Yeh... I stole that title from Eminem's "Not Afraid"... and this is why:
There was a time when I would blog about my past, tell my sordid stories of growing up in the inner city of Edmonton and over share WAY too much of my life with anyone who felt comfortable reading about it. I haven't done that for a while, mainly because my life is off limits as far as posting about it (plus you would be bored to fuck reading about my dinner menu or how I purged Lola's room for the 10th time this year, seriously who GIVES a shit about that shit?)
Then, my dear friend Jaimie Clements (who I met three years ago BECAUSE of this whole Cromdale bullshit) sent this: Jaimieclements9:49pm via Web
@YouAreFIERCE The Cromdale Hotel is no more! Crumbling to the ground as we speak.
Watching that building come down brick by brick, layer by layer, I can only equate it to how the Cromdale stripped away my own mom's life. She left her heart and soul in that building 30 years ago.
I remember.
I remember because I watched it happen, layer by layer, brick by brick, and to watch on video the slow, torturous demolition of the Cromdale Hotel was fitting because in so many ways, it reflected how my mother's life was stripped away; slowly, painfully, and layer by layer.
My 10-year-old son came into the kitchen while I watched this video and put his arm around me, asking, "Mom, did you know the people who lived there?"
I smiled through my tears and said, "One day, you will know why I'm crying about this."
He held me tightly and kissed my cheek.
"I love you mom." "Yeh," I said, swatting his ass. "I love you too." I didn't want him to see my pain or question why the demolition of this building he had never seen, meant anything to him. One day he will know what happened to me and why the demolition of the Cromdale Hotel has me in tears at 10:30 p.m., but tonight is not that night.
We all have our demons, our stories, and our baggage; it's what we choose to do with them is what matters.
Lola just came in and saw my twitter stream and said, 'Mom, I came to say goodnight but did you know that YOU ARE FIERCE?" (she says 'fuhse' some sort of accent I can't explain). I said, "Why do you say that??" She pointed to my Twitter stream and said, "Because you tell everyone else that THEY are FIERCE but really YOU are FIERCE!"
*sob* I broke the cycle. My kids are happy, content, and brave.
Do you define it by how you look? Or how you feel? Or what you do for a living?
We all have insecurities, we all have baggage and we all have scars but when it comes to what you are worth, remember this: You are PRICELESS.
No one else has your story, no one else has your beauty, and no one else has your scars.
All of those things make you beautiful.
You're not always going to feel like a 10 but *shrugs* what defines a 10? Who is to say that my idea of a 10 is the same as yours? Set the 10 to YOUR standards not what other people define as a 10.
I fell asleep last night at 8:30 p.m. after crawling into bed just before 8 p.m. and reading until the words in my book became a jumbled mess.
No wine, no martini, no nothing. Step 2.
I also stopped at the health food store to pick up some vitamins and get serious about this body reset thing.
85 days isn't a lot of time and I'm damn well not wasting one day at all.
Yesterday, I tweeted out to my good Twitter pal Heather aka @Smashfit and demanded asked nicely for some advice.
So I guess we shall see how the rest of today goes. In the mean time, don't forget to nominate the FIERCE Women in your life (open to women in Alberta only). Oh, and you should seriously consider becoming a FIERCE Sponsor. We only partner with the best of the best.
This is a story of two women. Both named Chris. Both 47. One full of life, ready to take on the world. The other, fighting a losing battle for her health. These women have never met, but they both are battling Cancer.
One with her life. The other by helping to find a cure.
I’m Chris, mom of three wonderful young adults, soccer player, Running Room instructor, perpetual volunteer and employee at a busy Pediatrics office in Edmonton.
I am surrounded by loving family and friends, I am full of life and I am ready to take on the world. And this is my story.The first time I heard about the Ride to Conquer Cancer was in February. It was only by chance that I found the flyer, which instantly caught my attention because I am always looking for something new to do, whether it’s ice climbing, running a marathon, driving to Mexico on a bus with 100 other people to build houses for those in need, or getting my motorcycle license. I don’t question my zest for life, I simply embrace it. I’m kicking 50 so “bring it on!”
The bright blue and yellow flyer read, Ride 200+ KM on a bicycle, after raising $2500 towards finding a cure! I was instantly intrigued and started to find reasons to ride; it’s for a good cause, the challenge of a two-day, 200+ km bicycle ride through the mountains, and I would have helped make a difference to those suffering from or directly affected by cancer.
I kept the brochure but didn’t follow up until Monday to get more information.
