An Attitude of Gratitude

It's 5:00 a.m. on a Friday. Normally, I would be asleep, the alarm set for 7:00 a.m., which I would also sleep through. That alarm is for my husband, not me. I rise with a toddler who awakes around 8:00 a.m. and waits for the teenager to come out of her room hours later. It's summer, and although my house is kept, we are enjoying the laziness together.

When I resigned from my job in April of 2011, I had never felt so sure about my decision. My husband was starting a new career, and although we knew money would be tight, we were confident in our decision to keep me at home, as a stay-at-home-mom/comic/freelance writer, and he would pay the bills. I left a job I loved, and walked away from an impending $600 per month raise ... because this baby was more important. 

Nothing else mattered because money, as we have learned, comes and goes. Kids grow up so fast. It was the right decision.

In the beginning, I would wake up with a fervor to please. I would make breakfast for my man, pack his lunch, and work out. I spent a lot of those days just holding my little baby and taking in his smell and those moments. I struggled to breastfeed, but I had the time to try.

That first year was nothing short of magical in the heart and stressful in the bank account. Credit cards were charged for groceries. Accounts bounced, bills were late. All of these things drove me insane, but the thing that kept me going was my hustle. My desire to make it work. My knowledge that within every fiber of my being, I could NOT leave my baby home. I waited 11 years for this guy, I wasn't going to leave him in daycare. I simply couldn't.

We struggled. It was tough. But we never went without and little blessings would show up at the last possible moments in the form of a late freelance check, a gift package from a friend, a grocery gift card, and one time, a bonus from my husband's school that was the exact amount--to the dollar--that we were short on mortgage. 

Blessings were plentiful these past three years, and I will never forget them. But the time has come to enter the workforce once again. I have been extended an offer I cannot refuse, and I am excited, nervous, anxious and curious what our future holds. These blessings are what kept us going and I want to acknowledge them properly.

Throughout this journey, I've had my share of panic moments. I turned to my girlfriends for advice, and to my husband for hugs. The one thing that has kept me going is something my dear friend Celeste said to me in a time of need. As I was stressing about money, getting older and not being relevant in my career, therefore questioning my decisions, she said this to me, "The one thing I know about you is that you can find a kick-ass job tomorrow if you need to." And she was right. That is me, and those words calmed me down. I knew the time would eventually come, but I also knew that I wasn't ready. Thank you, Celeste.

Writing from home allowed me the opportunity to be passionate about growing my business. Creative Copy became its own entity and I had clients within 48 hours of leaving my job. I wrote for Bonnie Magazine, I had my own column (spoiler alert - I am Miss Know It All!), wrote for the local papers here and will continue to do so. Through my writing assignments, I met amazing people who have literally transformed my life. Lorri Ann Code, Jenny Beard, Ann Bouchard, Kim Box, thank you. You have all touched my heart and impacted my life in ways I cannot repay. I am glad we met. 

Babies are expensive, and we were not in a position where we could afford very much for our son. A girlfriend who wasn't sure she was done having children tearfully donated an entire bedroom set to our son. Other friends passed down clothes, toys, and shoes, and these friends have helped so much. Thank you Stacey, Amy, Betsy, Holly, Paige, Jeanine, Brandy, and Dana.

Comedy was a major focus for me and I hustle hard for a career that doesn't offer too much cash. But within a year, I appeared on ABC's The View (November 2012), and my comedy calendar was instantly booked for the next 12 months. When I found out I made it to NY, my aunt and uncle sent me $200 for food and fare, and I will never forget it. I came home with five bucks and a realization that I will never live there. Thank you Uncle Jimmy and Aunt Joyce.

When I came back from New York, I was invited to speak in Las Vegas at a seminar. I simply didn't have the money. My girlfriends got together and sent me enough money for airfare and hotel. Thank you Isabel, Celeste, Elyse, Tamar, Anita and Kristen.

My good friend and fellow comic, Cheryl the Soccer Mom accompanied me on that trip (last minute) and she paid her own way as well as all our meals. That trip was so special and enlightening. I will never forget it. Thank you Shweriyl.

A good friend knew I wasn't spending extras on play dates or family adventures and she sent us a membership to the Railroad Museum - a gift that keeps on giving. Thank you Becca.

I met a new neighbor who reminds me daily that raising one toddler isn't really stressful at all. She has two toddlers plus a Kindergartner. I am never really that stressed out. Thank you, Liz.

My clients have been nothing short of wonderful. Helping me by giving me work, paying me on time, and sometimes early. Kyle Cassano, thank you. Ann Bouchard, you are an angel, thank you. 

Family members gave big, when sadly, we could not. Thank you for last Christmas, Rochelle and Nick.

My parents both helped us as well. My dad helped us buy a car, we paid him back, then it broke down and he loaned us the money for another, and then some. My mom has paid for my children's clothes and extracurricular activities, and she has watched the kids, and helped me out in ways I can't pay back. I am eternally grateful to both of my parents. We may have our ups and downs, but you both have been there for us and we are very grateful. Thank you mom and dad.

I am sure I have left someone out, but when I remember, I will text you an apology along with a thank you. 

Staying home has been a great ride, but if I'm being honest, I have lost my passion for the things I thought I had a passion for. I simply don't feel the way I did. In fact, I've become a bit depressed. I'm not ashamed to admit that, but a depressed mom and wife doesn't fully show up for her family or life, and it's time to get ME back. 

I've come to learn a lot about myself these past three years. At one point, my husband told me "You're a great mom, you're just not a stay-at-home-mom." This hurt me deeply at the moment, but he was right. (Yes Husband, you were RIGHT.) 

I am an extrovert, in every sense of the word. 

ex·tro·vert

ˈekstrəˌvərt/

noun

noun: extrovert; plural noun: extroverts; noun: extravert; plural noun: extraverts

1. 1.

   an outgoing, overtly expressive person.

   synonyms:

   outgoing person, sociable person, socializer, life of the party

   antonyms:

   introvert

I am struggling with the desire to stay home and the longing to be around people. I am going to miss my kids. This makes me question my selfishness.

