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Cards for Brianna
A Mom's Messages of Living, Laughing, and Loving as Time Is Running Out
By Heather McManamy, William Croyle Sourcebooks, Inc.
Copyright © 2016 the estate of Heather McManamy
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4926-4214-5
CHAPTER 1
At my retirement party, about a month after finding out my days were numbered, I did what any dying, depressed, recently unemployed mom would do: I hopped on a ferocious mechanical bull named Red Rock, and I rode him longer than anyone else in the bar could. A week later, I went to the hospital for a bone scan, and my spine lit up with cancer. It had likely been there for a while, but previous scans hadn't picked it up.
"Sooo ... was riding a bull last week not a good idea?" I deadpanned to the doctor after he gave me the results of the scan.
"You did what?" he replied incredulously.
Sorry, but I read nothing in the cancer manuals that prohibited bull riding.
Apparently, playing cowgirl on a bucking bull is frowned upon by doctors when your spine is filled with cancer, because it puts you at a pretty high risk for fractures or paralysis or something. Also note that convincing your doctor it wasn't that big of a deal, because you fell off the bull in a "slow-motion and graceful kind of way to raucous applause," will not work.
But instead of saying to myself "Thank goodness I didn't end up paralyzed!" I said "Thank goodness I rode the bull when I had the chance!" Sometimes ignorance really is bliss. If I had had the scan done before my party and knew I was at a high risk for paralysis with cancer in my spine, I (probably)wouldn't have ridden Red Rock. Yes, there are things you shouldn't do in certain situations for the sake of your health, but you also can't live your life in bubble wrap and worry about every possible thing that could go wrong. Do what you can do when you can do it.
About a month after I was diagnosed as terminal, I retired at the ripe old age of thirty-four as a research specialist at the University of Wisconsin School of Medicine and Public Health. In my job, I created databases and data entry processes and developed feedback loops and systems for programs to submit their data and ... I'll stop torturing you there. Let's just call it data management. I loved it! I was charged with finding ways to present data as a story, which satisfied both the organizational and creative realms of my brain. But when multiple doctors stamp an expiration date on your life, you wake up to the reality that there are things you love a whole lot more outside the drab walls of a cubicle farm. (By the way, I was recently enlightened by anonymous sources that my old cube was razed and replaced with a state-of-the-art printer station. FYI to my former coworkers: when I'm gone, I fully intend to haunt that printer.)
Most of my time in retirement has been spent with people no less than seventy years old, which is why I always say old people are my people. If I stop somewhere to get coffee in the morning after dropping Bri off at school, there are the old people having breakfast. If I go to the oncologist's office for an appointment, I'm surrounded by old people in the waiting room. When I hear old people complaining about something, it's usually their aches, pains, Social Security benefits — complaints that mirror my issues. But I've learned we retirees, and all people for that matter, have very little to grumble about if we wisely use the limited time we have in this world to truly live.
I've resided just outside of Madison for nearly two decades and worked in the city for six years, yet I realized when I retired that I'd never taken time to go inside the Wisconsin State Capitol, a spectacular work of art from the outside inside the Wisconsin State Capitol, a spectacular work of art from the outside. Think about the places or sites near your home that you've never stopped to appreciate; some you may pass every day on your way to work or when driving your kids to their tenth extracurricular activity of the afternoon. How would your perspective change toward those things if you knew for certain you were going to be dead soon? To experience is to live. As Ferris Bueller profoundly stated, "Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it."
I took that advice and finally visited the Capitol one day, spending three full hours exploring every crevice inside the edifice. One of the highlights is the rotunda. While most people cock their heads ninety degrees and strain their necks to get a glimpse of the dazzling dome two hundred and fifty feet above, I headed straight for the center of the room, laid down flat on the cold marble floor, took several deep breaths, and soaked in the beauty. I heard a few people walk past me and mumble about what I was doing, probably even wondering if I was insane or on drugs. Ironically, it was one of the rare times when I wasn't on any prescribed medication that could have affected my behavior. How cool would it have been if, instead of questioning what I was doing, those people would have followed my childlike curiosity and joined me on the floor? I was high purely on my surroundings. It was such a simple moment, yet so spectacular.
It took me sixteen long years to stop ignoring that building and to discover and appreciate what it had to offer. There's no excuse for that. Nothing so beautiful and accessible should ever take anybody that long to experience. Unfortunately, it took the cancer that's killing me to make me realize it.
CHAPTER 2
Before Brianna was born, Jeff had never once held a baby, and he never even knew what to say to toddlers or older kids. He'd have interacted better with aliens. So when I told him I was pregnant, he freaked out. I mean, freaked out! It took him a few days to digest the news and to talk about it with me. And then when we found out it was going to be a girl ...
"We're going to have to put a lock on the basement door. There's a wet bar down there," he said with grave concern. "And she's not watching movies down there with boys. No way."
"Wait ... what?" I replied quizzically. "You do realize she's still a fetus, right?"
