.

Today, as I sit here in the grand old Charlotte airport waiting for my connection into Boston, I continue to think of one other finish line that matters even more.  THAT one will not greet me with a postcard saying “Confirmation of Acceptance” (loved the irony when it arrived in the mail, by the way).  THAT one awaits us all with outstretched arms…if we only believe.

There will be no giving up on Monday and no looking back.  For 26.2 solid miles, I plan to give nothing less than my every physical and mental all in a 3:39 culmination of everything I’ve been through over my own 40 year course.  I’m going to believe.

All this while having the honor and privilege of running alongside those who are also standing up again.  Thank you, God.

I (will) have fought the good fight, I (will) have finished the race, I have kept the faith.

-2 Tim 4:7

 

 

 

 

WOTY2.0: Fearless

Campaign update in one word?  Wow.

Sure, I know what you're thinking.  "Wow, she never just says ONE WORD about anything."  And you would be correct.  But in my defense, this is an important subject matter and I don't think any of us should ever stop talking about it until cancer is no more.  Eradicated.  Obliterated.  Kiboshed.  Kaput, 86'd, ixnayed...oh, right.  Less words. Got it.

So here's the deal.  People have been working non-stop.  Events are in full swing (thank you, James Ball and Peter Franklin Jewelers for last week), the asks continue every day, and there's no sleep till May 31st, or, Brooklyn for all you fans.

To date, the Fort Wayne team total is:  $45,000 and counting!

Over the course of the last two weeks, I have been continually reminded what a difference their collective effort is making.  Olivia and I attended the Boy and Girl Brunch at SweetCars Saturday morning.  While there were scores of people and really cool cars (think Cobra II driven by Jill Munroe, my least favorite Angel of Charlie's), something was noticeably absent:  The Boy and Girl of the Year.

Caleb is sick.  It's not uncommon to go through peaks and valleys during the course of treatment.  But when that happens, you are instantly put on high alert.  Fighting infections becomes exponentially more difficult.  Your body is busy trying to fight the cancer and has zero time or ability to fight things like a cold.  And as we all know, we can literally only take so much at once.

That's when it's time to send in the cavalry.

Gianna's cavalry arrived at Bishop Dwenger High School on Saturday afternoon.  Cancer invades not just the body.  It simultaneously invades, and pervades, every aspect of people's lives in one fell swoop.  It does not ask for permission; it does not ask for forgiveness.  It just shows up, unannounced and unwanted. And it is our job and duty as members of one big, crazy, intertwined family, to help.

Friends, family, neighbors, and strangers attended Gianna's benefit to supplement the mounting costs of her treatment, much like the overall mission of LLS.  Every effort matters.  I think sometimes people make the mistake of saying, "I can't do very much so what's the point?"  The point is this:  it's cumulative.  It adds up.  Doing something is always better than doing nothing.

Just ask Erin.  I was scrolling through Facebook before I logged on to write this and there she was!:

Erin is the daughter of great friends of mine, and a classmate of Gianna's.  To see this 9-year old sitting there in support of her same-aged friend who is in the middle of a fierce battle, reminds me just how short and sweet this life is.  Quotes about friendship immediately flooded my brain...a good friend will bail you out but a true friend will be right there, sitting next to you... 

Chances are afforded to us every so often in this lifetime.  A chance to forgive, to forget, to move on.  A chance to apologize, right a wrong, and become a better version of you in spite of yourself.  A chance to ignore fear and surpass last time performances solely on the basis of you know you can; like taking that shot at the buzzer, throwing that Hail Mary, or nailing that first kiss.  Fearless do-overs are a beautiful thing.

I want these kids to have their own firsts.  I want them to have their own learning experiences and their own do-overs because that's what life is all about.  We course correct along the way.  And it's high time cancer is off the course and out of the way. 

So while the effort of one five or ten dollar donation might not seem like much, what if EVERYONE YOU KNOW AND I KNOW AND WE ALL KNOW did that?  I may have pretended to hate math in high school, but it's that whole power of numbers thing.  Addition, I believe it's called... Speaking of numbers, if there is only six degrees of separation between any of us and Kevin Bacon, I think that dude should donate.  Who's on it?

Nothing happens if we don't try.

http://www.mwoy.org/pages/in/ftwayne14/ovalencicm

WOTY2.0 and Spring Break: Week 3

"Is this it, Mom?"

Feeling like Mother of the Year, I reluctantly answered my sweet, yet apparently-I-like-to-forget-she's-seventeen year old:  "Yep, pretty much."

"But does it like, DO anything?"

"You mean other than being one of the world's seven natural wonders?"

Clearly I've forgotten what it's like to be a seventeen year old girl.  Back in the day, if my mom had announced we were going to the Grand Canyon on Spring Break, I would have politely declined in favor of, I gotta practice my free throws, Mom.  Or watch paint dry.

To her credit, Liv is still very much appreciative of the last 5 days.  I tempered my excitement at the "big rocky thing that looks the same from all directions" as she shivered, threw an arm around her, smiled, and said...Ok, let's roll.  You've officially been to the Grand Canyon.

