Mother’s Love

crib mobile

I will never know a mother’s love. Let me be clear, because this is not about MY mother. For as long as I can remember, I knew that I did not want children. I did not have a single shred of desire to be a mother. I am sure that being a mother is great, in the same way that eating a raw onion and garlic salad would be just lovely for some people. I am not one of those people.

Motherhood never interested me in the slightest. For me, pregnancy seems unpleasant. I was accidently there at the moment my nephew was born, and I swear my ovaries jumped out of my belly button and ran away. I mean sure, not-so-baby nephew is adorable as are all of my nephews and nieces. But the single best part for me is that being an aunt means I can spoil them rotten, pack them full of Oreos and ice cream, and send them home. I love those kids, but they are not born of me.

Through this cancer journey, I’ve become aware of certain things that make me very lucky in unusual ways. I was already in a position where I had been permanently sterilized. I did not have any fertility to preserve or lose. When the social worker brought it up, I was almost dismissive, which probably seemed cold and insensitive, but I had just found out I had incurable brain cancer, and frankly, my uterus has always been more trouble than it was worth. Not only was I lucky that this was a non-issue for me, but as I became more involved in the cancer community, especially the young adult groups, my eyes were opened to a major emotional blind spot that I had simply never noticed. When I noticed this blind spot, I had a moment of despair, not for the children I would never have, but for the cancer survivors, my close friends, who I knew desperately wanted children and had the option ripped away from them, often literally cut out of their future. Inside of them lives the evil of cancer and the everflowing fountain of love for children who will only ever exist as tragic ghosts hiding in the deepest corners of regret.

I see my sisters and brother, and the neverending love they have for those children. They sacrifice, they give everything to make their children’s lives better every day, all night. I honestly don’t know that I could do that. Raising a family is hard, and knowing just how hard my own mother worked is humbling. Am I just too selfish to be a mother? Maybe some people just aren’t meant to be mothers. In the meantime, my cancer journey has revealed a special secret to me. Some people have that overflowing abundance of mother’s love. I have somehow been blessed to have acquired additional mothers over the past year. My friends’ mothers look out for me. They love and support me like I am one of their own. COVID quarantine keeps visits rare, but they reach out in a way that makes me feel the abundance of mother’s love. I will never know mother’s love as a mother, and although that makes me wonder what legacy I will leave behind, I know that there is so much love flowing from mothers that I never have to feel alone. To all of my mothers, near and far, I love you as only a daughter can.

– Melissa Mateo Blank

How would you respond to the writing prompt, the image of a crib mobile?

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This writing comes directly from one of our participants in our Unspoken Ink Creative Writing Group for young adult cancer survivors.  The participants met for 2 hours each week, for 8 weeks during our Spring 2020 session.  This writing has not been edited since its original creation, showing the wonderfully raw and powerful prose coming from the courageous writing group participants each week.  If you’d like to sign up for future sessions, please email info@lacunaloft.org or sign up on our interest form.

If Life Is A Bingo Game

bingo head

If life is a bingo game, I wish the bingo caller would stop calling out the angry ball.

I’m angry at the way the world is working.

I’m angry at myself for a million reasons.

I’m angry that I get so angry at myself.

I’m angry that I’ve wasted time on that anger.

I’m angry for expressing my anger, when it seems like there should and could have been another avenue for me to drive down.

I would love to wake up, splash water on my face, make myself a pot of coffee and feel delighted. When’s the last time you heard someone say “I’m delighted”? That would be delightful; an earnest contentment that sounds effortless but seems like so much hard work to achieve on most days. I would love to meet someone and be in awe of them and as they walk away, think out loud to myself “they are just a delight”.

If life is a bingo game and it feels like the bingo caller is calling out “miserable” all the time, maybe it is time to quit that job.

I would love to win a bingo game just once. The momentary rush of excitement. Quickly exclaiming BINGO!!! before someone beats me to it. Holy shit, that would just be a delight.

– Steve Heaviside

How would you respond to the writing prompt, the bingo emotions?

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This writing comes directly from one of our participants in our Unspoken Ink Creative Writing Group for young adult cancer survivors.  The participants met for 2 hours each week, for 8 weeks during our Spring 2020 session.  This writing has not been edited since its original creation, showing the wonderfully raw and powerful prose coming from the courageous writing group participants each week.  If you’d like to sign up for future sessions, please email info@lacunaloft.org or sign up on our interest form.