But what a difference holding your child for the first time can make. Jeff was a natural at "daddyhood," and to be able to witness the relationship that has developed between him and Bri over the last four-plus years has really been something special for me.
He teaches her all about football. They hang our Wisconsin Badgers flag outside the house every Saturday before UW football games. They go grocery shopping together. Before the cancer came, I did most things with Bri that needed to be done, like giving her baths and getting her ready for bed. But after my mastectomy, Jeff had to go beyond football chalk talk with her. He went from "filling in" when needed to becoming the main caregiver. He has an amazing gut instinct of what a good dad is. At one time I would have thought that I'd have to author a step-by-step instruction guide for him on how to raise Bri when I'm gone, but I don't. He could write the book if he wanted to.
The first time he drove her to preschool, he handed the teacher a rubber band to put Bri's hair into a ponytail.
"Here," he said, exasperated. "I'm clueless on this one."
But now he's mastered even the smallest intricacies. Not only can he put her hair in a ponytail, but he's also learned how to braid it and is proud to do it. I've had a lot of friends with stage IV cancer who didn't have the same comfort level in their partners that I do in mine. I know how very fortunate I am to know Bri will always be in good hands.
That's not to say Jeff won't have challenges, especially when Bri hits her teen years. I know he'll worry to death when she gets her driver's license. Even today, for whatever reason, Bri always seems to nominate Jeff to answer the uncomfortable questions, like "How are babies made?" It's entertaining for me to watch as he stammers and stutters and struggles to spit out something coherent that a four-year-old can understand before I come to his rescue. So what will happen when I'm gone? I don't see her complex questions or his disjointed responses changing when she hits puberty. That's why I've made some audio recordings for her, such as when it's time to have "the talk" or when she has her first menstrual period. All she'll have to do is push a button to hear her mom speaking directly to her about those issues. That may seem like a quirky parenting method, but I believe there are some things for which a girl needs her mom. If, by some miracle, Jeff is perfectly fine handling all the difficult girl talks by himself, then more power to him. He and Bri are welcome to bond some more after their talks by making fun of my recordings. I'll be there in spirit, laughing right along with them.
I know there's always the chance Jeff could remarry and that Bri could have a loving stepmom to help with situations that may require a female touch. Jeff and I have had many conversations about that, and I genuinely hope he finds someone who is great for him and who will be a dedicated mom to Bri. Of course, I won't be here to see it, so maybe that's partly why I'm okay with it. But I truly want him to be happy. He knows that.
If there is any worry I have about leaving Jeff, it's the broken heart I know he'll suffer when I'm gone. From the day we first met more than fourteen years ago, I can count on one hand how many times we've been physically apart. We have always been together because it's where we've always wanted to be; we really are best friends. We assumed when we got married that it was the beginning of something magical that would last for decades. It's very distressing for both of us knowing that our life together will be cut short, that we won't be growing old together.
I know this may sound like a wacky perspective, but our relationship has been absolutely perfect, and I feel that in a world where nothing is perfect and the bad always seems to interrupt the good at some point, it makes sense that I'm dying. To expect a relationship between two people to be this wonderful from the start and to last into old age — I think it's just too good to be true.
I hope my perspective is proven wrong after I'm gone and that Jeff and Bri can carry on the very special father-daughter relationship they've had thus far for a lot longer than Jeff and I have had together. With a piece of me always in their hearts and minds, it would be, for me, the next best thing to being here.
CHAPTER 3
I have several friends with stage IV cancer, and sometimes we'll get on a YOLO kick. I know, we're waaay too old to be using that acronym, but I guess you can say that's a reflection of my YOLO attitude. YOLO stands for "You Only Live Once." The Urban Dictionary defines it as "the dumbass's excuse for something stupid that they did." Probably true in many cases. But I would contend that when you have a terminal disease, not only is having a YOLO attitude not stupid (or solely reserved for dumbasses), but it's also a way to laugh in the face of the one thing every one of us will experience but often struggle to find any humor in: death.
I went in one day for one of my "We're sorry, Heather, but you're still dying" doctor appointments. After receiving the usual grim news, which I'd become numb to, I smiled and asked my oncologist what any patient in my position would ask:
"Can I get more tattoos?"
Here was this nice man trying to find a sensitive way to tell me I was a step closer to being turned into ash and dumped into an urn, and I'm thinking a nice flowing patch of pink flowers over my right shoulder would look pretty awesome. He's thinking Poor Heather. I'm thinking YOLO!
After I convinced him more tattoos were a good idea, I thought, Why get a tattoo on my shoulder? Why not plant one right on my face? Or on my shiny bald head? It's not like I have to grow old with it or worry about a job interview. I didn't take it that far, only because I didn't want to terrify Bri. But that's the freedom cancer has given me — to laugh and find a silver lining in every situation. When a report came out last year that bacon causes cancer, my first thought was, Yes! I can eat as much bacon as I want! After one of my numerous chemo treatments, Jeff joked that I'd have an advantage over everyone else during a zombie apocalypse. He was confident that with all the chemicals that have been pumped into my body — I think I'm only three letters shy of completing the cancer medication alphabet (A = Adriamycin, B = Barium Sulphate Suspension, C = Carboplatin ...) — I'd likely survive a nuclear Armageddon.
