Gazing down at the two of us, he asked, “What are you looking for?”
I wanted to say, Trust me, I don’t believe this either. But instead, I said, “We’re here for David Muir.”
He gave us a look that said, Sure, ladies, you and everyone else. I quickly mentioned the producer’s name and showed his email, then the guard pointed to the door with a smile and said, “Security is inside.”
The producer met us and took us up an elevator, we tied on our Susansnap aprons, and three minutes later, cameras were rolling as the producer said, “Let’s keep it fresh. I like to get the initial greeting on camera.” We weren’t feeling too fresh, but we were ready.
Then in came David Muir. After the hellos, David said, “Persistence pays off. I liked your story from the first time you wrote. It kept getting put in the pile.” That was either a great compliment or a very embarrassing moment.
Surprisingly, I wasn’t nervous, and neither was Mom. After all, it was just the two of us sharing our story, what we do and why, with an interested guy. The interview was quick, and afterward, we had a casual off-camera conversation. David was gracious and kind, and I enjoyed our short time there. We got our picture taken with him, then we went back out the same concealed black door through which we’d entered and headed to Junior’s, a deli we like, for BLTs and fries.
One of my favorite things to do in the city is walk. I love to see the people, the shops, the restaurants, the energy. You’ll find all kinds of people doing all sorts of things, and that’s what makes it such a great place. As we walked that day, I could have felt unimportant and insignificant, but I didn’t. I remember thinking, I feel fortunate that I am who I am. I love my story. I love what I know. I’d never give it back. And I’m grateful that I have the most amazing mom.
We came across an old, beautiful Catholic church, St. Malachy’s, nestled between a restaurant and a theater. We stopped in to say a quick thank-you and light a candle. I’m not sure if I’ve ever heard God talking to me, but he’s heard me talking to him a lot along the way. He’s done a lot for me, and I believe that one day I’ll meet Aunt Sue.
As we continued our stroll, it dawned on me there was someone I was hoping to say hi to. We’d written back and forth a few times, because we had something in common: Hodgkin’s. I tapped Mom’s arm and said, “Hold up a second.” Then I wrote a one-line email: “Are you by chance around for a quick hi?” The old Susan never would have done that. I hit Send. I checked my phone a few times, but there was no reply, and I thought, No big deal.
It had been a really good day, and Mom and I had gotten to experience it together. Mom flagged a taxi, and we were on our way back to the airport. It was a beautiful evening, with a breeze blowing through the partly open windows. There was traffic, but we were moving. I pulled my phone out to check my email again.
“Mom,” I said, then waited until I had her full attention. “We got a book deal.” I couldn’t believe what I was saying. Of course, we’d been writing and working on this but didn’t know where it would ever lead. Just when I thought that day couldn’t get more unreal, it did.
We had arrived at the airport and were checking in at a Delta kiosk when I received a response to the email I’d sent hours earlier. Ethan Zohn had written me back. He’s well known as the guy who won the third season of the show Survivor, but I knew him as the guy who had survived Hodgkin’s. While our tickets were printing, I read that he was having an event in an hour, and he’d invited us to stop by.
I’d never had a chance to meet anyone who’d had my kind of cancer, let alone someone who was near my age and who made it seem okay. I wanted to meet Ethan so I could thank him in person. I wanted to thank him for me and for Aunt Sue. He had chosen to share his story publicly, even though he didn’t have to, and he’d made a difference to me. I was vacillating: What should we do? Our flight leaves at seven o’clock, and his event is at six.
Seeing me, Mom asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I answered. “I just heard from Ethan. Don’t laugh, but he’s invited us to an event at six.”
“I’m not laughing. Do you want to go?”
“Our flight leaves in an hour.”
“I know, but let me go to the ticket counter. It won’t hurt to ask.” Mom knew that this meant something to me, and she began negotiating with the Delta employee.
After a few minutes, the employee pointed to me and asked, “It’s you that had cancer?” I nodded. It turned out her mom had been a survivor for two years. She said, “That stuff is ugly.” And just like that, she bumped our tickets back two hours.
We found ourselves running, once again, out to the airport taxi stand, and off we went to the event. We didn’t have much time to get there, say hello, and get back to the airport. We weren’t entirely sure where we were going, so Mom zipped into a random hotel and asked, “Where’s the Core Club?” With some directions, we found the party and walked in. My heart was pounding for a bazillion reasons—the first one probably being that Mom and I looked like waiters standing in the corner of this chichi event. We were wearing the same jeans, golf shirts, sneakers, and aprons we’d worn to ABC that morning. I tried to catch Ethan’s eye from the cocktail lounge, but it wasn’t working. I chuckled at how outrageous this was. No one I knew would do this, but there we were.
Finally, there was a break, and the guests began mingling. Ethan spotted me and greeted me with arms wide open. Instantly, our conversation went to “insider cancer talk.” I found myself feeling composed in a way that I hadn’t before. Ethan was not just polite, but endearing, even asking about Aunt Sue. It was an uncommonly natural and nice moment.
It might sound surprising, but I realized that day that I liked winging it. In fact, I love to wing it now—whatever happens, happens.
