The rawness of childhood cancer...

TRIGGER WARNING....

RAW THOUGHTS

 I don't talk about the negative part of childhood cancer much.

This year, however I have decided it is time to put it all out there.

I want to first say, I am thankful for all that has been done for me

in order to save my life back in a day that childhood cancer 

was a death sentence.

With that being said, there is lots a 5 year old remembers 

and listening to a podcast of other childhood cancer survivors,

I know that someone out there may need to hear this one day.

Believe it or not, back then I did not talk much.

Mom said when they took out my kidney, they opened my mouth.

Being in a hospital for 12 weeks without coming home

two months after your 5th birthday changes you.

I can remember the fear in my parents and family's eyes.

I didn't want to hurt them, so I kept quiet.

Yet I too was terrified. 

There were no ports back then, so chemotherapy 

went into your veins.

I hate having to explain when having blood drawn or an IV

that they won't be able to get a vein in a certain place

because it is a damaged vein.

Makes me sound like a drug addict...

so then I explain all about the childhood cancer.

I hate having to give that big story.

Then there are the lasting effects of it all.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?

What was that in 1968?

I did what many after war did, didn't talk about it.

Yet there were days I laid in my parents bed,

pushing and prodding on my stomach because I was sure

there was another cancerous  tumor lurking around there.

When because of the chemo, I had a yeast infection,

the drama and screaming about needing a suppository 

in an area that your parents told you no one should touch.

Being a teenager and realizing your clothing did not fit

the way your friends clothing did.

Because you had an empty area where your kidney had once been

and scoliosis which made your spine curved.

Standing in front of my parents mirror and realizing

that I may never tuck in a shirt because of this.

Feeling different from others.

I laughed at it all.

Yet, inside myself, I had insecurities that most

children did not have.

There is more....

Again, I am not bitter about having had cancer

as I believe I am who I am because of this history

and I pretty much am happy about who I have become.

However I want to preserve these things here

as one day I will not be here to tell the stories.

Things about my Dad

 My Dad, Freddie Joseph Collins.

My Dad was born in 1918.

He was a WWII veteran who was shot in Okinawa.

He said that day was the best day of his life.

He knew he was going to die or go home.

Another story I told a friend recently that made the hair 

stand up on his arms.

Dad was shot in his leg, went in and out one leg and lodged 

in the second leg. As he lay on the ground bleeding,

the Japanese soldier came up to him, gun pointed.

My Dad made eye contact with him, he knew he was going to die.

The soldier put down his gun and walked away.

My Dad once told me that human contact is stronger than any war.

At this time my Dad had two children and my Mom was pregnant for the third.

Because that soldier spared my Dad's life,

he and Momma went on to have 4 more children.

I being the last, the baby.

Daddy was 45 when I was born.

He had many occupations but his main occupation 

was professional photographer back when not everyone owned a camera.

Because of his was injury and health reasons, he was forced

to retire when I was three years old.

I have one professional baby photo of myself taken by my Daddy.

He was bitter about not being able to work anymore and aside

from one photo taken because my sister begged,

he never held a camera again, never took another photo.

Because he was a stay home Dad and Mom worked at Randolph's restaurant,

the three last kiddo's were unconventionally  raised by Daddy.

He put all his entrepreneur skills into these three last girls.

We had homemade meals every day. 

Home made bread, all food from scratch from his garden and

the seafood he got when he was in his boat most days.

I was 5 when I was diagnosed with childhood cancer of a kidney.

Back then, 1968 things were very different.

That is for another blog.

He had trouble ever leaving me in that hospital ward.

Parents were not able to stay with their children over night

but my Dad refused to leave. 

He would come back up after all other parents had left 

to the sound of crying children.

He would rock me and put me to bed and 

head to other children crying and rock and tuck them in.

My Dad, a big burly man with the kindest heart.

My Dad died when I was 20. 

The one thing he always wanted is to live to raise all his children.

He accomplished this and was able to see me as a nurse.

I moved back home after nursing school because he was very sick

and not the same man he was when we were young.

He would become angry sometimes unlike the Dad I grew up with.

Yet, there was still a lot of him there as well.

I worked nights and about 4:30 each morning he would call up at the hospital.

"What do you want for breakfast?" 

No matter what it was, he cooked it.

Homemade biscuits, friend pork chops, when I got home it was ready for me.

I would then go lay in he and Mom's kingsize bed and sleep until 

it was time for supper.

To say I was spoiled would be an understatement.

After a month in the hospital he died at the age of 63.

I remember thinking he was old, had a good life.

Now that I am pushing 60, I think, he was so young.

I could go on and on about my Daddy,

I have to stop somewhere...

If you have elderly people in your life, go and talk to them.

Let this be the year that you find out the stories that will be important

to you when they pass.

We are at a time where it is simple to make a video of these gems

telling their stories.

You will not only be glad you did it for yourself but so many are so lonely.

You will make their day, their week, maybe their year!

We all have a story...

 IF you know me or follow my blog, you know...

I am all about the story.

One of my biggest fears is that my grandgirls will not know

who I truly am, way deep down in my heart and soul.

I want, when I am gone and they think of Mumsie and her Cottage,

they are brought back to a place where everything was simple,

where we could cook or create art,

where you are never "double digit" old meaning you only

have anniversaries of your 9th birthday.

Where no matter how old you were, at night you slept in my bed,

no matter how crowded, and Mumsie rubbed you and sang prayers

and songs until you drifted off.

That no matter how old you were, when you woke up

you were rocked. Even when your feet dragged the ground.

When you visit the Cottage for the first time, one

of those girls remember the tour they took so many friends on 

and the stories they told as they did it.

I have journaled most of my life, blogged for 15 years.

Yet, even with all of that, I feel the need to leave more behind.

More stories, funny things they have said, done.

I have also begun to leave stories in my handwriting

behind things in the Cottage that have a story.

Whether it be the "ghost story" of my Dad's childhood photo

or why I have ancestor photos hanging on my walls that

are not blood related but once I have them they become family.

I have this crazy fear that not enough of my story has been told.

This has been a year for our family. 

Between illness, deaths we have lost a lot.

The comedy to my story has passed,

 another, a relationship that was not completely mended that won't 

happen on this Earth.

I look at my siblings, the 5 of us that are left and I realize

we are going to loose each other and it stabs me each time.

We have gone above and beyond to spend more time together

this year as loosing our oldest sister has us realizing this.

I have a story with each of these siblings, all different.

Bear with me this year as I work on leaving a little bit more of myself

with those I love,

I have realized that the next generations may not want to read 

20 something journals to find out who I am.

However, they will be online and one day may come across

these blogs. May their hearts be happy of memories

shared here.

Happy New Year my friends!