This Woman

On the way into the office yesterday, my iPod dished up “This Woman’s Work” by Kate Bush. It took me back to 1998 as I was driving to my parents house.

This was no ordinary trip to mom and dad’s. Shortly before, I had gotten “the call” — my mom had yet another battle to fight in her crusade against cancer. I listened to “This Woman’s Work” the whole way there and cried so hard I could hardly breathe.

Gwyneth Paltrow did an amazing remake of the song for a now out of circulation album called Every Mother Counts. You can hear it by clicking the image at the top of this post (If you don’t have any Kleenex nearby, go to Costco and buy a pallet before you press play). The lyrics to the song captured much of what I felt that night.

“Pray God you can cope.
I stand outside
This woman’s work,
This woman’s world.
Ooh, it’s hard on the man,
Now his part is over.
Now starts the craft of the father.

I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.
I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.

I should be crying, but I just can’t let it show.
I should be hoping, but I can’t stop thinking

Of all the things I should’ve said,
That I never said.
All the things we should’ve done,
That we never did.
All the things I should’ve given,
But I didn’t.

Oh, darling, make it go,
Make it go away.

Give me these moments back.
Give them back to me.
Give me that little kiss.
Give me your hand.

(I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.
I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.)

I should be crying, but I just can’t let it show.
I should be hoping, but I can’t stop thinking

Of all the things we should’ve said,
That were never said.
All the things we should’ve done,
That we never did.
All the things that you needed from me.
All the things that you wanted for me.
All the things that I should’ve given,
But I didn’t.

Oh, darling, make it go away.
Just make it go away now.”

~Kate Bush

My family was lucky — we were given the gift of time and what strength my mom had left, she used well on most days. We had the opportunity to say all the things that we’d we never said, and the chance to do some of the things that we never did. My mom told me all the things she wanted for me and we talked about what she needed from me. Unfortunately, though, her cancer wouldn’t go away, so today, I LIVESTRONG.

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I took a stroll down memory lane to dig up my favorite Dino stories for this. I giggled by myself all night as I read our old instant message exchanges (it will come as no surprise to those who knew him that most of  of our conversations began with “WOGWON”). I may have to reach out to his friends and family so I can dedicate an entire post to “The Best of Dino.” (He would love that you could abbreviate this to “The Bod.”)

Dino, Amy and I peddled video games together at EA. (Those were good times, but I can’t help but wonder if there’s something in the water in those parts). People often confused Dino with our friend Dion because they had such similar names and worked on the same team. Whenever it happened, without missing a beat, Dino would say, “I’m the dinosaur. He’s the football player,” and as was often the case when Dino had something to say, laughter erupted.

Dino kept a Razor scooter in his cube that he referred to as “the company car.” While it was undoubtedly handy to zip across EA’s sprawling campus, I always found it particularly amusing that he’d ride it inside the building, sometimes very short distances, including to my cube, which couldn’t have been more than 20 yards from his.

And Dino was a nickname guy. Everyone had at least one, but most had many. He’s the only person on the planet that I didn’t mind calling me “Kimbo” (it sounds too much like either “Dumbo” or “Bimbo.” I’ve never been keen on any nickname that might suggest I’m either an elephant or a tart). My favorites were “Special K,” “Kimakasha” — a nod to his guy Ali G, and “K Swiss,” which eventually became just “Swiss.”

I could go on and on. How I loved Dino. How I wish I could go to another comedy show, grub at Taco Bell and play old school Atari games together again.

Dino lost his battle to cancer on August 18, 2008, barely three months after being diagnosed with a liposarcoma. It was 30 pounds (yes, 30) by the time he had surgery, and in true Dino fashion, his tumor had a nickname — “Kuato.” Only Dino could share such scary news and make it funny:

“So – here’s the deal. I have a pretty large mass of something in my stomach. It starts near my waist, comes up my side, and curves over into the middle of my upper stomach just below my chest cavity… I’ve never been a thin guy (well, back in high school I was in good shape, but that went out the window once I discovered beer and dorm food), but the size of my stomach and gut are currently not in line with my weight. Not that if they cut all this crap out of my body I’d be left with a tight-ass six-pack or anything, but I certainly wouldn’t look as if I was carrying Kuato from Total Recall around in my belly.”

