Humbled...

Foxy sat on my couch, sort of propped up like a person who's body is riddled with Cancer, and said, "Honey, can you help me with something?"  

I answered like any daughter would, "Of course, Mom.  What is it?"  

She replied, "Well, I've been thinking about getting gift cards for the grand kids for Christmas...you know, so that it's all taken care of for Dad.  I'm thinking I should get them from Safeway, because when you buy a certain amount there, Safeway gives you money off of gas.  That would be nice for Dad, don't you think?"

I just sat across from her, stunned with silence, tears welling up from a pool deep within my soul.  My thought bubble said, "We don't need gift cards, Mom.  We don't want anything from you.  Can you please just stay?" 

I can't ask her to do the impossible, nor would I want her to, based on the amount of pain she is in.  But I have these moments, where I feel lost when I think about life without her.  She grew me with her own body. She loved me before she even knew I was going to have a gigantically huge mouth.  She loved me, and has continued to love me, with all of my many imperfections, without judgement.  Unconditionally.  I am already missing her, and yet, she's still here.  

"Yes Mom.  I can do that.  We'll figure that out, okay?"

I have learned so much from my Mom in the last two years.  She has been so full of God's grace, that I respect her more than I will ever be able to express with my words or actions.  She has literally been through Hell and back:  several rounds of invasive Chemo and Radiation, not to mention, half of her lung was removed.  And all the while, she has never complained.  Not once.  

She has endured, suffered, and has done so, with dignity.  I look up to her as my Mom, but more importantly, a dear spirit, that completes me, and makes me want to strive to be a better person every single day that I wake up.

This last weekend, I drove to Santa Rosa to visit with her.  When I arrived, she was resting in bed.  I climbed in beside her, and we just talked about nothing and everything.  I tell her what's on my heart, even if it's too much information.  

"Lately Mom, my Crock Pot has seen more action than Tom...I gotta work on that," because although it's true, if I can make her laugh, it's like the Best.Thing.Ever.

I pulled up a video on my phone of Chris Hemsworth, so she too, could experience the magic of Thor.  Foxy agreed, when I said, "I swear to God, if I was married to this guy, I would have like 15 kids.  I'm going to start calling Tom, Thor."

My Mom saves up all of her energy to go to Mass on Saturday night, at a parish that my folks have fallen in love with, St.Rose.  As Mom and Dad entered the church, several parishioners embraced my Mom, saying things, like "Prayers and strength for you Carol." 

I stood humbled, by how many other lives my parents have touched.  And how very much, they are loved.  I could barely make eye contact, with these kind strangers, for fear, or breaking down into sobs.  

Each time the thought, that this could be the last time at church with Mama, popped into my head, I pushed it away before it could consume me.  I am working really hard on just "being in the moment".  But I continue to struggle with it.

And every time I tuck her into bed at night, I start to cry.  Foxy says, "Now don't do that, Michelle.  Don't do it."

What I want to tell her, but can never muster because I'm a sobbing train wreck, is, "Thank you for being my Mom.  Thank you for loving me, even when I was broken, and wasn't sure I would find my way.  You have changed me forever for the better.  I love you, Mama."

But I think she knows. 

 In fact, I know she does.

The Happiest Place on Earth

Some folks just  love Disneyland.

 These are the people who make quarterly trips to the Magical Kingdom utilizing their yearly passes, even though they live in let's say, the Bay Area.  They meticulously map out the best route of WHEN and HOW they will ride Indiana Jones, and then swiftly move onto The Haunted Mansion, without waiting in a line.  These Disney aficionados know parade times, have fast passes, and know EXACTLY what you are talking about if you refer to "Pixie Hollow".

You may find them sporting their Micky Mouse ears, while they are buying garden tools at OSH.  These enthusiastic folks hold one belief steadfast, and that is this:  Disneyland is THE most fantastic time you will EVER fucking have in your life.  And if you, my friend, haven't consumed the Magical Kingdom Kool-Aid yet, why are you taking up space on the planet?

