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.

Thanks and No Thanks

Photo by Isabel Ginsberg

I have been in a daze lately. Partially because I am TIRED. Partially because reality is hitting me HARD. My belly is growing faster than my brain can compensate that in a few short weeks, we will have a baby. A real, healthy, bouncing baby boy. And his name is Ryan. And every time I see or hear his name, my heart sinks. I still can’t believe it’s happening after so many years of wanting, desiring, hurting and longing for just one more little miracle. He is almost here.

It’s important for me to not lose track of our first miracle, Daisy. She will be 12 in about a week. For so many years, it has been the three of us. We are trying to let her know that we are aware of her feelings and the fact that we still love her and will continue to adore her as every child deserves to be adored. This is so important to us.

This journey has been so overwhelming and so surreal.I often find myself fantasizing about seeing Ryan’s face. Every time I envision Daisy hold him for the first time, I tear up and feel a huge lump in my throat.

Along with visualizing my family holding a healthy baby, I am trying to imagine a labor that goes extremely well. Bringing Daisy into the world was a long, 28+ hour labor. If we knew then what we know now, we would have had a C-section. To this day, we are grateful that she came out ok. That experience has instilled a bit of fear into me and I would be lying to say I’m not concerned about this one. I keep telling myself not to worry though—he will come out one way or another. I am hoping that he comes when he is ready and that my body opens up and allows him into the world the way that it was made to do.

So with about 32 days to go, let the nesting being. Time to wash baby clothes, put them away, organize the baby gear, gather the last few things I need and decorate the baby room. It’s also time to pack a bag for the hospital and write out my birth plan.

My birth plan is to labor at home until I can’t any longer, and then head up the street to the hospital. I’m not oppose to drugs, but they will not be my first choice. With Daisy, they induced me at 1 cm and broke my water. They made me lay down, and I received Pitocin and an epidural in the afternoon. And I felt everything in my right ovary. Every single pain. At the 6:00 a.m. the next day, the Anesthesiologist refused to give me more medicine, telling me clearly “I’ve given you enough to put your husband out for major surgery.” From that point until 11:40 a.m., I was on my own. And we survived. But not without complications.

This time, I want it to be different. This time, I want my body to go into labor naturally, on it’s own, the way it should happen. I am open to whatever and however that happens. I am not above taking meds, I just want them to be a last resort. I want to labor, shower, walk at my house until I can’t any longer. I want to be in the hospital only during the last few hours. I want my music, I want low lights, and I want this baby to be placed on my chest as soon as he comes out.

So that’s it. 32 days left until the ThreeGarcias become Four. It’s weird. A good weird. When I talk to people, I reference “my kids.” That is weird. When I talk about Ryan, I use his name, or say “he.” That is weird. Our guest room is now “His” room. Weird.

Photo and Onsie by Isabel Ginsberg

But there has been one other “weirdness” to this pregnancy. Like, when people ask questions. I am amazed the nerve of people and how they think it’s their right to ask—let alone know—answers to our life. I am sure new moms deal with this all the time, but after struggling for a decade with infertility, I am cautions—no, downright offended—when people pass their judgments through little, inconspicuous questions over the past nine months.

Here is a list of come of those awesome comments/questions:

“Same dad?” Uhm…yeah, some people do stay together for a long time these days. Weird, Huh?

My wonderful brother and Daisy

“WOW-12 years’ difference, that’s a lot!” Actually, it’s miraculous and special and I can’t talk about it without getting teary eyed. My brother is 12 years younger than me. I remember holding him and loving every part of his little baby ways. He was a happy baby and although we didn’t see each other often, being the oldest, I still felt an overwhelming protectiveness over him. The summer after I met my husband, my brother was turning about to turn 12. We took him to Great America. He was a sweet boy, super funny albeit a little insecure. Today, he is a handsome 25-year old and has become one of my favorite people. He is 12 years older than Daisy and seeing them together makes my heart smile. Their bond has grown a lot this past year and they are just adorable together. And now, Daisy will be 12 years older than Ryan. I have no doubt that Daisy and Ryan will be close for the first few years, and then super close in their adult years, as me and my brother are. So, no it's not a big difference. It's our story, it's what we know.

“Someone got surprised!??” Yes, we did. And surprises like this are little, unimaginable gifts that we do not take lightly.

“Are you going to circumcise him?” WOW-that’s pretty personal. If I wanted to talk about it, I would have brought it up, but since you decided to, how about, it’s none of your business.

