Last Meals

Jul 5, 2011 by Sara

The other week someone reminded me of a funny story about how my mom really wanted a NYC hot dog while she was in the hospital. Her health was declining and she’d been admitted for awhile.

I had refused to bring her one because I thought if cancer wasn’t going to kill her the hot dog probably would.  I couldn’t be a party to it.

Her friends, being way wiser than me, complied and she inhaled that hot dog with the utmost pleasure.

It was not her last meal, but it was definitely her most memorable when she was in the hospital. She talked about it for the next week.

So it has me thinking… what would your last meal be?

Mine?

Hands down, Egg Benedict: morning, noon and night. Seriously, love that meal.

 photo via The Merlin Menu

 

I mean look at all that Hollandaise sauce. Delish right?

So tell me… what’s your favorite meal?

What would be your last?

 

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Ten Years

Jun 30, 2011 by Sara

Dear Mom,

 

You’ve been gone for ten years.

 

When you look at it on paper, 10 years sounds like a long time. A decade, double-digits, a reason for a high school reunion.  But when I close my eyes, ten years later, I’m immediately back in the ICU, listening to the hypnotic beeps of the monitors and the stifled sounds of the hallway, dizzy from the smell of sanitized hospital stuff and patients’ last breaths.  I am instantly transported back to your bedside with my head pounding as I concentrated on your every move.  I am again paralyzed with the fear of missing your last breath or the miraculous recovery I think I still held out for.  I remember how badly I had to pee.

 

There’s really no other way to describe the night you died but to say time stopped and my world shattered. We were with you until the end, when you finally succumbed to the fight that your body could no longer take. You were brave, you were scared, and you were beautiful.

 

The beeping, the smells, the stifled air, it was all too much. And I really, really had to pee. I think I sat there for 18 hours, maybe more, not flinching. I don’t remember. I wouldn’t leave. I couldn’t.

 

You were lucid, even funny, then very confused.  You talked to people who weren’t in the room and were nagged by a discomfort in your leg.  Slowly your body started to shut down. Christy eventually coaxed you to where you needed to go.  It took some time, as you didn’t want to leave.  Truthfully, I didn’t want you to leave either and I think you knew that.

 

Eventually, we all told you it was ok to say good-bye.  I told you to go. The words were almost impossible to form let alone say out loud. I sat motionless, watching you finally, gracefully go.

 

My world shattered. Time stopped.

I really had to pee.

 

I don’t like to think about you in that room and what it was like after you stopped breathing; after they disconnected that insufferable beeping monitor and the florescent lights that were too bright.   You looked yellow, but somehow, in your true manner, still very, very beautiful.

 

I kissed your cold forehead and I knew you were no longer in the room. You looked peaceful.  It’s absolutely true that when someone’s soul has left her body it is obvious. Yours had clearly, finally, moved on, and I felt some relief at that.

 

I don’t remember if I said anything more to you than: ‘I love you,’ because I’d never wanted to run away from anywhere so fast in my life.  But then again I still had to pee…

 

In ten years so much has happened and I have written to you every day, in my mind at least. This is to make up for the fact that we used to talk on the phone every day, sometimes three, four times a day, and now nothing, silence.  Since you don’t answer, I thought maybe if I started writing it down, you’d answer me in some other way.  At least I can hope.

Love,

Sara

 

Next month in July marks 11 years since my mother, Susan, passed away from cancer. I’ve held on to this post for awhile, not sure whether or when to share it due to its personal nature. Today, felt right. It basically shares one of the reasons why I’m blogging and revisits that evening in the ICU. I’ve been reading Meaghan O’Rourke’s book, The Long Goodbye lately and have found it deeply moving and cathartic. I guess this is why I decided to post this ‘letter’ now.

With love,

Sara

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Walking in Honor Of…

Jun 7, 2011 by Sara

I want to tell you a little story… about BMW, breast cancer and my Mom.

