The Best Christmas Letter You'll Ever Read

Back when our youngest was seven years old, we were as crazed as any two-parent family who worked outside the home while raising three kids. Mornings were such a mad dash I actually showed up to work once wearing two different-colored shoes. Just getting dinner on the table was an Olympic event. Worse, our middle child, while she adored her big brother, had taken a distinct dislike to her little sister, and relished every opportunity to show it. For all the times we caught her in an eye-roll or a mean word, I knew there were dozens of snarky moments we missed.

The holidays loomed, filled with obligations, to-do lists, and long lines at the post office. 

The only thing missing was any spirit of Christmas.

One day, shortly after rescuing the guinea pig from the heating vent where she'd been chased by the dog (don’t ask), I called everyone to the kitchen. Adopting my best don’t-mess-with-me “mommy” voice, I told them this Christmas we were going to do something new. Each of us would write a letter to our family. We would say what we loved about each and every member of the family. No negative stuff (sternly intercepting older daughter’s furtive glance at little sister). We would read the letters out loud on Christmas Eve, after a dinner we would all pitch in to cook together.

The moaning began right away, and didn’t stop. For the next two weeks I’d ask in a steel-hand-in-velvet-glove kind of way “how’s that Christmas letter coming along?” Sagging shoulders, massive sighs and moaning rose to a new art form. The kids probably wouldn’t have followed through except for their dad. Jim's Greek ancestors knew a thing or two about standing tough and being obeyed. (Which was pretty funny, considering privately he grumbled more than anyone).

The youngest skipped around happily, eager to share what she’d written. With her babysitter’s help, she had dashed off her letter a week before Christmas. My letter was done early too. (Gotta say, just thinking of what I would write to these four people put a smile on my face, through what would normally have been the most stressful days of the year.)

December 24^thbegan the final countdown. Jim (fortified with a smidge of Irish whiskey) and the older two kids were in separate rooms, finishing up a letter they were by now convinced would be conspicuous by its absence.

We sat at the dining table, with white tablecloth, candlelight, the “nice” dishes, the works. In the middle of the table sat a small pile of envelopes. Christmas music played softly. The logs in the fireplace crackled and settled. After dessert we cleared the table, leaving only candles and the envelopes. The youngest, invited to begin, grabbed hers from the pile, took out her letter, and proudly read what she loved about her sister, her brother, her mom, and her dad. Her sister went next, each person listening raptly as we heard nice things about ourselves from the people who knew us best. By the time mom and dad read their letters, smiles had become tears.

The next year it took less convincing to get everyone to write their letters. As the kids grew, and their writing skills and life experiences expanded, they even got a little competitive. Whose letter would be the funniest? The cleverest? Which would make mom cry the hardest? There was the year our outwardly tough-and-capable middle one told us about the struggles she was having with friends at school. The time our youngest told us how powerfully traveling made her appreciate things about home. The year the oldest came home from college having just lost his friend to a hit-and-run driver. When his turn came to read, his voice dissolved. He let us in on a deep pain I think he would have otherwise worked to “control”. How must it have felt to have his whole family stand to wordlessly embrace him?

We don’t get to choose what bad thing in life might befall us. But imagine falling asleep at night knowing you’ve said all the things you “wished you would have said”?

I now have a box of letters going back 14 years. Our daughters could not be closer. I wonder what role those letters have played. Some day I will put all the letters together, in order, a formal chronicle of a family growing up together and figuring things out along the way.

Or maybe I’ll just keep them in the box. There’s plenty room for more.

Read More

The Show Must Go On!

12^th September 2009

I have loads to do at the theatre I volunteer at and little time. I like to be well organised and ahead of schedule. Some people think I am mad offering my services for free. But I am not under any pressure to complete or have a contract. You are free to do as much as you like in the time you have chosen to give. I have over seventy costumes to complete and there are three productions to design and make costumes for.