When The Dark Holds Onto You…

sunset darkness

Twisting and turning, angrily screaming no, you can’t have me

The blackness begins to creep up my body, crushing each rational thought and feeling

I don’t want to feel so broken, unsure, and so alone

Teetering on the edge of insanity

My head slowly starts spinning like Regan from the Exorcist

Wondering when did that feeling of emptiness and abandonment come into play

Is the darkness truly my only solace and support

– Megan-Claire Chase

 

Megan-Claire Chase (Warrior Megsie) is a 4-year breast cancer survivor in Atlanta, GA. She started her blog to highlight the struggles of being a young adult cancer patient/survivor and to advocate for better treatments and resources. She’s been a guest blogger for multiple cancer support sites in the US and UK including Lacuna Loft, LoveHope.co, Humor Beats Cancer. Her blog is syndicated on Cancer Health Magazine’s website. She has been interviewed on the vlog Brain Cancer Diaries on YouTube and on WATC TV Channel 57 to talk about breast cancer awareness for young adult cancer survivors. One of her biggest achievements was co-presenting an abstract on AYA perspectives on fertility preservation conversations with healthcare providers at the American Psychosocial Oncology Society conference in Atlanta, GA. The abstract was published in the Journal of Adolescent Health. Her cat Nathan (Natey) Edgar is her pride and joy. Check out more of her writing on her blog: Life On The Cancer Train.

I Look At The Ground Now

Peanuts cartoon strip

I look at the ground now.
I don’t dare lift my head too high.
There are cracks in the sidewalk,
Precariously placed rocks,
And gnarly roots waiting patiently
To trip me up.
I don’t want to be caught off guard.
The truth scrapes up my knees.
It’s cold, and it’s hard.

I look at the ground now.
I put all my weight
In this present moment.
I try to own it –
The place where my body
Connects to the earth.
I count out my footprints
Do they measure my worth?

I look at the ground
In case there isn’t a horizon.
I don’t want to know
That all my stars have fallen.
I don’t want to plan for a future
That might never be here.
I’ll just keep moving forward
Until the ground disappears.

I look at the ground
So I won’t stray from the path.
I know where I’m going,
And there is safety in that.

I look at the ground,
And it is broken and rough.
But I am here.
I am now.
Isn’t that enough?

– Laura P.

How would you respond to the writing prompt, of the Peanuts comic strip?

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This writing comes directly from one of our participants in our Unspoken Ink Creative Writing Group for young adult cancer survivors.  The participants met for 2 hours each week, for 8 weeks during our Spring 2019 session.  This writing has not been edited since its original creation, showing the wonderfully raw and powerful prose coming from the courageous writing group participants each week.  If you’d like to sign up for future sessions, please email info@lacunaloft.org or sign up on our interest form.

Not Broken. Not Mending.

sewing a scar closed tattoo

What if we started from the premise:
we are not broken.
we are not mending.

We are living through one day that just so happens to be nothing like the last.  We are crying tears few our age understand and grieving losses too old for our young years.

What if we started from the understanding:
we are not broken.
we are not fighting.

We are seeing glimpses into a world more complicated than might be.  Nursing wounds both inside and out.  We are learning to love and live in a way both profound and terrifying.

What if we start from the knowledge:
we are not broken.

There is nothing to fix, everything to lose, and everything to gain.  Just like before.

What if we start to tell ourselves:
we are not broken.

We are in process.  We are changing.  We are living in and through great hurt and compassion.

How would you respond to the writing prompt, a tattoo of a needle and thread sewing up a scar?

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This writing comes directly from one of our participants in our Unspoken Ink Creative Writing Group for young adult cancer survivors.  The participants met for 2 hours each week, for 8 weeks during our Winter 2018 session.  This writing has not been edited since its original creation, showing the wonderfully raw and powerful prose coming from the courageous writing group participants each week.  If you’d like to sign up for future sessions, please email info@lacunaloft.org or sign up on our interest form.