In 1999, my mom and I walked our last Race for the Cure together. She was team captain and had assembled a BIG team by convincing her entire office to do the walk with us. She had shamelessly told them: “Look, I’m dying because of this horrible disease so you can walk with me and raise awareness!”

She could get away with stuff like that.

The team was huge and she organized everything including buses to transport us from Westchester to Central Park on that hot and muggy day.   Leading up to the event, she was the consummate cheerleader, making sure everyone was excited.

I’ll never forget how excited she was when she saw a copy of USA Today and a particular ad for BMW one day.  A friend of mine, Alex Schmück, worked for BMW and was involved in their breast cancer awareness campaign, called the Ultimate Drive Campaign. For every mile that customers would test drive a BMW, the company used to donate $1 to the Susan G. Komen foundation. From 1997 to 2008 they raised over $12 Million dollars. Sadly, they no longer offer this program.

Anyway…

The advert in USA Today was simple, from far away it looked like a pink breast cancer ribbon on a grey background, only it wasn’t. Up close, you realized the entire image was made up of the names of survivors and loved ones. A pixelated image of amazing women and men who had fought this insidious disease. My mother’s name was among them.

I will never forget how excited she was and how she ran around the office showing everyone. She just kept saying; “This is SOOO cool!”

I think she thought this shout-out made her famous or something.

Here’s some photos from our last Race for the Cure together:

 

 

In honor of that great ad, the awareness it created and the joyous feeling it gave my mom, I’d like to re-create it.

On the back of Team Maidens for Mammograms and Margaritas’ 2011 shirts, we would like have a pink ribbon and grey background made up with names of YOUR loved ones.

Our t-shirts will look something like this:

 

On the back we will list  the names of people that we will be walking in honor of.  The list includes the names of survivors, previvors, and those that we miss dearly.

 

We have listed names before, when we walked in September of 2000, 3 months after she passed away.

Here’s a picture of our team and our t-shirt that year:

 

 

 

So please, send me an email at [email protected]  or leave a comment below if you would like Maidens for Mammograms & Margaritas to add your/their name to our team shirts.

We will proudly walk 60-miles in honor of them and hope that one day we won’t need these shirts at all.

You can also DM me on twitter @PeriwinklePapi

And while we are on the topic, have you had your annual mammogram?

Love,

Sara
Team Captain
Maidens for Mammograms & Margaritas

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My birth story

Jun 5, 2011 by Sara

As a tradition, on my kids’ birthday they come running and jump into our bed.  Without skipping a beat, I pretend that I’ve forgotten it’s their birthday and they laugh and giggle and tell me over and over again that it’s their special day.  My standard reply: It is!?!  Then I start to tell them all about the day they were born.

Anna loves hearing about when Grandma held her for the first time she said “Baby Girl, we are going to have SO much together!” And Jack laughs when I tell him how late he was and how he just wanted to stay and party in Mommy’s tummy.  They giggle and get embarrassed and then press me for more details.

It’s one of my most favorite things to do in this world, recount the day that my two most favorite things came into this world.

Every year, I get nostalgic for my own birth story which I know only from memory. My story became the foundation for my belief that there is something after death.   You see, when I was born, my mother died, on the operating table – and then they brought her back.

I was born on April 30th in Toronto, Canada at 4:40AM. My beautiful mother, Susan, was 28 years old. My father, Michael was 31.  I weighed 7 pounds, 13 ounces.  I don’t know if a vaginal birth was attempted, but I do know that I was ultimately delivered via caesarian. A scar she held over my head for years to come.  Something had gone terribly wrong during my delivery.

My father has described the event like this:

“The doctor came out in scrubs that were covered in blood. Nervously, he told me that the baby was fine but that Susan was not. They would be back when they knew more and then they were gone.”

My mother had described the event like this (from my memory):

“I was lying on the operating table and felt myself start to float and rise up from the table.