I fought Disneyland for a long time.  Clearly, there are plenty of Cons:

1.  THE COST - be ready to hand over your first born, because the nice, polite Disneyland ticket takers, will happily barter with you, and put them in some sort of costume for a parade.

2.  THE DRIVE - OMG, I can barely handle making a trip to Costco with my kids in the car, let alone a 7 hour car ride, where the traffic conditions through LA, are anyone's best guess.

3.  THE MELTDOWN - it is not IF it's going to happen, it's when.  And after the cost, and the drive, well, I was convinced I just would not handle the inevitable meltdown very well.

But then I remembered they sell wine in California Adventure, and I started to rally.

As we began our journey down south, I decided that Wheat Thins and Cheezits would suffice for dinner for two nights, but that our 3rd night would probably require us to actually sit down at a table.  I called Disneyland Dining Reservations.

Me:  "Hi there, I am interested in making a dining reservation at Ariel's Grotto for seven."

Nice Disney Phone Lady:  "I would more than happy to assist you with that.  I'll put you right through to Ariel's Grotto.  (pause for effect)  Have a magical day."

ME:  "Excuse me?!"  In all honesty, I had not heard the last comment.  Pause, for effect, yet once again, for the hearing impaired.

Nice Disney Phone Lady:  "Have a magical day."

And with that, I knew there was no turning back.  In fact, upon entering Main Street, what do you think we saw?  All the characters spaciously spread out for photo opp's...I'm talking Mickey, Minnie, Donald, Goofy, AND Pluto, all in one location.  As soon as Pluto wrapped his paws around Charlotte, all of my initial Disney resentment totally disappeared.   I had done drunk the Kool Aid.

At one point, we got caught up in a parade that was, well, plainly put:  magical.  Tom hoisted Charlie up on his shoulders, so she could have a clear view of any Princess making an appearance.   And I was right there next to my 2 year old, screaming, "LOOK CHARLIE!!! LOOK!!! There's Ariel!  Hi ARIEL!!!" as I frantically waved not one, but both, of my arms to get her attention.

I totally transformed into being a little girl. I guess that's what happens, after you pay the same amount of money that could have transported you to Europe for an extended vacation.

We spent the entire day in Disneyland.  And by the time we moseyed over to California Adventure, it was dark.  As Cozy and I were about to board the roller coaster, California Screaming, she started to express anxiety.  I couldn't blame her: this ride was fast, loud, and it was night time.  I assured her that I would keep her safe.

Nothing could be further from the truth.  As that ride flung us into the atmosphere, I screamed my head off, and forgot that I was supposed to be coddling my 8 year old.  It was a "save yourself" scenario, for sure.  But you'll be proud of me when I say I did remember that I was a Mom...when the ride stopped.  By that time, Cozy was enthralled, "Let's do it again Mama!!!"

After taking in Fantasmik (a show in Disneyland where Mickey totally kicks A**, and the water is set on FIRE, yes FIRE), Tom was ready to pack it up for the night.

I'm like, no way Mister.  We paid a lot of money, and we are going to shut this Mother down.  Poor Tom.

 Borderline child abuse resembles saying things to your 2 year old, like, "Buck up, Charlotte. There's no line for Dumbo.  It's now or never!!  All the other responsible parents have their kids in bed.  This park is mine!  MINE!!"

And that, explains, why we were the last family escorted off of "It's a Small World" at Midnight.

Disneyland is magical.  It is.  But if you see me, trolling around, sporting Mickey Ears while I'm standing in the Safeway check out line, please set me straight.

Where's the Manual?

You know, the Manual on:  Having a Happy Marriage, Surviving Life, Raising Empathetic and Independent Kids, Staying Sane While Being Healthy, and Staying Balanced, Zen, and Positive. 

Wait...you don't have a copy either?  I guess we're just supposed to like,  figure this all out.  Geez, it kind of seems like a lot of work, though.  Sigh.

So I found myself at Kaiser last week, having four vials of blood drawn.  I HATE NEEDLES, so it only took me a year to pony up, and geterdun

"You are going to do a stellar job.  I can just tell that you are amazing at this.  I won't even feel it," I say to the Lab Tech.  She proceeds to nod and smile, as I'm  squeezing the hell out of the ball, with the blue tourniquet tightly wrapped around my arm, taking in posters of waterfalls and majestic mountain scenes.