Leaving the party, we’d walked two blocks when tears started streaming down my face. Mom asked, “Are you okay?”
I looked at Mom and threw my hands up. I didn’t have words. I could not believe the day we’d just had.
That day was not supposed to happen, but it did. And I’m so glad I showed up.
Susansnaps continues to grow with more orders and new shoppers every day. Mom and I are grateful for every order and every customer that has walked through our door. After the “Made in America” piece aired, we got our largest single order to date: three thousand boxes of cookies for one company. It took four pallets and a forklift to ship that order. That was a sight I never thought I’d see.
• • •
I wake up thankful, grateful for each new day, wondering what it will bring. I sort of hate to admit it, but part of me likes the unknown now. If someone had told me even half of the things that were going to happen to me, I would have said, “Me? I don’t think so. No, no thank you.” But that’s not how it works. I see each day as the possibilities it could hold. Anything is possible.
If you’ve ever felt like your burden is more than you can bear, Mom and I are here to encourage you not to stop, but instead to persevere, because a better version of you may well be waiting on the other side. Life might not be perfect, but you can choose to be unsnappable.
Mom and I have instinctively relied on each other, and that made the tough times more bearable and the ridiculous times more fun. We’ve become sidekicks, pals, and partners in crime, doing things as awful as spending Fridays stuck in our chemo cubical, as funny as searching for the perfect wig, as hard as attending a long road show with no sales, and as exciting as sipping champagne alongside Martha Stewart.
It wasn’t easy, and I had struggles. But despite all the pain, worry, and doubt, I wouldn’t give it back. I gained a new perspective. I might not have always seen it this way, but I’m grateful, because I’ve learned and done things I never would have dreamed of when I was that eager college girl with the black suit. Together with Mom, I’ve survived a life-threatening illness, and I’ve created a specialty co
okie company from the ground up. I’ve been zapped daily by radiation, and I’ve baked fourteen thousand gingersnaps in a day. I’m always aware of the fact that life can change in a snap. And when it does, I’ll be okay. I know now that I’m stronger than I thought I was. I will muster up the courage and the strength to carry on. I’ve also learned to let go a little. There’s no need to hold on so tightly.
When I was twenty-two years old, I couldn’t have fathomed that I’d be able to joke about the name Susan being cursed when I found out I had Hodgkin’s, just like Aunt Sue. That the gingersnaps Mom baked in our garage as a pastime would turn into a business. That the same boyfriend who sat in a waiting room listening to a surgeon say cancer would eventually say, “Susan, will you marry me?” That having treatment alongside Dad would be oddly comforting. That I would find a way to smile every day at radiation, even though it was miserable and awkward. That Mom and I would have cramps in our hands after hand-scooping thirty thousand gingersnaps with a mini ice cream scoop. That we’d die laughing as we carried $6,000 into Waffle House because we didn’t know where else to store the cash we’d made at a holiday gift show. Or that, like Aunt Sue, we would find a way to celebrate the good, the bad, and the mundane. Life is short. Go for it. Anything is possible.
I don’t know what my life would’ve been like if I hadn’t been diagnosed, and I don’t care to. Mom says cancer made me fearless. My sister says I went from ordinary to extraordinary. I’m not sure about all that, but I do know I have an incredible story to share. One that I hope inspires you to carry on.
Dear Sue,
Shortly after you died, I was given cartons of materials from your years of teaching, in hopes that I could put them to good use. I was surprised to find one file filled with sheet music that we used to play on our guitars. You had used those songs to teach fifth and sixth graders in summer school. I was heartbroken looking through your work and missing you so much, when I turned over a blank sheet and saw your handwriting. It was a short list of party details that you’d jotted down for yourself. Nineteen words. It was for that bridal shower you threw for a friend.
As I looked closer, I gasped at the date. Although I shouldn’t have been, I was amazed. There you were, thinking of others. You were celebrating a major life event for someone else, pouring yourself into the details, creating a party at your home, and making someone else happy. Doing something normal, blending into the everyday moments that all of our lives are made up of. Living. And you did it without so much as a word to anyone. Hardly anyone outside of our family and dearest friends knew you were sick. You hosted that bridal shower on Saturday, May 21, 1977. Fourteen days later, you were gone.
I’ve kept that scrap of paper in my dresser, and through the years, I’ve pulled it out countless times. When life got tough, you helped remind me to keep going. Because you lived, I learned to see things differently. You made me a different friend, wife, mom, and daughter. Your generosity made me more generous, your kindness taught me to try to be more kind, your bravery made me more brave, and your strength made me strive to be stronger. I would come to need all those lessons you taught me as a young girl to be a better person when my family needed me. It would never be as hard for me, and I would never feel as hopeless because of the life you lived and the example you set for me. Remember when you used to tell me, “Laur, it doesn’t matter”? You saw things your own way. And you know what? So does Susan. Not a week goes by that she doesn’t echo the same thing: “Mom, it doesn’t matter!”
