Seriously though, Texas Barbie has a heart of gold. Wait. Better than gold. Her aorta pumps liquid platinum. Yeah, platinum AND diamonds. She's a certified baby-holder at the children's hospital and a true champion for people who need her help. She also doesn't shy away from a keg stand, which I find equally endearing. So without futher ado, please give my good friend Texas Barbie a warm howdy!
(Cue applause.)
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The question was simple enough on our team member page: Why do you relay? If you know me at all, sarcastically referred to on this site as Texas Barbie, you know that I am rather long winded.
If you prefer to just donate and not read, go here (your dollars are for Momma Pug's effort to support her dear friend Brenda).I feel like this should be some eloquent mission statement or a passionate advocacy letter. That it should be something that grabs you, shakes you and doesn't let you go until it has thoroughly worn you out. I want to make you laugh, make you cry and make you think of a book you once read or a moment you once lived through.
But let's face it, that's not my job this time around. My job is to raise money for the Relay for Life. That, I know I can do (with the help of you).
Then there's the other part of my job. One that I don't know if I'll ever be able to do justice to, particularly in an email or on a Web page. It's the part where I tell you why I relay, or more precisely, whom I relay for.
To put it simply it's for my family, those loved ones who have suffered, are suffering or will suffer. No one should have to suffer.
My grandma had cancer for seven years before she told anyone, at least that's the way I remember it. If I'm wrong, don't correct me. I like thinking of her this way, fibbing to my grandpa about where she was, being independent and smiling the whole time. She smiled a lot. And laughed. She had quite the cackle. I don't even know how old I was when I found out she had cancer, but I remember thinking, "It can't be that bad. She doesn't act sick."
And life moved on and the family grew and she got sicker. Only I, being the self-involved high school kid, didn't know the difference. That changed when I visited her in the hospital one winter and saw her look sick for the first time. She laid there, this spirited mother of nine and grandmother to -- well, I'm not sure just how many cousins I have, but it's a whole lot. She could barely lift her arms to hug me.
That's when I understood: this cancer thing is no laughing matter. It's dead serious.
I started visiting her on Wednesdays after that, never for long, just enough to tell her what I did with my day and what I was going to do with my life. I was going to be a big deal, you see. I was going to make her so very proud. She let me talk on and on and on again, never interrupting, never tuning out (which, if you know me at all, you know my talking can outlive any attention span). She told me I could do anything I wanted. She said I'd pass them all -- Barbara Walters, Katie Couric, Diane Sawyer and the whole gang. Not one to lie to a child, she never said I'd be bigger than Oprah.
Always the journalist (read: curious but thoughtful busybody), I asked her about her life, her loves and her secrets. And I asked her the big one, "Are you ready … to go?" She wasn't ready, who ever can be really, but what she said got me. It got me good. "I'm not ready to go or leave all you guys, but I think I'm ready to be with my Jesus."
I guess that when you live life so well and your heart is so full and you've given this world everything you have and a stupid disease has beaten your body, then it's time to say goodbye. Even if it means missing people. Even if it means letting go.
But that's the thing about Grandma. She still hasn't let go, not really. She has a hold on each one of us (40+ grandkids, 9 kids, 1 husband) and that hold is deep. I'm crying right now writing this. (Perhaps that's not the best measure though. To say, "I cry easily," is like saying "It's humid in Houston" or "I think my dog Sampras is cute" -- a bit of an understatement.)
She was someone who could grab you, shake you and not let you go, especially when you were thoroughly worn out. She taught all of us, at least 50 people, how to live the golden rule, give gifts of silver boxes of kindness and appreciate the random rainbows. That's what she did.
I see her all the time, too, so I know she hasn't let go. I see her in my aunts and uncles, my dad, her first born, and my mom, whom she always considered a daughter. It makes me think about the influence one person can have. I know my dad is who he is because of her, and he is phenomenal. There has never been a day when I haven't felt fully loved and supported by him. Never been a day when I haven't felt him beaming with pride.
When I moved out (I think I was going to Boston that time), he stashed away a note that said "You're Dad is always thinking about you." And I know he is. He thinks about me the same way Grandma always thought about him. Every night, every night, she prayed and asked for special blessings for each of her kids and grandkids.
Those kinds of bonds are sacred and they aren't created overnight. And they extend beyond life as we know it. But if only we could have them, live them, love them in life as we know it a little bit longer. If we could just keep our loved ones with us a little bit longer.
So that is why I relay, I guess. For one more Wednesday afternoon. For one more cackle laugh. For the hope that I never have to see my own mom or dad or sister or brother laid up in a hospital bed looking sick.
I relay for my family.
You too can relay, with me, Momma Pug, the Aggie and the whole gang, just click here.
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P.S. If you want to know what we call her Texas Barbie, read about it here. And yes, I am the "friend" in question.
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