“Are you breastfeeding? You know it’s the best, natural, blah blah blah…” You know, that is also personal—although not as off-limits as circumcision. Yeah, I hope I will be able to breastfeed this one, although I had lots of issues with my first. And if I can’t do it, then I won’t. And he will be fine, just like she is. She has no allergies, she’s perfectly healthy, active and smart. And she is a fomula baby so stick it.

“Aren’t you glad you’re having a boy?” Uhm, actually I’m glad I’m having a healthy child.

“One of each! You’re done!” I am? Wow! Thanks for speaking for my uterus.

“Your husband must be thrilled to finally get his boy!” Thank you for the offensive, overtly-sexist assumption that because my husband has a daughter, he is not complete without a son. We would have been perfectly happy with another daughter—or ten daughters for that matter. What is the fascination with men having boys vs. girls? I was raised this way and it’s very hurtful.

I have learned a LOT throughout this pregancy and it's made me not like strangers even more than before. So if I have learned anything significant, it’s that I will not ever give a pregnant woman any unwanted or unasked-for advice. I will tread lightly. I will wish for her a healthy baby and an uncomplicated labor. I won’t ask personal questions, and I won’t let my curiosity get the best of me—after all—it’s none of my business.

99 Days Left!

WHERE has the time gone?

I am officially 6 ½ months pregnant. I have truly been enjoying all the little miracles that this pregnancy has brought me; however, I have kept them to myself as to not “showboat.”

I feel that so many people these days take their pregnancy—the blessing and curses of—and blast too many details online. I get it—most people are excited, many are pregnant for their first time…it’s just not what I want or choose to do. Unlike my usual self, I have turned inward this time around. I have nothing negative to say and even if I did, why blast that out there for everyone to see?

This is the pregnancy I never thought would happen. It’s my time, and I am trying to soak in every pound gained, every kick to the bladder, each tear of joy, every night of restless sleep and the overwhelming anticipation of what he looks like and who he will be.

Even though I am coasting along smoothly and feeling great, my prior infertility issues still haunt me. And even though, every week, I get a little more excited, until he is in my arms, I simply can’t believe this is happening.

This has been a miraculous journey for us, albeit somewhat shocking. After so many years wondering why we couldn’t have another baby, I still tend to forget that I am with child. Sometimes I find myself working or doing chores and then he kicks me and it’s then I am reminded that yes—there is a baby in there and he is healthy and flourishing.

It’s been so many years since the last time I carried a baby, it feels like the first time being pregnant. With Daisy, I was 24 years old, Rich and I had been dating for only a year, and we were the first of our group of friends to conceive. The only life-stress I really had was the fact that I was the permanent designated-driver. I complained a lot. My scoliosis acted up early on. I wasn’t working out, I didn’t feel strong. I was immature and I made foolish decisions while pregnant with my daughter—like starting a fist fight when I was six-months along—Yeah, I did that. I hated not being able to go dancing or drinking. I felt left out a lot. Even though I was excited and looking forward to starting a family, I simply was not in tune with my body or with the miracle I had been given as I am with this one. Luckily, she came out perfectly healthy and happy and has been a blessing for the past 11 ½ years. We can’t imagine our lives without her.

This little guy has endured a more mature mommy. This mommy is in tune with herself, fairly in shape due to hard work last year and fully secure in her nearly 14-year relationship and in her decisions.

But this mommy has had some real-life curveballs thrown at her early on in the pregnancy and managing real-world, adult stress has been a little overwhelming.

In January, our 10-yr old lab was diagnosed with cancer and given weeks to live. He lived for 5 months and passed away a little more than a month ago. The void in our lives is inconceivable and we are still mourning him. We haven’t even been able to move his bed or food dish.

In March, my dad was admitted to the hospital and nearly died. The night he was admitted, I hemorrhaged. I was only 12 weeks along then, and needless to say I freaked-the-fuck-out. Waking up in a pool of blood is not a good sign. But after a long night in the ER, a terribly inexperienced doctor and a 3 a.m. ultrasound with a very alert and dancing baby image, we were sent home and told that one of two things would happen: either everything is ok, or I would lose the baby. All I could do was relax and wait. That was the longest, darkest weekend of our lives so far. Luckily, we made it through and Ryan is thriving. My dad was released 2 months later and continues to get better.

We have also experienced other stresses, but like Mark Twain, I refuse to release those stories until about 100 years after my death.

