My mother passed away from pancreatic cancer when I was 24. She was only 59 years old. It was swift in its progression (as pancreatic cancer often is.) From the time we had a hard and fast diagnosis to when she passed, it was only about 2 months, which doesn’t give one a lot of time to wrap the ol’ head around what’s about to happen.
My mother and I weren’t particularly close—we were too much alike—but we were just getting to the part in our relationship where we understood each other. I was fiercely independent and she was over-protective. We clashed often. That said, I never doubted her love or support. I “got it” why she was the way she was. I didn’t like it. But I got it. And it usually revolved around protecting me.
My life is pretty well divided in my mind between the time I had my mother and the time that has passed since then. It’s almost half of my life now that I’ve been motherless, and I can absolutely say that living without her has defined many of the moments of my later life.
Early in the pandemic, I started feeling poorly. Sluggish. Run down. Exhausted. Weird digestive issues. Pain in weird places. Pandemic saw me heavier than I had ever been. More scared and anxious and depressed than I had ever been. Consuming more alcohol than I knew was good for me. I was in a bit of a place mentally and physically.
One night I had a dream in which my mother came and stood over me. Her arms were folded, and she just stared at me, over the top of her glasses, in that way she always did when she was mad at me and judgey and try to make a point. “What did I tell you?” her face said.
When I woke up the next day, I made a doctor’s appointment.
Later, I will expand on the extraordinarily sub-par medical appointments I had after that. Being sick during the pandemic and trying to get medical attention is something I’m still unpacking. Being obese and trying to seek legitimate medical help when the person on the other end of the appointment isn’t taking you seriously because “you’re just fat” is a topic of conversation I have since done much reading about (it is a prevalent response in many medical circles it seems.)
When your doctor sees your medical history and says “oh, your mom died of pancreatic cancer? Yeah, all these symptoms are consistent with that. You need full body scans. Like, tomorrow,” then things become real. Immediately.
Enter series of terrifying appointments, during the pandemic, when I couldn’t bring anyone with me to sit holding my hand as I faced a potentially unthinkable fate. I have legitimately never been so terrified in all my life (and again, we’ll have a conversation at another point about them making me wait almost 3 weeks for those test results.) Facing my mortality, thinking about my children and how they would grow up without me was life-altering… I still can’t think about it without falling apart.
Once we determined that it wasn’t fatal cancer and merely some digestive issues, the doctor said the one and only thing that was helpful to me in the entire process: That pancreatic cancer only has two known factors that seem to have any correlation to the disease—Family history and obesity.
Clearly, I was screwed on the first front. But the other one I could control. And in a world where literally everything else felt completely out of control, this was a place I could focus my efforts.
Because I could not—could not—actively contribute to the orphaning of my children. I couldn’t do it. Not if I could help it. I would not have them at such a young age have their lives divided into the time they had their mother and the time after.
And so I began, in earnest with all the things. Many paths. But all very very small steps. Incremental (healthy, sustainable) change.
Weight Watchers to be accountable for portions and better food choices.
Wine weekly instead of daily (or often not at all.)
100oz+ of water every day.
Intermittent fasting to help with digestive issues.
And a virtual running club challenge to try to walk or run 600 miles in the year.
It started with baby steps. Small new choices. 8 hours of fasting…moving to 10 to 12 to 16 eventually.
A little water at a time each day, turned to craving it and drinking it without thinking about.
Slight cuts in calories and portions. Just little ones. The subbing out the red meat for turkey. The desserts for fruits. Baby steps.
And a quick walk down the street. Around the block. A mile. 2 miles. 5k. 5 miles. Once a week, a couple days a week. Every day. Walking. Jogging. By God, running.
Fresh air. Sunshine. Mental stability. Clear head. Strong body.
It’s been 587 days since I joined Weight Watchers.
It’s been 549 days since I started Intermittent Fasting.
It’s been 396 days since I started counting my miles for the virtual marathon.
My resting heart rate has gone from 97 to 60.
I have lost 86 pounds.
I have logged 725 miles.
I share this today, not for accolades. The way I feel is cheers enough for me.
As we stare 2022 in the eyes, it is sometimes so easy to look at everything around us burning…STILL burning…and feel like we have no power…that nothing that we do matters.
But I’m here to say we do have the ability to move mountains. To do very hard things. One small single itty bitty step at a time. And it doesn’t need to take a death scare (though it feels like it usually requires something like that to really motivate us.)
My 2022 word of the year is recalibrate. Adjust my sights ever so slightly to remain on target with what needs to get done. Small moves. Big results. Progress over perfection.
About 2 weeks ago I had a dream about my mother. I was at a childhood friend’s house, and I watched her walk up the path to the front door to pick me up. I waited for her to knock, but only heard a wee little tap.