I fear that if I would have put more into my Pampered Chef business, perhaps I could buy more time home? Maybe if I offered my services to more agencies, I could have grown my business? Perhaps if I would have taken time to travel to other places, I would have been able to have comedy work in other cities? I struggle with all these feelings and more, but in my heart, I know that this job is right for me and my family, and my personality. It will change our dynamic and that needs to happen, now. 

I wouldn't trade these past three years for anything. The long nights wondering how we would pay the bills. The late fees. The creditor calls. At a low point, my power was shut off during the winter. Cell phones and cable were shut off at times. But, we made it through. With good, marital teamwork, incredible friends, framily and family, we did it, and now it's time for a new chapter.

I am so grateful today, I almost can't stand it. Onward.

Where did the time go?

When we bought this house, our daughter was two years old. It was September of 2001 and our nation had just been attacked. As we were beginning to live the American Dream, America was living a Nightmare. It was hard to be so excited when everyone was mourning.

We settled in the quiet neighborhood and started to unpack, well I unpacked. My husband got naked and ran through the house. He was a homeowner, and this was his way of celebrating. I laughed, the kid napped and all was great in our small world.

Our Two Year Old Daughter, 9/2001

That was on Friday. The first morning in our new home, we were awoken by what sounded like a man yelling in the court. Rich looked out the window, but saw nothing. We went in the backyard, and that's when we could hear the man's voice loud and clear. There was a football game at the high school. He was an announcer on a microphone naming off little football players' names and numbers. To some new homeowners, this would not be a welcomed alarm clock. But to us, we loved it.

We chose this part of Roseville for the easy commute, affordability, great schools, community vibe, gorgeous parks and because it just felt right. To two broke kids who grew up in the East Bay, East Roseville felt like The Hamptons. We joked that someday our little girl would go to the high school with the loud PA system. Although the school sits just a block away, it seemed like light years away to us.

This fall, that two year old will be attending that high school. We are beside ourselves with a mixed sense of grief and a rush to make these next four years slow down.

My husband and I both attended three different high schools and countless elementary schools. To us, our main goal was always to raise her in one house, attend one (or three as fate had it) local elementary schools, one junior high, and one high school. We feel accomplished that we provided this foundation for her...and scared as hell that in less than four years, she will be an adult. Done. Gone. This is our two year old. We basically "just" moved here, right? No. It's been a long and fast 13 years, and in August, she's going to be a Freshman. We aren't ready, but we can't stop it. It's a weird feeling.

You can't prepare for what you don't know. This is our first child. Have we done enough? Will she have a good time? Will she make new friends, avoid the high school mean girls, star in theater shows, play sports? Will she fall in love? Will she have her heart broken? All if this, just seems like too much to think about.

What makes this time even more nostalgic is that we have a two year old here in this house. He is a blessing, a miracle, and a reminder to us of what it felt like when we moved here with our little girl. He is growing like a weed and his pictures show a boy-face now, not a baby. We are trying to enjoy every single moment of his little life because one thing we do know for sure is that he will be attending the same high school with the loud PA in a few years. They don't seem like light years though, we know better now.

Talking to the Teen

In the middle of a beautiful day, as my son napped, I mopped the floors because I'm an awesome wife (who mops like twice a month). The Katie show came on, and I could hear it in the background. I was about to turn it off, but something caught my attention. A grieving mother was the guest, and she was sharing her experience of finding her deceased 15-year-old. This resonated with me. My daughter is going to be 15 this year.

Unbeknownst to the mother, her daughter had gone to a party where she consumed alcohol. She passed out in a bedroom, and three boys went into the room, undressed her and wrote things all over her body with a sharpie. Then, they sexually assaulted her. All the while, photos were taken, and then shared via social media. The next day, she was harassed online and at school. She called her mom to be picked up early, but  refused to tell her why. 

She committed suicide two days later. 

Her mother recounted the experience in detail and one thing stood out to me: When she asked her daughter what had happened, her daughter wouldn't talk. 

A deep sense of panic set in. What if that was my daughter? 

At this very moment, my daughter walked in the door from school. I grabbed a snack for her, and told her I had a show I wanted her to watch. I played the segment back for her. I could tell that this wasn't what she wanted to do, but as she ate her food, she listened and I prayed that she was absorbing both the nutrients to have a conversation with me, and the message behind this story that seems all too common these days. 

During a commercial, I asked one question. This is the conversation that ensued:

"Why do you think that girl didn't tell her mom what happened at school?"

-"Because we are teenagers. We don't want you to help us. We want to solve things on our own, we want to be like adults. Going to your mom and dad is Kindergarten."

"Kindergarten?"

-"Yeah, like, little kids go to their parents. We want to solve things on our own."

"If something like this happened to you, would you tell me?"

-"Probably not." 

"Why?"

-"Because I've seen you when you're mad and I've seen you when I've lied to you, and I wouldn't want to get in trouble. Plus, I'd be embarrassed that you'd probably have to tell dad."

"I understand. I want you to know something - when it comes to BIG things like drinking, drugs, sex, rape, I wouldn't get mad. I would always want you to tell me."

-"Yeah, right."

"Hey - Look at me. I will promise you today, that if these subjects ever become part of your life, or your friends' lives, I will listen to you."

-"K."

"Hey, I think we need to have an understanding that when big things happen - like this - there needs to be a safe place that's free from judgement and punishment. That place has always been my room, and it will continue to be." 

-"Yeah. I know."

"Do you really? I promise you, if something like this ever happens, I will not judge. We will handle it as a family. Killing yourself is not the answer."

-"You'd probably know about the pictures before me because you always check my stuff."

"I don't check as much as you think. I check it when you give me reason to. I just don't want you to ever think you can't talk to me or dad. We can always help you, even if it means moving out of state - there are ways to make sure your body, your head and heart is safe. We will do that."

-"K."

"You know how we have a safe-word for my cooking? Maybe we should have one for big shit that happens at school...how about 'ORCA', because that's a big whale of a story to tell, right...?"

-"HAHA, I could come home and say 'KILLER WHALE MOM!'"

And then we laughed.

This is the article that inspired the show and I encourage you to read it. Talk to your kids about this stuff. Encourage them to make the right decisions. Our daughters need to be protected, and our sons need to be the good guys, the heroes, not the aggressors.

