Let it be

I was sitting on the brick hearth in front of a roaring fire at my parents' house this evening while Zoe and my mother decorated a Christmas tree and my father and Charles watched the Jets/Steelers game on TV. The warmth of the fire had only just started to get uncomfortable, and I was lazily picturing my back turning red under my sweater.

A commercial for the Beatles' catalog on iTunes came on during a time-out, and suddenly there were black and white photos of John, Paul, George and Ringo flashing across the screen, while Paul's voice sang out to us.

"When I find myself in times of trouble...Mother Mary comes to me...speaking words of wisdom....let it be."

I started to turn to my mother to remind her about THAT time I'd been a complete blubbering idiot during this song, when I realized: I'd never told her this before.

In the summer of 2009, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, and life changed drastically for a while. Two women with whom I worked were going through the same experience as my mom at the time, and although I barely knew one of them, I found myself sitting at her desk one day, choking back tears as I told her about my mother.

"Well, how are you doing?" she asked me. "You know this is about you, too."

I shrugged her question off. I was fine, of course. Being strong for my parents. Trying to be that rock everyone needs in a time of crisis. It wasn't about me, it was about my mom.

That front worked anytime it mattered. I was always able to put on my game face when I needed to, saving any random breakdowns for private times with my husband. (I'm dramatic even on a good day, so you can only imagine...my few breakdowns were, in fact, epic.)

And then, there was that one night, the night before my mother's double-mastectomy.

I 'd spent the weekend cooking, filling my freezer with soups and casseroles that could feed my parents while mom recovered, and I decided to deliver my wares that evening. It was also an opportunity to sit down with them the night before a major event, and have a little quiet time.

Game face: on.

I stocked their freezer and had a chat, all the while not really thinking about anything. I gossiped and told stories about Zoe, we laughed and we giggled, having such a nice time that before I knew it, it was time to head on home.

I pulled out of their driveway, suddenly very much aware of what the following day would bring. Mom waved from the porch, and I turned on the radio. I had a CD in, The Beatles Let it Be, and the title song came on immediately.

And suddenly, game face: OFF. 100%, completely off.

I actually remember saying, OUT LOUD, "Sing it, Paul," as he got going on the chorus, and then I was singing along with him, and if you've ever heard me sing, you know this is NOT a good thing. And then I was CRYING and singing as loud as I could, windows down, wind blowing the tears off my face.

It was absurd, really. That was how I spent the entire ride home that night, blubbery and silly and singing unabashedly. I arrived home completely spent, exhausted, but clear-headed enough that at least by the time I got to the hospital in the morning, my game face was back on.

And so now, a year later when the whole family is excited to have a fully-cancer-free Christmas ahead of us, I think we're all kind of not-so-secretly thinking about last year.

So tonight, I am thankful for great doctors, a healthy family, and, of course, The Beatles.