One of the Lucky Ones

Four years ago I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. I was 31 years old. It was just a normal day.  They found it by chance when I was trying to get cleared by my physician to go through fertility treatments again.  I was shocked and terrified. What shocked me even more was my doctor’s choice of words after telling me that my biopsy was positive and the mass in my neck was malignant.  He looked at me and said, "You're one of the lucky ones."  I couldn't understand how he could hand me a diagnosis of cancer in one sentence and tell me I was lucky in the next. I was 31 years old and had just heard the “C” word.  How in the hell was I lucky? This was just the beginning of a long line of people who would tell me that I was lucky that this was "only" thyroid cancer.  Everyone would say that this was the best type of cancer that you could have. I personally didn't think that any type of cancer was good. I also felt those were easy words to say when you weren’t the one who had unwanted killer cells churning around in your body.  I know intentions were good and people were trying to comfort me but, honestly, it just made me angry.  While it is true that my cancer was caught very early and was virtually curable with surgery and radiation, I still didn't feel "lucky". I was irritated with my doctor for using those words. I was terrified at the thought of cancer in my body, especially at such a young age, and I didn't appreciate those fears being diminished. While thyroid cancer may not be as aggressive as other types of cancer and you are given the time needed to fight it, it is still a life-threatening diagnosis and it did slap me in the face with the cruel reality of my own mortality.  It ignited a level of fear in me that I had never experienced.  I'd like to tell you I was strong. I wasn't. I was angry and sad. Just a year and a half earlier, our world had been turned upside down with the loss of our only son. And, here we were, not even two years later, just getting back on our feet and back to a normal sense of reality when our world was once again turned upside down. I had had enough.  I most certainly did not feel like one of the lucky ones.

I have always been the eternal optimist. I am usually the one who can find the light in a dark situation. The one to find a way to laugh when I want to cry. But I couldn't do that this time. I couldn't find that positivity.  I was tired of hearing that things happen for a reason and that God has a plan. To me, this felt like a sentence and not a diagnosis. I was angry and I was exhausted. I was tired of feeling like I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. So I didn't find the light or humor in the situation.  What I did do, was pretend. I would smile when I talked to my friends and family. I tried to pretend that it wasn't a big deal. I patiently nodded and smiled when I was told that I was one of the lucky ones.

Finally, I just checked out. I numbed myself on the outside when I was in public, agreeing with my supposed luck and hiding the deepening sense of grief and fear that I was feeling every day.  And then I went home to face my diagnosis by myself. Because the reality is that, no matter who stands with you, cancer is a road you walk alone.  No one else can face it for you. So after a day of pretending to be strong and positive, I went home and turned out the lights and I battled my demons in the dark. The demons that reminded me that one grandmother and an aunt had already died from cancer and my other grandmother was currently losing her battle. The demons that reminded me that my health had never been quite right and made me question my potential for more aggressive cancers in the future. The demons that will forever make me question the seriousness of every little symptom I have from anxiety to a headache. No matter how irrational my fears might be, I can't get rid of them. You see, all that cancer knows how to do is spread. And while mine didn't spread to my other organs or bones, it spread to my thoughts and dreams and turned them into fears and nightmares. But I'm alive and capable of having those fears and nightmares so I must be one of the lucky ones.

I went in to fight mode.  I put aside my fears and my sorrow to the best of my ability because I didn’t have time for them. I had surgery and radiation ahead of me and a lifetime of trying to manage my thyroid levels.  When my second grandmother died of cancer the day I went in for my surgery consultation, it didn’t even surprise me.  At this point, I was convinced I had done something terrible to piss off the universe and I was just going to get hit at every turn with some more difficult news. Faith was gone.  Hope was scarce.  Dreams were unreachable.  Nightmares were real.  And that was my personal reality at that moment in time.  A difficult one for someone who had always managed to find happiness.  But, hey, I was still one of the lucky ones.