I believe that there are few teaching moments that we, as parents, have in these teenage years. This was one of them. I tried to listen more than I spoke. As she started giving me one-letter answers, I knew my time was limited. I hope I got through to her. I hope she knows that she can always come to us. 

I told her recently that the next four years will be the ones she talks about and remembers for the rest of her life. The Internet, social media, smartphones, are all things we thankfully didn't have to deal with when I was in school. I can only hope that she makes the right decisions and continues these conversations with me. My goal is for her to enjoy every moment, and be free from scandal, shame and suicide.

While intuitively, I think I'm doing fine, deep down, I don't know what I'm doing. I tell her this often. 

I just try to keep a dialogue of sex and social media an ongoing discussion. She knows this, and even when she gets irritated with it, I won't stop. 

Most importantly, I'll try to lead a good example. But I mess up, like the time I puked on her because I was hammered...yeah...it happened. And she remembers it too. Maybe that was a good example of how being inebriated can lead you to make horrible decisions. We laugh about it now, but the message is clear - mom can't drink wine, or she gets the flu. 

Dear Hubby, I am NOT Beyonce

Dear Hubby,

It's Valentine's Day, our 17th one as a couple. I want you to know that long-lasting relationships like ours seem to be a rarity in this world, but if we lived in Hollywood, ours would be considered pure gold. Which brings me to this - what the fuck was up with B and Hov on the last awards show we watched? She looked amazing. He is ugly, but he's a mogul and he says "Uh" a lot and I guess that's important if you're a rap star. You are none of these things, and that's ok. I am not Beyonce, and I hope that is ok with you as well.

I got to thinking about the power couple the other day when I tried to listen to her new song about dranking, waking up in the kitchen, surfing, and grinding our two beautiful bodies on each other...first of all, babe, we got TWO kids - there's no kitchen sex. Plus, that's uncomfortable, and we would surely be happier in the big, comfy bed. Dranking is fun once in a while, but that whole KIDS thing kinda makes it difficult to fully enjoy, right? Surfing and grinding on each other - that's pretty hot, even if our bodies aren't what they used to be. I suppose if we had the Z' disposable income, and our jobs were to work out incessantly, we would also want to show off our beautiful bodies to the world. I like our bodies though, we might not be surfboards, more like rafts, but either way, we fit together pretty nicely.

Still, I get insecure. I will never be Beyonce. I will probably lose a few more pounds, but without the means to ensure that I have a chef, trainer, an adequate amount of nannies, and more money than I will ever have to worry about - chances are, you'll always have my stretch marks to trace with your construction-scared fingers, and a little extra flesh to grab when we're in the moment. I will never perform in a leotard, or be at the Superbowl, but I will talk about how amazing you are when I am on stage - after I make fun of you first.

I'm sorry my body isn't the same as the person's you first fell in love with. I can't wear my sheer blouses, I barely match my undergarments and I can totally handle my liquor intake making it difficult for you to fully take advantage of me.

I'm not the person you first fell for. I changed when I got pregnant with your babies. My body changed. My shape and size changed. You say you love it all - and I am glad.

I'm not the carefree, spaz girl you fell in love with. I'm a woman now who worries about her children - your children - and you. I worry about you. I worry about losing you to a fiery crash or a rogue bathroom mishap.

I am not that girl you fell for. I'm almost twice her age and so I aspire to be the person you want to be old with.

Our 40's will be good. I like being the person you sit with at night while we watch acts like  B and Jay Zizzle - and we laugh. Not at them, but at their antics. They are hot. They used to produce great music that we used to dance to. And now that they are trying to show the world that you can still be hella sexy after the birth of your child when deep down, we know the truth. The sweat-pants wearing rainy family Sundays eating bad food and drinking soda-that's our drunk in love song and I wouldn't want to be celebrating these days with anyone else.

We don't have the mansion, or the cars or the gems - but what we have - I love it, all of it. Sure, I'd love to have B's hot bod, and if you walked around grunting your verbs and yelling adjectives, I'd still like you, too. But to me, you're enough--all of you.

I will never be Beyonce. And you will never be Jay-Z. And that's ok. You're still my King and I, your Queen B. You can define that B in many ways, bitchy, boring, big, better, but in the end, I hope it still stands for what we started with - your Best friend.

Hope Lives Here - Jenny Beard

This is the original story I wrote about Jenny Beard. Because of this story, a sweet friendship has been born - one that no psychic could have ever predicted - (inside joke-ha ha!)

She has recently had quite a setback and since Bonnie Magazine isn't available online anymore, I wanted to make sure this was online. Jenny, you're a strong woman and you have a fight within that I've never seen before. I still believe you can beat this. 

Hope Lives Here

Fighting Stage IV Cancer, and Living Against the Odds

By Stephanie Garcia

The offices at Express Employment Professionals are unlike any others in the Roseville business complex. The walls are painted in bright, clean green and blue hues. Each area has a trinket of relaxation—a Zen garden, a Buddha statue, and a meditation frog. There are inspirational quotes in beautiful letters scribed on the walls, and the light shines throughout the open floor plan. That’s how the owners, Eric and Jenny Beard, wanted it—happy, welcoming, a peaceful and productive environment. After all, they are in the business of getting people jobs in an economy that hasn't been so kind.

Jenny Beard, March 2013 for Bonnie Magazine

I walk over to a wall of thank-you cards, photos and letters. It’s a cheerful area, just as the rest of the office seems. I can’t help but smile. The energy in the office is lively, carefree and a place that I would like to visit again.

From the colorful ambiance to the kudos on the poster board to the happy employees, everything is full of positivity. It’s hard to believe that the reason I am there is to interview one of the owners who is battling stage IV breast cancer.

I sit down and rethink my approach to this interview. Initially, I assumed that with stage IV cancer, Jenny Beard is battling for her life, and she might not have much time. She’s a mother, a wife and a business owner and she has a heart of gold. She’s inspired many with her dedication to her work and her devotion to her family. I had prepared to interview a dying woman. But that all changed when the door opened again.

In walked a beautiful blonde, wearing a flowing black skirt, scoop-neck, pink lacey blouse and knee-high leopard print, high heel boots. She’s carrying paperwork, a large bag, and a plate of what appears to be homemade, pink cupcakes. Her make-up is flawless and her smile is wide. Surely this can’t be her. This isn't a woman who is dying of cancer. This is a woman who’s full of life.