The day went fast because of the amount of work needed done on the costumes. I am taking a couple of the costumes home with me. So when I feel up to it I can complete them at home. Naughty I know, but I hate staying in bed mulling on pain. Once I had finished my bits for the day I go to say goodbye to the director. I did not know what to do or if I could react. Tears started to well up in my eyes, but the show must go on.

The last time I had anaesthetic is a time I can never forget. Certain dates seem to stick and never fade. It does not matter how much time goes by it’s the reasons behind it. I sit at the computer wondering is this my punishment? I know I made the right decision, but was I selfish? Was it right? I guess it will remain my demon to bear. All I know, I will not sleep tonight.

It is strange how we will look back on our life’s looking for answers we have no control over. The little details we scrutinise in our heads that don’t make sense. If I did that or this would it have made a difference?

The consultant said that the DCIS started a year ago and if I had left it one year more I would be telling a different story. Did this condition start with my daughters second birthday? That is the only time I had caused bruising to my chest.

I my daughter, mum were in a car accident on a roundabout. The person behind us had her foot slip on the accelerator when we were clearly stationary at a roundabout nearly shunting us into oncoming traffic on the roundabout. The strap had dug across my left breast right where the now DCIS is.

I checked my young daughter to make sure she was alright. My mum was in shock and did not know what to do. So I got out of the car and walked over to the car that had just gone up our backend. When I realised it was a women I signal her to get out the car. When she got out of her car she was wearing wedges not shoes. My temper took hold and I asked her to give me her driver’s licence. I asked her to tell me her name and address. I grabbed a pen from my mums’ bag. Taking note of her licence plate and type of car she was driving. The woman was in shock at my quick response and replies. My anger could be clearly seen by all. I shouted to her “Next time, do not wear wedges when driving” and I took pictures from my mobile phone. My back was hurting and my concerns were for my little daughter in the back seat. We sat for five minutes in the car taking it all in. Then drove to the hospital to get checked over and were warned we may have whip lash. The back of the car was written off and needed some serious attention. My little daughters’ car seat needed replacing.

Could I have done anything to prevent this disease?

I spoke to Steve about this and he was clear. “It makes no difference because it is now that counts not then. You cannot change the past so why ask? But you can change the here and now.”

As far as Steve is concerned I am being treated and nothing more can be said.

I understand his response to my question. I cannot do anything about the past so why question it. All I am doing is stressing myself out which is doing me no favours. I know there is no clear answer to breast cancer, not even the experts know why it occurs.

Read More

Breaking The News To Others!

10^th September 2009

Sophia has her first day at school today and my life ticks on. I made a phone call to the school explaining the situation. They told me to go in early so I can speak to the head mistress. I remember my eldest’s daughter Kayleighs’ first day at school I was twenty four years old and time has flown by.

I walked into Sophia’s school with the receptionist greeting me. I said “I’m Mrs Mendoza”

“Yes just take a seat and the head mistress will be with you shortly.” And she handed me a form to fill in.

Other parents started to arrive with their children in tow. All in uniform excited at their first day except one little girl who protested. She was crying and kicking her mother legs. Sophia was not fazed in the least at all the commotion. I filled in the forms needed for the school a teacher helper took Sophia into the classroom.

Once I had finished filling the forms in I walked into the corridor to find the head mistress. She opened her office door and guided me in with a welcoming smile.
“Now take a seat Mrs Mendoza”. She insisted and I explained what was happening while she took notes. Tears started to well up in my eyes I could not control them any longer.
“If this will make you feel any better I have had cancer and two members of staff have had breast cancer. So you are amongst others who understand what you are going through.”
I thought, thank you it is about time I could talk to someone who was not cold.

Ok I have friends and family, but they were over emotional except for Steve. I found I had to be cold to make them strong or else I got upset. I found her calming and attentive which is a blessing. I wanted to talk without feeling angry or frustrated and she had that calming effect on me. The tears finally flowed down my face with every word said. She pushes a box of tissues in front of me to mop my tears up.

“We will do everything possible to help during this time of distress. Do not think you cannot talk to us. Please phone the school once you have dates so we can help.” And finally she says. “I am sure Sophia will be fine here and don’t worry.”