Actress Audrey Hepburn once said, "I love people who make me laugh. I honestly think it's the thing I like most, to laugh. It cures a multitude of ills. It's probably the most important thing in a person."
Laughter won't cure my cancer, but it certainly makes it a heck of a lot easier to face each day.
Just prior to my mastectomy, I met with a plastic surgeon. Like all of my doctors and nurses since day one, he treated me like a queen. He was a little guy who barely came up to my shoulders. He had a shaved head with big blue eyes and an accent I couldn't identify but loved to listen to. Oftentimes, when we parted ways, he'd put the palm of his hand to my cheek and say, "Godspeed, Heather. Godspeed."
During our first visit with him, he was explaining to Jeff and me what I was about to go through. He shared a touching story of his wife having faced the same thing — a double mastectomy followed by breast implants. He said there was absolutely no way to prepare myself emotionally for what I would see and feel when I woke up from the mastectomy surgery. The emotions, he said, are different for everyone. It's a very personal surgery, unlike any other.
He was very patient and kindhearted when he spoke. He listened attentively and answered every one of my questions and concerns. It was a passionate conversation because the subject matter was so intense, yet he was so graceful and sensitive through it all. I had tears in my eyes as we talked. Jeff firmly held my hand, comforting me every second. It was one of many deeply emotional moments I would experience throughout this ride. And then ...
The doctor tossed the fake boob.
Leaning forward, with his elbows on his knees and the fake boob in one hand, the doctor softly lobbed it in the air to his other hand as he continued to talk to us in a serious tone. Then he lofted it back to the original hand. And then back again. Like it was a juggling ball. Give him two more fake boobs and some clown makeup and he'd have been a circus act. I was crying from this heavy conversation we'd been having. Jeff was trying to hold back tears. The doctor was conversation we'd been having. Jeff was trying to hold back tears. The doctor was softly speaking about the traumatic experience I was about to encounter, never losing eye contact with us. But now, suddenly, all I could think was, Oh my God! Stop throwing the boob!
He continued to toss it and squish it with each catch, like a stress ball. I was still crying, but now most of my tears were out of sheer hilarity. I know he wasn't doing it intentionally, but it would have been fine if he was. It certainly lightened the mood. I know I left his office feeling better than I would have if he hadn't done it. It was one of the first of hundreds of examples since my diagnosis of how during even the most agonizing and serious moments, there is still so much you can laugh about.
In the cancer medication alphabet, I used to have "L = Lorazepam" for the antinausea medication I've taken after chemo, but I've changed it to "L = Laughter." There really is no better medicine.
CHAPTER 4
One of the most difficult things for me to accept after my diagnosis was outside help. I'm organized. I'm efficient. I like to be in control. I want to do everything for myself. But sometimes when you're sick or need help of any sort, you have to slow down, swallow your pride, and ask others to take care of you. Even admitting that my family needed a meal train — when neighbors and friends rotated making us dinner each night so that Bri didn't morph into a chicken nugget — was a tough one for me to accept. But I knew we needed the help, and just as important, I realized others wanted to help. It made them feel good to know they were able to do something for us. Since forming a snuggle train — when everyone fills a shift snuggling on the couch with me — may have raised some eyebrows within the community (though not entirely a bad idea, I must say), some homemade chicken noodle soup certainly went a long way toward reducing our stress.
I learned to truly let go and accept all the help and love people wanted to give me when, weeks prior to officially finding out I was terminal, I was told the cancer had spread to my liver. It was one of my most terrifying days throughout this whole ordeal, and Jeff wasn't there with me. He had planned to go to the appointment, but I didn't feel he needed to. It was supposed to be a routine visit. In fact, I had planned to head straight to work from there. But instead, the liver bomb was dropped. After receiving the horrific news, I was led to a cold, sterile room to begin receiving immediate treatment. While chemo was being pumped into my bloodstream, I made tearful calls to Jeff and others about the latest diagnosis. But through the trauma, I was never physically or emotionally alone.
To say I've received amazing professional support since the day I was diagnosed doesn't do justice to the incredible men and women who have been there for me, from the receptionists to the phlebotomists to the nurses to the doctors. Wisconsinites have ginormous hearts and know how to comfort and take care of people. On that dreadful day, the staff took turns sitting with me, hugging me, crying with me, and sharing stories that gave me some hope, even though we all knew there probably wasn't much hope to be had. They have served as my shrinks outside of my actual shrink's office, and they've all genuinely become my close friends, making me laugh and keeping my mind focused on non-cancer stuff. There is nothing fun about having cancer, but they've certainly made this ride as smooth as it could possibly be.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Cards for Brianna by Heather McManamy, William Croyle. Copyright © 2016 the estate of Heather McManamy. Excerpted by permission of Sourcebooks, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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