“Hi,” says Jenny Beard. “Come on in, sorry I’m late.” She thinks I care. She’s so sweet. I already love her.

We go into a conference room where Jenny tells me she doesn't know why she was chosen for this story. “There’s nothing special about me. I just have cancer and I’m trying to fight it, and I really think there’s a lot more I could be doing,” she says.

We skip the informalities and begin to chat like girlfriends. Jenny tells me her story, and our parallels shock me. We both have teenagers and toddlers. We are both hard-working, go-getters. We share a quick sense of humor, a sales management background, 12-year old wedding rings, and we are about the same age. She is someone I am drawn to immediately. It’s hard to put into words why – but she radiates with a light that I can feel and as silly as it might seem, I can see it too.

Jenny is busy. Too busy for cancer. She has three children at home, a thriving business with her husband and one child attending college in southern California. She has a two-page to-do list with check marks, and it’s only 10:00 a.m. She tells me she feels she needs to be doing more. This round of chemotherapy has taken a lot out of her, including her hair and she’s frustrated that she’s been forced to take a behind the scenes approach to working through chemo treatments. It doesn't sit well with her.  

I tell her that I don’t know where to begin. She has taken me by surprise. She reassures me, as she will do several more times during our two-hour talk. “Well, I’ll tell you that even before this, {‘this’ being stage IV metastasized breast cancer} I thought I had my own story.”

In 2004, Jenny and her husband took a leap of faith. They moved their family of five to Rocklin and opened a staffing company from scratch. With his experience in accounting and hers in sales and marketing, it was great match. “We put everything on the line to open this business,” she says. There was no income, they had two small children, and a ten-year old, and they were determined to make it succeed.

The plan was working, for about seven months. In March of 2005, upon a routine self-exam, Jenny felt a lump in her left breast. The diagnosis was a slow-growing, breast cancer in two different quadrants of her left breast. She was 32.

The diagnosis was scary, but the doctors were optimistic. “I felt like there’s nothing I can do about it, so I would always take the worst case scenario, which was death, and work backwards from that,” Jenny says.  The cancer was caught so early that it didn't worry her too much. On May 5, 2005, she received a single mastectomy. With her positive attitude and cancer in remission, she felt ready to take on the world again. She thought that maybe this happened for a reason; she thought maybe she would be able to help someone in the future.

In 2005, as the employment market started to plunge, Jenny thought that maybe her cancer story had inadvertently prepared her to deal with the hit that her business would take. This scared her more than cancer. “When the economy crumbled, being that we are in the employment business, we were scared,” she remembers. “We are a source of encouragement to people who come here and seek our services, and we didn't have any jobs for them. That was a crisis. That was scary.”

Although she had worked through her cancer experience, she never let it affect the business. In doing so, Jenny gained confidence. “We went through that {breast cancer} as a 6-month old company,” Jenny says. “In my head, if we went through that, we could take on this economy.”

It was a long process, and there were some tough decisions and dark days, but as other staffing companies closed their doors for good, the Beards’ company made it through. To celebrate, they had a small party in 2009 called THINK BIG. “It was kind of an open house,” she says. “We were expecting 30 people to come, and were amazed when 150 showed up.” It’s clear to me that Jenny puts as much positivity into her business as she does in her life, so of course it was a success.

That year, Jenny and her husband were in a good place. The kids were 20, 10 and 8 years old. Life and business were stable and good things were on the horizon. But with a quick getaway to Las Vegas, the couple soon found out they were pregnant.

A little boy was born in May of 2010, but as soon as she got home from the hospital, she began to have vision problems. Jenny was soon diagnosed with a rare eye disorder called a macular hole. “With a macular hole, if you don’t fix it, you go blind,” Jenny says. She knew she had been though worse, so she went forward with a procedure to correct the hole. A vitrectomy consists of placing a gas bubble behind her retina. The procedure would only work if she kept her head down, looking at her toes, for seven days during recovery. “The bubble acts like a stint and I had to eat and drink while looking down,” she says. “This was harder to recover from than my mastectomy.”

Unfortunately, it was about to get a lot harder. One side effect from the delicate surgery is a retinal detachment. The solution is to have another vitrectomy. Within six months, that happened—twice. To make matters worse, between her second and third surgeries, she was diagnosed with cancer—again.

What started out as an in-patient procedure to remove a cyst, ended up being a cancerous tumor. The diagnosis was grim. Jenny had stage IV metastatic breast cancer. The cancer had metastasized to her back, lungs, glands, and neck.  

According to The American Cancer Society, recent introductions of new chemotherapy drugs have significantly improved survival of patients diagnosed with stage IV breast cancer, but the statistics remain at about a 20% survival rate at 5 years. “To me that meant I had a 20% chance of being alive in 5 years,” she says. That was two-and-a-half years ago.

“It’s an ugly stat, it seems unreal. But the worst thing that can happen is I can die.” We both take a moment. This is the same thought process she had before, but this time, it feels heavier.

“With metastasized cancer, they don’t go after every tumor in your body.” Instead, she has endured three rounds of chemo, a clinical trial, and hormone therapy. So far, none of her treatments have been successful. The cancer has now moved to her pancreas and her liver. Once again, she sees the lighter side of bad. “The good thing is that it’s a slow-moving cancer.”

Jenny is on her fourth round of chemo. She will find out her results at the end of March. True to her optimistic nature, she sees the good in the chemo failure. “I don’t have time to dwell on the ‘what-ifs’ because I don’t know. Not knowing is the hard part.”

No knowing can’t be put on a to-do list. It can’t be planned for. To someone like Jenny, not knowing can be overwhelming. “There’s so much I want and need to do – there’s kids, a business, things I want to do … I need to start taking a lot more pictures.”

I feel like I might lose it. I can’t imagine being in her shoes. But then she says something that makes me want to jump across the table and hug her. “You know, people have it much worse than I do,” she smiles. “I’ve experienced so many blessings along this journey.”

She made a vision board with her employees. “We did it as an office experiment together in 2008.” She wanted to see Celine Dion, she wanted to see her daughter go to college, she wanted a new bed, and she wanted to go on a cruise to Alaska.

