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Wednesday, June 29, 2011

The ties that bind.

I have not always been a good friend. In fact, I would say that I have been fairly selfish at points in my life and unable to relate to grave situations that my friends were in. I would stick it out until my emotions went past a comfort level I deemed acceptable before I responded in the only way I knew how.

retreat.

My close friend in college, Lauren, was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer as we were moving into our Senior Year apartment together. She had to move back home while the other three roommates got used to the fact that one of our party was missing, for all the wrong reasons, as she battled aggressive, progressive and every possible form of treatment back home in Boston.

Times like these can bring out the best in people... or they can bring out the worst. In our situation, while the three remaining roommates were all good solid people in our own right, the weight of the situation coupled with other key transition points in our own lives created a really shitty and unsupportive environment as we all struggled to make sense out of what was happening.

We found ourselves arguing about inane things. We would gossip when there was no place for gossip and create alliances (easy to do when there is an odd dynamic of women), leaving the third one out. It was so "Survivor-esque before any such show existed, and while we may have been battling the gentrified battles of UVA, knowing one of our own was battling an obstacle with odds of survival so low, we should have been above that. This news we received the day before we went down to school hit us like a ton of bricks that none of us expected our 4th year of school.

I can't say that it didn't make sense that I ended up being the odd man out that first semester - I was going through a myriad of my own issues and was very self-absorbed. I will admit that, though I can't say that I was the cause of all of it. However, there came a point where a series of misunderstandings lead to this imbalance in the house and I just felt better off alone. So a cycle was created and communication reached new lows for all of us.

When Lauren returned second semester, dedicated to beat her prognosis and battle her cancer so she could graduate - a weight was lifted in our apartment, but not for long. Things continued to bubble beneath the surface and while we tried to shield Lauren from the tensions that had been growing in her absence, we did a shitty job of hiding it and she was more than aware.

When school ended that year, I could not run fast away from the University that I had adored from afar and that I had embraced with so much might when I entered its grounds 4 years earlier. Me, a little Indian girl from NJ who made it to Thomas Jefferson's center of excellence had kicked some ass for sure. I should have been proud. Instead, there was a stain on my soul and the experience I just couldn't wash clean - I needed to leave.

After graduation, we moved up to Arlington, VA. Lauren moved back home with her family in Boston. My ex-roommates (continued to live together still) remained friends and settled a few miles from me in Arlington, but our relationship had become so strained and I was neither mature enough or strong enough at the time to address it.

So I did neither.

At a time where I should have said, "Screw it. Let it go," I instead was proudly holding on to my place as a victim, in a situation where there was no place for a victim.

Because really, the only victim was Lauren and she never, ever acted like one. Not once.

And I started to avoid Lauren because of her ties with my ex-friends, pretending it was for selfless reasons. When she came to visit - I excused myself, saying I didn't want her to be caught up in our drama. It was best if I just disappeared and allowed her to seek comfort with them.

I ignored the other two if I saw them downtown. I would pretend I didn't see them as our hands accidentally brushed over the same sweater in Banana Republic. They did the same, but it didn't make me happy and it wasn't something I was proud of.

In 1999, I was told by a friend that Lauren had passed away and had succumbed to cancer. I was told that one of my ex-roommates wanted to get in touch with me but didn't know if I wanted to be reached.

I called her that same day. She picked up her end of the line.

"Rachel? It's me. Kiran." The phone was quiet and I was certain she was ready to hang up ...

"Hi. I am so glad you called me."

"What happened? How was she in the end? Was she in pain? What was...?" The tears started rolling down my face and Rachel answered all my questions as best as she could.

My questions were endless.

Rachel could have used this time to tell me what a coward I was. Instead she told me everything about Lauren's last few months and her ultimate rejection of later treatment so that she could live her last few days without needles and any more pain than her little body could bear.

While Rachel and I had lost touch on so many levels, one of the kindest things that she ever did to me was say that Lauren had picked pictures of her friends and family that she wanted to be buried with.

"Kiran, you were in two of her pictures. She did not have many. She always knew you loved her. She understood."

I don't know if that was the biggest load of crock from my former friend, semi-former frenemy and now borderline savior, but I took it that day.

We can't change the past. We CAN change our future. I feel that I failed Lauren at a time when she just needed constant love and support should have said, "grow a pair" to my own discomfort at the situation.

I will tell you this. There are days, where I think I am a pretty crappy friend to the Carmicals. I don't always know what to say or how to comfort them and I feel like maybe I am not the best to give advice, especially when I was tested before and failed, failed failed so freaking miserably.

But I try - and sometimes that just means accepting quiet silences, drinking a glass of wine and enjoying the sunset together or watching our children run us ragged while still keeping each other laughing.

I think of Lauren's smile and I believe she knew what was in my heart though I feel I failed her. And for the angel she was, I have to bless her heart and take that as my own inspiration.