Hemorrhaging taught me a LOT about pregnancy. Did you know that 30% of women experience this early on? Did you know that once I started talking about it—EVERY SINGLE WOMAN knew another woman who had this exact same thing happen to them? I was also relieved to know that some of my best friends went through this as well, and came out fine… so once again, my family and my girlfriends helped me through like always. I love my support system.

After being out of the woods, my little guy started moving—a lot. I felt him move at about 14 weeks and he hasn’t stopped since then. And now, he has a little schedule that includes the most active times from 9 a.m.-10 a.m. and 9 p.m.-10:30 p.m. every night. He has also made it extremely clear that he does not like my work chair or the way I lean in to see my computer screen. If I ever need reassurance that he is in there, I simply lean forward and I am quickly reminded that ‘No Mommy, I hate that position.’ As of last week, he has also decided that putting a small foot or hand up in my right ribcage area is fun. It’s not. Sometimes I can beat him to it by putting my hand there first, and he retreats downward—after a small battle. Over the weekend, I swear he bruised me. This has made my husband laugh. Through it all, I giggle because the life inside me is real.

I eat way better with this baby than I did with Daisy. She was my excuse to eat and then eat again. I gained a lot of weight with her, then lost some, then gained more. I have learned a lot about exercise and nutrition in the past couple years and this time, I choose to eat better. I am very proud of the fact that I have only gained 16.8 pounds in 6 months, and I am still wearing my own panties…well some of them. I am glad I kept my big-girl bras because I haven’t spent a dime on maternity undergarments yet. And so what if they are XL…I’m not in PLUS-SIZED anything yet and that is a NSV (non-scale victory) for me.

I play music for him, just as I did with Daisy. He seems to respond which makes me happy. Daisy always starts his playlist off with Justin Beiber—but when she isn’t looking, I change it to real music.

Daisy continues to ask questions and looks for assurance that we will still love her. We tell her that she will always be our favorite daughter, just as Ryan will be our favorite son.

Rich likes to rest his hand on my stomach on nights when he doesn’t have school. Last night, this baby kicked him twice...and hard. My husband's face lit up and his eyes were glassy. He simply said “I’m so happy.” And I know he is. We are.

Sometimes, we freak out a bit. Our children are 12 years apart. What the hell! But we have come to the conclusion that “this is our story.” That’s it. This is our legacy. It’s a funny story, and anyone who knows us, laughs along with us.

So, even though I am not blogging often, I’ll have you know that being pregnant this time is allowing me to enjoy each and every moment. I can’t believe that in about 3 months, he will be here. I can’t wait to see his face. I can’t wait to celebrate Christmas through a toddler’s eye again, and show him Maui and Disneyland and how magical life can be.

Until then, I am taking a break from blogging so that I can be present for each kick, roll and jab. And I am thanking a higher power that I am allowed to feel this again.

Scooby Doo-We Sure Miss You!

One of the things we always looked forward to was buying our own home so that we would be able to finally get a puppy. In 2001, we achieved both. We disagreed about how and what type of dog we would get. I was perfectly ok purchasing a purebred dog or paying an adoption fee (ahem..snob!). My hubby was hell-bent on getting a free dog. He always told me that there were plenty of free doggies out there and if we are patient, we will find The One. I reminded him that people don’t give away puppies in front of the grocery store anymore…he disagreed.

Back then, we would take frequent trips to the shelter (or as Rich says, ‘The poor man's zoo’) to view doggies. There were a few reasons for this: First, how would our then, one-year-old daughter react to them? Second, it was a cheap and fun way to kill time and play with pups. And last, maybe we would find a dog in need who would just call out to us. Rich was open to adoption, but each time we left the shelter, he would remind me that we were destined to get a free doggie.

We had been visiting shelters for about nine months when we heard about a puppy store that had confiscated dozens of purebred pups because they were sick with Parvo. This would be a win-win for us. Rescue a free purebred! YAY! We had heard that this was the weekend they were letting people adopt these expensive dogs. We happily drove out to the Sacramento SPCA….but within moments, we found out that we had picked the wrong weekend. I was pretty upset—but what could I do? COMPLAIN! And that, I did.

As we walked back to the car, me bitching the entire time, we noticed a woman in a van parked near us. She had overheard me ranting about not being able to adopt and how we drove 45 minutes for nothing. Her voice is still clear in my head:

“You all looking for a puppy? I have some here, and the shelter won’t take em'.'”