Charlie, had been observing this entire process of blood-letting, which I'm convinced resembled some sort of Mayan ceremony, except that the Mayans had it easy:  they didn't have to FAST.

Before I even stood up to leave, she said, "Oh Mama, you were such a BRAVE girl."

It made me kinda wish  that Charlie would have been my co-pilot, when I was at Kaiser the day before. The Dermatologist was checking me for any indication, of any suspicious, anything.

The Derm visit is always particularly awkward: there I am standing in my underwear, but wearing shoes, because God knows what it on the hospital floor.  And there is some random Derm, sort of poking and prodding.  Usually, I'm a very willing participant in this gentle form of torture.  But not this time.

 As soon as the Derm Doc walked in, "Wellllll, it looks like you have some sun damage..." trail off...judgemental tone.

 I politely replied, "I wear sunscreen everyday."

My medicine cabinet has: special Facial Sport sunscreen, Sport spray sunscreen, and lotiony sunscreen with glitter:  ALL 50 SPF or higher.  I can't make up for slathering baby oil on when I was 17, but I feel pretty good about how I take care of my skin now at age 41.

Derm Doc:  "Well, you need to reapply more often.  You shouldn't be tan,"  judgemental tone continued.

In my head, I'm thinking,  I'm fucking ITALIAN.  How many WHITE Italian's do YOU know?  I'm also Cajun/Creole/Native American/Possibly Black French.  So yes, I'm BROWN.  I can't prove any of that, but it's the Oral Tradition of Genealogy in my family that has been passed down.

Instead, I took a deep breath, and said, "Okay, I'll make sure to do that." Smiley face.

I was really proud of myself for staying calm.  Because what I really wanted to say to her was, "Do you realize that YOU have a suspicious looking mole on YOUR face?"

 And I'm not kidding, she did.  But according to my previous blog, I am old and tired, so I just let her win that round.

The girls and I are participating in an online class together, in which we create art projects for one another.  Honestly, I have a lot of anxiety over doing anything artistic.

 Ironically, it has been extremely therapeutic. Who knew decoupage held that sort of power over me?

 In our first project, we created books for each other.  On the first page, you cut out a paper doll of your mom or daughter, and then dress it however you want.

When Bella and I exchanged books, I immediately said, "Oh Bella, I love the dress you chose for me."

Without hesitation, she replied, "Yeah, well, I had to cut it much shorter...you know, to make it look like you."

Touche.

I'm not sure why I think that Midnight is like the BEST time to fold laundry.  You know how that insane time sucks you in, right?

 Quiet house, peaceful atmosphere, everyone sleeping...no one needing us, asking for anything, no papers to sign, or dinner to be made.

Folding mountains of laundry just seems so much more, manageable - enjoyable, even.  Until, 6am the next morning...when there THEY are.

Needing signatures.  Wanting breakfast.  Expecting clean underwear.

"Yesterday at CCD it was horrible," Cosette explained at the breakfast table, the morning after I had folded laundry at Midnight.

Yawn..."Why baby? What happened?"

"I couldn't even fit our entire family in my picture, so I had to squeeze us altogether,"  she says, eyes wide, with a can-you-believe-that? expression.

It reminded me of those family stickers people proudly display on their car windows...which we'll never have, for the reason Cozy so eloquently stated earlier :)

"Mama, it's picture day," Cozy then reminded me, pointing to the payment envelope.

About two years prior, we had fallen on extremely hard financial times, and I couldn't purchase school pictures.  I felt distraught...something so basic, a school picture, had become a "want", not a "need".  I even cried, realizing that for the first time ever, the girls wouldn't have them.

The habit just sort of stuck, and now I just purchase the Class Picture in the Spring.  I can find about 1 million other ways to spend $100, than on Bud White portraits.

"Cosette, we're not going to buy pictures right now okay?" I explained. Long pause... "Does that make you feel sad?"

