Nectar of Life

Cancer strikes again. Another sarcoma another loved one taken well before their time. This time, my poor sweet 5 year and almost 7 month (just 4 days shy) dog Rico had to be put down last week due to osteosarcoma, bone cancer. The keystone of our small family, gone and with him all sense of family -- leaving a large sense of emptiness in our huge home and hearts. Tom and I got Rico together when he was just 3 months old from a shelter, and immediately he became an integral part of our lives. With him we learned what it meant to be a family and what unconditional love felt like -- how even when Rico was a total monster we couldn't help but love him. He was diagnosed with osteosarcoma in January 2017 and spent most of his time doing well, until basically the past couple of weeks that were a downward spiral. It was really hard to notice the differences since we basically spend 24-7 all together (thanks to working from home and being super lame homebodies). But looking back it was

A recent post on facebook about a couple's fight against breast cancer reminded me of so much my family went through during my mother's fight against lyposarcoma. While looking through the pictures and watching the videos, a flood of memories and emotions washed over me. I felt the sadness, uncertainty, fear, and determination in the woman's expression and couldn't help but see my mother's image.  Disease has a funny way of snapping us into reality--reminding us that we are mere mortals and that life is fleeting.  Right now I am facing my own health battle. In mid December I was diagnosed with ulcerative colitis, a type of chronic inflammatory bowl disease where the lining of my colon is essentially self-destructing. Upon being diagnosed, I had this flash back to the moment when I first found out that my mom had cancer. The shock, the questions, and anger. What was this disease? How long would I live? As a chronic illness how would it change my life forever? W

This mother's day marks the beginning of a completely new tradition. In years past, my family and I would get together and have brunch at Black Market Bistro or cook up a delicious Spanish late lunch. The years that I was abroad, I would call home wishing my Carmencita a happy mother's day, making sure that Jose and Daniel were treating her to an amazing mother's day. A few years ago we started the tradition of gardening the day away. Years ago when I was younger, my brother and I would wake up early and make her breakfast in bed-- a random assortment of foods carefully brought to her on a tray that she would happily eat, with our help of course. This year is different. The duality of time never ceases to amaze me, how it can simultaneously feel so long and so short. It has been 133 days since you left us. Those 133 days feel like so long ago, so long since I heard your voice, felt your touch, saw you. Sometimes it feels like you are slipping away, like I can't rem

2011 was a roller coaster of year with amazing highs and depressing lows. It all began with my four month adventure around the world with one of my best friends followed by a month long vacation with my boyfriend. This adventure had been almost a year in the making, and after quitting my job in January I was off to experience the world. During my travels however,  unbeknownst  to me for the most part, my mom was fighting her battle against cancer for fourth time since she had originally been diagnosed six years ago. Looking back at those months now after my mother's passing, I of course wish I had been able to be there with her, helping her with her fight. It's hard not to think that maybe if I had been there with her, things would have gone differently. I know that if I had decided to stay and not go on my travels, Carmen would have been upset and disappointed in me for passing up such an amazing once in a lifetime experience, especially since she had been the one who had a

I remember us a year ago, sitting around our table after spending hours in the kitchen cooking up a feast. We sat there holding hands, giving thanks for a year of health and love. This year was different. You weren't there with your bright smile and twinkling eyes to tell us through your thick Spanish accent what you were thankful for this year. Though you weren't there, I knew you were there looking over us, your family, being thankful for our health and love.  Of course we all missed you, I know you would have had a blast at Thanksgiving this year with Tom's family, but I still feel like you were there with us. Though you aren't around to read this, I just wanted to let you know what I am thankful for. I am thankful for you, and all the years that I was able to spend with you. I am thankful that there is so much of you that I see in myself. I am thankful for everything you have taught me, and how you have shaped who I have and will become. I am thankful for your

Today was hard--living through the pain of good bye all over again. This time it was so much more real. When it first happened, it was all so sudden, all so surreal. She had been dead just over a day or so. All of my emotions then were suppressed by this layer of shock. Today, everything was all too real. Everything that happened had settled over time and her absence had become all too apparent. I walked into this familiar church, a church that I had know as a child from my summers in Spain--the last time I had been there was for my first communion. I was surrounded by my extended family, many strangers who had grown up with my mother, and our close Dutch friends, Rob and Dory, who had moved back to the Netherlands. As I sat there next to my dad, brother and mom's sister, I felt the reality of her death, her complete absence. It was a beautiful ceremony, my dad gave a very touching speech about their story. This time I could not push back the tears that came trickling out. Much lik