She seemed like a meth case and I almost—ALMOST—declined. But being polite, and seeing about 4 black lab puppies jumping in the box, we were compelled to at least look.

The pups were cute. They were about 12 weeks old, very hyper and undernourished. She told us that the shelter wouldn't take them because they were full and she didn't have “any money to feed em’.” Lovely.

I was sad for the pups, but they just didn't feel right. I politely told her “No thanks, we were looking for something a little younger and calmer…” as if any puppy was “calm.”

The lady then looked at her teenage daughter and said “show her the brown one!” We didn't see a brown dog. But the daughter reached into the box and pulled up a brown puppy. He was completely limp and calm. He had bright green eyes, and looked into ours. We were lovesick. I asked to hold him, and she obliged. I looked at my husband who was beaming and then I looked at this pup. He looked at me, nuzzled his nose into my arms, took two deep breaths, relaxed and closed his eyes. He was The One.

And there we were. Giddy and driving straight to Petco. Rich got his free-out-of-a-box-perfect-pooch. The puppy sat on Rich’s lap the entire 45 minute drive. He was sleeping like he belonged on his lap. And he SO did. On our way to Petco, Daisy named him Scooby Doo…because in her toddler mind, “brown dogs are named Scooby.”

We enjoyed the rest of the weekend with this little brown pup. He was very peaceful. He was extremely interested in Daisy and followed her everywhere. He didn't complain when she held him, or held him down. When she sat, he sat. If she layed down, so did he. Of course, we weren't stupid. He was a puppy. There is no way he could be so calm, so gentle, so relaxed all the time—he must be ill. We took him to the vet the next week and when he received a clean bill of health, we were shocked. This was just his disposition. He was easy. We were over the moon.

Scooby looked like a brown lab. But the vet soon informed us that he probably had Doberman in him as well. As he grew, we could see the pretty light-brown markings. That was all he got from his Dobie bloodline…except his fear and loathing of water and all things water-related. We literally spent one summer at a friend’s pool, trying to teach Scooby how to swim. He preferred to curl up on Rich’s lap, and whimper. His heart would race every time we forced him into the pool. Although he learned to swim that summer, he still hated it. To cool off, he would simply stand on the first step of the pool and cool his feet and sometimes venture to the second step to cool his chest. He was so funny about water.



One time, we took him camping at Pine Crest Lake. It was the first time he experienced separation anxiety—us being in the water, and him pacing on the beach. Within minutes of Rich and Daisy being in the water, our water-hating lab forced himself to swim out to them, lap around once and come right back. He did this the entire time, even while his buddies would fetch, swim and retrieve balls and frisbees.

This behavior would increase over the years. As our daughter grew, we began to spend a lot of time at the lake near our house. It’s always an adventure. We love being surrounded by nature and water and that summer-lake feeling. Daisy is quite a swimmer and Scooby didn't like being away from her. I wasn't even enough to keep him on the beach. If she was in the water, he would try to get out there too. Last summer, at Lake Comanche, we were all floating about 50 yards off the shore. Scooby was resting when we ventured into the water, but apparently he woke up. Out of nowhere, I hear my sister saying, “Oh Scooby! What are you doing out here?” I looked over my shoulder and here is his sweet, brown face whimpering his way out to Daisy and I. We all laughed and my brother-in-law swam him back to the shore. We moved in closer so he wouldn't worry.

Scooby hated water so much, he wouldn't drink from a dog bowl. He preferred the toilet. He even taught his dog-cousin, Sippy, to drink from the toilet as well. He did love the dog beach in Half Moon Bay, but as his cousins would run into the water, he would stop, maybe getting his feet wet. Every time we took him, someone would comment on how funny it was to see a lab who didn't like the water.

The one thing he hated more than water was cats. And, he regularly controlled the ever-growing feral cat population in our neighborhood. Aside from protecting us, this was his job, and he would be so proud of himself when he returned.

Scooby’s fierce loyalty to us was undeniable. His favorite job was to naturally take on the role of  being our daughter's shadow. And for the past ten years, that was his favorite job.


This was never more evident than when we would visit the dog park. Scooby was the Ambassador of the park. He would meet and greet every dog that came in, give them a sniff, and then go right back to tailing Daisy—no matter where she wandered. She loved to climb up to the top of the hills at the park, and up until last year, he would look for her and when he saw her, he would go running up that hill, just to be by her side. This devotion to our girl caused him to protect her at all costs. As a pup, we could take him anywhere and we did. But one day at the pet store, when he was about five-years-old, an old man said hello to us and to Daisy. He actually tried to shake Daisy’s hand, which was weird to me, but I was right there and so I didn't say anything…but Scooby did NOT like this man and leapt in between his old hand and our girl. He was just doing his job. I have to say, it was a proud moment for us, but also a little too scary to have him at the store from that point on.