Spot on, she said, "Not at all, Mama.  Because every time that flash goes off, I blink.  It makes me look hideous."

Finally, something we agree on.  Saweet.

Old and Tired

I was listening to the radio the other day, and Sarah and Vinnie asked the question, "Do you consider yourself old?"  Before the thought even completely registered in my brain, I sighed an exasperated, "Yes."

So is 'old' a state of mind?  Is 'old' when you get to a certain age?  Is 'old' when you have to pay a mortgage?  When exactly are you considered 'old'?

 Is it when you amble to get out of bed in the morning, creaking your way down the hallway?  Or when you pee yourself while laughing/running/coughing/jumping on a trampoline?  Are you 'old' when you just don't care what people think anymore?

Sarah and Vinnie came to the conclusion that considering yourself 'old' is more a state of mind, than an actual age.  All I know is this...I'm only 41, and I am EXHAUSTED.

 So I guess I feel tired and old.  Double whammy.  I'm not sure if it's one thing in particular, or like, a whole lotta things coming at me at once.  But I've noticed that my cat-like reflexes, have become sloth-like movements.

And then I start to play the "I used to" Game.  It's a past time, that mainly consists of beating myself up for what I used to do, but now, no longer enjoy.  The monologue sort of goes like this:

"I remember when I used to RUN 6 MILES WITH HILLS, AND LOVED EVERY MINUTE!!" 
has since been replaced with a leisurely stroll around the Glen, followed by a nap on a cot.

"I remember when I used to DRINK SHOTS OF SOUTHERN COMFORT (eww) AND CARRY ON AT THE BARS UNTIL 1 AM" has turned into (GASP) watching Breaking Bad on Netflix.

"I remember HAVING NO WRINKLES, AND NO STRETCH MARKS, AND NOT BEING SO FUCKING TIRED ALL THE TIME" has left me holding a white flag, while in the fetal position, that says, "I surrender."

I blame that baby.  Who is now a toddler.  And almost a Preschooler.  Number 5.

Don't tell Charlotte this, because she'll find out later in therapy and can actually read my blog, but often times, I  find myself saying to no one in particular,  "We were good with four.  Four was good."

Charlotte has definitely been a game changer.  And since I am 'old' now, I don't remember my other kids throwing tantrums, telling me "NO!!", having to man-handle them into their car seats,  pooping on the carpet, or screaming AND kicking the back of my seat while I'm driving.

But they did.  Of course they did.  ALL kids pull those shenanigans, it's just that we selectively choose to delete those less than pleasant memories.

Which leaves me with a random thought:  Did Jesus try to pull that stuff with Mary?  Did he sneak out of the hut to go hang with the Disciples, when clearly, he had to be in the field with Joseph in the morning?  Did he take an extra piece of bread when clearing the dinner dishes?  Was he like, "Look what I can do?" and proceed to walk on water, to get the girl?

Sorry, these are the things I think.

There is a silver lining in all of this:  Abby, Bella, and Em are at the Middle School.  And you know what's sweet about that set-up?  Those girls bike TO and FROM school everyday.  And if that leaves me with more time to read People Magazine, then I'm all for it.

Bella and Emma have decided to try out for Cross Country.  Although everyone makes the team, I don't think either of them really understood the concept of Croooooss Cooooountry...running...far distances...sometimes on the track...sometimes on trails...like Forest Gump.

We are officially 1 solid week into it...I'll let you know how it ends.  When I asked Abby, why she didn't want to go out for the team, she answered, "Um Mom.  Running is like SO not my favorite thing, ever."

Understood.

If I've learned one thing being a Mom, it's present something like it may be a cool "opportunity for growth", but if there is absolutely no interest...let it go, man.  Just like that shit-head boyfriend you had in High School.  Let. It. Go.

Foxy is hanging in there.  She has decided to stop Chemo because, well because, frankly, it was killing her.  And Hospice has started to visit on a weekly basis.  This has left me feeling relieved, and extremely saddened that the end is more near than far.