After speaking with Bradley at the Ride to Conquer Cancer office, I had to consider not only why but how I planned on registering; Individual? Team? Who am I riding for? How will I raise $2500? He helped alleviate my concerns and put the Ride into perspective.
I was convinced this was my next adventure.
Finding each other
A few weeks passed after that phone call and one afternoon at work, a patient’s mom walked in crying. I walked around my counter, offering tissues and a hug. She was distraught because she had only minutes before arriving, received the devastating news that her sister-in-law, Chris Bryan, had been diagnosed with Cancer. I was one of the first people she told and my heart was heavy with sadness for both Angie and Chris.
After Katelyn’s appointment, Angie and I chatted more about Chris. As Angie talked, all I could think of was, “What can I do to help?”
Chris, 47, is the same age as I am with basically the same family dynamics of three young adult children. I couldn’t shake this woman’s devastating news. I tried to put myself in her shoes but it was too horrifying to think about. I could shake the thoughts off - she couldn’t.
It was real for her.
It was her life now.
And she had to deal with it.
I called Angie a few days later to see how Chris was doing, and if they needed anything, not sure what I could have done. A few days later, Angie told me it was not good. Chris was in hospital for further testing and treatment.
At that point I had talked to Angie a few times when she told me about Chris’s blog and how I could go to her site and follow her progress.
I was a stranger to Chris, someone who simply watched her progress via her blog and would send “feel better wishes” through her family.
From afar, I prayed for her.
After a week or so reading her blog, I decided to do the Ride To Conquer Cancer for Chris, and went through Angie to put my request forth to Chris who was at that time, home on oxygen, awaiting test results and going to the hospital for treatments.
At that moment, she became my reason for doing this ride.
Angie told Chris about me wanting to do this ride for her, in her honour, and she was surprised that a stranger would do this for her but happy about it, too.
Over the next few weeks Chris’s health deteriorated and the blog entries stopped. She was too sick to update.
Chris was not doing very well. She was re-admitted to the hospital but Angie kept me informed about her health.
I asked if I could meet her. I thought I might be a bright spot for her in her dreary days of hospitals, pain, doctors, medications, and treatments. I thought by meeting me, a total stranger who is bringing a bit of hope to her world, it might lift her spirits knowing that through her name, through this Ride, that she’d be helping come one step closer to finding a cure. Angie said she’d ask and let me know.
Two days later Angie left a voicemail message on my work phone asking me to come to the hospital that day to see Chris. She had taken a turn for the worse. My heart felt so very heavy in my chest and all I could think about was that she was so young.
This was not the way it was supposed to be for a woman her age. There is so much more life to live. I wished I had magic dust that I could sprinkle over her which had the ability to make this go away for her.
Meeting Chris
I decided to go see her on my lunch hour. She was in the Misericordia Hospital in Edmonton, which is a few blocks from my office. Before I left work, I wrote a letter to Chris, thinking she could either read it when alone, or have her husband read it to her if she was not up to reading it. I stopped at Safeway and bought a simple, but the most beautiful bouquet of carnations. They were in a vase filled with orange slices, completely round and bright orange. I had never seen a bouquet like this one. “It’s perfect,” I thought, and off I went to meet the woman whose life had such an impact on mine.
I peeked in Chris’ room, and looking back at me were about 20 faces, probably wondering who I was. I was apprehensive, feeling like I was treading on sacred family time. I thought I would just introduce myself to Chris and her family, talk a bit about the Ride, and then leave them to their bonding and healing time.
What I walked into was a room of sadness. Chris was unconscious and hadn’t been awake in more than 24 hours. As I stood there being introduced to her mother, father, children, nieces, nephews, and friends, I realized she was not going to make it. I found myself standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by Chris’ family while she lay in the bed, slowly slipping away.
Her mom asked me if I wanted some time alone with her, saying they would leave the room for me to chat with her. I said no, for two reasons; I didn’t want to take their time with their Chris, and I was unprepared to find her this way.
I thought that when it came time for the Ride, she would be there to cheer me on, or welcome me back from it. To this day, my biggest regret is not taking that moment with Chris.
But what I did do was read my letter. I stood up in the middle of the room, surrounded by her loving family. The room went silent as I and read my letter to Chris.
At that moment, I felt so connected to her.
She was so important to me and I was overwhelmed with emotion. I felt sad as I looked at her in her hospital bed. Such a beautiful woman. She seemed peaceful. Like she knew her entire family was around her. If I could feel the love in that room, I’m sure Chris did too. Her feet were uncovered revealing ten purple painted toneails complete with white painted flowers. Her toes were my focus point when I became emotional, as I read my letter and composed myself.