Scooby worked hard for us. He always did his job. He had three barks, one for people who drove into our cul-de-sac. One for people he knew who were coming up to the door….and one for people he didn't know. He was our alarm. After the threat was gone, or the people were in the home, he would retreat to his bed, or his second favorite place—Daisy’s room.

Last year, we noticed that he was slowing down a bit. And to be expected—but you can never be prepared. Labs aren't known to live more than 10-14 years if you’re lucky. In November, I noticed some lumps under his chin. We decided to not visit the vet during the holidays. On January 3, I walked our boy up to the vet. It’s then I received the devastating news that he had Lymphoma. He was given two months to a year to live. But I Googled that shit immediately and all facts stated 3-6 months. We were beyond devastated. We were horrified.

One night, while Daisy was sleeping and Rich was at school, I had my mommy-moment with Scooby. I took his face in my hands and tearfully told him that if he was going to leave us, he had better come back as my son, because we can’t live without his sweet spirit. He is a part of us. A week later, I found out that I was pregnant…and now we know it’s a boy.

The past five months have been amazing, heartbreaking and rule-breaking. Once diagnosed, we allowed Scooby to get on the couch, eat steaks, sleep on Daisy’s bed and do anything else he wanted to do…except eat kittens….although one friend offered to provide a litter for us at no cost.

Last week, Scooby’s eyes started to show signs of blindness. He was struggling for air at night, and refused to eat. We could tell he was nearing the end and not comfortable at all.

Wednesday night, while we were eating dinner, Rich notified us that it was, indeed, “time.” We tearfully cleared off the dinner table and floated around the rest of the evening, petting Scooby and trying to prepare ourselves for the next day.

One thing Rich and I knew for sure is that we didn't want to take him to a vet. Since he was a puppy, he hated going to the vet. It scared him every time. As soon as we would pull up to the parking lot, he would shake uncontrollably. This is NOT how we wanted his last memory. Instead, we opted for an in-home procedure that I heard about on the Rob, Arnie and Dawn radio show. I contacted Rob and didn’t expect to hear back. But within hours, he emailed me a referral for a vet that he has used in the past, Dr. Jyl's Mobile Vet Connection. He also comforted us with encouragement and said we were doing the right thing for wanting his final moments to be pleasant ones. Unfortunately, Dr. Jyl was unable to accommodate our time, and so we found and used Dr. Linda’s Goodbye at Home service.

The following morning, our home was filled with the smell of steak. Rich had cooked up a meal for our king, and he ate it, albeit slowly. We all spent time in a zombie-like state until Dr. Linda’s truck pulled into the driveway. That’s when we lost it, completely.

Scooby wasn't upset to see her. In fact, he barely barked. If you knew Scooby, you’ll know that this is RARE. Dr. Linda walked into our home and immediately got on her knees and loved on our boy. He was accepting and loving and happy to see a new guest in the house.

After a few minutes with him, he looked up at us and then walked over to his bed and lied down. It’s like he knew it was time. She gave us our space as the three of us gathered around our boy and pet him and loved on him and kissed him as the sedative gently put him into a deep sleep. The time spent with him was soothing, sweet and happy/sad. We thanked him and told him he was a good boy. That was his last memory. Then we let her give the last injection until his heart stopped.

This is truly been one of the most difficult things we have ever faced. To say Dr. Linda was WONDERFUL is an understatement. We will never regret saying goodbye to him the way we did.

The rest of our day was spent together, talking, crying, laughing, shopping, eating ice cream and napping. We decided as a family to not answer the phone. I posted pics and an update to our Facebook page. The outpouring of love and well-wishes was overwhelming and very much needed. Throughout the day, we were comforted by the sweet words, emails and texts. We could feel the love and we thank you all.

It’s weird without him. I think the hardest part is not being greeted at the door when we get home. The silence in our home is so loud. But we can feel him in our home still. At night, we can hear him tip-toe on the tile. And we all swear we heard him enter Daisy’s room in the middle of the night over the weekend. It was a nice reminder that he is still here.

It’s only been five days, but we know we will end up getting another dog, it’s just who we are. We are a dog-family. But we will always miss our sweet brown boy. The cats in the neighborhood, will not.