I left the school feeling uncertain of what the future might hold...

I went back to pick Sophia up at 3.30pm during that time I had a phone call from the Big C hospital confirming an appointment for the plastic surgeon on the 21^st.

“Mum it’s been a real shit year”. Kayleigh held her head down.
“But Kayleigh welcome to real life it is not all roses and chocolates.”
The reply was blunt, but it is the truth. She is my eldest daughter and a realist like her mum.
“If we knew we would be hit by a bus tomorrow would we leave the house? The answer is clearly No! We would stay at home. Well we all have pre-cancerous cells somewhere. It is just what causes them to get aggressive. That is the million dollar question, but do we encase ourselves in a protective bubble waiting for the invertible to happen?”

God knows what she is thinking right this moment. Nineteen years old and she has to worry about her mum having breast cancer.

After talking to her in detail about the position I’m in. Reassuring her it can be treated and the operation that is needed. We changed the conversation onto her medical problems.

She has been passing out for no apparent reason and she is having tests done. I am praying it is not related to her febrile fits she had as a toddler. They did inform me once she was off medication that hormones and stress could trigger them again. Only time will tell and she must have more tests done to rule it out.

Since my parents divorced I have had no contact with my siblings it was a personal decision. The divorce turned nasty and the blame game was being used.

My eldest daughter has their contact details and if I contacted them problems would start up again. So I must decide how I should inform them. The fact my father’s death is still fresh may rear up ill feelings just fester at the surface. So Kayleigh has decided she will tell them.

At least if I keep a distance this can be controlled somewhat. I feel sorry for my daughter having this pressure, but we both agree it is the sensible way of informing them. They will thrive on the fact that once again the middle sister is suffering, but life goes on.

Steve made his opinion perfectly clear on informing my sister’s DON’T. He knows it has consequences with their behaviour and selfish attitude to me. He wants me to understand that his concerns are for Sophia and the stress it may create.

Read More

A Valid Point That Should Not Be Ignored!

7^th September 2009

Now I am really angry, why I hear you say?

Well I went to the hospital at 9.30am and I waited one hour before I was seen. Now I am not angry at that, but what happened later.

First warning sign, it had taken them thirty minutes to prep the room. Now that’s ok means they are being thorough. Then I enter the room they prep me up with a gown and I’m told to sit in a comfy chair that can be altered.

They place pillows at the back of me so I am jammed against the mammogram machine. Then the nurse alters the height of the machine and plate so my left breast can sit on it. She takes another plastic plate that slides on the top bit. Only to be confused into how it is attached. So I say hold on and I show her how it slides into place. Once this is done she positions my breast onto the lower plate and compresses my breast ready.

“Ok! What’s wrong?” she says and moves a plastic switch while my breast is still compressed in the plates and nothing happens. She presses a letter P on top no response. Then she turns to the other nurse in the room searching for answers.

“What do you think?” She asks the other nurse in the room.

They start to fiddle with the machine to see if they can get it working. Mean time I’m still sat in an uncomfortable position with my breast squashed. I look at them trying to wish they could read my thoughts somehow or the expression on my face.

“Look let me leave the room” I say calmly “I don’t mind.”

“Oh no you don’t need to do that” one of the nurses replies, “It is probably something simple.” And they continue to fiddle with the machines buttons.

How can two nurses not know how to work a machine that they are supposed to be trained to use? Five minutes later they have not got it working and finally they release my breast from the plates to my relief.

“Let me leave the room” I request again. “Leave the both of you to fix the machine just call me when you are ready.”

I tie the surgical gown they gave me and wait on their reply.

They both finally agree that I should wait outside. I take a seat after all machines do play up it is not their fault. Five minutes later I am called back into the room to compress my left breast into the mammogram machine again. They take an x-ray and then take another. The radiologist is called in, which did my ultra sound biopsy two weeks ago. She checked the picture on the computer gave the thumbs up. Then she changed the type of picture taken so it is shows more detail by magnifying the area needed for the core biopsy needle.

