Yesterday, I was in T.J. Maxx with my wee one and she wanted a flat-iron. She selected one, describing it to me as “a breast cancer flat-iron.” I told her I would buy it if she could find anywhere on the box that it said the money raised with this pink-ribboned wonder went to research. She read the cheerful synopsis on the box out loud, explaining all that her purchase would do for breast cancer. It ended with the word that makes my skin crawl, “awareness.” Read the rest of this entry »

You know, you’d think that after about 7 years you would have your hands around something and have regained some semblance of control. There you are walking along, your cool-collected self, sticking your toe back into the cancer pool. A thing of the past it is, the trauma now seems manageable. While not always nonchalant, you can begin to at least chitchat casually about the experience of cancer without totally losing your cookies. Read the rest of this entry »

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I have had a wretched six months or so; actually almost a year now as a friend gently reminded me last week. It was good of her to do so, as I had lost track of my wallow and it is time to get on with it. Read the rest of this entry »

A revisit from an old blog, but still the same guy two years later! Read the rest of this entry »

I’m dying here.

I suppose that isn’t something that should be said in cancer blog, but I am, I am dying inside. Read the rest of this entry »

A remix on this Mother’s Day of my two favorite blogs about my two favorite people in the world….

I kinda think they hung the moon… Read the rest of this entry »

My neighbor Frances is 89 years young. I would estimate she is just as much, if not more of a southern spitfire as she was back in 1924 on the day she was born in farmhouse down east (as we say here in NC) in Elm City. Frances has seen me through many a life trial always without fail, inviting me into her grandma like home when I ring her buzzer. Read the rest of this entry »

Last week, I found myself on the receiving end of a big, fat, loud “Pshaw.”

I guess Pshaw is what you call it, that’s what it sounded like at least. An exasperated sigh plus eye roll; an unspoken, “Oh brother, give me a break.” Read the rest of this entry »

I treat children for sexual abuse.

It is not so much a task of erasing memories, but of diffusing them; decreasing the impact and diminishing the power of the symptoms of trauma. Helping kids sort and put fragments into drawers and compartments and teaching them how to manage how the trauma; the triggers and hypervigilance are now a part of their life. Read the rest of this entry »

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