I will NEVER retreat again. Journey4acure.org is my journey now. It is not just for Declan or the other children I mention every day. It is for my beautiful friend who still haunts my dreams every so often with her long flowing brown hair and gorgeous grey eyes and all the serenity in the world.

She was a child when she developed cancer, at the point they detected it, she had been living with colon cancer since she was 14 or 15 given the rate of metastasis. She used to joke with the 1 in a million odds she had to get this, why hadn't she tried a tad bit harder to have tried to play the lottery, with potentially better odds. After all - couldn't it work both ways?

Lauren is one of the lost children and she is part of my journey.

Lauren if you can hear me in any way, I love you old friend, and can never forget your smile. I still think of you often. Please comfort Declan if you see him and all the others who are gone too young. Tell them that they are still so very loved.

As are you.

Love,
Kiran

Monday, June 20, 2011

Broken.

It was a fairly unremarkable day last year, in August 2010. Like most days in August in Northern Virginia, the humidity was palpable and I had retreated for cover in our home, deliberating whether to just go through with it. Not wanting to think about it any longer, I pressed my foot down on the garbage can and threw the stupid thing away before I could vacillate any longer.

A few minutes later, John walked into the kitchen and got out some orange juice from the frig. He stepped on the garbage can to throw out a wrapper. I knew what he was going to say before the words were even out.

He looked up at me. "Did you throw away the..?"
"Yes," I said, before he could get the words out.
He looked dumbfounded. "Why?"
"It was broken." I said.
"Broken?" he asked, fairly dubiously.
"Yes. Broken." My tone must have implied that I didn't want to talk about it anymore, because he let it go.

Our baby video monitor, which we had spent so many hours of our lives losing sleep over as we watched out children NOT sleep at night, was finally being retired as it lay in our kitchen trash.

(August 2009) One year earlier . . .

I was reaching my 36 week mark of my second pregnancy. I was on bedrest, exhausted and still extremely jealous of all the women who wore their pregnancies with so much more grace than I ever seemed to pull off. I was never one of those women who could wear stilettos till the moment of delivery.

After the second trimester, I have historically been more of a Crocs kind of girl.

Across the street, my friend Sherri is one of those graceful women. Pregnant with twins, she was due a few weeks after me. On hot summer days, I would find myself outside, sitting in front of her house as our then two year olds would cavort in the inflatable swimming pool and water slide she still had the energy to set up.. Exhausted from just watching her do so much labor, I would retire on a chair beside her and admire my cankles and talked about missing beer and cold cuts and sushi - what seemed like such great sacrifices to us at that moment in time. We did not even pretend that I could keep up with her and I tried not to feel too guilty as she kept up with our older kids.

We talked about our deliveries, our doctors, how much fun it was going to be for all of our kids to grow up on this cul-de-sac, the lasting friendship we hoped our children would have together in this neighborhood. A neighborhood that feels more like family and good friends than just people who share houses on the same road.

I went into labor shortly after, and Nico was four weeks early.

John, Nico and me

Everything went well until at 5 days old, we had to bring Nico back to the hospital where he was diagnosed with spinal meningitis. Our world had been turned upside down for the five days we spent in the hospital and I made so many promises and prayed so hard to a God I very fickly admit to believe in.

Since I was raised Hindu, I thought I would leverage the plural use of God(s) in this case since more could not hurt.

When we returned from the hospital, it was not long after that Sherri gave birth to her twin boys, Cole and Declan. It was truly a joyous time for all of us.

Sherri, Cole and Declan

Night Vision

At night, I would watch Nico very closely in his crib over the video monitor. Given the fear I had of almost losing him during that early reality check we had in the hospital, I was overly cautious and perhaps a bit more connected to the video monitor than I hoped to be.

I lay in bed and would just watch him, sometimes just to make sure I could detect movement or hear the reassuring coos he would make.

The monitor, at this point, was two years old, already put to heavy use with our eldest, Shaila. It would sometimes do some random things. You would be watching your kid flopping around in their crib and suddenly see it cut out to another crib or bed before switching back.

These moments were infrequent, but they did happen.

I let most of our neighbors who had kids know about this freaky video camera/channel thing, just to make sure they were aware. Nobody reported having any issues on their end with their video monitors.

But over time, things got a little less clear on our monitor. It would switch out more frequently and the image of our own child became more blurry when it was focused on Nico.

When I would sleep at night, I would often go to bed looking at the fuzzy video of Nico. As I drifted in and out of sleep, the picture would somehow switch to Cole and Declan, sleeping wrapped as two brothers who knew the comfort of each others' heartbeats.

I was no longer disturbed by these video "interruptions."

Until the larger, unexpected interruption occurred with our lives.

Declan was diagnosed with cancer. AT/RT, a rare brain tumor.

I tossed and turned many nights those months. The video camera would hold still on Nico and had increased the frequency of its "switches." I would often catch a image of Cole sleeping alone in his bed, no longer with the comfort of his best friend. These glimpses were for a few seconds, but I would lay in bed, unable to sleep.

