The Warrior

Have you ever known that one person who seemingly has it all? Great looks, winning smile, hilarious, talented, always positive, tons of friends, awesome husband, adorable kids ..... ugggghhh.

I first admired her from afar. She was that crazy mom who came sprinting up to the elementary school to pick up her kid just as the bell rang - usually wearing spandex workout capris, a tank top with some inspirational workout saying on it and a brightly colored bandana covering her vibrant auburn hair - yes, always the bandana. Her constant smile and laugh was infectious, and when her son ran up to meet her, it was apparent that this was probably the best moment of her whole day.

I was intimidated and envious - and I wished I could be her friend.

I discovered that as a fitness instructor, she was vigilant about having a healthy body - not a skinny body - but a healthy, strong body, and wanted nothing more than to wrangle others into jumping on the exercise bandwagon with her. I saw friends and admirers flood her Facebook page with comments when she announced the next time she'd be teaching, and her after-class selfies dripped with genuine praise for her students for "crushing it" once again.

She chose a vegetarian lifestyle, which may have been somewhat of a point of contention with her husband, who is maybe not quite as health-conscious as she. But in a style that is true to them as a couple, they poked fun at it by creating a hilarious video called, "My Wife's a Vegetarian" - her husband on guitar and both of them on vocals - it's probably out there on YouTube somewhere.

As I got to know her better, I realized that this woman has a HUGE circle of friends - and not just fair-weather friends. Real friends - like from childhood, high school, college ... all over the United States - and they all adore her. She is quick to love them back; in fact, I've never met anyone who is so filled with love for her husband, her children, her family and her friends. Her gift is her love, which is evident for anyone close to her. She will tear up talking about her magnificent husband, her kids who are growing up way too fast, her incredibly supportive parents and her veritable treasure trove of friends.

All that said, somehow, some way, I got this amazing woman to be my friend - and finally realized what all the fuss was about. She DOES have it all. Great looks, winning smile, hilarious, talented, always positive, tons of friends, awesome husband, adorable kids ...

And cancer. She also has cancer.

It was no secret she was a survivor of breast cancer - every year she celebrated her cancerversary - the fifth year being the big one - and she was an avid participant in Race for the Cure - the running part, of course - did I mention she's a runner? Surviving cancer got her into fitness. Surviving cancer caused her to change her eating habits. Surviving cancer made her realize even moreso what was really important. Surviving cancer made her outlook on life such that she considered every single day a gift.

She was told years ago that she was at her one child max. Ten years after her son was born, she went to CVS and bought a six pack of beer and a pregnancy test - and eight months later, a beautiful, free-spirited replica of her came into this world. In my mind, it was because the universe realized that the world needs more people like her - so they made one.

We laughed at the fact that she was "starting over" - having kids 10-plus years apart. We adored the spunkiness of her daughter - "just like her", her mother proclaimed - and the baby pictures prove it. We were envious at how she so quickly reclaimed her post-baby body. True to form, the woman went through pregnancy and those baby years like it was a walk in the park - now, we all know it wasn't, but you know what I mean. She did it all like a warrior.

A warrior.

She did everything like a warrior.

She does everything like a warrior.

The cancer is back, and she's a motherf*cking warrior.

She continued to teach the fitness classes despite the chemotherapy. She lost her hair and dyed it red. She takes bets on how much fluid will be drained from her swollen tummy. Her posts about her progress are blunt and full of her unique humor: "My liver is being an asshole but if I can get it to cooperate I'll be the mayor of healthytown!" She is fighting, reminding me of one of her favorite phrases of recent years - "Nevertheless, she persisted."

Never in my life have I known someone as inspirational, as vigilant, as strong and as superhumanly powerful as this woman I am so incredibly humbled to call my friend. She is the epitome of a true warrior - and as her friend, I am so privileged to be a part of her extensive, worldwide army that has been assembling itself since the day she was born. I have never seen a more supportive, generous, caring "tribe" - as she calls us all - who I honestly think would do ANYTHING for her. I know I would, and I do not have the longevity that most of her friends have with her.

I know at times she feels weak. At times she's so tired. If she only knew that even when she feels tired and weak, she is still stronger than so many of us. I KNOW she knows that when she feels tired and weak, she still has us - her army - her tribe - supporting her, loving her and STILL being inspired by her every single day.