I never knew this before my Mom got sick, but she has a dead pan sense of humor.  Luckily, we have been able to keep each other laughing through this horrible mess, called Cancer.  I will say stuff like, "You know Mom, that Oxycontin has a high market rate right now," and she'll look at me, and without hesitation say, "Get your own source."  I'll start laughing, and she says, "And tell your brothers they can't have any either."  Because with one being a cop, and one being a lawyer, that's exactly what they would want, right?

I still make her Cannabis treats for her, but I've more than screwed up the last 2 batches.

"Foxy, how are you on brownies and muffins?" I asked her last night.

"Oh, I'm fine.  Although the brownies are a bit chewy.  I like them a bit more done.  And I'm not quite sure what happened to the muffins, but they are a bit..." she trailed off.

"DRY."  And she's not kidding.  I burned those to a crisp, "Mom, just promise me that you will NOT throw them away, ok?" I pleaded.

"Oh noooo, I would never do that."  Pause.

"Geez Mom.  You're making me feel bad.  I know I really screwed up the last 2 times baking,"  Longer pause.  "Well, you know what?" I ask her, starting to get punchy.

"What?"  she says, starting to laugh.

"Well, it's your fault you're still alive.  I didn't know I would have to do all this illegal baking.  It's a lot of responsibility, you know."

And Foxy just laughed, and laughed, and laughed.  And when your Mama has Cancer, and there's nothing you can do to stop it, but make her laugh, I'll take it.  Over and over, again.

So I guess I may be old and tired.  But I'm still here.  And so are you.  And man, I'm glad we're on this journey together!

Riding on the Handlebars

As we were cruising down our street, and about to pull into the driveway, Bella spotted our neighbor walking with his toddler son right before an imminent downpour.  The wee lad wobbled in his rain boots and slicker, while Daddy matched him step by step, clutching an umbrella.

"Oh," Bella cooed, "I just love watching him with his son.  He's just so sweet with him."  Long pause, followed by a direct and purposeful stare my way, "NO offense, to YOU, Mom."

"What?" I asked bewildered, "I'm not sweet with you guys?"

"Actually, you can be quite scary at times," Bella said.

Touche.

There are moments when I actually order these children that I've done birthed and raised, to organize their rooms.  This daunting task usually requires the dumping of several drawers, containers, and boxes onto the floor and sorting through...well, piles and piles of shit.

The typical response from the girls resembles a moaning sort of wail, "Mom, do we have to do this right NOW?  I'm exhaaaausted."

This is my cue to plop myself on the bed, with a bottle of wine and a tumbler, and respond in a loud and booming voice,  "YES.    Make 3 piles:  KEEP, DONATE, and TRASH."

My friends have started giving the twins all of their cute Gap, Old Navy, Abercrombie, hand-me-downs.  Because they are the same SIZE.   Because that's what happens when you're daughters are 5'7 and a solid 120 lbs.  I am so screwed.  Everyday, I pray those little boobies, stay just that...little.

Which brings me to my point.  Abby pulled on a camisole cotton PJ top, looked down with disappointment at her chest, and said in exasperation at the bunched up material,

"Well, they are sort of expecting A LOT here!!!"

 I swear, not a day goes by, when these kiddos don't make me laugh out loud.

My Foxy Mama came down for a visit a few weeks ago, over St.Patrick's Day weekend. Sundays represent Family Day in Walsh Land.  Tom and I usually just chill, drink coffee, move in slow motion, and decide what "special benchure" we will have that day.  (That's Charlotte speak).

It was clear on this Irish drinking holiday, we needed to make a  decision:  Embark on a  Pub Crawl with the girls and teach them young, or hit Natural Bridges in Santa Cruz.

Every year, I mark the calendar to see the Monarchs at Natural Bridges.  And every f'ing year, without epic fail, I miss them.  There's like this window of "Monarch time" and you must be some sort of "Monarch Whisperer" to view them.

Most years, they will take flight and be on their very Monarch way in March.  You want to know when they left this year?!  JANUARY!!!  I never even stood a chance.  CURSE YOU, MONARCHS!

But we decided we would take a little walk to the Lighthouse, and back.  It was a picture perfect day.  I mean, one of those days where the sun hits your face, warms you up, and you feel like it's the first time you've breathed deep in awhile.