Unable to breathe, it felt.

Where was Declan sleeping tonight? How was the family doing? How much longer would all four brothers in this family need to be apart?

Deep breath.

Fast Forward.

May.
June.
July.
August.

In August, a few months that felt like a lifetime later, our Au Pair, Fe, complained about the monitor as well.

And that was it. I could go and hug Nico a few rooms over. I did not need that monitor anymore. I would never have that stolen image again.

The day I realized for real, in my heart, that Declan would not be coming home was the day I threw out the video monitor. I could no longer bear to see it.

I could no longer bear to ACCEPT what I would no longer see.

This takes me to my conversation in the kitchen with John in the kitchen in August 2010, just days short of Declan's passing.

"Broken?" John asked.
"Yes. Broken."

****************************************************************************************

Please help us fix this. That video monitor is gone along with the smile of a boy I loved. But we can fix this.

Vote.

Journey 4 a Cure with us.

Yours,
Kiran
(Masala Chica)

Vivint is giving away $1.25 Million to charities. Help us win!


Sunday, June 19, 2011

A Journey

This blog has gone through an identity crisis since I started it.

This is not to be confused with any loss of identity or confusion on the part of its owner.

Nope. None whatsoever.

I was very obviously on the "mommy blog" track when I initially started. Then I started to pepper in my Indian heritage, making it more of a "mommy blog with some curry." Then I kind of ranted and raved about whatever pissed me off that day (this can still occur, though I try to reel it in).

And then last year, everything changed.

Everything.

As a result, I changed. This blog changed. My focus changed.

Things that seemed important, no longer seemed that way to me. Things that previously seemed like the largest injustice didn't piss me off quite so much anymore, and things that I may have overlooked in the past now mattered to me in a new and re-defining way.

I guess death does that to you . . . . :(

I know that some of you have read about my posts on Declan Carmical, a young boy who lived on our street and succumbed to cancer just days before his first birthday. The journey our good friends, the Carmicals, have taken since the day Declan was diagnosed at four months of age and the long climb they face to bring awareness and support to pediatric cancer has been an emotionally uplifting, inspiring and amazing thing . . .

. . . While simultaneously being emotionally draining, discouraging and completely overwhelming.

And the thing is, I am just a friend of a family that has to deal with this every day. To see what my friends have gone through while still maintaining focus, dedication and passion to fight pediatric cancer is a truly humbling thing.

To realize that there is not ONE Declan, but so many more has been a huge punch in the gut. To hear stories of children like Aiden, Taylor, Brooke, Carson, Shea, Evy and TOO, TOO many others - who are bravely battling cancer makes me want to mobilize and move my butt in gear to do something.

But I just can't move fast enough. And for someone who hates to ask for help, this is one of those times where I really, really need to shout from the rooftops that your help is needed.

Statistics are hard to look at. They are even harder to believe. And they give a whole new perspective to where our children might be most vulnerable.

Reality: Pediatric Cancer is the #1 disease related killer of children in the United States.

Reality: Only 1 drug has been approved by the FDA in the last 30 years to fight pediatric cancer. In comparison to the 50 medications approved for adult cancers in the same time span, we are looking at a truly crippled treatment process for children.

Harsher Reality: Childhood cancer research is not only underfunded, but funding has declined.

WHY?

Really, really crappy reality: It's a numbers game. With children cancer comprising only 5% of all cancer diagnoses annually, pharmaceutical companies don't see a business case to fund treatment research.

No family should hear the words, there is no known cure.

For any disease.

Sadly, too many parents will have to hear those words in our lifetime if we don't mobilize.

Journey 4 a Cure is dedicated to seeing beyond the business case and working to build a case around the lives of families that need the research, that are praying for their children, and who are bravely fighting the odds to keep their journey going.

This post is a request to help Journey 4 a Cure to meet their goals. Ways you can help:

1) Vote for Journey 4 A Cure every day on the Vivint project page. Vivent will be giving 1.25 million dollars to worthwhile causes, and we are trying to win our regional grand prize of $250,000 - 100% of the proceeds will go towards pediatric cancer research if we win.

2) Did I mention voting EVERY day? Oh yeah. I think so. Please keep it going until August 27th. This is only one day after Declan's birthday (and his twin Cole's birthday). What an amazing thing that would be to see as we celebrate Declan and Cole's second birthday . . .


4) Would you post the project in your facebook status? I cannot stress how much winning this money would do towards the fight against pediatric cancer.

5) Hug your kids. Love them. And pray that they never have to face cancer or any other disease that can rob them of the youth they all so deserve.

6) Beyond praying, please join us in our journey. Even if its just a vote.

We journey. Every day.

And we will journey however long it takes.

Thank you for your support.

Humbly Yours,
Masala Chica (Kiran . . .)

Vivint is giving away $1.25 Million to charities. Help us win!
 

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