Hello friends, I know it’s been a while since I touched base. I hope and pray that you and your family and friends are still afloat during the COVID-19 crisis.

Do you remember when my daughter Grace was diagnosed with cancer at four-years-old, in 2014? I was explosively positive. Forcefully hopeful. And deep in denial. When she relapsed a year and a half later, I was angry. Raging. I wanted to burn the world down. 

And now, two years later, as I deal with the COVID-19 crisis, I’ve been distracting myself with building a chicken coop and waiting for eight chicken eggs to hatch. I’ve been watching their incubator obsessively for three weeks. We’ve never hatched eggs before. 

I thought the distraction would be a great coping tool. I wasn’t in denial. I wasn't angry. I just kept busy so I wouldn’t have to feel. 

It started three weeks ago when a girl who lived in Simi Valley, just downhill from the Santa Susana Field Lab (SSFL), died of incurable brain cancer that only children get. DIPG. It’s a death sentence. I’ve only been part of the SSFL cleanup effort for five years, but every time a child dies of cancer in my community, I feel like a failure. 

Friends called to see if I could get involved to emotionally support the girl’s family. Instead, I found myself "too busy" with my chicken coop project. Three of my friends have also lost their children to cancer. The pain of that was still too fresh for me, I didn't think I could handle more.

I’ve only been part of the SSFL cleanup effort for five years but I still feel responsible for protecting children from the radioactive and toxic waste that has been giving them cancer. I’ve often wondered that if Boeing, NASA, and the Department of Energy had finished the cleanup in 2017 as they promised, maybe Grace wouldn’t have gotten cancer. Maybe my friends’ children wouldn’t have died. Maybe the little girl from Simi Valley would still be with her family.

I thought I could escape the emotional pain of the SSFL and cancer keeping busy. But the feelings found their way into my nightmares. I started dreaming that I had to watch her helplessly as cancer took over her body.

I woke up and… ran straight to the chicken coop. Granted, I handmade the doors and installed them that day, but I refused to allow my emotions to surface. I was afraid that if I started to cry, I’d never stop.

But it never works and I, of all people, should know better. When you suppress emotions, they find a way out. I know this. I’ve worked with my therapist about this for over five years now. But it’s my go-to coping mechanism. Staying too busy to feel. But the feelings come anyhow.

Well, today the chicks should be hatching. I’ve read as much as an expectant mother about the process. If the heat or humidity is wrong the chicks might not survive their first day, if they’re able to hatch at all. I spent a whole day crying.

Just thinking about them dying had me weeping even though we could see the chicks moving in their eggs with a special flashlight. As far as we know, they’re totally fine and healthy.

In reality, I was crying because it reminded me of how helpless I felt when the little girl died. When my friend’s children died. When my daughter got cancer. That the cleanup isn't in my control. Those feelings were bottled up and the possibility of the chicks dying tipped the scales. 

So.

I need to talk about how this makes me feel, even though I hate having to admit the reality of the situation. I hate sharing hard feelings because they don’t actually change anything. Except they change me. It bonds me to my family and friends who listen. It gives my fears and grief room, so they don’t have to haunt my dreams. It allows me to heal. 

And during the COVID-19 crisis, we need to all do this. We need to share. We need to listen. We need to not run away from our feelings. Otherwise, we’ll end up harming ourselves and our loved ones in the long-run. 

So thanks for allowing me to share what’s been on my heart for weeks. Thank you for allowing me to share my soul, to keep it warm and soft, so I can accept both grief and good things. Thank you for your continued support that makes me stronger and able to heal. 

Thank you. And please find a safe person to be open and real with today. Let’s heal together.

Yours,
Melissa 

P.S. those are my children holding chickens. My kids loved them so much that we decided to try raising some too!