Here's the thing. You cannot have someone like her walking this earth without acknowledging her amazingness - in fact, we should be shouting it from the rooftops. She should be on a poster somewhere with an arrow pointing to her that says, "WE NEED MORE PEOPLE LIKE THIS." There needs to be a "How to be a Warrior" class - and she needs to teach it.

Make no mistake, here - she was a warrior before cancer, but she's in the fight of her life right now, and I think every member of her tribe feels helpless. We can stand by her side with our arrows and swords, but in the end it is the lead warrior who does the most fighting - it is her battle. If forming a circle around her to shelter her from the blows of this disease would keep her safe, we'd do it. If finding some way to defeat this enemy for her was within our powers, we'd have done it yesterday. If there was a way to bottle her strength, spirit and determination and give it out as a cure, we'd do it tomorrow.

We'd do it - for our warrior.

Update: Our Warrior, Amy Poirier Bjornstad, passed peacefully at home surrounded by her loved ones on Tuesday, March 27th, three days after this post was written. Rest now, my love.

Help a warrior; be a warrior. Give to the Jimmy V Foundation and let's get a victory over cancer.

What Will Matter

Today was my mom's funeral. 

I don't have the wherewithal to write anything prolific at this time, but wanted to share the words that she requested be read by a family member today during the Mass. That family member was me, and it was hard to get through it, but I think it's profound enough and important enough to share. 

Hug your families tight tonight. Don't let petty grievances get in the way of your love and loyalty toward each other. In the end, it's your family who will matter, as well what you give of yourself to this world while you're here. This Mom knew.

What Will Matter

Ready or not, some day it will all come to an end.
There will be no more sunrises, no minutes, hours or days.
The things you collected, whether treasures or forgotten, 

will pass to someone else.

Your wealth, fame and temporal power will shrivel to irrelevance.

It will not matter what you owned or what you were owed.

Your grudges, resentments, frustrations and jealousies will finally disappear.

So too, your hopes, ambitions, plans and to-do lists will expire.
The wins and losses that once seemed so important will fade away. 
It won’t matter where you came from 

or what side of the tracks you lived on at the end.

It won’t matter whether you were beautiful or brilliant.
Even your gender and skin color will be irrelevant. 

So what will matter? How will the value of your days be measured?

What will matter is not what you bought but what you built,
Not what you got but what you gave.

What will matter is not your success but your significance.
What will matter is not what you learned but what you taught. 

What will matter is every act of integrity, compassion, courage or sacrifice that enriched, empowered or encouraged others to emulate your example.

What will matter is not your competence but your character.

What will matter is not how many people you knew,
But how many will feel a lasting loss when you’re gone. 

What will matter is not your memories, 

but the memories of those who loved you.
What will matter is how long you will be remembered, 

by whom and for what. 

Living a life that matters doesn’t happen by accident.

It’s not a matter of circumstances but of choice.
Choose to live a life that matters. 

-Michael Josephson

The Cross

My dad is, among many wonderful things, a woodworker. He’s created some pretty amazing pieces in his time. Specifically for my boys and me, a large wooden toy box that can later convert to a coffee table, a replica of an ice chest with custom brass latches, an oak mantle clock, and a Noah’s Ark, complete with intricately-carved animals. “Two of each,” he explained, “except the rabbits – because they multiply.”

And that’s just stuff for me. The entire list is endless – duck decoys, banks made from old post office boxes that he gives to grandkids for 8^th grade graduation – complete with an embedded penny from their birth year, a china hutch for my sister, a grandfather clock for my brother, a scaled replica of a house for Habitat for Humanity (that was about 300 labor hours.) And I’m sure I’m forgetting many, many others. 

Each project has its own story, its own amazing features, and its own labor of love by a man known for his perfection, patience, skill and talent. But perhaps the most touching – the most powerful wooden treasure he’s created – is a small, wooden cross. 

We’re not quite sure of the inspiration. We think it was Mom, who is of course the source of many of his brainstorms (aka “I want you to make this for me.”) Story has it she either saw a small cross or wanted a small cross that would fit in her hand. So he got to work, finding just the right wood for just the right-sized cross, sanding it down and staining it with a rustic hue – just for her.