As time has passed, many of her visions on her board came to fruition. She got a new bed, and she not only got to see Celine Dion in concert, but the singer also posted a video of Jenny and her family on her own Facebook site. (See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1j3gizTDVKQ to watch the video). Her eldest daughter is in college and last year, her friends and family surprised her on her 40th birthday with a surprise party—including a cruise to Alaska. “I was surprised with the party, but then they presented my husband and I with a cruise to Alaska.” Jenny pauses to remember that night. She smiles. “That was a really amazing surprise.” 

She tells me it’s undeserving. She tells me this often. The woman who shines so brightly on others cannot accept the same love back. It’s hard for her to see how she exudes hope, but I see it. “I don’t know why people think I’m inspiring,” she says often. “I don’t think I’m doing things different than anyone else in this situation.”

I try to reassure her. She has been through so much. I know I am not this strong. I think I would have thrown in the towel. “I guess I don’t think about that, ever.”

This is true. The woman who continues to work, spend time with her family and plan for the future finds a sort of reprieve at her weekly Chemo sessions. Once, she told the nurse “I really just like sitting here. I can just relax. You probably hear that all the time.” The nurse was surprised and said no, not really.

Her unpretentiousness is sweet. Her outlook is hopeful. She believes in karma and God and refuses to talk about dying. “There are people who can live with this disease for many, many years, like 15 years,” she says. “I truly am at peace with whatever happens … but I believe a miracle is about to happen.”

Before this interview, I thought people with stage IV breast cancer were sick, in pain, terminal and perhaps waiting to die. But everything changed with this interview. Jenny is a beacon of hope. I interviewed a woman who loves life, her children, her marriage and her company, and even with a seemingly devastating diagnosis, this woman is living—more than many of us are, and that is inspiring.

Team Deven

Facebook: Voyeurism or Life Lesson?

As I write this, two people I knew in high school are sitting at home, watching their 14-year old son die from his year-long battle with cancer. He is reading Facebook (FB), he is smiling, he is resting and Hospice is keeping him comfortable as his heart and liver betray his young body.

All I can think about is his parents, his siblings, his step parents and family. Sitting. Waiting. All I can do is imagine what I would be doing if this was happening to one of my children. I can’t even begin to describe my empathy. I can’t contain it. It has encompassed me. It’s made me spoil my teenager, wake her up in the middle of the night just to smell her hair, allow her to watch scary movies in hopes for cuddle time and be lenient on her restrictions.

I feel horrible for this family.

Their journey started about 15 months ago, and they have documented everything on FB. That’s how I know about it. I have never met their son. For no other reason than graduation, I haven’t spoken to his father in 20 years. We weren’t too close, but we ran in the same group of friends. His mom and I were always friendly in school and we happened to reconnect on MySpace in 2006 due to the suicide of a mutual friend. Since then, she and I have exchanged pleasantries online, “liked” each other’s photos and wished each other a happy birthday because FB told us it was time.

But ever since her son received his diagnosis, I feel like I am closer to her than ever, perhaps because we are related by way of motherhood?  Because of the tremendous fight she has waged against this beast of a disease, I feel pulled into her daily life. I am learning about pic lines and PET scans and transfusions and bone marrow. I feel a part of the process, I feel anxiety, I feel helpless and I feel compelled to DO SOMETHING.

I have also gone through phases of feeling that I am intruding on their business, knowing too much, a voyeur, caught up in the grief and crying too hard for a family I don’t truly know. I find myself talking about them as if Angie and I have been bffs since grade school—which isn’t the case. The question has burned into my pillow talks with my husband—am I intruding? Caring too much? Knowing too much? In real life, I don’t “know” these people.

Is FB our new real life?

In the old days, people would communicate births, deaths, weddings, etc., by way of telegram. Then there were stage coaches that delivered mail. Then there were mail trains, and then the good old telephone. As the means of travel became more advanced, surely more people would be contacted. It’s easy to call ten people. It’s harder to send those ten people a telegram. With the introduction of the Internet, and Social Media, it seems that from inception of a fetus, to the first ultrasound, to the birth, we are now experiencing a new phenomenon of sharing. We see the journey of life, every day, from friends, and more interestingly, acquaintances. So should the journey to death be expected as well?

Social Media gives us an insight to others’ lives where we otherwise would never be invited to, nor care to know. Call it oversharing, reaching out for support, and in some cases, attention seeking, there are thousands of personal stories being publically documented every day. As users, we choose to follow or not. As empathetic beings, some of these stories can dramatically affect the lives of strangers and classmates alike.

Without FB, I would have eventually heard about their son’s battle with cancer through friends. I would have felt horrible for them. I would have put myself in their place as much as I know how. I would mourn and pray for…  a day… a week? Maybe less? I probably would have written a check and put it in the mail, finding their address from making a phone call—or text—to a mutual acquaintance. And then, I would go on with my life, removed from the stresses, the reminders, and the photos of a strong warrior boy and his loving family. I would move on. I would go on. Eventually, I would complain to my husband about my nails, my weight, and my hair. I would sulk from the balance in my bank account. My life as I know it would go on.

Instead, there is this Social Media tool called FB. There’s a family who has chosen to open up and share the process, the thrills, the sufferings, the GOOD NEWS: THERES A DONOR! Then, the crushing news—he doesn’t qualify anymore, his body is too weak. GOOD NEWS—the cancer is getting smaller. BAD NEWS—his heart and liver are failing. GOOD NEWS—He was outside today, look at the smile. BAD NEWS—there’s nothing more we can do, we are going home and will keep him comfortable.

I, like many others, am involved. Personally, emotionally, physically, even financially. But I still struggle with the question—is this right, normal, okay?  

When I started thinking about this article, I thought absolutely NOT—this is NOT my place to intrude on this family just because I shared some classes and parties with his parents 20+ years ago. In many ways, FB is like walking on a beach and seeing an endangered turtle that has flipped onto its back. The automatic response is the need to flip him over—to save its life—but this isn’t “natural” and in some cases, the law prohibits one from interfering.