I had never had surgery prior to this.  I went in terrified of being under general anesthesia and terrified that they would go in to find that the cancer had spread.  Hospitals were not new to me but now I had two departments that would forever bring me painful memories over the course of two short years.  Surgery went well.  Cancer had spread a bit into the surrounding tissues but they removed it with good margins and I smiled through gritted teeth when the surgeon, once again, told me that I was one of the lucky ones.

Radiation followed and was an experience all its own with fears of what I was putting into my body and the havoc that it could wreak in and of itself.  Exhaustion took on a new meaning when my thyroid hormones hit ridiculously low levels and I couldn’t get out of bed or really even function.  My muscles were sore and weak and even simple tasks like putting on clothes and drying my hair became burdens I simply couldn’t carry.  My mother in law had to come and stay with me to make sure I woke up for long enough to eat and get some fluids in me and didn’t miss my epilepsy medications.  Hey, did you know cancer, stress, low thyroid levels, and interrupted sleep can aggravate epilepsy?  I felt just, oh so “lucky” to have both of these diagnoses at once…

While, thankfully, my cancer is gone and has not returned, I still battle it every single day.  I battle it from the standpoint that my thyroid is gone and juggling medication on a daily basis results in a fatigue that most can’t understand unless they have experienced it.  I battle it from the standpoint that every time I go to the endocrinologist, I have to take a Xanax because the mere thought of sitting in that office gives me immeasurable anxiety even with the simplest and most routine of follow ups.  There is no complacency.  I am very aware every time I set foot in that office that my world can change yet again.  I battle it from the standpoint that I now have a mass they are watching in my neck yet again that “is probably nothing.”  My doctor is fairly certain it is scar tissue and my blood work is fine so, “it is probably nothing but we are just going to monitor it.”  Same words I heard the first time around.  And they are probably right.  This time it probably is nothing.  But try to tell your brain that when, for the past five years, every time it should have been nothing, it turned out to be something.  And something huge.  Live with that fear every single day of your life, and try to convince yourself that you are lucky this cancer didn’t take your life when, in so many ways, it did just that.  I promise you won’t feel like one of the lucky ones.

Eventually, I did see the positive in the situation, but it's not how you'd think. I still don't think I was lucky for having "only" thyroid cancer. I am still acutely aware of the seriousness of the diagnosis. I still fear what the future holds for me on an almost daily basis. But I think of a bigger picture. I think of my husband on the phone with me when I received my diagnosis, calming me down even when he was in the midst of intense and stressful training and I know this was scary for him too.  I think of my friend, Dan, sitting next to me in the hospital for my biopsy because my husband was out of town and he didn't want me to be alone. I think of my friend, Nicole, who is a physician and sat tirelessly on the phone and answered all of my questions 30 times a day and still talks me off of a ledge when paranoia sets in. I think of my sister-in-law who took time out of her busy schedule to spend the night in the hospital with me after my surgery and keep me company. I think of my mom who dropped everything and hopped on a plane the day after my diagnosis to stay with me and help me during my recovery. I think of my mother in law who stayed with me after my radiation when I couldn't function on my own and my husband had to work. I think of the love and support that surrounded me during one of the lowest points in my life and it was only then that I finally started to feel like one of the lucky ones. 

This diagnosis crippled me with fear in so many ways but it gave me strength to fight and face my other fears. It served me with a very serious dose of reality that my time on this planet is limited and I had better start living my life for myself.  I have since pushed my limits and my comfort zone and have experienced some amazing things and continue to do so on a daily basis.  My fear to face something new and scary has diminished because I have already survived my two worst nightmares.  I don’t feel anger with fellow human beings over petty things because life is too short to be angry.  I don’t feel hatred for this planet because I am just so happy to still be on it.  This gift of a love of life is something I feel many others on this amazing earth have not experienced.  Maybe that is what makes me one of the lucky ones. 

Every day will continue to be a battle.  It will be a choice to accept and face my struggles as they are handed to me.  I will have to decide to fight the demons that will continue to invade my thoughts and overwhelm me with fear.  I will have to choose to be happy and not let it beat me.  But at least I have that choice to make.  So I will walk this lonely and bumpy road for the rest of my life.  And I will walk it in fear because those are the cards that I was dealt. But I will also walk it with hope and happiness because that is the hand that I can choose to play. Because I am one of the lucky ones.