At some point, one of their friends became ill, and Mom thought she might benefit from having the comfort of one of Dad’s crosses. In turn, she found a poem to go along with the token, and typed it up on a small card to accompany it. 

The Weaver

My Life is but a weaving
between my Lord and me;
I cannot choose the colors
He worketh steadily.
 

Oft times He weaveth sorrow
And I, in foolish pride,
Forget He sees the upper,
And I the under side. 

Not til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly,
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.

The dark threads are as needful
In the Weaver's skillful hand, 

As the threads of gold and silver

in the pattern He has planned.

He knows, He loves, He cares,
Nothing this truth can dim.
He gives His very best to those
Who leave the choice with Him.

Over time, the small wooden cross and poem became a symbol of comfort for select friends in need, and Dad carved an assortment of woods and styles. At one point, I requested a cross for myself during a difficult time in my life. Mom brought out the box and said, “You have to pick the one that feels the most comfortable in your hand.” I chose a dark wood with a beautiful grain – “the expensive wood,” my dad said. I carry it in my purse, and have been known to sleep with it in my hand, only to find it buried somewhere in the sheets the next morning.  

In the past few years, I’ve requested maybe three or four crosses for friends. I gave my friend Norma a cross during one of her first rounds of chemotherapy, and while at her house following her visitation noticed it sitting in a dish on her countertop. 

Before Mom got sick, Dad would turn down the bed at night and place the cross on her pillow. Every night. She has held tight to it going into every surgery she’s had over the past two years, and has had it in hand in recovery. I sometimes wonder if the surgeons realize its importance and allow it to remain in her possession in the operating room.

When she was getting ready to go in for her first surgery in March of 2011, I made a comment about her cross. “You know,” she said with tears in her eyes, “I don’t ask God to take away my burden. I just ask Him to help me carry my cross.” 

“Help me carry my cross.” That phrase resounded with me and still does. What an astounding request to God – not to take away the bad, but to help her deal with it. Just like that. And I remember that during the hard times. As much as I want to tell Him to “take it all away,” I simply ask Him to help me carry my cross. 

A rare moment with the cross in her right hand.

Mom held fast to that cross after her last brain surgery. Always in her left hand. One day I held it in my own hands and noticed how smooth and worn in places it was, right where her fingers curved around its corners. I placed it in her right hand and even in her post surgery-induced fog, she transferred it slowly to her left hand. 

A couple of weeks ago, while still in the ICU, we couldn’t locate her cross.  A few times she had dropped it in her sleep and it had fallen in the crevices of the hospital bed, but this time it wasn’t there. They had changed the bed sheets, and we could only surmise that it had gone out with the laundry. My dad called someone within the hospital to find out where the linens were taken, only to be told they were sent to an outside service. He tracked down the company and left messages, but no one ever called back. I’m sure they find many an items in their piles of laundry, and I was hoping they had some kind of depository for them. But I have a feeling that a small, worn wooden cross would perhaps not be viewed as having any value and promptly discarded. 

Upon realizing she had lost the cross, I offered her mine which I carried in my purse. It was a bit thicker and darker than hers, and not as worn. She looked at it and said slowly, “I want the cross Dad made.” Of courses, he HAD made my cross, but it was not HER cross.

At home, Dad and I combed through the box of crosses trying to find one similar in size, shape and wood grain. When we settled on one we both agreed was “close”, he took it in to her and placed it in her hand. She looked at it and held it for a bit before setting it on the tray next to her bed. 

For the most part, that’s where it remains. Occasionally if we tuck it in her hand she’ll hold it for awhile, but it’s as if she senses it’s not “her cross”, the one she’s clasped for comfort, prayed with and worn down to fit the curvature of her hand. She knows that cross has carried her through more tough times than most people can imagine, and the new one just doesn’t have that history. 

I know my mom doesn’t need a cross to validate her faith, but it seemed such a comfort for her. I know it is for me. Maybe she’ll take to the new cross, maybe she won’t. Someday I’m sure, I’ll wear mine down like she did hers, but I have a long time to go before I’ve carried near as many crosses as Mom has. I’d give anything to find her old one, if for nothing else but to bring her – and my dad - some comfort and peace.