 It was also a day where the girls discovered their first naked man sunning himself.  As Bella and Emma, walked towards the edge to look out at the ocean, they mumbled, "Is that?  Ewww, is that?"  Now the dialogue had become an astonished yell of disbelief,   "Oh my gosh MOM, it's a NAKED MAN!"

 Life's little lessons:  aren't they sweet?

Tom decided to take the big girls down towards the tide pools, while Nana and I ventured on the path, with Charlotte parked in the stroller, and Bo walking alongside of us.  Finally, we arrived at a dog friendly beach.  Mom decided to rest up top, as my dog, my toddler and myself made our way to the ocean.  I swear, between keeping Charlotte from swimming across the Pacific, and Bo from ripping my arm out of its socket from the leash , it was a good time.

The trip ended with a trip to Safeway to grab some ice-cream sandwiches.  I was like the ONLY person in line buying food.  Everyone else was holding a case of Guinness.  A fleeting thought crossed my mind:  it's not too late for the Pub Crawl.  Alas, we made our way home.

But I made up for lost time at the annual Booksin Bulldog Ball: a fundraiser for the girl's school, where lots of normally well-behaved adults, drink too much, make poor decisions, and generally are left the next day feeling complete and utterly hung over.  Oh wait... maybe that was just me.

It's a rare occasion that Tom and I actually get a lil gussied up, and go out.  So when we do, we are sort of on a mission to have a REALLY excellent time.  And you know what?  Most of those nights end with Tom hanging out bonding with the dudes, and me thinking that I can actually dance.

After hobbling around like an elderly woman for two days after this event, I asked my dear friend, "What did I DO out on the dance floor?"

Spot on she answered, "Well, you pretty much did a squat/lunge work out for 2 hours straight.  It was fun to watch."

Often times, after I've had a little wine, (perhaps a bottle or more), I like to ride bikes.  It doesn't matter where Tom and I find ourselves:  at a backyard BBQ, at a concert walking back to the car, between bars on our Pub Crawl...it never fails.  I see the bike, and accost some nice, but frightened passerby with my ginormous stature, and they just like hand their bike over.  I believe these nice folks, just want to appease me, and hope I'll shut up if they let me ride their bike.

I know, I know, you're saying, "Gee that's certainly not safe."  Or maybe you're saying, "Poor Tom."  Or you may even be saying,  "How are you, Michelle, going to manage finding a bike at the Booksin Ball?"

Well ALL BE - when what to my mighty eyes did appear, but a souped up cruiser, being raffled off, with fenders on the rear?  Can you believe it?  I mean, how could this night get any better?  Well, with me hopping on the handlebars in my very short skirt and stilettos, and ordering our very nice friend, who shall remain anonymous, to "RIDE!!!"

Poor guy.  Seriously, I don't think he even saw me coming.  But then again, it's not like I am a tiny leprechaun-type.  When he didn't move, most likely, because I matched him pound per pound, I dismounted.  He stood up, and I got on the seat.  By this time, people were taking pictures.

When Tom and I were re-united shortly thereafter, the first thing he says, "I saw some pictures of you.  You found a bike, huh?"

"Yep, I sure did."

"That's my girl,"

I love my crazy, simple, lovely little life.  Thanks for being a part of it.

The Blue Hairs

As I was scrambling to clear the breakfast dishes, in order to get out the door on time, I said, "Hurry Cosette, you need to get your things for school, and hop into the truck with Daddy.  I'm going to church."

She stopped dead in her tracks, looked at my directly, and replied, "Well, that's RARE."

I love it when my kids totally call me out.

Catholicism and I have such a twisted relationship.  It is and always be home to me in so many ways.  I dig the JC, and feel kindred with the Mother Mary.  When I am exhausted at the end of the day, and saying prayers with the girls, I love how I can just mindlessly recite the Our Father, or the Hail Mary.

