Go Blog Yourself

Happy Mother’s Day to my lovely Mom, lovely Mother-in-law(s) and my lovely mama friends. As Spencer so eloquently said, “You! Rock!”

An extra huge hug to all the mamas out there who didn’t get to hear these words from their baby today.

I don’t think I can even explain how this blog party works.
I don’t think I can wrap my head around all the people who want to help.
I don’t think I will ever know the depths of Tuesday’s impact on this planet.

But it’s Huge. And people want to help. And there is this great big ol’ blog party starting tomorrow and it sounds really cool and it will raise money and we will use that money to bring awareness (and pay $,$$$,$$$ to medical bills) to this monster and then Tuesday’s impact will be that much huger. I like that.

Go here.

Thank you Debi, and everyone who is involved and everyone who participates.

As always, humbly yours,
Jessica Kate

Almost 9 years ago, my world began to be measured by weeks and months.

I’m 10 weeks pregnant. I’m 38 weeks pregnant. He’s 4 weeks old. He’s 22 months. They’re 6 weeks. Maybe parents measure time in this way because every week feels like an accomplishment of some sort. Every month another milestone met. Sometimes it goes too far. We’ve all heard it, “She’s 47 months”. Huh? At some point it’s ok to say “He’s 3,” or “She’s 5.” Every week no longer feels the need to be noted. I’m not there yet.

I’ve made it 3 months. Tuesday died 13 weeks ago. Every day feels like an accomplishment of some sort. Another milestone met.

I’ve made it through my first trimester. That’s always been a good feeling, especially since I didn’t make it through on two separate occasions, however, this particular kind of first trimester comes with no joy or relief. Only pain. It sucks. It’s the suckiest bunch of sucks that ever sucked. Last night I thought I’d die of a broken heart. I was watching old video clips, like this one.

and this one

She was so healthy. So perfect. What happened? How in the hell does a baby get cancer? I’m sure you’ve wondered the same. But it wouldn’t ever happen to your child, right? After all, your kids are really healthy. (So was Tuesday) Your kids were breastfed. (So was Tuesday) You feed them healthy food, organic food. (Me too) You didn’t expose them to any harsh chemicals in or around your house. Not even sun screen or bug spray. (Yep) You were extra careful and during your pregnancies. (Yeah, me too)

Cancer runs in families but not YOUR family. (Ours either)

Whatever.

It makes no sense.

I’m sure that in another 13 weeks, or 47 months, or 47 years, it will still not make sense. Some day it will be my time and then it will make sense.

But not today. Not day 92.

First there were pink balloons in the tree. Then a bunch of pink balloons in the parking garage of the airport on our return from Disney Land. Then a solo pink balloon on a tread mill machine at the health club I hadn’t been to in over 7 months (yep, a daughter with cancer will make you forget to work out). So, what happens when you play songs that weren’t sad before diagnosis, but are now, and have a, um, apple juice*? Well, your daughter sends you this sign:

*yeah, that’s not really apple juice

P.S.  The glass cracked in the shape of a peace sign

P.S.S. The glass is full of whisky

P.P.S.S. Since Jessica doesn’t drink whisky or whiskey, this post isn’t from her.  It’s me, Charley