Float up towards a bright light.

When I got there I saw my family standing in a semi-circle. My mother, my mother’s sister and others that were familiar but that I did not immediately recognize, were all standing there beckoning to me.   Telling me to join them.

There was a space in the semi-circle for me.  It was so calm and peaceful.

But I could feel a weight around my ankle pulling me back down.
I looked down and saw myself on the operating table and felt the heaviness of the weight pulling at my ankle.

My body started to go back down to the table.”

My father named me “Sara” as my mother was in recovery for the next 2 days, she had lost a lot of blood.  Ten days later, on Mother’s Day, we came home from the hospital.

My mom and I, 1975

 

There is a reason for everything. Of this I am convinced.

Because of this story I have a flicker of hope that there is something hereafter and that I will see my mother again at the end of this life.   Her story echoes that of thousands of other near death-experiences which share common details. This brings me peace.  I believe that when she did pass away eleven years later from cancer, she continued this journey and joined her family in her spot in this circle.

One day I will join her too. Until then, I will miss her and celebrate her memory.  I will continue to tell her grandchildren about the day that they were born.

 

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Happy Mother’s Day

May 7, 2011 by Sara

 

 

Mom,

Happy Mother’s Day.

I love you.

I miss you.

Love,

Sara

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An Abbey to Say Goodbye and Start Anew

Apr 27, 2011 by Sara

I just realized something I have in common with Prince William and his upcoming nuptials. Like me, he will be married in the same church where he said good-bye to his mother.

In 1997, I bawled as I watched Prince William and his brother, Harry, solemnly walk behind the horse drawn carriage that carried their mother, Princess Diana, to Westminster Abbey for her funeral.  The envelope addressed to “mummy” resting on top of her coffin. Tastefully, the cameras did not pan to the royal family during the service, only the procession and the speakers were broadcasted, but sitting next to my mother on our couch, I imagined their grief as I watched through tear-brimmed eyes.

Four years later I would know their pain all to well as I said good-bye to my own mother.

Now, fifteen years later, on Friday, William will return to Westminster Abbey, this time to meet his bride, Catherine at the altar.  An occasion full of joy.

And while the two women could not be more different and distinct, comparisons between the two have been made. Prince William himself has made sure his mother’s presence will be felt. He has given his betrothed his mother’s sapphire and diamond engagement ring; and they will return to Buckingham Palace in the same carriage, where the world will greet the newlywed royals as we did his parents.

I married my best friend 2 years almost to the day of my mother’s funeral, in the same church where we’d said good bye to her. Leading up to the decision of where to get married I was definitely conflicted and sad, I did not want to miss her any more than I had to on this special day, our day. But we chose our church because it was also a place of happier memories, confirmations, Christmas and Easter concerts, and it just made sense. Upon making the decision though, I worried about how I would react, being there, without her.

Like William, I wanted my mother’s presence to be felt, to be known.

So, we listed her name on the program.

And I asked the florist to provide a single rose at the altar in her honor.

It was simple and it was sweet.

But when it came time for me to enter the church, I turned the corner of the archway alone.

I walked up the aisle by myself to meet my prince at the altar.

She was the only one that could have walked me down the aisle, but she wasn’t there. So she did it with me in spirit.

Alex walked down to the third pew and met me to walk the rest of the way together, and we started our lives together as husband and wife.

For the rest of the ceremony I did not worry about being sad, or missing my mom. She had been properly represented.  Her friends and family were there with us on that day sharing in that moment with us on her behalf.

I focused on him. I focused on us.

It was my own fairytale wedding.

So Prince William, take heart. I know your sadness in your mother not being there to share this special day with you both. You have done your part to make sure she is represented and not forgotten. When you get to the Abbey, yes, you may be sad for a small moment but when see your partner, you will know that this is your moment to start anew. Your mother will be right there by your side wishing only the best, because that’s what mothers do.

 

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