Odd Wo-Man Out

Yesterday, I was described as “different” because of my choice of hobbies and interests.  The individual came back to me later to apologize.  I was caught off guard because it never occurred to me that being “different” was a derogatory description of character.  In fact, I look at it as a high form of flattery. 

I suppose I’ve always been “different.”  My parents encouraged this of me.  I tried hobby after hobby and twirled around the living room in a pink tutu and cleats because I didn’t quite know if I was a “girly girl” or a tomboy.  I wore my hair long and then I chopped it short.  I wore dresses and jerseys and everything in between.  Boys didn’t interest me until later than most (and often they still don’t).  I was too busy learning who I was to care what the opposite sex thought of me, or the same sex for that matter.  Or at least not yet.   I didn’t even realize that I was odd.

I remember the first time I learned this fact about myself. I didn’t exactly don my tinfoil hat and lay in the middle of a crop circle to call my mother ship to me (though this does sound like a good time).  But I did jump into a muddy, disgusting lake while still in my cheerleading uniform because I liked the feel of the slimy mud between my toes and there were tadpoles I wanted to catch.  I was 10.  My “friends” looked at me (rather disgusted) and told me I was weird.  It hurt my feelings (yes, I do have those) and I went home and cried.  My mom did what moms do.  She dried my tears (after making me shower), lectured me about Florida lakes and these slightly risky animals called alligators that lurk in them, gave me some ice cream and said, “you just be you.”

And I did just that.  Other girls were described as “pretty,” “beautiful,” and “put together.”  I continued to be described as “different,” “quirky,” and “odd.”  I was fine with that.  Mom and Dad never said a word when I slept too late to do my hair for school.  They never compared me to other girls who came to high school flawless every day with their hair and makeup perfected at the age of 16.  They didn’t take any particular pride in me dressing up for picture day or even bothering to get out of the bathing suit that I lived in 7 days a week.  They were used to the permanent chlorine scent that set into my hair and clothes and they never missed a swim meet, a water polo match, or mocked me for the bad attempts at water ballet by myself in between practices that usually invoked stares and whispers from other parents. My actions frequently invoked stares and whispers in general.  My parents seemed immune to it.  If they were embarrassed, they never showed it.

No, what my parents noticed and took pride in was that I laughed.  A lot.  And loud.  I had fun no matter what I was doing.  I was adventurous and tried new things.  I hula hooped to no music in my own form of interpretive dance on the sand while the other kids played volleyball at the beach. I was a free spirit.  My parents didn’t constantly tell me I was “pretty.”  What they told me was that I was “kind.”  And that made me want to be kind.  I cared deeply for fellow human beings and I hurt when they hurt.  My parents were proud when I volunteered and showed compassion and empathy toward those who desperately needed kindness in their lives.  My mom smiled when I got dressed up for prom but she beamed when I came to the school where she was teaching to be a stand-in “mom” on parent day for a little girl whose mom couldn’t be bothered to show up (and no I didn’t do my makeup for the occasion).  I knew what it was like to feel like the odd one out and I didn’t want this little girl to feel that way.  I was “kind” because mom and dad told me I was and that is what my parents praised me for. 

I looked in the mirror today and realized that I have gained some crow’s feet by my eyes along with some wrinkles.  I’ve learned that gravity has doubled on the earth since my youth and is slowly pulling my once perky body parts down into the depths of hell.  Victoria’s Secret swallows up a good chunk of my paycheck to keep my nipples from dragging in my morning coffee and the body I had when I was 17 exists only in my memory and a few glorious pictures to remind me that everything once fit into place and that the only dimples I had in my cheeks were on my face.  Yes, looks are slowly fading and, like every other girl on the planet, it bothers me.  Every girl I know struggles as the reflection in the mirror slowly changes and we change our daily routines to try and turn back time.  But despite the unwelcome stretch marks, dimples, and extra layer of fat that I’ve gained just in time for bathing suit season, I’m still happy.  I’m still confident because my looks are not all there is to me.  I’ve watched those very friends who were described as “pretty” all their lives and they struggle with depression, anxiety, and finding their sense of self worth.  To them, their looks were the most important thing about them because that’s what they were told all of their lives.  And those looks are changing.  What’s left?  Well, there’s plenty but they struggle to see it because everyone else failed to see it in them.  Or, at least they failed to tell them what they saw beyond their pretty face.