Your Task Is Not To Seek For Love…

rumi quote unspoken ink prompt

Am I unlovable?
Am I too different?
Am I too extra?
I wanted to start in my own rom-com and have someone fall head over heels for me.
Am I letting past hurts keep the wall up?
Am I not allowing myself to trust?
Am I too scared to be vulnerable?
Why is needing someone wrong? Why is wanting to feel needed so wrong?
Am I too set in my ways?
Am I too tainted to wear white?
Am I too hard to please?
I want that connection. I want to feel like I’ve come home.
Am I too sensitive?
Am I too zany?
Am I too clever?
Why is finding someone who can naturally banter and laugh so difficult? Is that saying in order to find love, you must love yourself first really true? Isn’t it more about timing and creating opportunities?
There is a heaviness to me that wasn’t there in the past. I now see that I will never be attracted to average or simple. I can’t connect with someone who hasn’t been through something earth shattering.
Am I asking too much?
Am I wanting too much?
Am I too much?

by Megan-Claire Chase

Megan-Claire Chase is a three-year breast cancer survivor in Atlanta, GA. She is a marketing project manager by day. In her spare time, she writes a blog called Life On The Cancer Train and is a published cancer blogger for Lacuna Loft, IHadCancer.com, CancerBro, Humor Beats Cancer, GRYT Health, WILDFIRE Magazine and Rethink Breast Cancer just to name a few. One of her biggest achievements in 2019 was co-presenting an abstract on AYA perspectives on fertility preservation conversations with healthcare providers at the American Psychosocial Oncology Society (APOS) conference in Atlanta. She also has cat named Nathan Edgar who is her pride and joy.

How would you respond to the writing prompt, Companion?

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This writing comes directly from one of our participants in our Unspoken Ink Creative Writing Group for young adult cancer survivors.  The participants met for 2 hours each week, for 8 weeks during our Spring 2019 session.  This writing has not been edited since its original creation, showing the wonderfully raw and powerful prose coming from the courageous writing group participants each week.  If you’d like to sign up for future sessions, please email info@lacunaloft.org or sign up on our interest form.

Be My Companion

companion poem

We know all about you.
Your reputation precedes you.
You’re a destroyer of the good and bad.
You cause permanent damage to the body.
You wrap us in poison and dip us in pain.
You stomp hard on any strength that desperately tries to hold on.
You kill cancer but wreak so much havoc along the way.
You’re not the partner we choose.
Your tango is too complicated.
We don’t want to remember these twirls and drags across the floor.
Leave us be.
Unfortunately, your sounds linger.
They echo in every room.
Your music makes beads of sweat pour down the face.
Hearts beat faster.
Pulse runs rapid.
No, take your moves to another dance company.
Your technique is barbaric.
It’s not welcomed.
There is no comfort in you.
Take your final bow chemo.
Your time in the spotlight has come to an end.

by Megan-Claire Chase

Megan-Claire Chase is a three-year breast cancer survivor in Atlanta, GA. She is a marketing project manager by day. In her spare time, she writes a blog called Life On The Cancer Train and is a published cancer blogger for Lacuna Loft, IHadCancer.com, CancerBro, Humor Beats Cancer, GRYT Health, WILDFIRE Magazine and Rethink Breast Cancer just to name a few. One of her biggest achievements in 2019 was co-presenting an abstract on AYA perspectives on fertility preservation conversations with healthcare providers at the American Psychosocial Oncology Society (APOS) conference in Atlanta. She also has cat named Nathan Edgar who is her pride and joy.

How would you respond to the writing prompt, Companion?

—

This writing comes directly from one of our participants in our Unspoken Ink Creative Writing Group for young adult cancer survivors.  The participants met for 2 hours each week, for 8 weeks during our Spring 2019 session.  This writing has not been edited since its original creation, showing the wonderfully raw and powerful prose coming from the courageous writing group participants each week.  If you’d like to sign up for future sessions, please email info@lacunaloft.org or sign up on our interest form.

What Is It Like To Carry A Child?

ovary supression

Lately, the song by Peter Gabriel “I grieve” from the movie “City of Angels” plays on repeat when I see babies, baby clothes, little kids, blasted strollers and families in general while at the store, the mall, freaking Cracker Barrel.

I have to almost step outside of myself in order to NOT have a breakdown. Though some days are better than others, I can’t seem to fully accept this permanent loss.

What hurts the most is I will never have anyone who looks like me or inherits the way I tilt my head when I’m pondering or laughs like me.

As an only child, I have always enjoyed my own company. My imagination is huge. Now I wish I didn’t have such a huge imagination because I keep imagining what a son or daughter might’ve looked like.