I may not have had that kind of reaction if our drive there had not been its own debacle.  After leaving our hotel in beautiful Sedona we started the trek north, on a road which instantly causes you to wonder aloud if your affairs are in order.  About half-way there, it happens.  A gust of air and a lot of noise...

When we landed in Phoenix two days prior, I quickly realized it was going to take a lot of extra effort to make this trip fun for Liv.  The weather was better than Fort Wayne but hey, so is Antarctica's lately.  It was not conducive, however, to anything which remotely resembled the possibility of her returning to school with a tan. 

So at the rental car counter, I asked if there were any convertibles available.  I'm all about multi-tasking.  We could have fun, rock out, AND she could catch some rays on the way to our destinations.  Big 'ol Mother's Day card that plays Christina Aguilera's I Turn To You...here I come.

"We have convertible Camaro's."

Instantly transported back to circa 1989 prom:  "Perfect."

(Actually I think it was a Trans Am with T-tops.  And this I only remember because it rendered the Aqua Net hair in danger of reaching neighboring states complete with the obligatory penny roll bangs a total wreck by the time we got there.)

After finding out that the upcharge was the equivalent of Liv's first year college tuition, I opted instead for an even better choice: a soft top Jeep.  Much more me; much more we're going to the Grand Canyon!

Ok, I've always wanted a Jeep but I may have seen the error of my ways even before leaving the underground parking garage at the Phoenix airport.  Not only is unzipping that thing very Middle-East in all its revelry (writer's license, people; don't hit me up with the anti-Semitic anything or I'll send you Chels' contact info and she's a feisty Jew of a best friend) but it's kind of like when you're on a really cool road trip to nowhere, a sign appears, and instantly you scream, "Hey!  Let's go to L.A.!"  only to be bored and tired two exits later.  Brilliant in theory; total time suck in practice.

It was too chilly to go open air on the drive to the Canyon.  My unbelievably gracious, hospitable, and forever friend with whom we're staying in Scottsdale had put everything back together like a neat little puzzle.  Except half-way there, it decides to come undone. 

"Grab that thing, Liv!  Before it flies away and starts rolling around like those desert cacti!"

The entire thing looked as if it was going to be uprooted like a mighty oak and land in Kansas next to some red shoes and a scarecrow.

"Mom!  I can't hold onto this thing any longer!  My arm hurts!"

Part of me wanted to bust out in hysteria; the other part still wanted the giant Mother's Day card next month and knew better.

"Just pull over," Liv begged, her arm in danger of being numb, limp or possibly amputated.

Literally, both sides of the road looked exactly alike:  nothing but nothing and desolation surrounded by beautiful mountains far off in the distance.

"Ok, got it," I proudly announce mid turn. 

And then I see it.

One pickup truck containing two heads roughly 20 feet away.  My stomach sank.  And we all know how I excel at trusting my gut in ALL situations. 

"Mom, are you re-zipping that thing or something?"  "Wait.  Why is that look on your face?"

Sometimes I tell Liv too much; other times, not enough.  The joys of parenting.  Toughest job I (and other parents, I'm sure) have ever loved.

"Just got some dust in my eye, sweets.  No worries."

Well, other than the two still smoking shotgun slugs I stumbled upon while walking around to the passenger side of the Jeep.  It was a scene straight out of Breaking Bad sans the portable meth lab, but NOT sans those two drug cartel guys who had zero lines to rehearse.  Ever.

I love new experiences.  And as I shared with Liv on the drive back to red rock safety shortly thereafter, it's about taking life in, learning from it, determining what you like and don't like, deciding with whom you choose to do things (you preferably both like, but compromise lovingly if not), etc etc.  You know, the serious talky-talk quasi-lecture kind of thing that I'm sure was more about me trying to feel like a better mom than her actually listening since she knows everything anyway.

Here's what I know:  fifteen years later, I am beyond thankful to be here to share these types of experiences with her.  There was a time when I thought she'd grow up without a Mom.  A time when I thought I would miss being there for her first lost tooth, her first heartbreak, and her first near death experience with a faulty Jeep on 89A in the middle of the desert. 

Without a bone marrow transplant, without the determination, perseverance, and knowledge of doctors, and without the support from scores of people that have their own unique experiences and stories, I wouldn't be writing this. 

I've written numerous texts and emails this week as well.  Mostly back and forth to Olivia (as in, Valencic-Miller) cheering her on as she continues to wonder how things are going, if we're on track, if this or that got done.  I remember all too well. 

We ARE on track, things ARE getting done, and she, along with 4 other candidates, is making a difference.

57 days until the gala.  Which means two things:  8 weeks left to donate and if anyone would like to stand next to me that night be forewarned:  Scottsdale has fantastic shopping and I may have purchased a pair of shoes which finally make the height on my high school basketball roster NOT an accidental typo.

Please consider helping the cause.  Donate, come to an event, come to the gala, or all of the above!

On behalf of parents of sick kids...sisters, brothers, cousins, friends, neighbors who have or have had sick loved ones...and cancer-surviving mothers of teenagers everywhere:  THANK YOU.

It matters.

http://www.mwoy.org/pages/in/ftwayne14/ovalencicm