This saddens me but it also makes me grateful that I had parents who taught me there was more to me than my appearance.  They let me be weird.  They let me be me.  They shaped my vision of who I strive to be.  I will hopefully live long enough to continue to watch my looks fade.  I hope to be wrinkled and gray like the rest of the elderly.  But when I relive the past for future generations, it won’t be to tell the story of a Homecoming Queen or Miss Florida.  I will tell the story of that one time my mom and I drove 12 hours round trip in the snow for a ghost hunt.  That time I dove with sharks.  The time I told a story about the refusal to fake orgasms in front of 300 plus people (many from a church crowd).  I climbed on stage at a Chippendale’s concert (still working on this one).  I played in the rain and sunbathed nude on the top of the Stratosphere. I placed Craig’s List personals just for entertainment.  I will tell youngsters to be kind and to get involved in the community and to make this sometimes disgusting world a better place, starting with their neighbors.  And then I will tell them to get off my lawn...  So for those parents out there with daughters, remember that your kids become what you tell them they are.  The next time you start to tell your daughter that she’s pretty, think again and tell her she’s smart, strong, and kind.  Tell her she’s “different.”

Quasi-Feminist

A friend of mine and I are participating in a 39 mile walk to raise awareness and money for breast cancer.  It is quite the feat.  You have to raise $1800 to even be allowed to participate.  Then you train extensively for an event which consists of 26 miles on the first day followed by camping overnight and then 13 miles the next day.  We have been so proud of ourselves for this.  We have been walking for hours on end every weekend and preparing our bodies for something that we probably should have done in our twenties.  But, look at us!  We are doing this in our thirties!  It has been the ultimate experience in girl power.  On our walks, we talk about books and politics and every subject in between.  There is really nothing that you don’t cover when you spend 6-8 hours a week with someone.  It’s been tough, but we’ve worked hard and we are ready. 

However, I realized something more about myself while training.  Something that I’m not sure I like.  And I have a feeling that it is something a lot of women can relate to.  I am excited about this walk.  My friend is excited about this walk.  We have thought about and planned for it for months.  My husband had some friends over one night and a good friend of ours was asking me questions about the event.  I was more than happy to rattle on about what we were doing when another one of their friends chimed in.  I should preface this by saying that I think this particular friend sees women as only put on this earth for his personal benefit.  He’s a nice guy, I think.  He means well, I think.  But after explaining this event that I was super excited about, his only comment was, “Wow, after all of that walking, you are going to have a sweet ass.”  I shut down immediately.  I know there will always be the argument from other men that, “Boys will be boys.”  But I’m not okay with that argument.  There are certain men that can get away with comments like that.  Men that I’m friends with.  Men that I know are teasing and respect me as a person.  Men that understand that there is more to me than a pair of tits and a set of legs that are meant only to spread for them at their request.  Whether or not this particular individual was kidding or not is really irrelevant to my story.  It’s not really what bothered me.  I can dismiss that.  In fact, it wouldn’t have bothered me at all if I didn’t feel that what we are doing is important and warrants a little more tact and respect.  But what REALLY irked me about the whole situation was that I really do want this walk to give me a sweet ass. 

