Parenting from the Rock; Rock-bottom

There is a particular age in childhood that simply makes you rethink your parenting. As a young girl, I remember planning what kind of mother I would be when I grew up. These were the days of pigtails, bangs, KangaRoos tennis shoes (the shoes with the pocket) and riding your friend home on the pegs of your rad BMX bike. Which – by the way – I could never master the 180 front wheel turn. Several times in an effort to impress my peg-riding passenger, I threw in an unexpected “watch-what-I-think-I-can-do” move only to land on the sidewalk head-over-heels in a tangled mess of two bodies and one bike. These were the days of no helmets and daily transportation was either by foot, push scooters or bikes. I never called to see if my friends were home. I just rode my bike up the street or cut through backyards to knock on the door. Open garage doors were always a good sign. No Snapchat, Instagram or Facebook check-ins.

I can remember talking with my girlfriends about the kind of mothers we would be. I, as the oldest of six, wanted at least six children and possibly more. My girlfriend, the youngest of three, wanted one boy and one girl. She was going to be a teacher and I was going to be a doctor, a lawyer (because I met a judge in Girl Scouts that year), a scientist, an architect and the first woman president! I now wonder if “Career Barbie” possibly came out that summer?? We had lengthy discussions about the type of parents we wanted to become. I’m thinking most of these conversations happened after a punishment or being told “no” for some reason or another.

By the late 80’s, I had planned to be a patient, soft-spoken, never yelling, no grounding, surprise party planning, Happy Meal hauling and say-yes-always kind of mom. My kids would be dressed in the cutest matching clothes and I would wear the newest trending skirts, high heels and make-up everyday, everywhere! I’m pretty sure my pre-motherhood parenting plan was something like June Cleaver meets Maggie Seaver (Growing Pains).mz4294b

As a young mom with one very content baby, I remember silently judging other parents. The parent with multiple noisy children in the grocery store. The constant yoga pants wearing mother with her unwashed hair hiding under a baseball hat and her toddler throwing a fit in public. The bathrobe wearing coffee mug in hand mom yelling to her kids from the garage, as they ran down the driveway to the bus. The speed racing mini-van that cut me off right before the school zone parent. I’m just wondering, since I knew so much about parenting at such a young age, what in hell has happened? Who is this cold coffee mug carrying, bathrobe wearing, towel wrapped hair, screaming banshee that lives in my house and what has she done with my angelic, soft-spoken, career balanced motherhood plans?

My preconceived motherhood goals were heavily misguided. Every morning, I find myself reading or searching for encouraging motherhood devotionals with well-planned intentions of remembering what I have read, praying through the difficult parenting moments, remaining calm in all situations and not turning into an f-bomb dropping, fire blazing from my eyeballs, smoke billowing from the top of my head mother. All good intentions – I would say. AND THEN…they get up. They – the three kids that stole my heart. The three people that I have stayed up with all night long, so they could puke in a bucket and not in their bed. The three people that I have slept on the floor beside constantly checking their forehead for the returning fever. The three people that I look at and think – time, please slow down just a little. How can these people that I love so dearly and unconditionally turn me into a momster?!

Because…they never stop! I can’t walk out of the room without someone questioning where I might be going. I can’t go to the grocery store without three other opinions on my purchase. I have to shower before they all get up, or shower with the fear that one day I am going to have to run out of the bathroom wet and naked with shampoo in my eyes to break up a fight before they break something or themselves.

I realize this is simply a stage of life and I will desperately miss this age, but for the love of everything good in life…really???!!! This is parenting?! Really?! Where are the reality TV shows for this?!

Mothering from rock-bottom is when mom-guilt swarms in with a breath taking punch to the gut.  The guilt of trying to be a good parent. The guilt of feeling bad when your child misbehaves. The guilt you give yourself when handing out a well-earned punishment. The guilt of making your children do their chores instead of doing it all like June Cleaver. The guilt of not befriending your teenager. The guilt of feeling like everything that your child goes through is somehow your fault. Mom-guilt is evil!

The last few weeks have been filled with mom-guilt moments. Part of me wants to swoop in and rescue my kids from life (one in particular right now).  I want to wrap this one in bubble wrap to be shielded from all the hurtful words the world dishes out. Make a month long reservation at Kalahari and forget about school, chores, homework and discipline. The other part of me secretly looks at boarding school for this child and a luxury spa get-a-way for me.