This is not my story. I don’t know this child, these people anymore; this isn’t my place—all true. But I am also the person who would help that turtle out—no matter what the law was. I would try to save a life, because I feel that is right. I would see a higher reason that I would find myself walking that beach, at that moment in time, as if the turtle and I were connected on a spiritual level. I would flip that turtle over, and coax it to the shore and I would wade into the water and make sure it swam to its family. I would consider it divine interaction and I would probably get a tattoo of that turtle to remind me that we need to hold onto moments like that. Watching this last 15 months unfold with this family makes me feel like I am going through this right alongside of them. And I feel a need to help in any way I can.

Apparently, I am not alone. If you bring up Angie or Team Deven’s FB page, you will see many others feel the same way.

There are more than 8,000 well-wishers following Team Deven’s page. There are pictures, videos, and comments from people all over the world, sending their love and best wishes to Deven, and his family. There’s a mother who shaved her head in support of Deven’s plight. There’s an eight-year-old little “Jedi” who was so moved to do something, she held a garage sale and donated the funds to Team Deven. There are photos of Deven’s favorite movie characters, Jack Skelton, and drawings from artists who’ve never met this family. There are people wearing Team Deven wristbands, and T-shirts. Without FB, none of these people would ever know this story. Is this an intrusion, or a beautiful way to say “goodbye”, “we love you”, “we hurt for you”, “we care”?

I suppose it’s up to the family to decide if the abundance of sharing this journey is too much. This way of sharing has been a source of comfort for this family. In their recent posts, the family has thanked everyone, and they feel blessed to be so supported. Here is a recent post:

Many people have said to me that they feel guilty enjoying things while our family is suffering so much. Please know that making anyone feel bad in any way is not my intention. I do however have 2 goals with sharing our story. #1, I share because I want people to appreciate even more what they already have! Play with your kids, enjoy the weather, do things together. All in all, love each other just a little bit more because you never know when that may be taken away from you. #2, I want to teach people the importance of sharing what you have. Give back, not to me in particular, but to anyone in need. Life isn't about just appreciating what you have, but sharing it with the people who don't have it! No amount of money is going to save my son, but donations have given us the gift of more time together. Because of the fundraisers, I am able to spend just a little more time by Deven’s side. It has given both of us a peace that we would never have been... able to obtain without your help. Giving back is not only rewarding for you, but it sets an example to your children. So many people have told me how they share Deven’s updates with their children. Imagine how that will affect them when they are an adult? If just one kid grows up and does just a little bit more because of what they learned from our story, I will feel like it was all for something. Many, many people have taken the time out of their busy days to read our updates and help us out in any way they can. I just ask that you all continue to not take life for granted. Appreciate what you have and try to share it with those who don't. Life can change in an instant!

In my opinion, this part of FB life is beautiful.

To this family, FB has been a source of great support. Late at night, while many are sleeping, Angie posts to FB, reaching out to talk to someone, to get her mind off the beeping machines that she sits next to as her son rests.  She waits and watches and she posts her thoughts—ridiculously positive and selfless thoughts—online. “Thank you all for the support. I don't know where we would be without you...” And people respond. Family, friends, coworkers, first. Then acquaintances and strangers. And she communicates back. And so goes a virtual support system from strangers to family, to friends, and Angie sits in that hospital room and replies and laughs and connects. For a little while, FB is her reprieve. It’s a beautiful thing.

Without FB, Angie would be completely alone in those hours, in that room, with herself and her thoughts. Maybe she would have a magazine or a book, but no interaction. With FB, she is supported, lifted up, prayed with and for—and it has helped her immensely.

I don’t like a lot of things about Facebook. But I love this. I have seen the human experience in a technical world achieved through this platform.

Without FB, those families who suffer with cancer would just be news to me. A story I can’t relate to. Because of FB, I have been educated on how this horrific disease can take a person slowly, painfully, selfishly, and rip a family apart emotionally. It made me angry, sympathetic, and it made me want to ACT. So I did. I, along with my comedy sisters, was able to organize a comedy night and give my high-school-turned-FB-friends’ a night to laugh and forget their fears, and we raised some money for them. One of the most touching things I have seen was a table full of doctors and nurses who came out to support Deven’s family. They are everyday heroes and to know we made them laugh too, well, that was pretty cool.

Without FB, I would have heard that my friends, although divorced now for a long time, had both remarried and Deven has a sister and brothers and step parents. With FB, I see that Deven actually has four parents and siblings who love him unconditionally and get along quite nicely—in fact they call Mia, his Stepmom, and “Momma Mia.” I think that is beautiful.

Through this experience, I have seen the strength of mother who I first met in high school. She was always a sweetheart to everyone. She was kind, gorgeous, funny and carefree. She was never a bully, or a bitch to me. I appreciated that. I would do anything for my friends. Because of FB, I have reconnected with a time in my life where others weren’t so kind. In adulthood, I have been able to give back to her a little of what she gave to me as a teen—laughter. A reason to forget the bullshit of life. Even just for a moment. Through this experience, I have been able to teach my own teenager—be kind to people—to everyone. Because YOU DON’T KNOW what the future holds. But being kind to someone today can come back to help you later. And if everyone practiced that, well, that’s what I call Karma. Make your Karma good.

Without FB, I would continue to post and comment on the meaningless posts and comments about bad days and stupid coworkers, about that guy who drove crazy and the customer service person with an attitude. Because of this experience, I am less concerned with these “hardships” and more forgiving. Maybe the guy driving crazy is an uncle to someone like Deven, crying, unaware that he almost hit someone because his life is shattering around him. Maybe the customer service person just lost her mom. Maybe your problems aren’t really problems at all.

I do believe that Social Media has exposed the narcissist in many. But I also believe that it’s brought out the peacekeepers and the parents. The grievers and the givers. The optimists and the heroes. A show of pure and unconditional love amidst the horrific hand that some have been dealt in this thing called life.

The strength and courage of this family has been a sight to see. The perseverance of love and patience is something magical.

Agree or not, the fact remains that Deven is going to lose his battle with cancer. And at the beginning of this journey, I felt that I shouldn’t be witness to this awful heartbreak. But after walking through it for this many months, my life has changed. I have chosen to spend time with those who want to spend time with me. I make time. I love wholeheartedly. I hug my kids tighter. I get up and kiss my hard-working husband goodbye in the morning and hello at night—even if we’re arguing. I tolerate bad behavior from strangers, and I wish my haters well. And most of all, I pray to a God that I am having a hard time believing in these days.

