Tuesday, March 5, 2013


Yesterday an acquaintance posted on FB looking for help with a costume from other mothers with "dancer daughters."
I read it as "cancer daughters."
Life has moved on.  Husband, surviving children, me ~ all at work, all productive, all moving forward.
I know; I've said it all before.  La-dee-dah.  I have to remind myself.
Because, in many ways, time stopped for me on the afternoon of September 3, 2008 at the Jesuit Retreat Center outside of Detroit.  In many ways I am still standing there in my bedroom, phone in my ear, floor and room oddly tilted and dangling in the air, no longer tethered by gravity.  The entire world still slants askew, and I often feel as if I am walking along a ridge, one foot firmly planted on the path following the crest, and the other constantly slipping down through the dirt and mud eroding the mountain and sliding down  . . . to where, exactly?
I don't think it's too noticeable, although I could be wrong.  I do my stuff.  But I am so alert to this other world, the one in which mothers clutch bodies of children to their hearts and wail silently through the rest of their lives.  The one in which it will always be that late summer afternoon.
And so I see the words "cancer daughters" in place of "dancer daughters."


  1. Robin, as I read your post, I was reminded that there are certain events that change our lives forever and we can never be the same ever again. I pray that I will be mindful of that when I am privileged to be in the presence of someone for whom that is true.

  2. Grateful that you are bearing witness.

  3. So very poignant...so true. In a heartbeat it all flashes back. I would hug you if I were there.