What's in Your Glass?

"How heavy is this glass of water?"

Perhaps you are familiar with the story of the professor of a stress management class who stands before his students holding a glass of water, and then asks how heavy that glass is. They shout out answers, guessing a wide range of estimated weights. The professor laughs, and then informs the class that the absolute weight doesn't matter. What's important is how long the glass is held.

"If I hold it for a minute, that's not a problem.
If I hold it for an hour, I'll have an ache in my arm.
If I hold it all day, you'll have to call an ambulance.
In each case, it's the same weight,
but the longer I hold it the heavier it becomes."

This story was used to illustrate the burden of long-held stress, followed by the advice to put the glass down for a while to give oneself a break before the weight of it all becomes too heavy to bear, with the gentle reminder ~

"Don't worry, it will be there when you come back."

When Erin was undergoing treatment at Loyola, a very wise one there reminded me of the tale, and used it to illustrate the burden of holding the glass of cancer. She pulled this story out of a pocket that ran deep with experience in dealing with surviving the emotional torture of cancer-the-disease. She was so good at diffusing the mind games that living with cancer so consistently imposes upon its victims. On the one hand, there were the cold hard facts of the disease; what it was doing to Erin physically, the treatment that was required, side-effects, etc. But topping those unavoidable certainties were the crazy mind races that threatened our sanity, as we were constantly tempted to venture into the land of what-if, where the list of things I worried about was a mile long. And so often, it was the mind game of "Does this symptom mean something or nothing, or will she get sick when her counts bomb?" that made my arm ache faster than the list of concrete facts.

This person reminded me that life could not be all Ewing's sarcoma. Yes, Erin was sick. Yes, she had to go to chemo - a LOT. But, I was urged to look at everything else that was out there in the world. By participating fully in the mind torture of single-focused cancer insanity, I was robbing myself of living in and enjoying the moment, and today's moments will eventually become tomorrow's memories. Did I want to look back on the days and picture only the disease and the treatment? No, I REALLY didn't. So I slowly learned to put the weighted glass down for a spell, let some of the worry go and focus on the good that was before me. And there was SO MUCH good!


Living day-to-day in spite of the fact that cancer had the potential to begin crawling through Erin again at any time, or going into a state of near-denial once it actually did progress in order to grab all the good stuff out there anyway, became the goal. She looks darn good in the prom picture above. There was "stuff" going on that few knew about. Fooled you!

There were many times though, when fear took over, and I began flapping in all-out panic mode. Because this wise one had worked in the crazy cancer world for nearly thirty years, she'd acquired the confidence to be able to walk up to me and say, "Mary, give me the glass. I will hold it for you. Just give it to me. I'll take the responsibility for a short time." At times, the act of putting down the glass through my own free-will was too overwhelming, so it was a relief to be able to release just a teeny bit of the burden into her capable hands, and I relaxed a little in the comfort of knowing it was taken and then held by someone who cared so deeply for my child. It was still faithfully there after my brief respite.

As Erin grew bolder in her cancer-world surroundings, she developed the ability to pick it up herself, or absolutely insisted on taking it from me in certain situations. It's an amazing and humbling thing to witness your child gaining the confidence to cheat a bit, and take a few small sips out of the glass of such an intimidating foe, in the attempt to lighten the absolute weight you have to hold.

Shhh - no one's looking!

Things changed dramatically last December, and I now walk while holding the glass of grief. The contents of this glass have a different consistency than the child-with-cancer one. The glass I held when Erin was sick usually became heavier within a shorter period of time because it was always a cocktail blend of the two of us. Because she was my child, I struggled to lift her burdens and fears as well as my own. In spite of her insistence to hold some herself or the willingness of others to take some on, I know I constantly stealth-carried her on some level, unable to help myself, with my innate mother-instinct never fully suppressed. It's just what moms do. There are no longer two of us suffering. It's only me, and I'm willing to take that on knowing she's at peace, and that fact actually lightens the initial absolute weight of the glass somewhat.

My grief glass is an intoxicating blend of memories ~ the beautiful and the ugly. I work hard to swirl the liquid so that the beauty rises to the top and the loathsome particles sink naturally to the bottom due to their overwhelming density. Unfortunately, much of the ugliness is clinging with stubborn buoyancy to the surface because that is what the most-recent memories of Erin look like ~ the disease having its way with her physically. I will carry ALL of it with me for the rest of my days. It will NEVER go away. I don't want it to. I just hope the freshness of the physical effects of the disease softens with time ~ to allow me to see Erin's health and beauty in shining prominence, with enough traces of ugliness left to allow understanding of, empathy toward and continued desire to help others in my shoes.

Because my glass no longer carries the unrelenting anxiety or the but-I-need-to-carry-Erin ingredients, I have a somewhat easier time setting it down and walking away for short periods of time. I wrote a post in March that details some of the contents of the glass in my hand. Click on To Wait is Often Harder for the recipe, though there are a few secret ingredients I will only divulge to certain family members:)

In that post I mentioned my new-found ability to become blissfully numb in situations. Little by little, I'm learning protection mechanisms that work for me to alleviate the suffocating sadness on the more challenging days. I'm also getting really good at plastering a smile on my face in social settings and telling people I'M FINE, when I sometimes have the really overwhelming urge to say SHITTY THANKS! And you? I can hide in the house with the best of them when necessary, but I really do try very hard to get out there and engage in life. I think I've done pretty well so far.

Due to my rather unique situation, I present a challenge to some who don't quite know what to do with me. I get that. Being a friend to someone whose child has died and is living every parent's worst nightmare is an unfathomable and uncomfortable situation for most. It's a brave soul who has the guts to take the initiative, to walk into my crazy world and say, "Give me the glass Mary. Tell me about Erin. Talk to me about what it feels like to watch your child die. I'll listen to the good and the ugly, the pride and the terror. Or don't talk, just cry if you want. Tell me only what you want. Do you need to fall to the floor in a heap? Have at it! I'll hold your hand while you do. I'll pick up your snotty kleenex. It doesn't scare me."

I tend to be a pretty self-reliant person who has a difficult time imposing my baggage on other people, so I don't often ask for help. I swallow it down in front of others or erupt in the company of Dave. And I take a lot of walks with Keenan or bury my head in his bountiful mane. Every time I do that, I feel a little "twist" of Erin flow into me, like the kick from a glass of cold Pepsi.

I'm good here, mom.


I'm thirsty. Hit me with another sip, will you Erin?