Make It Go Away
That visit stayed with me the entire day. I was not my usual self at work, and everyone noticed, even commented. I couldn’t stop thinking about Chris. After work I got into my car still thinking about her.
I even wondered if I should go see her again. I turned on the CD player, wanting some mellow music. I bypassed eight songs until the song Make It Go Away by Holly Cole started playing. I listened to it three times and it was so obvious to me at that exact moment that this song was Chris’ way of finding me.
This is not the way you should see
me.
This is not the face I recognize
Make it go away. Cause I am weak,
and this is more than one should have
to take.
There are reasons with silver linings
There are lessons but I dont care
Cause I just need a hand that I can
hold onto
When its darker than death out there
Make It Go Away had such a powerful impact on me and renewed my commitment to Chris. It was like she was now a tired, weak soul and she was asking me to take over, to carry her.
I went back twice after that initial visit, thinking there was no way I could walk into their lives, their world and say “I’m riding for Chris,” then walk away.
I was connected.
Each visit, I met more of her family and friends. I would sit with her Mom as she told me stories about Chris and cried because she knew she was about lose her daughter. I comforted her with a hug, and encouragement of what a great life she had with Chris.
She said, “See, this is why you’re here. I thank you for coming here, and for doing this for our Chris.”
I knew it was just a matter of time for Chris.
One morning I called the hospital to check on Chris and the nurse told me the news, softly, with such a degree of sympathy, that Chris had passed away.
I hung up the phone and cried.
For the loss of a woman so young.
For her children, her husband, her family and for things she’ll never experience.
She was diagnosed December 16, 2008 and died April 16, 2009, five months to the day from being diagnosed to losing her battle.
At that moment, she became my angel.
I begin each cycle training with a moment of silence for Chris. I have her picture (in a plastic name tag holder) pinned to my bicycle bag. She’s with me. Her and I are doing this together. “we “ will raise this money toward the cure. Even in her death, she’s ‘helping others,” myself included.
I was unsure if I’d go to her funeral, again part of me felt I wasn’t a part of their family/friend group. But then it hit me! Chris and I were connected, and for me it was strong. I had to go to this funeral, I had to say goodbye to Chris, the woman whose life (and now death) have impacted my own life tremendously.
Her funeral was like none I’ve ever been to. I slowly walked in looking for familiar faces and was amazed with the amount of people there. I talked a bit with the family I had already met, and then it was time for everyone to take a seat.
But there were no seats! I had to stand, along with over a hundred other people. There must have been 4000 people there. What a testament to who Chris was in life. As I listened to her brother, sisters, husband, children, parents talk about her life, I became more and more proud of her. I remember thinking, “I wish I knew this woman.”
Everyone who spoke had the same outlook of Chris; happy, fun, full of laughter, upbeat, positive, and loving. Although her life ended at 47, she touched the lives of so so very many people. Mine included, without ever meeting.
The voice of an angel
Angie’s daughter Katelyn, 4, was having a hard time understanding why Auntie Chrissy was not here anymore. Her parents (Chris’s brother Doug) and Angie told Katelyn that Chris was going to Heaven and would call when she got there and tell them she was OK.
They put it at the back of their minds, and thought that when she was older they would talk about it.
One day I called to see how everyone was doing. Angie answered the phone without saying hello, but rather, “Oh hi Chris !” and we chatted for a few minutes. Unbeknownst to Angie and I, Katelyn heard the phone ring, and her mother answer.
She asked, “Was that Auntie Chrissy calling to say she’s in heaven and OK?” Angie answered, “Yes, yes it was. She said she loves you too.” Katelyn ran off smiling, confident that Auntie was OK.
I cried when Angie called me later to tell me that story. I believe God has a part in all this. He placed us together for a reason. Although we may not understand the why of it all, we should realize that we’re all here to help each other, count on each other.
It could be your neighbour, your co-worker, or someone you’ve never met that might benefit by your actions to show concern, compassion, and love for a fellow human.
Personally, I have never been so touched by another person I have never actually have met. It goes to show that you can be connected or bonded through emotion, through thoughts, through the heart.
I feel so protective of Chris.
This is our ride.
And I will do her proud. F
Christine Jarvis on her final Ride to Conquer Cancer in June 2012
Editor’s Note: This is Christine Jarvis' story that was published in the 2009 Summer edition of MOM Magazine. Christine went on to ride in the Ride to Conquer Cancer every year until her death less than a month after her 51st birthday.