 And yet, by the same token, in so many ways, I fight this religion tooth and nail, questioning EVERYthing.  Sunday is FAMILY day, and I don't really want to go to church.  Besides, I feel closest to God when I'm outside hiking, or running, or drinking wine.  And this whole reconciliation thing:  REALLY? Come on.  Can't I just go directly to the source, and ask for forgiveness?  Like, why do we have to have a Menage a Trois, with the priest?

You know who attends Mass religiously (no pun intended), smack dab in the middle of the week at 8 AM?  Yeah, well neither did I until a few days ago:  OLD people.  Retired folks.  Blue hairs.  Single oldies and couple oldies.  Nun oldies.  Shawl wearing oldies.  Trouser donning oldies.  Not many people under the age of 70 were in attendance: unless you count me, and like one other dude, who was pushing 60.

There are some definite perks to attending at this time:

1)  You are IN and OUT, having the body and the blood of the Son of God,  in 30 minutes, flat.  Yep, you read that right.  No singing and going on and on like on Sunday.  No "Lean to the left, Lean to the right, Stand up, Sit down, Fight, Fight Fight!" for 60 minutes. Mass during the week is extremely efficient.

And 2) While sharing the sign of Peace, the  oldies don't even move from their spot to shake your hand.  They just sorta make minimal eye contact, nod, and like wave at you, while whispering "Peace".  I mean, I don't even have to move; this is a definite plus at 8 AM, I must say.

Let me explain by stating that I have felt off kilter for awhile.  I have been hearing the call to return.  Perhaps it's because in the past year, a few really shitty things have happened: my Foxy mama was diagnosed with Lung Cancer.  After enduring 4 aggressive rounds of Chemo, and 1 extremely invasive surgery in which part of her lung was removed, the fucking Cancer came back.  Can you believe that Mother Fucker, Cancer?

Right after this, I discovered more disheartening news.  Do you have a friend who just always has your back?  No matter what you were doing - legal, illegal, this person would be right there by your side, convincing the judge that you were both innocent?  Well, my very good and loyal friend, who fits this description, and happens to be only FORTY years old, and happily married with 2 small kiddos, was diagnosed with Breast Cancer.  Shortly after that, my other girlfriend got news while standing in my kitchen on a Friday night, HER Mama had Lung Cancer. WTF????

All of this news had  left me feeling, hopeless, anxious, frustrated, and sad.

I've been threatening for awhile now that I'm going to write a book titled "Fuck Cancer"  You open it, and the next page would read, The End.

So, there I was struggling, questioning, exhausted...I decided it was time to go back to church.  That this thing, called "life" and all that goes with it, was just too much for me to bear.

I'm a pretty positive person, but I had gotten down.  Like enough, to realize that I may be headed towards depression.  Like, very close to calling my doc, and asking for the med hook up.  Half of my family is medicated already, so what's one more, right?

I made a few vows to myself to try to turn it around:

1.  Be honest with myself and Tom about my feelings.
2.  Take care of myself by eating healthy, drinking moderately, getting 7-8 hours of sleep each night, taking my vitamins, and moving my body in some way, shape, or form at least 5-6 days of the week.
3.  Giving up negative self talk.
4.  Going to Mass with the oldies if I can swing it during the week.  Not because I "should", but because I want to, to pray for Foxy, and my girlfriend.  And pray for my Dad and my brothers and their families.  Pray that we will endure what is coming next with patience and acceptance.  Pray for my girls and Tom, that they accept and understand Mama is just a little lost, right now.

Last Friday, after Mass ended, we waited for the Father to walk out.  That never happened; I'm not sure if he used a secret trap door to escape, or what, but he never walked down the aisle.  And if you're Catholic, you know that you wait for the Priest to exit out of respect, and leave after him.  So there I was, kind of waiting, when this group of about 15 die hard oldies, start praying the Rosary aloud.

There I was: caught with the oldies talking to Mary and such. "I can't get up and leave NOW.  That would be awkward," I thought to myself.  But let me tell you, after 30 more minutes of prayer, I was thinking, Mary would totally be down with me leaving and going for my run.

So I did.  It was a beautiful day that the Lord hath made.  He was telling me, "Michelle, rejoice and exercise!"