To all the other overwhelmed mothers, cheers to another cup of cold coffee, morning devotionals and a quick shower! Let us remember that June and Maggie would fall apart in the real world. June would be throwing that brownbag lunch at Ward, Wally and Beaver, as they ran out of the house with a coat halfway on and the backs of their shoes bent and ruined from never untying the laces.  Maggie’s always plastered on smile would quickly turn into an angry grimace, as she threatens to leave those not ready for school to fend for themselves so she can get to work on time.

“But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore, I will boast all the more gladly about my weakness, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.” 2 Corinthians 12:9

Dear Heavenly Father,

You know my struggles and my weaknesses. In your presence, I am strong. In your arms, I am encouraged. Keep my eyes on you, Lord. Today, with your guidance, may my words and actions be pleasing to you and build-up those around me.

P.S. and not drop an F-bomb.


Bring on the B-Game

I listen to a Christian pastor on the radio every day on my way to work. A few weeks ago, his message was about social media, and he was saying that people tend to live unhappy or unfulfilled lives when they constantly compare themselves to others. Today, with social media, we (and our kids) are bombarded with pictures of other people’s lives. The Jones’ are no longer next door. The Jones’ are everywhere we go or rather everywhere we look at social media – kitchen, living room, bedroom, bathroom, waiting in line at the store and even in the car or at school.

He wasn’t downing social media but simply giving cautious advice. One statement from his message that has stuck with me was, “Social media is full of life’s ‘A-game’. People always post the best of their life on social media.” We never post our B-game. The B-game are those deleted pictures because we don’t look our best or those moments when we didn’t act our best. The B-game is life’s other moments. The not-so-proud mama moments. The messy house moments.  The burned dinner moments. The not-on-the-honor-roll moments.

After listening to this message, I had to laugh. My husband gets up at 4:15 a.m. On coaching days, he doesn’t get home until 8:00 pm. As a working mom of three busy kids trying to juggle work and home…I only have a B-game.  (Even as a stay-at-home mom, I feel like I only had a B-game.) I have friends that have warned me about this stage in life. The stage when your life decisions are based on the calendar of your children. Between friends that have already been at this stage of life and the recent radio broadcast, I just had to laugh.

I look at the posts on social media now and think to myself, “Ok. Now show me your B-game. The perfect Christmas tree. Where’s the post after the toddler gets it or the cat knocks it over three times? My husband and I had to anchor our tree to the wall when we had a crazy cat. With one of our Great Danes, we had to put all decorations higher than tail height. One swing of a Dane’s tail and all ornaments went flying.

meh-lightsYes, I love the Christmas lights, but my pumpkins are somewhere rotting on the side of the porch. The Christmas trees and Santa decorations that we did put out blew over in the wind the other day and apparently I am the only one that has noticed, so when my hands are not full of bags on my way in or out of the house I plan on fixing them.

I love the picture of your decorated dining room, but mine is currently covered with laundry piles, book bags and school papers. Maybe if I sort them by color instead of owner it will look more festive.

How cute, a dog in a Christmas outfit! Our guide dog puppy found the leach beds for the septic system yesterday, so there will be no pictures of the dog covered in foul-smelling mud! I should have posted a picture of the day she got into the cow’s pasture, ate an entire “patty” and then puked it up in the kitchen. I don’t gag often, but in this case, I was almost cleaning up two piles!

I would have to say that yesterday was probably the best B-game day in a while! It started off with a some-one-took-my-teacher-gift argument, so our bus driver ended up with a gift bag of other people’s cards. If you don’t follow that logic, don’t worry neither did I. After school, the plan was to clean, finish putting away the laundry and get a little work done, so I didn’t have to work over the break. With two boys at home attempting to complete one task together, we now have a broken bedroom door and a broken bathroom countertop. It was a rockstar B-game kind of day filled with not-so-great-mama-moments and topped off with a conversation about why we do not give people the finger in class!

To my fellow B-game friends – thank you for bringing reality to social media!


Day 22: Welcome to the Club

As a child, we had many neighborhood clubs and they seemed to change as quickly as our interests. Some of the clubs were actual organizations – Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts or church clubs, but most were made up affiliations of a group of early elementary school imaginations.

I met a young cancer survivor a few years after my treatment and he handed me a card. On one side it said the word cancer and on the back it said, “Welcome to the Club”.  A cancer diagnosis stinks, to put it politely, but the fact that someone created a “cancer club” card was quite comical.