Secondary Infertility and Me

April 25-29 is National Infertility Week. And I’m going to talk about infertility. And this might be uncomfortable for some, but I don’t care. It’s real. For the past 10 or so years, it was my reality. And to date, I know some lovely ladies in my life are still struggling.

I read a story on the Today show about releasing the silence on this powerful subject. Tears streamed down my face as I listened to several women discuss their monthly disappointment. It’s been 5 months since I relived that same disappointment, and for 10 years, I experienced it about the 17th of every month.

When I was 24 and had our daughter, I simply assumed that obviously we were both fine and if and when we ever wanted to give her a sibling—we could and would. Careers took off and the years flew by and we tried and tried-never once using protection. My husband always said it was God’s Will if we were to be parents again.

I bought into that until our daughter was about six. Then, it started to worry me.

Through the years, I would go through periods of depression thinking something was wrong with me. I was counting days—my period was considered normal, and still I wasn’t conceiving.

I blamed it on my weight. I blamed it on his sperm count that he refused to get checked. I blamed it on God. I also thanked God that at least we had one, beautiful healthy daughter. I struggled between guilt for wanting and sadness for needing.

Friends and family members seemed to get pregnant every time they sneezed. It hurt to see baby shower invitations, and it pained me when any of them would offer their suggestions about adoption. Yeah, duh, I know the options out there, believe me…but I want to feel that baby inside me and it’s natural to want—or need—to feel that way.

There is a silent struggle with secondary infertility and everyone seemed to have an opinion. Here are some things people would say:

“You just have one kid? Are you going to have more??” –It’s none of your business.

“At least you have one.” –True, but I want, need, desire, long for more.
“You can always adopt.” –Really? Tell me more because I haven’t ever heard or considered this as an option….

“My friend’s friend got pregnant when they stopped trying—maybe you should stop trying.” –Fuck off.

“Can I have my baby shower at your house?”—Nope. Because when you leave with all your baby stuff and your perfect belly, I am left to clean up the reminders of what I will never have again. It’s not you, it’s me. Sorry.

“An only child is a lonely child.” – Gee, thanks. Cue tears.

The thing is, these people were not trying to hurt me—well maybe the last one was—but most didn’t know what to say or how to say it and some of them had no idea of the pain I was in, so it’s not entirely their fault.

I just had to remind myself that we are good people, and this is life and sometimes unfortunate things just happen to good people.

During the past couple of years, I just resorted to telling people we were infertile. I mean, after 13 years with one partner, no protection, and only 1 pregnancy—why would I think otherwise? It was easier than explaining that we are still trying and have no fucking clue as to why it’s not working and we are too scared to go see a doctor about it.

That worked for a while but it didn’t take away the monthly reminder that no, I was not pregnant. The tears, the depression, the why’s, what’s wrong with me days…and weeks.

The thing that sucks about infertility is that there is nothing you can say that will make us feel better. Family, friends, coworkers, you are in a permanent limbo as we live in our own hell. But you can educate yourself.

Here are some misconceptions:

We are not depressed every day. But some days, we can barely get out of bed.

We love you and when you get pregnant, we are genuinely happy for you—seriously we are (some more than others). But we will have days of jealousy, and we can’t deny that.

We might not come to your baby shower. It’ s not you—it’s us. Try to not take it personal.

You can’t console us unless you know. You really, truly know, so don’t try. Just be open, listen, educate yourself.

And now that I am magically pregnant again, my memory of struggling with infertility is still raw and sometimes it’s hard to believe that I am actually carrying a child. It’s hard to get excited. I’m scared something will go wrong. I don’t understand why now—why me—when I know other deserving couples who haven never conceived. I can’t help but think this should be their time. I feel guilty. But I also feel blessed.

So as I cautiously carry this baby and pray for a healthy one, I want those who struggle to know:

I remember

I hear you

I have hope for you

It’s ok if you don’t attend my baby shower

And for those of you who can’t comprehend the thought of infertility, or secondary infertility, how about this: It’s none of your business why someone has ONE or NO children. Mind your manners and try to keep your questions to yourself, because even if most people will gladly talk about their decision to not have more, once in a while, you’re going to just open a wound and poor salt on it, unknowingly—because sometimes unfortunate things happen to good people, remember?

For more information on how you can help a loved one struggling with infertility or secondary infertility, visit:
http://www.resolve.org/
or
http://www.savvyauntie.com/