Thursday, July 31, 2014


You know how sometimes you're watching a movie, and suddenly you get to that place where you're like, "Wait, I can believe the mice flying spaceships through the rainforest chasing unicorns, but I don't for a second believe the giraffe just kissed that grandmother on the forehead. That's just ridiculous."

We've now entered the "giraffe kiss on the forehead" part of my story.

You could believe me when I went into labor at 21 weeks and 6 days.

You could believe me when I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl at 22 weeks and 0 days, and she lived one perfect day.

You could believe me when I didn't deliver her twin brother for twelve more days.

You could believe me when he wasn't supposed to live, but did.

You could believe me when he overcame every. single. crazy. complication.

You could believe me when he finally came home from the NICU after 242 days.

You could believe me when I got pregnant about five minutes before my older son came home from the hospital for the first time.

You could believe me when we found out my older son's brain looks like swiss cheese, but yet he learned to walk and talk and dance and amaze.

You could believe I gave birth to another beautiful, precious son, who would later go on to be diagnosed with classic autism.

Those are all normal, everyday things, right?

But guess what. Plot twist. Hold the phone.

Would you believe that, just two weeks ago, I was diagnosed with enteropathy-associated t-cell lymphoma, an ultra-rare, nobody ever sees this crap in real life, shit just got real, cancer? Because THAT is just ridiculous.

God really needs to hire some new script writers because this is so close to a Days of Our Lives story line I keep expecting Stefano to show up. Oh holy shit.

So obviously I'd been sick the past couple of years, and funnily enough, I'd preemptively dubbed 2014 "The Year of the Diagnosis!" I have now re-dubbed 2014 "The Year of The Diagnosis, but Seriously, Not That Diagnosis!" But a diagnosis we have, and onward we march.

I will tell you here, DO NOT Google this %$#@. According to Wiki, I obviously must have died years ago. Fortunately, Wiki nor Google nor cancer has a full grasp on the concept that I'm going to die in a fiery high-speed car crash at 85, and I plan on making cancer my bitch until then. Because, seriously, ain't nobody got time for that.

We came into this diagnosis bassackwards, with a diagnosis two weeks ago and then a port placement and chemo within the week. I told family first, obviously, but then had to rip off the bandaid fairly quickly when I was hospitalized last Monday. (Kudos to my sweet Mama who drove 100mph from Weir, MS, to Nashville, TN, to get me to my specialists when I started puking up blood that morning at 4AM. She earned some street cred that day ;) We went ahead and made the announcement public that day, and oh sweet Baby Jesus, then the floodgates opened.

No, not the scary, awful floodgates. The beautiful, amazing floodgates.

I have the easy part. All I had to do was catch a smidge of stage 4 lymphoma. But, lemme tell you what these other folks have done gone and done...

These crazy people have cleaned my house. They've brought gas cards and Kroger cards. They've brought scarves. They've watched my children. They've brought sanitizer. They've gone to school registration to acclimate my kids to their new school. They've bought school supplies. They've printed t-shirts. They've organized little fundraisers. They've organized big fundraisers. They've set up a GoFundMe page. They've started a #TeamMollie Facebook page to keep everyone up to date on me. They've babysat me. They've checked my fridge to see what groceries we need. They've called their friends and had them bring the groceries we need. They've texted me to say hello. They've offered to drive. They've mailed me wigs and collected those creepy little wig-holder-heads for me. They've messaged me to check on me. They've made posters and signs. They've brought candles and angels. They've purchased outfits to wear for family photos before my hair starts falling out. They've donated money to help the shopper pay for the clothes she picked out for the family to wear. They've had my hair and make-up professionally done so I can not look like a soccer mom in my pictures. The photographers took pictures and captured my precious little jacked-up family perfectly. The photography destination donated their time to us just so they could give back to a family battling cancer. They've prayed. They've got their mamas to pray. They've got their mama's first cousin's ex-wife to pray. They've sent kind, uplifting words EVERY. DAY. They've picked up new clothes for my kids to wear back to school. They've mailed blankets for keeping warm in chemo. They've organized rallies at Sonics, drinking Rt. 44s and eating bacon in my honor. They've made Facebook cover photos and profile pictures and #TeamMollie memes and they've ordered food and cooked gourmet meals and I even got some gluten free, organic mashed potatoes shaped like a giant penis on a bed of green beans. They've organized a birthday party for both my children because I haven't been able to be Mom of the Year this year, and they don't want them to miss out on the parties they deserve. They've set up secret #TeamMollie Facebook groups I don't even get to know about, where they coordinate their efforts and figure out everything we need before we need it and make sure I have it before I realize it's important. They've worked around my brain, which is great because my brain isn't working. They're making me rest, and making me heal, and making me sit down and shut up and beat the everliving shit out of cancer. And that's what we're gonna do.

They've shown the hell up, and they've shown the hell out. I have never seen so much God working so hard and I'm so blinded by the complete Jesus Christ kind of love being vomited all over me by these people that I have not even once been able to be afraid, or sad, or hopeless.

This love... It's so hard for me to explain this beautiful love I get to tangibly feel and see every single day now. This love is so much bigger and brighter and stronger than cancer could ever be. This love will be how we tackle this hurdle, and by God, I hope we just keep on tackling hurdles until the world understands that this kind of love is what lights candles and builds bridges and breathes air into dying souls and makes birds sing and oceans laugh.

This love is the most perfect love I've ever encountered, other than that I feel for my own precious children.

The take-home lesson? Cancer is a real bitch. But God's hands and feet are all over this one. Cancer doesn't stand a chance.

Love has got this one.

At least that's a good plot twist :)

Go #TeamMollie!