Being diagnosed with stage III colorectal cancer at a young age gave me immediate access to clubs that I never wanted to join or even new existed. The infertility club was the most heart wrenching. I had plenty of friends that were already in that club, but I could never truly empathize until I lost my own fertility. Then there was the ostomy club. This one isn’t as bad for me, but in a few different support groups I have learned there truly are people out there who are basically disgusted that they have to live with an ostomy. This list of clubs could go on and on – the neuropathy club, the fatigue club, the chronic pain club, etc. While most of these are not real clubs, the affiliation is genuine.

The best groups that I have come to join or participate in are non-profit advocacy groups that work hard to raise awareness by publicly sharing stories of young adults diagnosed with colorectal cancers. They collaborate to increase awareness, funding, research and access to screenings.

Through all of these affiliations, I have realized that the phrase “everybody has something” is a very true statement. Not everyone has or had cancer and not everyone has life long side effect, but everyone has something.

I know people who have lost a spouse, a child or a parent. I know people living with debilitating diseases. I know people who have lost the ability to walk, talk, see and hear. I know people who struggle with anxiety and depression  I know people that are financially strapped and have children who are living with chronic illnesses. I know students who are struggling socially and academically. I know adult and child bullies and those they choose to target. I know people who have committed suicide and those they have left behind.


My devotional this morning was less about colorectal cancer awareness and more about life’s challenges. It was a positive spin on the mountains many of us face each day.

For in the day of trouble he will keep me safe in his dwelling; he will hide me in the shelter of his sacred tent and set me high upon a rock.
Psalm 27:5, NIV

Another devotional ended with a well said prayer, “Heavenly Father, thank You for the hope I have knowing You take my messy life and make it beautiful. Give me the patience I need to wait on You and eyes to see the masterpiece taking shape.”

Day 21: Fatigue

Fatigue can be one of the signs of colorectal cancer. I was exhausted before I was diagnosed, but who wouldn’t be with three children under the age of six! If you know our youngest, you might just be exhausted by association.

Going through treatment, my oncology and surgical teams constantly asked me about fatigue. For the most part, I would say I had good days and bad days. I pushed through the fatigue until I was flat-on-my-face exhausted.  Fatigue hit the hardest after I had completed my treatments. Twice waiting in the allergist’s office for my daughter, I was mortified when I realized that the shaking I felt was my then 2nd grader pulling on my arm because I had fallen asleep sitting in the waiting room chair. I fell asleep waiting for my daughter’s gymnastics class to be over and in the car waiting for piano lessons to end. It seemed anytime I had to wait or sit still for more than 10 minutes, I was in danger of falling asleep!

When I brought this to the attention of my doctor’s, it was explained that while I thought I felt good, my body was working hard to repair itself on the inside and that was taking a lot of my energy. I also learned that chronic pain increases fatigue. After treatment I had chronic pain in my rear end, lower back, hip joints and pelvic floor. The more painful the day – the more tired I became. No one thinks about this stuff in their early 30’s!

Atrophy also causes fatigue. I was pretty much a morsel of the person I was prior to treatment. Trying to keep up with my life prior to a cancer diagnosis with the muscle mass of an elderly person was exhausting!

Anyone who has dealt with a chronic condition probably understands fatigue. I had no idea what true fatigue was and really probably denied that I was even experiencing fatigue until I started to find myself falling asleep in public! Fatigue is not just being tired or needing some rest. Fatigue is waking up tired and just hoping to make it through the day. Fatigue is looking forward to going to bed, but it’s only mid afternoon.

Public Service Announcement: Fatigue is not normal. Talk to your doctor.ColonCancerInfographic

Day 19: Lighten the Mood

This week has been quite a downer…too many friends have been affected by cancer – death, surgery, treatment, tumor growth and/or new diagnosis. Before I even began treatment, a friend of mine called to remind me of Mathew 11:28.

Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Today, I started my day off praying for friends and having faith that all will be well in God’s hands. From the broken-hearted to the physical challenges, God will heal and lead the way.


And now, I interrupt your regularly scheduled blog for a good dose of humor. Life before irrigation was very unpredictable! I really had no control over when, where or how fast my colon decided to empty. I have had explosive episodes in a Walmart bathroom with a three-year-old working hard to hand me baby wipes to clean up my own mess. Once in the card isle of Target, Chris looked in alarm and said – “Hey, babe? There’s something on your shirt and you may have a leak going on.” It wasn’t a leak. The seal had pulled away from my skin and it was more like a break in the dam. That little opening left me running to the car to get out sight from the public, as the dam let loose down the front of my pant leg.