Second warning sign they have a problem with the machine, again no-one can work it. They are playing guessing games including the radiologist on how to get the readings up to do the core biopsy needle position. Now I have a warped sense of humour and I am sarcastic when I am angry. Some people say I am bullish with my approach, but I don’t think the nurses noticed or the radiologist.

“Maybe I should try! It might have male components and needs putting in its place.” I sarcastically slip in. My breast is beginning to ache from the attention it is not receiving.

In the end there were three people in the room and the radiologist trying to work out how to work the machine.

They finally work it out after touching the computer screen several times.

Now I am an easy going patient, but this I find rather worrying. I could feel my stomach doing somersaults with the nerves.

The biopsy is done under local anaesthetic like the ultra sound, but the anaesthetic did not work straight away. The radiologist did the touch test and it felt numb, but when it came to making the incision for the core biopsy needle it stung.

Now I know my breast is still hyper sensitive from the last time and I’m due on my menstrual cycle so my breast is swollen. So I make excuses up for them so things remain calm and the radiologist quickly tops the injection up.

Besides they are feeling unprofessional the fact no-one could work the machine properly in front of me. But then I start to feel sick, which isn’t a good sign especially because I have a core biopsy needle in my breast. I’m thinking do not pass out and fit for gods’ sake. But I was feeling rather warm and sticky which is not a good sign.

Once I had vomited I felt much better, but the mess I made was not so good. Thankfully the nurse was fast to find a sick bowel. I did not fancy the bus ride home smelling of sick.

“Must have been the banana I had for breakfast.” I told the nurses to break the tension.

The room had filled with the odour of bananas. I could not believe the amount of blood that had come from such a small wound.

“Well at least I bleed well.” I said to the radiologist.

Third and final warning sign, one of the nurses replies was, “This is the first mammogram biopsy I’ve done in six months we don’t always do them.” Warning bells went up I felt angry as hell. My humour had kept me calm and now I hear something I wish I had not heard.

What am I a guinea pig? I do not mind students being present or nurses learning, but warn me first pleases!

My breast is just as important as anyone else’s.

I have just had a procedure done with staffs that have little knowledge of equipment and experience. I laugh at the governments’ way of making cut backs to the NHS.

I turned to the radiologist, “What next because I do not have another appointment?”

“Go to the breast clinic and request a follow up appointment.”

I gather my things together and head to the breast clinic feeling really upset and let down over the day’s events.

The breast clinic was closed and they send me to the patients’ services appointment desk downstairs. They said there is nothing until the 23^rdOctober 2009. So I go back upstairs and tell the breast clinic that I’ve just had a biopsy and I need an appointment sooner. The breast clinic receptionist does not have authority to make appointments and gives me a direct number to my oncologist consultants’ secretary because I should have an appointment within two weeks of procedure.

So I go home and ring the number only to be transferred to the same patient services receptionist desk down stairs in the hospital. I put the receiver down and think that’s it. Tears flood down my face with the frustration and the pain I am in. I ring Steve up to tell him what has happened and he agreed it was very unsatisfactory. I ring Sandra my friend up north, she tries to console me even makes the odd joke to break the stress of the situation.

“Can’t you get your hospital changed?” She asks.

8^th September 2009

It is 6am in the morning I have had less than four hours sleep because of the discomfort I’m feeling and thinking over yesterday’s events. How have we got to a situation where we are willing to except a second rate standard of care? I know I am not willing to except it, but there are those that are not equipped with the knowledge of what standard of care they should be receiving. Yes, we have to make room for human error, but this is my life and my breasts they are tampering with.

While I was sat in the corridor outside of the mammogram area a Portuguese old man with bowed legs and a walking stick struggled to walk by me. As he passed me the gown he was wearing was wide open and there was no nurse or member of staff to save this man’s dignity. Why not offer the man a wheel chair or a second gown? He was going in the X-ray room. Why allow him to struggle? Maybe it was by choice he chose to walk, but not the loss of dignity surely.

