My Dad would take my two older sisters and me to Saunoris nursery on Harlem Avenue to find a Christmas tree. We would bundle up and head out in our conversion van. The trees would be leaning against a post, angled to keep the trees mostly upright. Layers and layers of trees. My Dad would pull one out to see if it would make the cut to be our family tree. He would lift the tree up and bang it down on the trunk to shake out the needles and let the branches fall where they may. This process would go on for hours. We would pull out dozens, stand the tree up, turn it around, no, let it lean on another tree. Pull another one, stand the tree up, Lizzy, hold on to it! Put it down. Finally, after our hands and gloves were sticky with sap, a tree would be selected. A perfectly shaped blue spruce. Somehow my Dad always judged the correct height of the tree. (Well, except for one year when we moved to Louisville and finally into the house my parents built. I think I was around 13 or 14 years-old. We got a tree and brought it home only for it to be way too tall. We found this out the hard way as we scraped the ceiling with the top of the tree trying to stand up the tree. Whoops. So Dad had the idea to borrow the neighbors chainsaw. Perfect! My Dad revs up that chainsaw inside the house. Wood chips are flying everywhere, the house smells like gasoline, my eldest sister is on a ladder with soft scrub trying to get the huge tree scrape off the ceiling before Mom comes home, my younger sister is trying to keep the tree steady as Dad dissects it and I’m trying to vacuum up the chaos from the chainsaw. Then, in cutting more from the bottom of the tree, we had to take some limbs off but that made the tree look whimpy so then we got some wire and wired more branches into the tree and supported the branches. We channeled our inner Dr. Frankenstein with this tree. In the end, the tree turned out beautiful and one of the funniest Christmas tree memories was born). Anyway, after selecting our tree at Saunoris nursery, Dad would tie it to the top of the van and away we went. For some reason, it was never a warm experience picking out a Christmas tree. This is a suburb of Chicago. In December. We would get home nice and thawed ready for the next stage: decorating. We were a colored light kind of family with homemade ornaments all over. We would have strings of cranberries and a cloth chain my mom sewed together. It was various scraps of fabric in colors of red, green and white looped together and then went around our tree. We had various colored candy canes and if I was sneaky (which I was), I would eat one or two each year. We had plenty of homemade ornaments on our tree as well. Our “nice” ornaments consisted of some fake fruit and soft, string covered ornaments. The string was smooth and fine and could be moved to expose the styrofoam ball underneath it. I remember rubbing my fingers over these ornaments in that mesmerizing movement that one can do. Inevitably, I would be told not to ruin the fragile ornament and put it on the tree. My favorite decorations were the bubble lights, though. They are probably a fire hazard now. Bubble lights have a bulb that would warm up a colored liquid-filled vial attached to the bulb. As the liquid warmed from the heat of the bulb, bubbles would move back and forth, hence bubble lights. But they were my favorite and I would gaze at our tree and be completely content. You know, pre-tablet era. The smell of the tree would permeate the house. And the excitement of Christmas was here. I loved it. The anticipation. The presents under the tree. As a kid, I remember this season being my favorite. 

A friend recently posted about how we typically say “finish the year strong.” But maybe our mantra should say “finish the year gently.” And I resonate with that. It doesn’t mean that we finish the semester or the fiscal year lazily or half-done. Rather, we finish this year calmly, with peace. It allows us to physically relax our body knowing we have done the best we can given our situation and to be content in our efforts. It is how I like to equate my cancer journey. I always refer to it as a journey instead of a battle. (And no offense taken if you refer to it as a cancer battle.) I am already at odds with my body and as I heal, I don’t want to be in that fight or flight stage. So journey. With all the ebbs and flows that accompany it. Right now, I am working through my emotions of how I feel my body has failed me: aka, Barbara. Even though I spent a lot of time and energy taking care of my body by exercising and trying to eat well to fuel my body. But you know what? I still got cancer. Maybe all that was preparing my body for this grueling journey but still. That just placates my frustrations about where I am. My body failed. Or maybe I feel I failed. I haven’t worked out all the nuances of what this means just yet. I’m sitting in the uncomfortable, working to process all these thoughts and emotions and it is hard and awkward. Growth is not easy. Pain is uncomfortable. Cancer has challenged my perception on a lot of things. But I also know a few things about myself: I am resilient. I am loved. And one day I will get to celebrate my cancer-free body. But for now, it is painstakingly slow in the physical recovery which is affecting my mentality with this journey. But a couple bad days will not shake my goal of perfect health. And guys, we are closer than ever to that reality!