Her line in the sand is 2.6 years. I found out about it last evening when I read her birthday post on her blog. Our children will always remember her as Glinda, the witch of the north, pictured above. I wish Glinda, aka Erin, could magically appear and click her heels three times to make her cancer go away. That's not how cancer works. There are no magical ruby shoes to click. There's no wizard. What do you say? What do you do?
Erin offers answers in her blog. Read what she has to say about her feelings. Don't be a cowardly lion. Be a friend. Cancer sucks. Please keep my friend in your prayers. The world needs more people like her.
Erin, I confess, I really don't know what to say or do. I struggled to find words when I sat next to my dad in the doctor's office and heard the c word for the first time. Dad's line in the sand was 35 days. It hurt. My mother-in-law crossed the line in the sand shortly before Christmas the first year I got married. Everyone has their own line in the sand. For cancer patients, it's more visible. Maybe you can pull your wand out of the closet from your time in San Diego and grant me one wish: appear here on this blog as my guest and help my readers learn what to say or do when a loved one is diagnosed with cancer? Good luck tonight. Love from the Mulligans.
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