There are two things I distinctly remember about Easter as a kid; pink sponge rollers and my Dad’s purple tie. Easter was one of those special occasions where a braid wouldn’t suffice for church that morning. Much to my mortification and dread, after my Saturday night bath, my mom would roll my wet hair in the pink sponge rollers. And tightly. If I thought my older sister was unbearable when she braided my hair, my mom was ruthless. By the end, my scalp was the same color as the pink rollers. And then sleeping on the rollers. The. worst. Who thought this was a good idea? There is no comfortable position when these rollers are poking your brain, which as an 8-year-old tomboy, that is exactly what it felt like. Then the morning would mercifully come and out came my rollers. My hair looked like a glorified version of Shirley Temple. I hated it. My mom loved it. I would have willingly been a stone pillar to get my hair braided by my sister but instead I walked around as a Shirley Temple wannabe. I remember one year I brushed out some of my curls and you would have thought I physically hurt my mother by her response. I just didn’t want my hair bouncing every time I walked. It was annoying. But after I got dressed (in my matching Easter outfit with my mom), I would watch my Dad put on his purple tie. He would create his tie knot in the mirror and I loved the deep, rich color purple. The tie had white flowers on it but not enough to overwhelm the purple color. I only remember him wearing this tie on Easter. The color just stood out with his crisp white button-up shirt and dark suit. Most Sunday mornings, I would beg to leave with my Dad to go to church early. Easter was no different. He was the first person there and I would have free access to roam and play. Sometimes I would army crawl under the pews all the way from the front of the church sanctuary to the very last row. No idea why my dress would get all crinkled. Or I would see if there was anything yummy in the fridge. Which there never was. Very anti-climactic. But the possibilities were endless for exploring. And I was content. These are the precious memories I hold on to. Scratch that, nothing precious about those stupid pink rollers. Rather, I’ll focus on Easter morning and the hope offered. Sometimes with my diagnosis I get worried about not being as present with my kids or Chris or not being able to “do” fun things together to create good memories. I need to remember that some memories are good because they are simple. So I am hopeful. Hopeful that this is just a season and I will bounce back in no time. Because “once you choose hope, anything’s possible.” 

In other news, week 3 is underway. I still feel pretty good but can tell the side effects are starting to become a factor. But I am strong, I am positive and I am hopeful for perfect health.

Liz