But I think my husband’s own story takes the cake! We were on vacation and I needed to change the bag before we headed into the Lego store with two very young Lego enthusiasts. Before we headed into the Lego store, we quickly grabbed trash from the car. I placed the opaque bag on the pile of snack wrappers and fast-food trash to be thrown away. Almost as fast as I put in on the pile, Chris took it off the pile. I thought maybe he just needed two hands to throw away the trash.

A few hours later we returned to the car with a small fortune of Lego’s and three exhausted children. With all children buckled and snapped into car seats, Chris emptied his pockets on to the driver seat before getting in. My eyes went directly to the opaque bag and my voice came out like a shriek! Why do you have that bag?! He said – “I thought it was your bag”. Shrieking and laughing I tried to say, “Yes. It is my bag. My bag of poop that needed to go in the trash!”. His eyes were huge and I immediately started laughing hysterically. Not really laughing at him, but at the fact that he took the bag off the trash pile, because he thought it was a spare bag that I may have needed. I had no idea that he put that bag in his pocket. We were in the Lego store, the food court and I’m sure at least five other stores and he was carrying a bag of poop in his pocket! I couldn’t even look at him without crying in laughter. For the rest of the day, I would randomly break out in laughter and think…he carried my poop!

Ok – back to the originally scheduled colorectal cancer awareness blog. Colorectal cancer is on the rise in young adults. While this is nothing to laugh at, life after cancer is not always easy, but it can be quite comical too!

Day 18: Port from Hell

l.gxOKgqMvRiXNwdkbMy first round of chemo was an oral medication. I called it my poison pills, but really it was much easier to tolerate than the second round. When it was discovered that my lymph nodes were involved, I need a much more intense round of chemotherapy and I had to have port implanted. A port is like a tiny silicone balloon attached to a central IV line. The balloon is placed just under the skin and the IV is threaded up over the collarbone and into the right jugular vein in the chest.

By the time my port was placed, I was so thin you could see both the port and the IV line in my chest. Placement wasn’t awful, but the more the port was accessed the more tender that part of my chest became. Probably halfway through treatment, I started getting physically sick the day before “treatment days” and then I started getting nauseous 30 minutes before we would get to the hospital. Anticipatory nausea – I was getting sick, because I knew I was going to get sick.

Once the port was accessed, the chemo (and a cocktail of other medications) were given directly into that central line. I would then leave the hospital with a fanny-pack of poison pouring into my chest for the next 48 hours. I just tucked the fanny pack into a Vera Bradley cross body purse and it was rarely noticed by anyone. There were the few occasions that the alarm went off in public and people would turn and stare, as I dug through the purse, undid the Velcro and hit every button possible trying to shut down the alarm. Once in a pharmacy, I thought there was a slight chance that I may get a “pat down” from the confused clerk.

After completing chemo, I had to leave the port in for a few more months. My doctor wanted it in for a year, but I begged for it to be removed. Life with a toddler and a port was too painful.

Removal of the port is supposed to be super easy (keep in mind I am that small print patient, so I should have expected something different). It’s considered so minor that they are able to remove it with just a local numbing injection.

There was nothing normal about my port removal. That scar tissue that had developed in my abdomen had also encased my port and the IV line. The doctor kept telling me that we were almost done. He would give me another shot of the numbing medicine and continue cutting. There was cutting and pulling, pushing and cutting. He was getting frustrated and I was getting sick to my stomach. The procedure should have taken 20 minutes. After an hour and a half, the port was finally out. As he lowered the table, I jumped off of it covered in blood and told him to stay away from me. I was too light headed to stand and quickly had to lean on the table. I grabbed my clothes and started getting dressed. The nausea had turned into anger and I wouldn’t let him near me. The nurse came in and cleaned off as much blood as she could, as I fought her to get dressed. I started to walk/wobble out of the room, but thankfully she plopped me in a wheelchair before I fainted.

In the recovery hallway, my mom was pacing back and forth. When she saw me – her face instantly changed from worried mother to angry mama bear and there was a disapproving heated exchange of words.

At my oncology follow-up, I explained the horror of the procedure to my doctor. He examined my scar and explained that I had developed a keloid around the port and I should have been put under for the procedure. I had never seen my oncologist even slightly upset, let alone mad. He was furious, but not wanting to get me upset he jokingly asked if the surgeon was wearing the robe and cross commonly associated with the Spanish Inquisition.