Now, I’ve never really been a true “feminist,” whatever definition you might give that.  It seems like it has many meanings this day and age, with both positive and negative connotations.  However, I have always prided myself in believing in equal rights for both genders.  I have always cringed when my dad or husband is in a car and someone cuts them off and they make a comment such as “damn women drivers” or automatically assume it’s a “she.”  In fact, nothing gives me greater pleasure than listening to one of them cuss at a “woman driver,” only to pull up next to them and discover that the person causing them all of this distress by having the audacity to go only 5 miles over the speed limit is, in fact, a man.  And these are two men who are good people.  Neither one of them hates women and I don’t think either one looks at men as superior.  It’s just acceptable behavior in our society that I have always found unacceptable.  But I never really fight it.  Because why bother?  I am the definition of contradiction. 

I walk a line somewhere between feminist and damsel-in-distress.  I don’t understand why.  Maybe it’s hardwired into that annoying extra X chromosome of mine.  Maybe one was enough.  I want to be respected but I also want to be attractive.  I want to be able to do everything by myself!  Well except snow blow, mow my yard, or change a tire.  I want men to do that for me.  I want to have a career and pay for my own way in life!  But I want a man to open the door for me while I pay for dinner.  It infuriates me when men say that women wear certain outfits looking for attention but then I wear a low-cut shirt because I want to prove that I can defy gravity in my 30’s (shocking secret:  I can’t.  I can just find bargains on magical bras at Victoria’s Secret).  But, as I age, I become both more comfortable and less comfortable in my own skin.  I want to prove that I don’t care what you think of me but, please, pretty please, still find me attractive. 

Y oh y can’t I just have a Y chromosome?  I feel like life would be easier. I could stand to pee, say literally anything that I want, have gray hair and a beer belly without anyone worrying about whether or not I’m still attractive, and say that the opposite sex is full of hypocrisy and brings on all of their own problems.  I wouldn’t have to feel everything and yet hide what I feel.  I wouldn’t have to laugh when men make jokes about women’s bodies that make me want to cry while deep down wondering what they think of mine.  How disgusted are they really by the dimples on my ass and stretch marks on my thighs? And, more aggravating than that, why do I care? I know I’m worth more.  I’m not a victim.  I’m a confident, intelligent, successful woman.  But, damn it all, I really do want to be pretty. 

I want you to notice when I lose 10 pounds and wear a tight black dress that shows my curves.  But listen to me when I’m talking to you!!  I have important things to say!  Did you notice these heels that I’m wearing?  Don’t they make my legs look sexy?  “Hey, buddy, my eyes are up here.  I’m talking to you.”  I work out incessantly during bathing suit season but then I eat ice cream because, “screw you.  I don’t care what you think of my muffin top.”

I love that I’m complex, intricate, and complicated.  I love that I’m confident in most aspects of life.  I love that I’m emotional, empathetic, and a deep thinker.  I hate that I care what people think of my looks.  I hate that I crave attention.  I hate that I’m only a quasi-feminist.  But, man, oh man, I really do want to have a sweet ass. 

I Won't Become My Mother

We all love to blame our moms for everything. Thanks a lot, mom- You are genetically responsible for the cellulite that makes my ass look like a bag full of golf balls.  And thanks for the anxiety and medical issues that you passed down to me as well.  I’m pretty sure everything that’s wrong with me and all of my negative qualities somehow trace back to you.  We take our moms for granted, exploit their weaknesses, and mock them as they age, or at least I do. When she is in town, I constantly rename my Wi-Fi network just to make my technology-challenged mother think she's going crazy. And I pretend like I’ve said something three times just so she thinks her hearing is going. I've threatened to put her in a home, buy her Depends, and endlessly taunt her about growing older. It’s all in fun, of course.  I love my mom.  But sitting around a table the other day with my girlfriends and reminiscing about younger days, I realized just how much my mom has had to put up with for me. 

Growing up, I was not exactly what you would call an "easy child". I was sneaky, manipulative, and had an "easier to ask for forgiveness than permission kind of mentality."  My friends’ parents called me trouble.  Mom called me "quirky" and would tell my dad I was simply trying to find myself.  My sweet mom, forever the optimist. I'm pretty sure she kept a breathalyzer, a pregnancy test, and a spare set of handcuff keys in the top drawer along with her Prozac and Xanax. I threw parties with underage drinking, smoked pot, and even met up with a guy I'd never met in a mall parking lot for a date (It didn’t work out.)  I'm not entirely sure how I'm still alive. Or how my parents are for that matter. 