Why allow the public to see his frail bare legs? He had only his shirt barely covering his underwear from view.

Is this the standard of care we except?

We look at the expenses scandal of MP’s and complain, but that is not new it has been going on for years.

Would the public gain anything if we retrieve that money lost through greed? Would the NHS gain anything from that missing money or would it be swallowed into another greedy pocket just waiting for his or her opportunity.

Are we willing to complain and except that public money is being used incorrectly? Yes because it is now 2009 and it has always been in the media domain.

It is not the nurses’ fault that they do not have adequate time to train on vital equipment. When resources are over stretched and underfunded.

I have personally come to the conclusion I personally do not want to be treated at this hospital. Not that the staff are rubbish at their job, but because they do not have the experience to treat me. I have heard from local people that they would not like to be treated at this hospital either. So it is doing nothing for my confidence when staffs make silly errors.

Would the Prime Minister accept this standard of care for his wife? Would the staff be stupid enough to make any medical errors in front of the Prime Minister?

Hell no! There would be a major inquiry to why the incident took place.

His wages which comes from our pockets plus the perks with the title ensures she will get adequate care in a hospital of their choice. It certainly would not be a lower ranking hospital with stories of failures hanging round its head.

So why should I?

After speaking to another friend she advised me to drop in at the Big C hospital in London. The nursing staff there could not do enough to calm me down. The happy go lucky breast cancer nurse I spoke to was really nice and listened to what I had to say. Smiling at Sophia every now and then especially when she requested loudly she wanted the toilet.

She said “Don’t worry we shall get you sorted it is obvious your confidence had been given a knock.” The nurse explained that sometimes these things happen and it is not nice when it does. That the consultant I have is a very good consultant and try not to worry.

I am actually scared now because I am uncertain of my treatment and the outcome.

But in general I am a positive person and for my confidence to be knocked takes a heck of a lot. At least I have the sense to ask and request. Some would just soldier on hoping the nightmare finishes soon.

On the way home I got a phone call from the breast care nurse from the bad hospital. I was right. It is DCIS and she requests I go to there tomorrow to see the oncologist consultant.

I did not know whether to laugh or cry. I felt proud I got the prognoses right, but now I had the treatment to face. All I knew for certain was I was not happy about being treated there. I don’t mind my consultant it is the rest of the hospital that worries me. I ring my husband up holding back the tears as I speak so Sophia cannot see. I was on the central line tube and a person next to me could hear my every word. When I had got off the phone she asks, “You alright love?”

I smile and nod my head whilst looking out the window opposite me searching for answers searching for a place to hide my tears.

This journey I am about to undertake I so wish would dissolve away. My life has had its good points, but I am tired of the knock backs. For once I feel I am in a comfortable spot and all I need is support. Then the word CANCER rears its ugly head to turn my life upside down again. Sometimes you want to become an ostrich and bury your head deep in the sand. The truth is far from what you would really want to accept. Ostriches don’t bury their heads in the sand and neither can I.

One minute you are watching television programs on breast cancer which does not mention DCIS. The next you are actually facing the dreaded diseases yourself. But it is not just the diseases it is your treatment that puts added pressure. The fear of chemotherapy and a mastectomy puts the fear of god into me. What is my life going to be like now? How will I cope? What is the end result?

My father had chemotherapy as part of his treatment. I never saw its affects on him, but Kayleigh has mentioned little details. I could not go up and see him. Something inside had already told me all them months ago I had issues. People did argue I should be at my fathers’ bedside, but understood the reasons why I could not. I know he had attempted to come see me before he passed. The fact my sisters stood in his way frustrated the situation. I could have arranged to meet up on our own, but he would not have been alone. He could never go anywhere without one of them. There was little room for privacy in his life, but he had chosen that life. That’s why I chose to move to London and start a new life. I wanted my privacy back with a fresh start. This meant for that to happen I had to turn my back on my old life.

Dad never knew I had breast cancer he passed away on the 16^th July 2009 just short of my thirty ninth birthday.

Read More