Kuato broke many hearts, including mine. However, Dino’s still with me. He paid me a visit tonight as I worked on this post. I went to his blog as I struggled with how to explain who Dino was to me. In the subhead were lyrics from the Rush song Marathon — “From first to last, the peak is never passed.” As I prepare to climb Kilimanjaro, I’m reminded that there is no peak when cancer is your mountain.

Good talk, D Smooth/D-luxe/Boo-D (I know you hated that one, but you don’t get to pick!). I needed it this week. I miss you. I love you. You’re in my heart forever.

Caroline and I became best friends when her family moved to California from Paris when we were in 4th grade.

At the time, Caroline spoke mostly French and I spoke only English. My mom used to tell a story about the way Caroline and I communicated during those early days (For the record, I think Caroline’s English is probably better than mine now). When we bumped up against a language barrier, we would gesture what we were trying to say. I don’t recall exactly what those things were — how I wish my mom were here to ask her. However, I was a Pepsi girl then *gasp*, so I’m sure I gestured for that. I know what you’re thinking: Yes, I’m my mom’s kid and I’m pretty sure I was drinking soda by then. #dontjudgeme.

Caroline and I were inseparable until her family moved back to Paris in junior high. We remained BFFs, and sent handwritten letters on “Par Avion” stationary and she came to stay with my family for few weeks during the summers until we went to college. We would later sip wine on the streets of Paris and tour the streets of Philadelphia. I traveled to France for her wedding, making the drive with her mom and dad from Paris to the South of France. (The French know how to throw an amazing party. Picture a castle. And wine from Bordeaux.  And handsome French men. And dancing until daylight. The whole trip ranks in my top five). Caroline got her her PhD in Marine Biology, and is now a working mom with two sweet kids, living with her husband in Norway. And she’s a survivor.

The Wicked Witch of the Breast came after her in 2010. You know the drill — six months of chemo, surgery and radiation. The Cancer Fairy, bitchbag that she is, does not follow Santa’s lead and distinguish between naughty and nice. Her dad was diagnosed with a brain tumor not long after Caroline was diagnosed. Caroline went into surgery in Norway the same day Caroline’s dad went into surgery in Paris. Caroline is now in remission, but she continues her journey without her dad, who lost his battle in December.

I love you, Caroline. And I live strong for you and your amazing dad. And if the cheese and the baguette freeze on my way up the mountain, I will eat it anyway.

… Because, let’s be honest, I’m going to be winded and cold before I even reach 9,000 feet, so I’ll need as much inspiration as I can find. In fact, I’ll be accepting applications to identify 19, 341 people who inspire me. I can be bribed. Just kidding. Share your story, no donation required, but if you do donate, you and you only you will be my favorite person EVER. Seriously! Erm, I digress …

As I was saying, in addition to my mom, there are a few people in particular that I’m climbing for.

First, I’d like you to meet Amy. She’ll be climbing Kilimanjaro with me (Thanks, Bartlett, for letting me copycat).

Amy and I have been friends since our days slinging video games for EA SPORTS. She’s radiates goodness. Not long after I started at EA, she told a handful of us that she had a job as “Popo the Clown” when she was a teenager. A clown!!! How awesome is that?!?! I knew we just had to be friends. Heart-to-hearts and many laughs followed. We’ve consumed a fair amount of chips, guac and margs together, judged an omelette-off (EA peeps, remember Anthony’s holiday after party?) and walked the course on Pebble Beach. Perhaps, my favorite memory is when we hopped on the Big Dipper roller coaster in heels and dresses to honor our friend Dino on our way to his memorial service. (Dino is also all kinds of awesome. You’ll meet him later).

Amy is a survivor. She was diagnosed with stage 3 non-Hodgkins lymphoma on March 5, 2007. After intense chemotherapy and radiation, her cancer took a hike. She’s been in remission for almost five years, but her journey is far from over. She kicks cancer ass. Not long after she was diagnosed, she raised $20,000 for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society for shaving her head, and less than a year after she finished treatment, she raised another $25,000 when she ran the New York Marathon as a member of the LIVESTRONG team. That’s not to mention the events she’s done in between. I may have to start calling her “Money” because the cash she’s raised for the cause could fund an entire program. Needless to say, I’ll have stiff competition fundraising.

Thank you, Bartlett, for your inspiration, I can’t wait to hike and laugh our way up Kilimanjaro.