When you hear the word cancer your body goes into fight mode and your brain follows. You don’t have time to think about long term side effects or small print possibilities. In that moment you don’t care. You just want the cancer gone. My port scar isn’t so visible anymore, but it’s still quite painful. It’s just another scar to remind me how far I have come.


Day 17: Happy St. Patrick’s Day


Photo Description: Me wearing a St. Patrick’s day shirt that says “Craic Dealer” and lifting it to show my colostomy bag with a picture of a leprechaun printed on the bag. 

This is a post that I repeat every St. Patrick’s Day. Maybe when I get around to finding a new picture for my colostomy bag, I’ll change the post. Until then, it is still ever so fitting.

This photo was taken in March 2010 – halfway through my last six months of chemo. For any of my non-Irish friends, Craic is a Gaelic word and the best English translation is – fun, good times or entertaining. I blogged about my experience from the very beginning, so everyone had real-time information and updates. That was my first experience with being an advocate and spreading awareness. I had always hoped that if I shared my story enough, someone would recognize their symptoms and get diagnosed early. If caught in the early stages, colorectal cancer is preventable, treatable, beatable, and most certainly curable.

This is one of my favorite pictures. Yes – chemo was hard. Yes – learning to live with a colostomy bag was new. Yes – radiation had taken its toll on my body. Yes – I was beginning to understand that some of these side effects were never going away. But seriously – what leprechaun would not find humor in a colostomy bag!

Being diagnosed at 32 was so odd. A 32-year old mother diagnosed with stage III colorectal cancer? So odd that the newspaper was interested in my story and I was interviewed by our local television station. The only other people my age with this diagnosis I met online and finally face-to-face at my first advocacy event.

I initially shared my story hoping to prevent at least one person from going through the same experience. Now, I share my story with even more passion, because I know that colorectal cancer is no longer an “old man’s” disease and younger and younger people are at a higher risk of colon and rectal cancers than ever before. Our children will be screened at 22 for colorectal cancer because of my history. I feel like singing the Schoolhouse Rock song – knowledge is power!


Day 16: Bomb in a bag

I have often described the rectum as the 5-inch deodorizer of the colon. Once that little section is removed, there is no comparison to the odor that comes out through an ostomy. I guess I can be thankful that I live in a house dominated by toilet humor!

The first time I emptied my colostomy in the hospital I asked the nurse if it would always smell so awful. She laughed a little, but didn’t really answer me. That may have been one of the top reasons that I have such a high regard for my wound care nurses (WOCN). One look at my stoma and my WOCN said – Oh! It’s so cute! They are like the output cheerleaders. While I was shocked at the stench coming out of the bag, she was there to swoop in with uplifting ostomy spirit! I think it takes a very special person to be an WOCN. If they have a negative attitude, it could easily impact the person with the new ostomy. These nurses must be screened pretty thoroughly, because I have yet to meet a WOCN that I didn’t like.

I don’t think I ever got over the shock of the smell, but maybe just a little less sensitive to it. Knowing that I can tolerate the smell, I tease that it would be hilarious to “burp the bag” (open it slightly to let out the gas) in a full elevator. I imagine I would be the only person walking out of the elevator that day with a trail of innocent passengers clinging to the walls and gasping for air as they crawled to the exit. Yep – I’ve thought about that a little too much. Oh! It would just be hilarious!

The smell of an ostomy bag is just unmistakable. It’s like a small bomb in a bag. It’s like going to get your toddler out of bed, but the smell of a sour diaper warns you that there is a blow-out waiting within those cute zip up pajamas – another smell that is unmistakable.

This morning I came downstairs, walked into the kitchen, poured my coffee, set the cup on the table and walked into the bathroom. Same morning routine as every other day, but with one foot in the door I knew there was a problem. I was greeted by the faint smell of an open colostomy bag. (A little ostomy knowledge here – when I have to change a colostomy bag, they get discarded in an opaque plastic bag. I think it’s to be discreet in public. People might be totally disgusted to see a transparent bag of poop sitting on the top of the garbage can in a public restroom.) Side note…dogs love ostomy bags and we have three dogs.

