Chris over at Coke on my Keyboard, is pretty fabulous. And not just because she recognizes the complete wonderful awesomeness of me, either. But she does, though, and she gave me this award:

In her entry, she listed five things that she’s into and passed on her award to five people she wanted to recognize. Technically, I should do the same, but I am going to break the rules. Big surprise, right? Since I think all of you are great, I’d rather recognize something else that’s fabulous.

Every year in February, one of the radio stations that I listen to has a telethon for St. Jude’s Research Hospital. And every year, in the week leading up to it when they are advertising, I say, “This year, I will not be listening.” And then I forget and I get in the car on the first day and the sad stories start and by the time I get to work, I look like this:

Because those stories rip your heart out. Rip it out and then stomp it and chew it and put it in a wood chipper. And then they squeeze your lungs until you can breath, and then put them in a vice with your stomped, chewed heart until they both explode. And then you cry.

But that’s what childhood cancer is – it’s a stomping, chewing, shredding, vice-grip, dragon of a fucking bastard. But St. Jude’s Hospital is fighting that dragon. And more and more they are winning. But not enough. As long as any parent loses a child to cancer, it’s not enough. It’s every parent’s worst nightmare.

My grandma lost her firstborn before he turned three. That was almost 70 years ago and she still feels the pain. She still tears up when she talks about him. She still misses him every day. Two of my sisters-in-law lost children, and each of them are two people. The person they were before and the one they are after. No parent should ever have to go through that. No child should ever have top face their own mortality. No five year old should know words like myeloma or neurofibromatosis.

So every year in February, I listen to the beautiful, awful stories told by beautiful children and grateful (and anguished) parents and I cry and cry and cry some more. And I pray.

And then I pick up the phone and I become a Partner in Hope. I choose to do this type of donation, because I can donate more, but it comes out of my account monthly, so I don’t feel it. It’s a couple books, a few drinks with friends, some takeout lunches. If I can afford those, then I can afford this. I’ve done it every year I have been a mother.

So, I’m not trying to pressure anyone into anything – I am not affiliated with St. Jude’s in any way, and I don’t benefit from anyone’s donations (other than the benefit I receive as a member of the human race – saving children). But if you have thought about giving to a charity, or know someone suffering from cancer and feel frustrated because there’s nothing you can do, maybe this is an option for you. There are single donations, memorial donations, and honor donations as well as the Partners in Hope. Sometimes your company will match what you give, which is even better.

You can donate on the website, or call the current telethon that I am listening to at 1-866-209-HOPE.

Because if anyone is fabulous, it’s St. Jude’s.

About sugarmag

Forty-sdjhfkjsdhfkjsdh year old mom of 2 - a 18 year old boy and a 11 year old girl. I love them very much, but they drive me crazy. I'm married and work full-time. I'm not sure which of these is the most exhausting, but probably the husband. I'm opinionated. I'm outspoken. I'm loud. I'm an over-sharer. I think Tom Cruise is a jackass. I like to say jackass. I like to swear, period. Fuckers. I love to read. I struggle with my weight. I love my job. I dress my pets up and ridicule them regularly. I am not afraid to cut my hair and I don't understand people who are. I hate getting old. I love to laugh. Make me laugh, OK?

3 responses »

  1. I have 5 children and am a very emotional person. I can’t handle listening to those stories. In fact, I have to change the channel when commercials come on. I lost my grandmother to cancer, but no loss could possibly be as great as that of a parent losing a child.

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