Tag: family

What did we do before Zara?

On By amandalgoodwinLeave a comment

The impossibility of shared unconditional love

Because I was older—10 and then 14—when my last two sisters, Maria and Teresa, were born, I have very clear memories of cooing over them with my mom. We’d marvel at their tiny-ness and say things like:

“Can you even believe she used to not be here?”

We’d share in our version of loving nos.

As an only child, Briggs didn’t have any of that. Or hadn’t, until we brought Zara into our family three years ago this December.

Just this morning, his stomach hurting, none of us too quick to get out of bed and into the unseasonably wintery spring, he said: 

“Can you believe there was a time before Zara Dew? What did we even do without her?”

Then we both melted into full weekend puppy cuddles.

Zara is not an easy-going dog. She’s a reactive rescue with strong preferences for people and creatures. Thankfully, she adores those who primarily care for her—me, Briggs, Todd, Briggs’s dad (Ken), and my mom (Omi). She’s also wild for my neighbors Tom and Michelle, their son Gavin, and their dog, Mac.

For the past six months, a friend of Todd’s—another chef named Isaac—has been staying at his house with his yellow lab, Marco. At first, Zara wasn’t sure how she felt about either. But now, when we’re there, she does her best to nap with Marco and keep an eye on Isaac.

Still, there’s no doubting her preference for me.

Briggs can hardly walk past us without commenting: 

“Mumma, that puppy LOVES you. I mean LOVES you.”

He’s not wrong.

When she has it her way, I’m next to her—napping, writing, taking a meeting, or catching up with someone I love. She doesn’t mind the laptop on my lap, but she definitely prefers it quiet—just the sound of keys, not voices.

Lately, it’s felt harder to believe in my own value.

For most of my life, my work defined me. It gave me identity. And over the past few years, that identity has been slowly eroded—until now, I’m left trying to reshape something that feels… solid. In the past, when I felt low, I’d think of myself at 10 years old and feel proud of who I became. These days, it’s more like she’d shrug and say something clever, like, “Figures.”

Maybe it’s not a coincidence that all of this started around the time Zara came home.

My connection with neighbors. Daily walks outside. The small, unmissable proof that I still show up: keeping her safe, warm, fed, hydrated, and engaged. Staying present with Briggs as he figures out his way through adolescence.

Zara sees me. And Briggs. And somehow, Briggs and I—on our best days—see each other too. No, love isn’t enough to make it through everything. But it is something. And it’s a remarkable place to begin again.

Zara snuggling with Briggs’s favorite blanket this week, while he was at school.

Evidence of Disease

On By amandalgoodwin2 Comments

Finding my way as a Stage IV Cancer Patient

So, last week—after serious delays from norovirus and a respiratory infection—I finally had my follow-up brain MRI and PET scan to see what the cancer looks like now.

To level set: At this stage, doctors don’t talk in terms of remission or cure because the likelihood of cancer returning remains high. What Stage IV patients aim for is “no evidence of disease”—meaning periods of time when no visible cancer appears in the body. During these stretches, patients can step back from grueling treatments, sometimes even taking a break entirely.

The results from the brain MRI came in while I was with my neuro team, so I got to learn the same day as the scans that my brain is beautiful. The MRI continues to show only signs of healing. Even better, the damage to my pituitary gland has reversed enough that it can now be treated with oral medication. At this time, I am not a candidate for another brain surgery—a huge relief.

The PET scan results took a little longer. They were posted to my electronic medical records a few hours before Todd and I headed into Boston to meet with my oncology team. I didn’t linger on the details, but I was disappointed not to see the magic phrase, “no evidence of disease.” I prepared myself for what I was sure would be a discussion about my next round of immunotherapy.

Still, I held onto one bright spot: The word “partial” showed up a zillion times, and I knew enough to recognize that meant all instances of cancer throughout my body had been at least partially attacked and defeated. That alone was a win—far better than seeing signs of new growth.

Then, I sat down with my melanoma specialists—and it turns out, I was wrong. 🙂

When my doctor showed us my scans side by side—the one from before treatment and the one from last week—the differences were undeniable. Before treatment, my lymph nodes, liver, and lungs lit up with active cancer cells, sparking around my organs like toxic fireworks. Now? Well, there is actually no evidence of cancer in my lymph nodes. And everywhere else—there are just these still, dull dots.

My doctor explained that while it’s impossible to say for sure without surgery (and I have no interest in an investigatory operation), what they’ve learned over the years is that scans like mine—with just these dull, still dots—technically show “evidence” of something, but that evidence suggests inactive, “dead” cancer cells. Like scar tissue. Or battle wounds. (My words, not the doctor’s.)

When scans look like mine do today, there’s no data suggesting that more treatment—like immunotherapy—would prevent cancer from returning. The best course of action now? Monitoring. Brain MRIs every two months. PET scans every three months. If anything changes, I’ll restart treatment.

This is, by far, the most grateful I have ever been for a break.

Thank you to everyone who has prayed, sent well wishes, lit candles, and kept my best and highest self in your thoughts. I am deeply grateful for all of us.

