I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
August 16, 2008
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As I sit here writing in Starbucks, an SUV pulls into the parking lot and a woman gets out. She’s wearing a kerchief over her bald head; the back of her SUV sports a magnetic pink ribbon.
With her help, three little girls come tumbling out of the car. They look to be about six, four and two. They’re going to the SuperCuts next door. I want to cry. I’m sitting here and I want to break down sobbing, because I feel so very deeply for that woman, for the fear that she must be living with, for the hopes and dreams she has for her daughters, for the fact that her girls have to learn what the words “cancer” and “chemotherapy” mean. I can’t know what she’s going through, but as a mom, I can imagine some of what she must be feeling.
I want to run outside, a well-meaning, bumbling stranger and ask what I can do to help. I want to offer meals, babysitting, you name it. I know that that’s impossible. Who would accept food or childcare from a total stranger?
Thanks to all the blogs out there, cancer has become all too real to me. I read on and on and on, holding my breath as one mother escapes cancer, another receives treatment for it, another dies from it. I hate cancer with all my heart, never more so than when it affects children or the parents of children. I feel such distress for that mom in the parking lot, it’s hard to even put it into words. How could I tell her that I know some of what she’s going through, even though I’ve never experienced it myself, because so many women living with cancer have gracefully and courageously opened up their minds and hearts to all of us on their blogs.
Thankfully, the mom seems to be having a good day. With a smile, she ably carries her youngest and holds her middle child’s hand while the oldest strides confidently ahead. Maybe she’s had good news. Maybe she will be cured and her hair will grow in even thicker and shinier than before and years from now, I’ll see her again, vibrant and healthy, and I won’t even recognize her as the mom who brought tears to my eyes once in a strip mall parking lot.
I hope so.
This post originally appeared on Parents.com.
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