“If you want me to come with you, you’re going to have to knock louder!” I shouted.
And she smiled at me and walked back down to the path to the car and drove away.
My mother and I weren’t particularly close—we were too much alike—but we were just getting to the part in our relationship where we understood each other. I was fiercely independent and she was over-protective. We clashed often. That said, I never doubted her love or support. I “got it” why she was the way she was. I didn’t like it. But I got it. And it usually revolved around protecting me.
My life is pretty well divided in my mind between the time I had my mother and the time that has passed since then. It’s almost half of my life now that I’ve been motherless, and I can absolutely say that living without her has defined many of the moments of my later life.
Early in the pandemic, I started feeling poorly. Sluggish. Run down. Exhausted. Weird digestive issues. Pain in weird places. Pandemic saw me heavier than I had ever been. More scared and anxious and depressed than I had ever been. Consuming more alcohol than I knew was good for me. I was in a bit of a place mentally and physically.
One night I had a dream in which my mother came and stood over me. Her arms were folded, and she just stared at me, over the top of her glasses, in that way she always did when she was mad at me and judgey and try to make a point. “What did I tell you?” her face said.
When I woke up the next day, I made a doctor’s appointment.
Later, I will expand on the extraordinarily sub-par medical appointments I had after that. Being sick during the pandemic and trying to get medical attention is something I’m still unpacking. Being obese and trying to seek legitimate medical help when the person on the other end of the appointment isn’t taking you seriously because “you’re just fat” is a topic of conversation I have since done much reading about (it is a prevalent response in many medical circles it seems.)
When your doctor sees your medical history and says “oh, your mom died of pancreatic cancer? Yeah, all these symptoms are consistent with that. You need full body scans. Like, tomorrow,” then things become real. Immediately.
Enter series of terrifying appointments, during the pandemic, when I couldn’t bring anyone with me to sit holding my hand as I faced a potentially unthinkable fate. I have legitimately never been so terrified in all my life (and again, we’ll have a conversation at another point about them making me wait almost 3 weeks for those test results.) Facing my mortality, thinking about my children and how they would grow up without me was life-altering… I still can’t think about it without falling apart.
Once we determined that it wasn’t fatal cancer and merely some digestive issues, the doctor said the one and only thing that was helpful to me in the entire process: That pancreatic cancer only has two known factors that seem to have any correlation to the disease—Family history and obesity.
Clearly, I was screwed on the first front. But the other one I could control. And in a world where literally everything else felt completely out of control, this was a place I could focus my efforts.
Because I could not—could not—actively contribute to the orphaning of my children. I couldn’t do it. Not if I could help it. I would not have them at such a young age have their lives divided into the time they had their mother and the time after.
And so I began, in earnest with all the things. Many paths. But all very very small steps. Incremental (healthy, sustainable) change.
Weight Watchers to be accountable for portions and better food choices.
Wine weekly instead of daily (or often not at all.)
100oz+ of water every day.
Intermittent fasting to help with digestive issues.
And a virtual running club challenge to try to walk or run 600 miles in the year.
It started with baby steps. Small new choices. 8 hours of fasting…moving to 10 to 12 to 16 eventually.
A little water at a time each day, turned to craving it and drinking it without thinking about.
Slight cuts in calories and portions. Just little ones. The subbing out the red meat for turkey. The desserts for fruits. Baby steps.
And a quick walk down the street. Around the block. A mile. 2 miles. 5k. 5 miles. Once a week, a couple days a week. Every day. Walking. Jogging. By God, running.
Fresh air. Sunshine. Mental stability. Clear head. Strong body.
It’s been 587 days since I joined Weight Watchers.
It’s been 549 days since I started Intermittent Fasting.
It’s been 396 days since I started counting my miles for the virtual marathon.
My resting heart rate has gone from 97 to 60.
I have lost 86 pounds.
I have logged 725 miles.
I share this today, not for accolades. The way I feel is cheers enough for me.
As we stare 2022 in the eyes, it is sometimes so easy to look at everything around us burning…STILL burning…and feel like we have no power…that nothing that we do matters.
But I’m here to say we do have the ability to move mountains. To do very hard things. One small single itty bitty step at a time. And it doesn’t need to take a death scare (though it feels like it usually requires something like that to really motivate us.)
My 2022 word of the year is recalibrate. Adjust my sights ever so slightly to remain on target with what needs to get done. Small moves. Big results. Progress over perfection.
About 2 weeks ago I had a dream about my mother. I was at a childhood friend’s house, and I watched her walk up the path to the front door to pick me up. I waited for her to knock, but only heard a wee little tap.
“If you want me to come with you, you’re going to have to knock louder!” I shouted.
And she smiled at me and walked back down to the path to the car and drove away.
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