Because of Team Deven, my life has a new meaning, but I am not ignoring that it comes at an absurd cost. Cancer is the devil. I am a writer, not a scientist. But I believe that Social Media can touch lives and compel people to DO SOMETHING. We need to find a cure. Maybe if enough people watched this type of struggle unfold in their daily virtual lives, the need to DO for others would outweigh the selfishness to HAVE.

Through watching this experience on FB, I see that many of us have cried deep tears; have found and prayed to God, have cursed Him for allowing such an innocent soul to suffer. But through this plight, we have all been able to show a circle of support to a family in need—whether we knew, know or don’t know them. That is beautiful.

My deepest sympathies go out to Deven and his entire family. You battled harder than many could or would. You will forever be in our hearts. Even though many of us have only known you for the past year, we will love you forever sweet boy.

 

 

Full Speed Ahead

In 2006, we felt lost. And I was hella fat.

Rich had just been in a huge accident with his big rig, and with a potential $5 million lawsuit pending against the company and us, his job was uncertain. I was reeling from some bad career decisions, and we needed money—fast. But life happens. Due to a health scare, I was admitted into the hospital for a week.

We thought that was bad. It was. But we couldn’t change it.

It wasn’t the end of the world. It wasn't fun, but I lost a lot of weight. When I got out of the hospital, I focused on my health, and looked forward to getting a better job.

I called in a favor from a friend and went to interview for the position of a Licensed Financial Consultant at a large bank. Severely under qualified, I put on my best face and wore my red and black pinstriped suit from ROSS. Don’t be jealous, but it had a red modesty panel. I felt good, confident, and positive. But, as I was getting out of my car for the interview, the seam ripped, right up the middle of my ass. So, I followed the suits into the interview room, and walked sideways as we said our goodbyes. I got into the elevator and wanted to shoot myself. That was my first sign that this wasn’t going to be good. My next sign happened immediately after the interview when I sat in my car and saw myself in the mirror. My red lipstick had seeped into the laugh lines above and below my lips, making me look like the Joker.

That interview was bad. But I couldn’t change it.

There was no way they should have hired me. But they did. (Probably because I’m super fine.)

It was a new path, far away from the Advertising and Marketing game that I had been in for over a decade. I had a salary, obtainable commissions and financially—it was an easy decision for the family.

A few months later, Rich quit his job and went to work as an apprentice for a heating and air company. He was offered a fraction of what he had been used to making. Although we knew money would be tight, we didn’t feel like we had too many options. Neither of us particularly liked our jobs, but we did what we had to do, including pulling our daughter out of her private school and entering the public school system.

Six weeks into his job, while stepping onto the roof of a 16-foot building, he "lost his balance" (when his jackass coworker let go of the ladder) and fell. He broke his back in two places. Overnight, he was making zero money. Eventually, we fell behind in mortgage.

We thought that was bad. It was. But we couldn’t change it.

We were scared. We were hopeless because we felt helpless. There was nothing we could change or do. He physically couldn’t work. And now, we faced surgery, recovery time, and therapy. And then there were the bills that could care less about our woes.

Panic quickly set in. I hated my job. Like, HATED it. I was also gaining weight again. I loved a couple people I worked with, but banking is NOT FOR ME. No way. No how. But what was I supposed to do? We “needed” money. So, I stayed and did what I thought was right. I provided for the family at a job I hated.

Eight months went by, and Rich was at still home, recovering from surgery and doing physical therapy. I am sure I was a peach to be around. I desperately needed a creative outlet. So, I decided to put an ad on Craigslist for Freelance Copywriting. It’s what I really, REALLY wanted to do in my career.
Within a week, an agency called me and said that a large credit union wanted to hire me as a temporary Copywriter.

It was my dream job—but we needed money.

I knew in my gut, it was my chance to get my foot in the door of professional writing; creative thinking, editing, and I would be doing what I love. It would also get me completely out of sales. But—It was also $15k less per year, no benefits, temp to hire, and at least 40 minutes away from the house. We met, and I left the meeting devastated.

Except for the fact that I would be HAPPY and LOVE my career, I had No business taking that job.

                              Except for the fact that I would be HAPPY and LOVE my career

I came home and we talked all weekend. At the end of a long weekend, my husband said “You know what? Fuck it. I want my wife happy. This is your dream job—Take it!”

At that moment, we decided to say EFF IT ALL.

We SURRENDERED. Life was throwing us obstacles left and right, and we were sick of dodging them. It was our time to do something that would make us happy, well at least one of us … and so I took the job. And it was rad.

And then …we told the bank to stick it. “No, we won’t send you the paperwork for the third time, get your shit together or we will be happy to leave.” And you know what? The bank refinanced our mortgage and took off $76k of principle.

We stopped trying to change the unchangeable (I don't even know--or care--if that's a real word.)

So for the past 4 years, I have enjoyed my career. And doors opened that I could have never imagined. Yes, we had to make severe financial sacrifices, but we kept our home. And Rich received an education in a career that he was always interested in, but never felt that he had the means to explore. And we went to Maui. And Daisy has had a parent home with her for 5 years of field trips, activities, good and bad days. And..and…and…I say “and” too much…and we had a baby. A healthy BABY.

Slowly, our dreams started coming true when we surrendered and lived for happiness.

Four years ago, I stopped making excuses and decided to be happy. Since then, I've reaped the benefits: Lost weight, vacationed,  made new forever friends, renewed old friendships, dropped toxic relationships, said no, said yes, got pregnant, had a baby....and then some.

And through it all, we embraced a newfound appreciation for surrendering. As we let go of material items, we embraced each other more. It changed us. It bonded us. That’s the real stuff.

So now it’s time to follow my heart again. Financially, it makes no sense. But, we’ve been through worse. With the backing of my incredibly generous and supportive hubby, I’m leaving the job that I love to be home with the ones I love more … and to open some other doors.

The Universe doesn’t disappoint.

In the first 48 hours, I’ve received several lucrative opportunities that let me know what I am doing is the right thing for our lives, goals and dreams. I know, for sure, that the best is yet to come.