I tend to focus my grief of being medically induced into menopause on not having anyone to look like me because I grew up just knowing my mother’s side of the family. Thanks to divorce when I was two, I never met anyone on my father’s side until I was 35 years old.

I look nothing like my mother. I look nothing like her side of the family. I have struggled with that.

There is no one to carry on my name. It literally stops with me.

What is it like to actually carry a child? Thanks to cancer, I will never know.

by Megan-Claire Chase

How would you respond to the writing prompt, ‘Ovary Suppression’?

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This writing comes directly from one of our participants in our Unspoken Ink Creative Writing Group for young adult cancer survivors.  The participants met for 2 hours each week, for 8 weeks during our Summer 2018 session.  This writing has not been edited since its original creation, showing the wonderfully raw and powerful prose coming from the courageous writing group participants each week.  If you’d like to sign up for future sessions, please email info@lacunaloft.org or sign up on our interest form.

The Last Seven Days

poem the moment

Late in the spring, we shared a piece by Carol Anne responding to this same prompt…  Now read another submission by a writer in the Unspoken Ink summer session…

The nights had felt endless and so had the days.  The longest 8-minute phone call 18 months before was culminating in the longest, last 7 days.

Seven days of middle of the night meds.

Seven days of a constant stream of visitors.

Seven days of catch up phone calls.

Seven days of a beautiful, snowy world.

Seven days of ignoring the inevitable.

Seven days of silence.

Pills became syringes of liquids and creams.  People became so far away, emotional expanses opening up the already pronounced physical distances between us.  The world continued on outside in a ruthless veil of normalcy.  Nods and blinks turned into silence.

The topic we’d ignored crashed through the house.  It sloshed at our ankles and slowly rose up our legs, torsos, up to our noses.

I wanted to shout.  Hit the rewind button.  Ask all the questions I never knew I had and make space for the ones I hadn’t yet formed.

But then, all of a sudden, the seven days were over.

You were gone.

How would you respond to the writing prompt, ‘a moment’? “Everybody has a moment when you know nothing is going to be the same ever again, when one part of your life ends and another begins.  This is when you know that the changes, for better or worse are going to be coming hard and fast.  You’re on a roller coaster and all you can do is hope that your safety belt stays fastened and that you’ll come out in one piece.  These moments are what make us who we are, and I know I wouldn’t be quite me without mine.” 

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This writing comes directly from one of our participants in our Unspoken Ink Creative Writing Group for young adult cancer survivors.  The participants are meeting for 2 hours each week, for 8 weeks during our Summer 2018 session.  This writing has not been edited since its original creation, showing the wonderfully raw and powerful prose coming from the courageous writing group participants each week.  If you’d like to sign up for future sessions, please email info@lacunaloft.org or sign up on our interest form.

The Little Things

poem the moment

The little things are often bigger than we give them credit for. There’s triumph in getting out of bed and staying out of it all day. There’s dignity and strength in showing up to treatment each day. Taking a shower and getting dressed, making dinner, eating dinner. Each moment is a celebration, each day is a new triumph of existence and life. Some days my only accomplishment is feeding the cats. Some days it’s staying sane in the face of grief and the terror I feel waiting for the results of my next scans. Is it radiation necrosis? Is my brain being eaten by the radiation that killed off Larry (my tumor)? Has my cancer come back a third time? Breathing through each day and surviving daily life is cause for celebration. It’s the (big) little things that give meaning and hope to each day.

by Carol Anne Pagliotti

You can read more of Carol Anne’s writing at SoapBoxVille.

How would you respond to the writing prompt, ‘a moment’? “Everybody has a moment when you know nothing is going to be the same ever again, when one part of your life ends and another begins.  This is when you know that the changes, for better or worse are going to be coming hard and fast.  You’re on a roller coaster and all you can do is hope that your safety belt stays fastened and that you’ll come out in one piece.  These moments are what make us who we are, and I know I wouldn’t be quite me without mine.” 

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This writing comes directly from one of our participants in our Unspoken Ink Creative Writing Group for young adult cancer survivors.  The participants are meeting for 2 hours each week, for 8 weeks during our Summer 2018 session.  This writing has not been edited since its original creation, showing the wonderfully raw and powerful prose coming from the courageous writing group participants each week.  If you’d like to sign up for future sessions, please email info@lacunaloft.org or sign up on our interest form.