As a kid, our lawn was amazing. It was a velvety green. We had a big back yard that hosted countless of kids and kid activities. We had a square trampoline that would garner most of the neighborhood. I remember my oldest sister’s friends hitting the ground at the bottom of the trampoline or flying off the trampoline. If the teenage boys were playing “popcorn,” I took several steps back from the trampoline. I knew, being 8 years younger, not to get on the trampoline with them. I didn’t want to die that way. Then there were the baseball games that would happen in the backyard. I remember my Dad running the bases and thinking, “wow, Dad is kinda fast.” Honestly, I don’t remember my Dad ever running. He was not unfit, rather the burst of speed was impressive and impressionable on my kid self. Other countless activities happened in the backyard: the red gymnastics mat to work on my round-offs because of the 1992 summer olympics, golfing in the backyard (apparently, I thought everyone golfed in their backyard. I had no clue people went to a gold course), and the occasional football game: my older two sisters versus my Dad and me. But our grass was always so soft. Summer nights, I would be barefoot playing and walking around our yard to the point my toes would be a dark green. Even last week, Theo and I were at Dylan’s soccer practice playing baseball. The grass we were playing on was great. Smooth, green and cut short. I kicked off my chaco sandals and went barefoot. It was nice to just feel the cool ground underneath. As a gangly tomboy, I just loved being outside. Who knew I’d work on grounding. And here I am as an adult, working on grounding. (If you are unfamiliar with grounding, or earthing, it is connecting to the Earth’s electrical charge to help reduce inflammation, improve blood flow, improved response to trauma and healing in the body, amongst other things. Google it! It really is fascinating). So we are taking things in stride. Enjoying the little things. Calling a spade a spade. Some days are just hard. Not everyday is going to have a silver lining. Not because I cannot find a silver lining, but acknowledging this journey, this waiting period, is hard. It allows me to say: cancer just sucks. And we move on. I am no less positive or determined to give my all toward my goal of perfect health. So right now, we continue to wait for scans to happen, meeting with doctors for follow-up visits and making a plan going forward. 

Liz