My heart is overflowing. The outpouring of emails, comments, phone calls and visits reaffirms my decision to do this, and I can't say enough thanks to all my friends and family.

I can’t wait to pick up that microphone and perform more. I can’t wait to spend the days with my baby and make my daughter breakfast and pick her up from school.

I can’t wait to LIVE this next chapter.

Welcoming Ryan

It's been too long since my last entry. So, for those of you who are not in ear shot, on Facebook or Twitter and/or haven't heard the news: Ryan arrived on September 19 at 9:20am, weighing 7.0 lbs and measuring 19.5 inches... And our lives are forever changed.

Although he was due September 24, Ryan made his presence known a week before, on a Sunday at 11:00am in Safeway. My contractions started strong and only increased with each aisle. We were on a family trip to the store, to do "big shopping" in case he came that week. And boy, did he.

By the time we got home from the store, the contractions were 10 minutes apart and lasting for about 10-30 seconds. I sat on the couch with a huge smile on my face and winced with each one. I stopped smiling after two hours. This shit hurt. Luckily my mom was in town and practically skipped over to pick up Daisy. Unbeknownst to me, she also called into work for the week, bought more groceries and settled in at her house with our daughter.

By 5pm, the contractions were so painful, I was sure it was GO TIME. We grabbed our bag and went to Kaiser. They checked me in and I made it to the room between contractions. Now, my original plan was to listen to my body and go with the flow ... right? Right. So I was POSITIVE at 5pm that I was at least dilated to 6, and should begin pushing any time. After all, I had major contractions at home for the past five hours.

Wrong.

Not only was I only at 3, but my contractions were only between 4-6 minutes apart. They sent me home and told me to come back when they were closer. I bared down and prepared my head for the next few hours. I knew I could do this natural labor.

We came home, drew a hot bath and I channeled my inner Riki Lake as I labored until 11pm. I moaned, I groaned, I swayed, I stretched, Rich massaged me and made me an English muffin. For about four hours, I labored, meditated and lost my mucous plug. That was my sign. It came out--now it's time! We got in the car and were excited to see how far I had progressed ... to a big, fat four centimeters.

Time stopped. My dreams were shattered. I caved.

I wanted drugs and scalpels and doctors and formula and I wanted them NOW!

Get me the epidural, make it stop, cut him out, I'm done. I failed.

My epidural was a disaster. The nurse tried twice, and it couldn't hit the mark, you know, my spinal column. It was super painful. Then this dude came in and he got the needle in on the first try. And within a few minutes I was completely numb--on my left side only. FML.

My right side was a little numb, but I still felt every contraction. However with a few presses of my morphine drip, I slipped into a two hour nap and although my husband says I moaned through every contraction, I was sure I was sleeping.

At 2am, the midwife came in to check on me. She said I was still at 6cm, and I hadn't progressed in a few hours. She would check on me again in an hour. At 3am, I was still at 6cm, but the contractions were 3 minutes apart and the epidural had completley vanished from my right side. I was in pain, but now I was scard. Every time I would lay on my side to try to get some relief, Ryan's heart rate would drop to 60. They were getting concerned.

At 4am, my water broke. I came out of my trance and yelled "Baby, my water broke!" His response... wait for it... "are you sure?"

I could have said so many things.... but I just laughed and said..."uh, yeah."

Within moments, we were told there was a problem. He pooped in the womb, big time. They referred to it as thick, pea soup. They let me continue labor for another couple hours, but then his heartbeat kept dropping with each contraction and it was time to do something else.

A new doctor came in, and explained to me that this wasn't good. I wasn't dilating, and nothing had changed in 5 hours. I asked him if I could push, because I felt the urge. He said yes. With his hand inside, he said to try. I was. He said to stop, Ryan wasn't in the right position.

He looked at me and Rich and said "I think we should do an emergency C-Section."

"Cut her open," said my husband. Classy.

It felt like seconds, but it was about an hour process to get me in the OR. I was scared. But I just kept repeating "I am in good hands. My baby will be fine."

As they prepped me, alone, in the OR, I was told that since my epidural didn't work, they would be giving me a spinal. If that didn't work, they would put me to sleep. The spinal was much more comfortable, in fact, before they layed me all the way down, I couldn't feel my toes. They were happy with that. But then I couldn't feel my breasts. And from my lovely lady lumps all the way down to my manicured toes, I was numb. Which made it WAY harder to puke because I couldn't feel a fucking thing. But alas, I felt weird, looked at the nurse, and she held a bag up to my mouth as my body did what it was made to do--throw up.

Rich was finally allowed in the room right before they cut me open. They let us know that we would not hear our baby cry right away because they needed to suction his mouth and nose right away to ensure he didn't inhale his own poop. We braced for that. It was a long few minutes and they narrated it all for us.

"Ok, You're going to feel pressure and pulling..."

I felt nothing. No pressure, no pulling.

"Ok, he's really stuck in there, hang on."

I still felt nothing. Easy.

"He looks great."

We heard suctioning, and a doctor talking to him. And for a split second, my heart sank, but I continued to remain positive. He's ok, you're ok, you're in good hands.... and then we heard it, a loud, high pitched shreik.
I had given birth to a cat.

"Is that him?" I asked my husband. As if it could be anything else.

And then there he was, across the room to my left, under lights. Two nurses and a doctor were working on him. He was squeaking. He was pink. He was beautiful. I longed to hold him, put him on my bare chest, kiss him, but that wouldn't happen. After a brief kiss and smell of my son, Rich and the doctors took him into a new room. I cried myself to sleep as they stitched me up.

And if that's the only negative, then I'm ok with it because I know people who went through all of this, and didn't even get to bring their baby home, ever.

The recovery room was small, so we chose to only have Daisy come back and see him first. It was magical to see our baby girl hold our baby boy. It's a moment I will never forget. Rich and I were very emotional. It was perfect. Once I got into a room, our moms came in, along with our niece and my brother. Within hours, my dad came by and the next day our good friends and more family visited. We were so blessed to see so many happy faces.

So that's what happened. I got knocked up and had a baby. And now, he is 5 months old and I'm just telling people about the birth. Classic.