My partying lasted well after high school. My mom even picked me up from a blind date where I drank too much, ditched my date, and hit on the bartender. Upon finding that my original date had left, the bartender lost my interest, and I had consumed my fifth Long Island iced tea, I called my savior to pick me up. And she did. And she patiently pulled over while I puked down the side of her car. "Sorry, mommy."  She just laughed and drove me home.  My brilliant ideas lasted well into my college days.  My parents were out of town and I invited a few (dozen) friends over to their place to “house sit.”  Upon finding a container of gasoline in the garage and watching a couple of action movies, a lightbulb went off in our heads… “Hey!  Do you think we can set the pool on fire?”  Turns out you can… Luckily, cops were never called, nobody died, and mom and dad didn’t find out about that incident until much, much later…

As an adult, I have not changed much, but she can no longer ground me.  My partying has slowed but I still love to shock and disgust my mom and drag her into any shenanigans I get into. And she gracefully follows with a sense of humor, a lot of skepticism, and a willingness to step out of her comfort zone just to make some memories with her not so little girl. I even dragged her into this blog post. I have not pre-cleared this with her. Sorry, mom. 

As I grew and dragged my mom into my world of mischief, it was my turn to laugh. Turns out my mom has a wild streak too. Hers just came out later in life. She proved this at an 80's party we threw. I couldn't find her anywhere. Imagine my surprise when I walked out of my back door to see my mom, on her knees, with my girlfriend spraying a can of whipped cream vodka into her mouth from between her legs. I'll never un-see that. The night ended with an Afro wig on her head, her trying to hold a wine glass between her toes, and my dad rolling his eyes, saying "I think I'm going to put mom to bed now."  Yes, I have pictures of all of this. They will accompany her throughout the remainder of her life. And I might even put them in her coffin just to have the final word. 

I feel like I’ve become even more relentless with time.  In fairness, I had to.  She just doesn’t shock as easily as she once did.  I don’t just try to push her outside of her comfort zone anymore, I shove her there, against her will.  For example, we invited her on a trip to Texas with us for her 60^th birthday.  Instead of a nice dinner with a birthday cake, we made her ride a bull and took her to a bikini bar where we made her put on a bikini top and take a blowjob shot.  She did it, like a pro, and as the ultimate birthday gift, I filmed it and put it on Facebook for all to see…

I recently took her tailgating with me where we serve jello shots out of syringes and call them “flu shots.”  On questioning how good I might be at a blow job, a friend approached me and said, “I dare you to suck the jello out of this syringe without pushing the plunger.” Not feeling the need to flaunt my flawless fellatio skills at that particular moment, I said, "I can't... But I'll bet my mom can..." Not willing to be called out, she did just that, resulting in laughter and respect from my friends, and a little bit of pride from me. 

Forever the entertainer, I feel my friends should benefit from my mom’s discomfort as well.  So, in an effort to really try and shock her one day, we took her to a local adult toy store.  My mom laughed right along with the rest of us at the multiflavored lube and cleverly named battery operated devices.  And she even smirked when the lady behind the counter explained how the theater rooms worked.  In a moment of spontaneity, I decided, “Hey, will you give us a tour of the back rooms?”  My friends all looked immediately grossed out and I turned to my mom anxious to see the look of utter disgust I was sure would be on her face.  But instead there was a smile followed by, “I’d like to see too.”  I exchanged surprised glances with my friends.  “Well I guess we’re going!”  So we toured the back room and I was actually impressed with how clean it was.  My shoes didn’t stick to the floor and I don’t think I contracted any STD’s.  I turned to mom and said, “Well that wasn’t so bad…”  As though on cue, a man stumbled into the hall, private parts in hand, enjoying himself immensely as we all walked out.  Mom and I looked at each other and died laughing.  Another proud mother/daughter moment. 