Like a police dog on a scent trail, I just followed the stench. Bathroom cabinet door open – that’s a problem. Trashcan turned over – bigger problem. No bag in sight – sirens are now going off in my head. The stench only starts in the bathroom. I turned around and followed the still lingering odor. The dogs ran for cover as I entered the living room. Living room?! NOOOOOO!!! In my head, it was like yelling NO into a mountainous valley with the echo repeating and repeating. NO! NO! NO!

Thankfully, I must have caught the guilty party within just a few seconds of the trashcan robbery. No huge mess. Just a Clorox wipe to be sure. No carpet scrubbing. No ostomy trash taken from one room to the next. Just a bag with a tiny chewed through opening.

Life with an ostomy is never dull! As a twenty-something dreaming of my future, cleaning up an ostomy mess at 5:00 a.m. never entered the picture!

Day 15: Life Rerouting

Being diagnosed with stage III colorectal cancer at age 32, seemed unheard of. That was almost eight years ago, and at that time my local doctor had only had one other patient under the age of 50. There are multiple studies available that support the fact that colorectal cancer is on the rise in young adults, and it is encouraging to see that an article from the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute understands that a diagnosis at a younger age brings less traditional challenges that require medical teams to take more a multidisciplinary approach.

At 32, I thought fighting cancer would be like a hiccup in my life plan. Like making a wrong turn down a cul-de-sac, after rerouting it just takes a little longer to get from point A to point B. Being diagnosed with stage III colorectal cancer is not like making a wrong turn, it changes your route completely and you are faced with challenges and life-long complications that you never anticipated.

After seven hospital stays in six years, my surgeon decided that I needed to have scar tissue removed from my abdomen. As I mentioned in a recent post, I have now had three different surgeries to remove this scar tissue. The last two surgeries were open abdomen. My surgeon opened my original scar – from just above my pubic bone to just above my (now non-existent) bellybutton. Recovery was rough physically and emotionally, but apparently my colon has taken this last surgery as a persona affront.

The post surgery diet is the soft-food diet. Basically if you can cut it with a plastic fork, it’s on the soft food diet. Yuck! Beginning in late January, my surgeon wanted me to increase the type of food that I eat and get off the soft food diet, but my colon is rebelling. My colon prefers smoothies, soups and carbs. Throughout the day I live on the soft food diet and then at dinner I can try other foods knowing that I will be at home should my colon choose to rebel loudly or boycott with pain.

Colorectal cancer at 32 is not a hiccup in life. This is life. For a few patients, their cancer is caught early and life goes on. For those of us that had radiation, chemotherapy and surgery after surgery, life goes on as well, but it’s just a new life. A new normal.

Last night, our youngest was playing in the bathtub and he poured a pile of conditioner into his bellybutton. With pure excitement he said, “Look! I have a stoma. Too bad you don’t have red shampoo”. New normal. My daughter and I were at the mall over the weekend, and I felt the rumble of pain go through my belly. I just looked at her and we walked quickly to the nearest restroom. While I changed the bag (which I rarely have to do in public), she casually prepared wet paper towels for me. New normal.

This summer I have to schedule a round of check-ups that are comparable to someone in assistive living. Life at 40? No. New normal.

People often say to me – you never complain.  I’m sure I do, but in reality what is there to complain about. Life is complicated. Things happen. You get retouted and sometimes you end up in a cul-de-sac.

Day 14: Marching through the Storm

As this winter storm descends all across the eastern half of the country, people who I consider friends and some who are as close as family are preparing to take their place on Capitol Hill this week. They will walk in the snow from building to building, telling the lawmakers of Congress their personal stories – triumphs and losses –  to increase support for colorectal cancer research and to remove the loopholes that prevent early screenings.

882560_4500638634815_1092248043_oFour years ago, Chris and I took our daughter and joined Fight Colorectal Cancer for Call on Congress. For my husband and me, it was a chance to share my story with the lawmakers of Ohio and make it personal for them. For our daughter, it was a chance to meet many other children who had similar stories – a parent diagnosed too young.

Work obligations and hospital stays have prevented us from rejoining our friends on the Hill recently, but one day we will be able to return again. Until then, we support this cause and our friends – bringing awareness to the lawmakers who can choose to positively impact colorectal cancer research and access to screenings to prevent this awful disease.

Today, I ask for your help. Please take a minute of your time to sign this petition. It’s a little late for your name to be added to the petition that will fall on the desk of our lawmakers on Wednesday, but it will be added and that petition will be used throughout the year. We want more funding to raise awareness and we need Congress to remove those insurance loopholes that prevent early screenings.