Fight Song

These thoughts have been weighing on my heart for a long time, but I've wrestled with the decision to write them down. Lately they've become more persistent, so I wanted to try and express them. These are not all my own thoughts; some are words my sister told me during her cancer journey. She mentioned them several times, and wrote me a message about them six months before we lost her. She told me that she'd been thinking about discussing the topic on her CaringBridge blog soon. Since she didn't end up getting this done, I've felt some responsibility to do it for her. My sister struggled with the idea of cancer patients being encouraged to stay strong or being applauded for their strength. In her words, she said, "It is all the 'fight like a girl' or 'cancer fought with the wrong person'...I thought I would say that while we remember that people encouraged us, sometimes cancer is stronger no matter what we do." Cancer journeys are referred to as a fight or a battle, but too often this disease is an invincible foe, no matter what weapons are desperately hurled. She understood that not all cancer patients would share her opinion, especially those with a different prognosis. I think many are bolstered by the feelings of control these words can bring during a time when everything feels beyond their control. The hard part comes when no amount of strength can change the outcome of a diagnosis. You can be super strong in dealing with the indignities of surgeries and treatments or show unimaginable strength of spirit in the face of heartbreak, but simply being strong enough cannot cure the incurable. My sister did show undeniable strength and grace during those four years, even while enduring cruel side effects and disappointment after disappointment as each treatment eventually stopped working. But I'm sad at the thought of her ever feeling pressure to be unfailingly strong and resilient. I am trying to hold on to the lessons I learned from my wise big sister, and just wanted to share this one in case it might help someone else.

Virgil and Ida

We used to travel the rural Nebraska roads to visit both sets of grandparents. Dad took much delight in flying over the small hills, which caused our stomachs to drop to our knees. Grandpa and Grandma Busch lived in the tiny town of Davenport in a beautiful white house. Each time we arrived, I would exchange warm greetings, then begin plotting how to nonchalantly ask permission to venture upstairs. The second floor was a separate furnished apartment that at one time had been rented out to schoolteachers. It was a quaint magical place that I wished to permanently inhabit. There was a bed that could be pulled out of the wall, and the most lovely vanity dresser I'd ever seen. I would gaze at the pretty stove in the little kitchen, then sit for a spell and pretend this was my own apartment. After I'd explored every inch again, I would stroll back downstairs. I never failed to make it down by 4pm since that happened to be the time Grandma served cookies and coffee. We loved the cookie jar that was shaped like a puppy in a basket. It never disappointed, and was always full of chocolate-covered grahams or oatmeal cookies. Afternoons were spent locking together pieces of round jigsaw puzzles or building with red bricks and Lincoln Logs. We fought for turns trying to stack rings inside a handheld game filled with water. Other times, we used a fancy multicolored pencil in a Heckle and Jeckle coloring book that never seemed to run out of pages. We loved spending holidays here, and received magnificent gifts along with the practical pairs of socks. Grandma would use a paring knife to open packages filled with chocolates, puzzles and cloth calendars. Last winter, I visited someone's house that had a distinct smell from their furnace. The scent transported me back to those carefree days in Davenport. We used to stand on a large register vent in the living room to warm our toes. When my sister and I moved into a duplex together before my last two years of college, we were looking for furnishings. Imagine my joy when Grandma said we could use furniture from the upstairs apartment! Laura loved the dresser she chose, while I knew exactly which piece I would request. In every home I've lived since, the vanity dresser has greeted me each morning when I wake.