“If you want to make god laugh, tell her your plans.”

~ Anne Lamott

This was supposed to be a good year. I planned to make it so. I intended to spend more time with people who make me laugh, and engage in activities that feed my soul and bring me joy. I wanted to write more and seriously work on my next novel. The whole of 2017 had been full of sorrow, heartbreak, and extreme stress, so I began 2018 with positive energy. On January 13th, I started Flamenco dance lessons…a life-long dream. On January 16th, I wrote a blog about my granddaughter, Ada. And then, on January 29th, I had my regularly scheduled, annual, diagnostic mammogram.

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“Truth be told, being a grandma is as close as we ever get to perfection.” ~ Bryna Nelson Paston

I never feel closer to God than when I hold my granddaughter. Ada, at nineteen months, is smart, loving, beautiful, and already has a wicked sense of humor. My afternoons with Ada are my best, happiest days…when I get the pleasure of her company for three to four hours, or more, if I’m lucky. During those hours, I call her “baby girl” and tell her I love her at least a hundred times. Afternoons, I let Ada lead the way. From what she wants to do to when she wants to eat. We have our favorite activities, and our rituals.

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Our task is to say a holy yes to the real things of our life as they exist.

~Natalie Goldberg

It’s New Year’s Eve and the pressure is on! The busyness of the holidays is coming to a close, but first we must ring in the New Year and ring out the old! There must be a ball drop, a countdown, fireworks! 2017 must end, not with a whimper, but with a bang. But, what if we need to do it differently?

I’ve felt my own internal pressure to write once more, before year’s end. I want to share my thoughts on how to healthily reflect on the past year and move mindfully into the new. And yet, I’ve long known I cannot write under pressure…my own or anyone else’s. When I try, I run smack into writer’s block. And procrastination. Friday, when I began trying to write this post, I recorded my mental and physical process. It was, as follows:

Procrastination is a wily beast! I really want to write. I have so much to say! Yet, there are things to be done…like washing and drying my lunch dishes. Other urgent tasks call to me, too…cleaning the hall closet, rummaging through the junk drawer in search of AAA batteries, dusting the top of every picture frame in the house. Such is the nature of writing…housework is suddenly seductive. Procrastination is the foreplay of writing.

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Everyone who knows me well, knows I am passionate about being a shrink. From the moment I embraced this career, I’ve never looked back. I can no longer distinguish what I do from who I am. And this is a good thing.

And, sometimes, it’s hard to be a shrink. Like when I hear someone’s story and it’s so tragic and horrifying that it haunts my dreams forever. Or, when someone’s heart is shattered and all I can truly promise is that time will help heal it—somewhat. Or when I have to stay neutral in matters of religion and politics and, inside, I am screaming!

Fortunately, I’m also passionate about writing, where I can safely speak my personal truths. I know most of you reading this already know where I stand on political issues. Those who don’t agree have “unsubscribed” to my blog. During this election season I suspect I’ve been unfriended on Facebook, and I know I’ve done my own unfriending when reasonable discussion proved futile.

As my grandma used to say, “There’s no percentage in arguing with a fool.”

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We are coming to the end of Breast Cancer Awareness month, and I want to share my personal experiences—yet again. I am now a two-time survivor…fourteen years and almost two years. Both times, my cancer was found through my yearly mammogram and caught in the very earliest stages. I remain profoundly grateful. While there is an abundance of confusing, conflicting, and scary information out there, one thing holds true—early detection saves lives. It may have saved mine. My mission, in continuing to share my story, is to inspire readers to take action on their own behalves, as well as to bring comfort and HOPE to those who are struggling with their own diagnosis—or love someone who is.

Original published: October 22, 2012

I didn’t realize what a daunting task it would be when I decided to write my very first blog in October on the topic of breast cancer.  The original idea came from a celebratory place—on Friday, September 28, I had my yearly diagnostic mammogram and was declared cancer free.  I am now a 10 year survivor—which puts me in the 82nd percentile of women who make it this long.

Evanston Northwestern Hospital Breast Cancer Treatment Advertisement. Photo & Advertisement © 2003, ENH

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This is one of those stories that, if written in a novel or as a scene in a movie, would be dismissed as contrived. Unbelievable. And yet, it happened just as I describe. And all the circumstances, the timing, the spontaneity suggest more than mere coincidence. For me, it was the most profound experience of my entire ten-day trip to France.

Thursday, July 21st was my last day in Paris. In three days, I’d only seen the Eiffel Tower from afar, so I decided to pay her a visit. Recent flooding on the Seine had closed part of the subway system, resulting in a long, circuitous metro ride from where I was staying on Isle St. Louis to the tower. I had to change lines in the middle and close to an hour had passed when I finally reached my stop.

All of Paris is on heightened alert. The terrorist attack in Nice happened on July 14, my second day in France, while I was in the far north, near the English Channel. At the airport, the train stations, and on the streets, heavily armed soldiers and police patrol in packs of three. Vigilant. Hand-held automatic weapons at the ready.

Nowhere in Paris are the extra precautions more apparent than at the Eiffel Tower. The entire perimeter at the base is fenced off, and to enter one must go through a rigorous security check. Every time I’ve visited in the past, I’ve wandered about freely, walked into the base, and gazed straight up. This time I chose to stay outside the fenced area. Still gazing up, but nowhere as close as before. The Eiffel Tower is still magnificent. Even more striking and awe-inspiring in reality than in pictures.

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Last week I sat with a man talking about his eight-month-old son—his antics, amazing accomplishments at his early age, how much he loves him. Suddenly the dad stared off with a pensive expression. “I told him he’s growing too fast,” he said.

All I could do was smile gently and nod. He’s right. They all grow too fast.

Loss is on my mind this beautiful spring day, when, finally, it’s warm enough to be outside without a down jacket. I’m on my enclosed front porch, my cat Blue curled asleep in the chair beside me. The sun is shining, birds are chirping. A woodpecker is climbing the trunk of the catalpa tree, making that familiar tapping sound. Bees harvest pollen from the bright yellow forsythia blooming just outside my window.

I once read an essay about spring being the “treacherous season.” I wish I knew the author who wrote of vulnerability—tiny baby birds, blind puppies, toddlers walking outside for the very first time. All tragedy needs is a hard wind, a fast rain—a moment’s distraction. Just weeks ago a late snow blanketed my tender lilac buds.

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All doubt, despair, and fear become insignificant

once the intention of life becomes LOVE.

~Rumi

We who are cancer survivors have different kinds of anniversaries. We speak in code to one another, inquiring about health, sharing the latest—especially when it is good news—because we know the wolf is always at the door. We are in a club none of us chose to join, but we cherish our fellow members.

On January 23rd, a friend in my club asked how I’m doing. He asked in the nuanced way we ask. And when I inquired about him, he quietly told me he’d had his four-year check up the week before, and, “All is well.”

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