For Meghan

Of my eight grandchildren, Meghan is the first-born. There’s always something very special about first-born children whether they be children, grandchildren, or any other familial mix. Meghan is the first-born of my first-born, so that makes her extra special.

I remember the day she was born, the first time I held her, the first time I babysat and watched her as she slept. I remember the night she gently carved the outline of my face with her tiny fingers in the dark as I tucked her into bed when she was three and a half. It was truly one of the most overwhelmingly spiritual moments of my life, and the poem I wrote and framed still hangs in the hallway of their home in testament to that amazing experience.

And I will always remember a phone call two weeks ago on the day of my surgery.

I’ve tried to make sure that my whole family has been a part of the information loop and decision making process all along. From my three grown children, to my ex, to my grandchildren, I felt strongly that we were all in this together somehow. Everyone’s degree of information has been a little different based on where they fall on the relationship wheel, what their tolerance levels may be, and how they process bad stuff, but they’re all in. Even the little ones. They may be little, but they deserve openness and as much honesty as they can handle, and so I’ve shared as much as I, and they, could. That’s what families do, after all, love each other openly, honestly, deeply, and unconditionally.

My own Mother died of breast cancer nearly twenty years ago, so I know first-hand how scary it sounded to tell them all I now faced the same challenge she had. She, however, was not as lucky as I because she couldn’t take advantage of the same options. They didn’t exist, first of all.

She didn’t even talk about “it”. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Hers was a generation of fright-based non-dialogue based on fear of a diagnosis of sure death, and so, like so many of her generation, she couldn’t talk about it. We all knew something was wrong, terribly wrong, and yet nothing was said. Ever. It was awful, and frightening, and left my Dad, my sister, and I on the outside without any ability to help, or even to know what she must have been going through.

Ten days before her death we talked about it for the first time, and she asked me not to second-guess the choices she had made. We were driving to the hospital because she couldn’t breathe. No ambulance. Absolutely not. She’d refused. She just knew the hospital was where she needed to be, and so I drove as fast as I could without frightening either one of us any more than we already were, and we talked as calmly and lovingly as we could for two people facing what had been denied for so very long.

“Please respect my choices, and don’t judge me”, she said, eyes straight on the road. “I’ve lived my life the way I wanted.”

I’ve so often wondered how she ever faced those fears alone. How very brave she was to want to protect us all from the pain she must have faced every day. I know her goal was to protect us. She didn’t. She couldn’t. We could only watch, powerless, as she stood alone in her battle with a disease that ate her up and ultimately took her last breath. In an awful way it ate us up, too, because we had to watch without any hope of helping….even a little.

I had to respect her choices, but I couldn’t make similar ones, and so when I got my own diagnosis of invasive breast cancer, I chose to let them in….all of them….because I know how very difficult it had been from the outside, and how very much I wished there was something, anything, I could do, even if it was to listen. I had wanted to be there for her, hold her hand, talk to her, anything, and that gift had been denied me, and so I made the conscious choice to see my own disease from their viewpoint, too.

On that Tuesday morning so very early on the morning of my major surgery, when I heard Meg’s soft, frightened little voice there was no question in my mind. At nine, her fears are bigger, her questions more direct, and her concern deeply genuine. I heard it all in her “Grammy” the minute I picked up the phone at 6:30 AM.

“Good morning, Meghan, what a nice surprise”, I said, smiling to myself and knowing her fears deep in my own heart. “Are you getting ready for school?” I asked, and she said she was.

“You sound a little scared, Meg, are you okay?”

“I’m afraid something will go wrong”, was all she said, and I could hear so much more. She had labeled my surgery from the beginning as Grammy’s “boob-ectomy” and, for the life of me, I don’t know where she got it. We all liked it, though, because it added a little humor to a humorless disease.

“Thank you Meghan, for being honest. It’s a pretty scary thing to think about, I know. You know how very much I love you, right? Well, it was important to me from the very beginning that I did everything I could possibly do to make sure that things wouldn’t go wrong. That’s why I went to the best doctors in the best hospitals in the world and will get the very best treatment possible. I left nothing to chance because you are so important to me, and I guarantee you I’ll get better. I’m a little scared myself because it’s a very big surgery, but I’m not worried. I’m in the best of hands, and God and all his angels, including you, are protecting me.”

Her little voice perked up, and she seemed to brighten, wishing me luck with the surgery and telling me she’d see me soon. I asked her again what I ask each of my children and grandchildren every day “Do you know how much I love you today?”, and she smiled and answered a big, hearty yes, reassuring me that we’d be just fine. She was an insider, something I hadn’t been able to be for my own Mom, and I know how very much that reassurance meant to her.

Yes, I respect my Mom’s choices, but this isn’t my Mom’s breast cancer. Things have changed. Thank God and years of dedication and research. We talk about it now. We survive it. We cry together. We walk together. We hold each other and support each other, and we survive together.

I will get through this because of you, Meghan, and all my grandchildren. Because of my children and their families. Because of my friends. Because of my co-workers. Because of the care-givers, doctors, nurses, and all who have touched me on this journey back to full health. Because I wasn’t alone….ever.

If I could go back, I would change things for my Mom, but I can’t. I can only teach my children that the only real way to fight is by reaching out, letting others in, and joining hands with those you love, accepting their love and support, their tears, their fears, and sharing it all…together.

Sometimes being brave means reaching out and making a difference, saying thank you, and multiplying the love, the assurances, and the hope. It’s about being able to accept what others need to give you in their own moment of need, even if it’s their little fearful voices in the early morning light.

It’s going to be okay, Meghan. Really. Just keep holding my hand, and we’ll get through this…together. I promise.

All my love always,

Grammy
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