My mom and I are alike in many ways but we are also very different.  Mom is content staying at home, reading books, scrapbooking, and playing games.  I want to get out and experience the world, do weird and unique things, and I like to drag her with me.  In particular, I like to do things that scare me.  Mom and I are alike in the respect that everything scares us.  We are different in that I actually like being scared.  I take this into consideration (or lack of consideration depending on how you look at it), when planning our excursions.  I like to take her to do things like spend the night in haunted asylums or spend an hour in an escape room.  Mom is scared of enclosed spaces.  And the Dark. And her shadow. Yet somehow locked in an escape room modeled after a jail cell in Alcatraz seemed like the perfect mother/daughter night out. I’m shocked she hasn’t started making me pay for her Xanax yet. Exploiting that fear further, I made her sit in a closet in my basement for an hour on a bright and sunny Thursday by convincing her there was a tornado when they were simply testing the sirens.

I’m not a total jerk.  I do things that she enjoys too.  In fact, we have a girls’ trip every year where we travel down to Florida with a group of our favorite girls for a Food and Wine Festival at Disney World.  However, we still have to make it at least a little uncomfortable for her.  After several alcohol-induced brainstorming sessions, we’ve started to theme our visits and dress the part.  I use that opportunity to once again mock and embarrass my poor mother.  This last year’s theme was Alice in Wino-Land.  When we were planning, I smiled at her (not unlike the Cheshire Cat) and said, “I’ll be the Queen of Hearts.  You can be Tweedledum…”  She laughed and went online and bought the appropriate hat without a single argument.  When we got there, we set her up to have an odd gentleman dressed in sequins show her some affection in the middle of Downtown Disney.  Those pictures have come back to haunt her at random intervals.  We took another exciting trip to New York City and got her so hammered that she couldn’t even remember that the Broadway Theater was actually on a street called “Broadway.”  Then I made her sit through The Lion King.

It has become a cliché, but my mom really has become my best friend over the years.  We experience things together, take trips together, and share memories that are serious, sad, frustrating, joyful, and hilarious.  She’ll travel 12 hours in a car with me wherever I want to go, shoot tequila with me, watch Harry Potter for the thousandth time, and hang out with my friends.  I can borrow her clothes without asking and use her lipstick without fear of getting herpes (I think…) She’s become my best friend because, for my whole life, she’s been my biggest advocate.  When everyone else had given up on me, she didn’t.  She loved my free spirit and carried me through the difficult stages and fought for me to hold onto that fun-loving attitude.  It was extremely important to her.  This became evident to me at a friend’s house one night when I was doing cartwheels while wearing a dress after several shots of Fireball.  I’d love to tell you I was 19.  I was 32…  My husband shook his head and apologized on my behalf.  Mom just laughed and said "that's my girl." You see, she’s kept her optimism and hopeful outlook for her high-spirited daughter, even after all these years of torment.  As she watched me cartwheel in all my glory without a care in the world, she didn’t care that everyone could see my bright white rear and my fancy underwear.  Again, forever the optimist, she was just grateful that I bothered to wear underwear at all.  She smiled that with everything I had been through in life, I was still the girl in the mismatched clothes and tutu twirling around the living room, lost in her own imagination.  Life has a way of stealing your innocence. Mom fought for me to keep my individuality, imagination, and sense of humor regardless of what life threw at me.

Girls grow up and go through a stage where they dread realizing they have become their mother.  I haven't had that moment. I am not my mother. My mother is more patient, kind, and tolerant than any other person I know. I'm not that selfless.  In fact, I think we've established by now that I'm kind of an asshole. And yet she still hangs around. 

I’ve tormented her and mocked her relentlessly and she follows with unlimited patience and humor.  We even convinced an entire country club that she used to be a Playboy bunny.  She just laughed and signed some autographs.  It doesn't matter what I put her through or how hard I’ve pushed her outside of her comfort zone. She somehow has still remained my biggest fan.  So, no, I won't be lucky enough to become my mother.  But she wouldn't want me to be. You see, I'm as unique as she is. And that's all she's ever wanted for me.