Goodbye CancerBaby

I had planned a post for today about Mother's Day as a solo mom. About getting "Mom and Me (aka Make your own) Cookies" and crafts made at Brownies that need "some parental assistance" to put together at home and breakfasts in bed that require that you get up to supervise the burning of the toast and the scrambling of the egg shells before rushing back to bed to be "surprised" by your lovingly prepared feast.

And then I learned that Cancerbaby died this week. And the highs and lows of doing this motherhood thing on my own just didn't really seem all that important anymore.

Cancerbaby was one of my favourite friends I've never met. We are friends in that peculiar way that bloggers sometimes are. We never knew each other's names or saw each other's faces, but we shared each other's lives. Through posts, comments, and email we supported each other through our struggles, cheering on victories and commiserating over defeats.

I like to joke that The Universe is out to get me. That these past few years struggling with a seeming incredible confluence of bad luck have been the repayment of some sort of gigantic Karmic debt. But really, Cancerbaby's story puts my life into stark perspective.

Shortly after she and her husband decided that they were ready to start their family, Cancerbaby began to have symptoms. As is so often the case, by the time the correct diagnosis of Ovarian Cancer was made her reproductive system--and her dreams of having a baby--were sacrificed to save her life. Her blog chronicled her journey to accept this. To incorporate this devastation to her being into her sense of self. To survive it and own it. Cancerbaby spoke intelligently and passionately, and often hilariously about the state of cancer in America. She was heartbreaking and inspiring in her eloquence.

And she appeared to be thriving. To have embraced her life and begun making plans for a future. A future that would include children and motherhood, regardless of her cancer-induced infertility. I and many others were exicted for her. She so deserved this chance at happiness, at having some variation of the life she'd dreamed of.

Then the rug was pulled out from under her again. The cancer recurred. And in spite of all the latest and best treatments, the cancer killed her.

I first "met" Cancerbaby when my own Zen Baby's tumour was diagnosed. I was tickled and moved by a brilliant post railing against the "mood oglers" of the world, those people who exhort you to "cheer up" or "smile" without having any clue as to your personal circumstance, just a feeling that your emotions--or their perceptions of them--are ruining their day. I was moved enough to make my very first comment ever on a blog. In it I briefly referenced Regan's cancer diagnosis and how it had redefined my own response to mood oglers.

I was shocked when later that day Cancerbaby emailed me to ask how my daughter was doing. That first email began a correspondence between us that was at times made awkward by my guilt at my daughter's miraculous survival, and even her very existence, in the face of Cancerbaby's own tragedies, but was always smoothed over by her generosity of spirit. She acknowledged with shocking honesty that, as an infertile woman who bore a certain amount of healthy bitterness about her state, she didn't particularly relish conversations with friends about their children. But she made an exception for Zen Baby, counting her among her own personal ranks and cheering on milestones both extraordinary and mundane. She expressed as much joy and interest in Regan's first steps as she had at her successful debulking surgery. She truly cared about me and my daughter, and I cared about her.

Her death was not a surprise. Certainly by the end, every one who followed her blog knew that it was coming. Even before it got really bad, before she stopped posting because between the pain of her disease and the pain of its treatment, simply living life took so much effort that there was nothing left for publicly private reflection. Cancerbaby knew, and had accepted her fate. One of our last email exchanges was about this newfound attitude of peace she seemed to have found. She certainly wasn't willing to lay down and allow the cancer to claim her, but she had a calmness about the prospect of it. A feeling that she had made sense out of her journey and could see the end, one that wasn't what she had hoped for, but one that she thought she could accept for herself.

Cancerbaby's journey is done now. I do not have the words to express how saddened I am by that. But I feel priviledged that I was allowed to share in it along the way. She was an extraordinary woman, and she will be missed.

Comments

What a beautiful post. I'm so sorry your daughter has cancer.

hi kimberley. i've been reading your blog for a while now. and as a single mum in waiting, i ve got to say, you give me hope. i'm really sorry for your friend. and for your loss. hug. sheenu

I'm truely sorry for your loss, in our lives we are constantly meeting new people and losing loved ones. I like to think they add to our character and make us stronger. I wouldn't be the person I am today if it wasn't for a great family and friends that have helped and supported me all the way......... where one door closes, another opens.....

They say people drift into our lives for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. It seems that Cancerbaby was one of those rare friends that happened to be all three. I am deeply sorry for your loss and pray for Zenbaby's good health.

Wow! this is the first time I visited this site and had to comment. I cried through most of your letter, I seem to do a lot of crying lately, hormones, sadness, losing people I loved, remembering a time when I spent years in infertility clinics wanting and waiting to have a baby. The miracle is..... I have two teenage boys and as they leave to go with there dad I can not help but stop and be very very grateful. Thanks for a beautiful inspirational letter. God Bless you as you greive your loss of a special friend and her dreams of being a mom.

What a lovely tribute to your friend. Quite sad, as well. I lost my husband three years ago, I was 41 and he was 48. I have two great teenage boys but I cannot get over his passing. His family stays away which is fine by me since they never helped during his protracted illness. They call when they are having birthday parties,bridal showers, graduations, etc...One hand out as long as the other. Even with the antidepressant medicine, I am no longer happy. I don't know what to do, I cry all the time. I work 4 days a week and that helps somewhat...The hard part for me is that I am a doctor and I didn't help him as much as I should have, I miss him so much.

what a sensitive, compassionate, and absolutely beautiful tribute. i am a childless woman, but understand the love of children to and from, thank you for sharing, and may
god bless you and your zenbaby, i do hope you will continue here and allow us to keep up with you and zenbaby. my prayers and thoughts are with you.