I celebrated my good news at my boyfriend’s restaurant, Pastoral, on Valentine’s Day, with my son, Briggs (left) and nephew Nico (right).

Wordle

On By amandalgoodwinLeave a comment

Most days, I play Wordle from the NY Times.

On the days when my son Briggs is with me, we do it together. On days like today, when he’s with his dad, I typically text them how many tries it took me to solve it, and then they tell me the same.

His dad and I are divorced, but the three of us are still (and always) a family.

The Wordle play is both connective and playfully competitive.

Truth: Briggs and his dad typically solve Wordle in fewer tries than I do. I usually credit them with being better at puzzles. It’s 100% all in fun, and none of us are engaged in any kind of “who’s smarter than who” competition… though our son is a teenager, so by default, he knows everything. 😉

I had a bit of a revelation during my solo Wordle match yesterday.

I was approaching my third guess. I already knew four of the five letters: I, E, L, and T, and I knew that the T was at the end. Even though I had all this information, my brain couldn’t unsee the word “FIELD”—even though I knew that couldn’t be right.

After getting stuck on “FIELD” for what felt far too long, all I could hear were words that rhymed with “FIELD”—none of which could be the solution.

I was in a loop…until…I allowed myself to play with an answer I knew wasn’t “it.”

I submitted F-I-E-L-D and saw all the letters, except for the D, signal that I was getting closer.

Suddenly, “FILET” became visible, and I solved it in four.

It feels almost silly, but up until yesterday, I was approaching the game as a race to win with the fewest guesses. Now, I don’t think that’s the point whatsoever.

I think the object of the game is to show me how to shift my thinking, recognize when loops are hurting or not helping, and remember that not every attempt is about getting it right but rather about getting new information.

It’s a mindset I’ll carry into tomorrow’s biopsy.

The Crash & The Hole

On By amandalgoodwinLeave a comment

The summer following my sophomore year of high school, my grandfather and his wife, Margaret, drove my sister, Lindsey, and me down and up the Atlantic coast.

By then, my mom and dad had been divorced almost as long as they’d been married. My dad had decided to move to Florida, and with that decision came a year without being able to see or be near him.

Yes, of course, there were issues—like a lot of them—but my memory tells me that his moving away at that point in my life ended up giving me a hole. The kind that makes room for eternal missing—no matter what.

When my mom’s parents decided to rent a travel van and make the (very) long ride from New Hampshire (where we all lived) to Florida and then back to their summer home in Maine, they also generously offered to take Lindsey and me along for the whole trip.

To this day, I have no clue if they asked my mom before they asked what I thought about going. I remember crying for all the reasons.

I missed my dad. Immensely. I’d also just had my heart broken for the very first time, and my ex started dating my former best friend. Any place, even a somewhat cramped conversion van with my grandparents, sounded better than sticking around town and feeding my feelings with Prince Mac & Cheese and Dazed and Confused on rewind.

I do, however, remember what my mom said to me right before I got into that van:

“Be good. You’ll go out to eat a lot, remember you don’t need to order a drink every time. And when you get to Maine, you and your sister are NOT allowed to ride in the car if Heather’s driving.”

Heather was Margaret’s youngest daughter. She was only a few years older than me and had recently been given a sports car. Everyone knew she wasn’t the best driver; it was a small town and an even smaller family.

I told my mom I loved her; she said she loved me and was serious about Heather.

I said, “I know.”

There’s a lot of story between that goodbye and our first Saturday morning in Maine when Lindsey and I made our way into Heather’s little two-door red car despite my (and my grandparents’) awareness of my mother’s seriousness. But this is the story of the crash and the hole.

Because obviously, we crashed.

For me, the worst part wasn’t the ambulance ride, the loud sounds, the crowd that gathered, or all the glass and blood. For most of my childhood and pre-driving teen years, I aggressively insisted that I ride shotgun because I was the oldest.

But Heather was older than me (and the younger sister in her own family), so I slumped in the back when she insisted Lindsey ride shotgun. My head hit hard on the side of the car. Lindsey’s spidered the windshield.

When Lindsey leaned back and looked at me stunned and spotted with glass and blood all over her forehead and cheeks, I instinctively hugged her into my chest and said, “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. It’s okay.”

(Many years later, Lindsey told me even though she knew I reached for her out of love and concern when I pulled her close, she felt the little shards of glass go deeper into her forehead.)

Ultimately, no one involved was seriously physically injured. Everyone did go to the hospital, but everyone also left the hospital that day unassisted and without a cast.

But, there was damage.

The call to my mom (even though I didn’t make it) hurt, and so did her arrival the next day. My mom’s and Lindsey’s and my relationship with that entire side of the family was never the same after that.

That really hurt. Then, less. Occasionally, it would hurt all over again for reasons that did and didn’t make sense. Then, not so much.

For me, they fell into that hole of missing, and while multiple (and good) attempts were made (by everyone), we just never all got out.

It’s unfair, but in this case, my grandparents’ kind and good intention of filling one hole made another.

https://www.fortmyersmemorial.com/obituaries/Robert-Lapointe-21291/#!/Obituary