This is an email I sent to friends after I lost my mom on July 2, 2008. It’s no coincidence that I’ll be summiting Kilimanjaro with Survivor Summit and LIVESTRONG on July 2, four years to the day after my mom died.

I feel no differently about that day now than I did then.  I live strong for Lou every day, but I’ll live strongest that day specifically.  Cancer is my mountain. I plan to conquer it — one step, and one donation at a time.

—– Original Message —-
From: Kim McIntyre
To: Kim McIntyre
Sent: Wednesday, July 9, 2008 6:50:26 PM
Subject: There’s one more star in the sky

Hi to all,

As of July 2, there’s one more star in the sky.   That was the day my mom lost her most recent battle and consequently, her 22-year war against breast cancer.

Independence Day takes on a new meaning to me now – it marks my mom’s freedom from suffering.  We all feel a sense of relief  knowing that she has no more sore bones, does not need oxygen, can breath without gasping and walk without neuropathy.  She’s retired her walker, grabber, wheelchair and her titanium hip.  Her medi-port is gonzo, she’s not popping pills or being poked and prodded with needles.

Even better, she’s in good company in heaven, where I’m sure she’s been socializing with people and a few pets she adores.  I’d like to believe the first thing she did was go to a “real lunch” with her dear “chemo friend” Elizabeth the way two healthy women do.  If my mom got a vote, I’m sure they’re at Chili’s.  And, I’m sure that my friend (Officer) Jeff Fontana is on her detail. I’m green with envy that she can give him the hug I’ve so longed to give him for the last seven years.

While my mom’s entire journey was prolonged, painful and scary, her final few hours were peaceful and comfortable.  My dad, sister and I were with her, supporting her and one another as she always hoped we would. Now the journey is ours to continue as we all try to find our footing again. She wanted that for us and always hated knowing how profoundly her cancer hurt all of us. So while our grieving continues, we have started to heal.

Thank you, thank you for you filling our hearts with love.  Your support means so much. I know I speak for all of us when I say that my cup overfloweth. 

 Love,

 Kim

My mom, Lou McIntyre, is my primary inspiration (I’ll introduce you to the others in upcoming posts). She battled breast cancer three times too many, and 22 years too long. Cancer was her mountain, her destination was heaven and those who knew and loved her were passengers on her journey. She was our Little Engine That Could.

She put the “can” in cancer. “Can’t” was not in her vocabulary. Like the Little Blue Engine, she approached the challenges in her life–daunting as they were–with hope, courage, and determination. There was no mountain she couldn’t climb.

When a renowned oncologist she consulted with told her in 2005 that she only had months to live, she left his office without making another appointment, never to see him again. He had taken away her hope so she continued the rest of her three and a half year journey without him.

When she had her hip replaced, she forced herself to get out of bed to exercise her titanium hip within 24 hours of surgery. Nurses told us that many don’t get out of bed when they’re asked to, much less do it regularly, because the pain is excruciating. Not my mom. She got out of bed multiple times daily and she continued up the mountain.

Two days before she died, in spite of her pain, she asked the nurses to help her get out of bed. “I can do this,” she said. And with great struggle, she did. Onward she chugged, huffing and puffing as she approached her final destination.

These are only a few of the examples that come to mind, although she lived an uphill battle every day.

My mom lived strong until the day she died on July 2, 2008. I’m so honored to be her daughter and while I miss her physical presence, I know that she’s not far away. She’s now a guardian angel cheering me on as I channel the Little Engine That Could on a journey of my own. It is no coincidence that I will be summiting Kilimanjaro on July 2, four years to the very day that my mom died.

I can think of no greater way to honor her than to climb Kilimanjaro in support of the many others like her who fight an uphill battle against cancer. (Sadly, my list of friends touched by cancer is long, so I’ll be wearing many names on this journey. However, Caroline, Jax, Amy, Dino, Kim, Kell, Ricky, Regan, Kasyn, Keely and Kirk, I live strong for you in particular). Cancer is my mountain. Climb it? I think I can. And I will.

The money I raise will benefit LIVESTRONG, which serves people affected by cancer and empowers them to take action against this disease that is now the world’s leading cause of death. LIVESTRONG has become a symbol of hope and inspiration to people affected by cancer around the world. I hope can help me further its mission and support me on this climb. Whether you’re able to contribute or not, please know that you have paid me generously with your friendship and I’ll take your encouragement and your love all the way up that mountain.

LIVESTRONG and love.