Before I got involved in basketball, the first organized sport I played was softball. My dad was the coach. This was the era when the windmill pitching was just getting momentum in the sport. Or at least was revolutionary for my small town. Everyone else did the slow-pitch number or granny throwing where there was an arm pull-back and toss sort of thing. No form needed. I remember I got pitching lessons and I couldn’t quite get the windmill form figured out. The pitching coach said I should do the slingshot. Essentially, you mimic the windmill but instead of a full circle with your arm, your arm goes up and then down. So half circle. Slingshot like. But that didn’t really work for me either. I worked at figuring out the windmill. I would walk to the park with 5 softballs and throw to the back of the fence. I would throw the softballs against our neighbors brick house. (Only later did I realize what a faux pas this was. I just knew I was bored and the softball on our siding would dent and my mom would spank me senseless.) If my dad was available, I would pitch to him. Which was funny because I was concerned I would hurt him if he didn’t catch one of my throws. He looked so nonchalant ready to catch. Years later, I would learn my dad almost went into the minors for baseball. His position: catcher. So yeah, he wasn’t overly concerned about not catching my throws. I finally figured out the windmill and became a weapon in our little town league. Every year, the team to beat was the Creamery. (The Creamery itself was the local ice cream place that is still there today. It was a long haul across town but I would bike all the way just to have an Oreo parfait. Yum!) According to my mom, the Creamery team always recruited the best girls. Right after figuring out the windmill pitching form, we beat the “recruited” rec team. We won! Of course we would lose in the playoffs but small wins need to be counted and remembered.

Last week, I was throwing pop-ups to my youngest. He is currently playing recreational baseball with the local sports program. He loves seeing his friends from school on opposing teams and is a pretty decent hitter but not so smooth on defense. If 8U had a DH (designated hitter) position, that would be his jam. So he and I are working on fielding grounders and catching pop flys. Well, really, I just need him to catch the ball from a regular throw but a grounder or pop fly adds some spice to the basics. I loved watching him get excited when he would catch a pop fly. Or catch in his mitt three times in a row. And it is really hard for me not to tear up in these mundane moments. The simple joys of watching his emotions of happiness and pride when he catches the ball to his frustration and anger when he repeatedly misses the catch. Just being able to be present and in relatively little pain, minus my numb feet. This last year was hard. And it doesn’t look any easier in the foreseeable future with recovery but I’m going to pause and let my heart fill with gratitude for the simple things like playing catch with my youngest. My precious Theo will stop throwing, look at me and ask me if I am okay. We may struggle with reading books but he reads my heart so well. Because right now my lows are really low and I’m struggling to get out of constantly feeling overwhelmed. I am not surprised to learn a large majority of cancer patients go on anti-depressants after treatments. No judgement here. So, for me, first things first: figuring out my hormones. I recently met with my gynecologist and our path forward is two weeks of increased progesterone at night then bloodwork to see what is going on. The bloodwork will help better understand where my baseline is for increasing hormones since my body produces zero hormones. Nada. Zilch. My poor husband. Yet, we have a plan of action. In the meantime, I am going to consciously choose to savor these small wins. These small glimmers of hope and of joy wrapped up in a baseball.

Guys! Great news! My port comes out Friday, May 16th. My port that I affectionately and inappropriately call my triple nipple is being evicted. It’s a simple outpatient procedure but due to the anesthesia, Chris is my driver. I am not worried about this procedure. I am more worried about my body handling the anesthesia because after my port was initially installed, I threw up after I got home. Let’s all hope this go-around is better. Progress is being made. Another thing getting done to move forward.

Liz