The day of your funeral, as I was sitting in the limousine, I took one last look out the window to see your casket covered in roses resting up on the hillside at the cemetery. I thought, So that’s it? You were here and now you were gone. I felt a crushing emptiness. What am I going to do without you? I had no choice but to lean on what Dad told me the day after you died. He said to me, “We have to find a way to go on, Laura. Life is for the living.” No one knew that better than you. The limo started moving, and we pulled away.
I knew I would never forget you, but I didn’t know my own daughter, Susan, would get to know you—understand you—in a most unfathomable way. I ached for someone to feel your presence and understand not just who you were but what you were made of. What a price would be paid for my prayers to be heard. It was a couple of months after Susan’s treatment when she asked me something about you. With all assuredness, Susan said to me, “You know, Mom, there are worse things than dying.” She left me speechless.
And about your name on a cookie, I hope you don’t mind! I knew I wanted to remember you… Who would have ever thought it’d go down like this? Thank you from the bottom of my heart for being you.
Love,
Laura
Epilogue
For years after I finished treatment, I had follow-up appointments with Dr. Weens. They became part of my routine, and I learned not to get too worked up or worried about them in advance. I assumed I’d always have to have them. But at the end of one appointment, Dr. Weens smiled at me as I hopped off the examination table. “I think we’re all done here,” she said.
“Okay,” I said. “Bye, Dr. Weens. See you next time.”
“No, Susan. You’re all done.” She smiled again, broader this time. “You don’t have to come back anymore.”
Relief washed over me as I stood in the exam room. I had longed to hear those words, but I never thought I would. Now the day had finally come. It was over—not just for me, but for Mom too. We had gotten through it together.
After I was pronounced officially cured, Randy and I wondered about having a family, although we weren’t sure if it would be possible, after all the treatments I’d gone through at such a young age. When I got pregnant, we were thrilled and began preparing to start our lives as a family of three. But then, in the midst of writing chapters for this book, the scariest, most unlikely thing happened—I had my baby when I was only twenty-seven weeks pregnant (or three months before my due date). Either way you want to look at it, it was way too early.
That day, I was rushed to the hospital in terrible pain. After being monitored for a few hours, my baby’s heart rate dropped quickly, and I was rushed into emergency surgery. I was terrified—but not for myself. Give me surgery. Do what you have to do, I thought. What about the baby? As I lay on the operating table with an anesthesiologist on each arm, working to put me out, I looked directly at my doctor and mouthed, “I am scared. I am so scared.”
There was no time to walk me through what was happening. All I knew was that my baby was only twenty-seven weeks along, and that he had to come out now. I was panicking. It was too soon.
The next morning, twelve hours after the emergency C-section, it was time for me to go see our baby, who we named Nolan. Randy had been with him, but I hadn’t seen him or touched him myself. Randy kept me calm and did an amazing job of holding it together. We’d just been thrown into this situation, and there wasn’t time to think, What are we going to do? How will we handle this? We just did.
Randy and a nurse wheeled me to the Special Care Nursery (just a nicer name for the neonatal intensive care unit). Inside, it was dimly lit and very warm, with a few rows of incubators covered with blankets. This was not what Randy and I had pictured when we dreamed of having a baby. I’d never seen anything like this, and I was devastated.
As I looked into the clear plastic box where our son was sleeping, I saw an extremely tiny, yet beautiful baby boy. I stared at him and whispered, “Hi, baby. Oh my, you’re doing such a good job. A really good job. I’m so proud of you. I’m right here, sweetie.” I’d heard those words before. My mom’s voice was coming through me. That was the same chant that Mom had repeated to me in the middle of the night, when she was lying on the floor next to my bed while I was going through chemo.
We were only allowed to stay with Nolan for a short time, and when I got back to my hospital room, I was overwhelmed with emotion. After seeing my son inside that
incubator, I understood my mom in a new way. This must have been how she had felt when I was sick—heartbroken, worried, and helpless. I understood what it was like to be willing to do anything for your child.
I didn’t get to hold Nolan for three days. I sat in a huge gliding armchair (sort of like an oversize vinyl recliner… Ring a bell?) next to Nolan’s incubator to watch his nine o’clock feeding, which was essentially a few drops of milk through a feeding tube. I took off my sweatshirt, and the nurse moved my tiny, tiny little baby, with all these wires, monitors, and IVs, and placed him against my bare skin. She told me not to move my fingers against his thin, purplish skin, because it could rip.
When I finally held him, with the top of his head grazing my collarbone, my heart exploded. I was overwhelmed with love for this baby, and I was overcome with heartache because he had to fight so hard and I couldn’t fix it for him. I put my head back against the chair, closed my eyes, and just cried. I had never felt something so incredible in my entire life. His tiny body was thumping up and down from the oxygen being pumped into him, and then, slowly, he moved his frail arm up and placed his hand on my collarbone. He held on to me. It was amazing and heartbreaking.
As I closed my eyes and felt his little arm reaching up and resting on me, I felt like he was letting me know, I’m okay. I’m right here, Mom. See? Don’t be sad. I’m here. On the other hand, I also felt like he wanted to say, Please help me. I don’t want to do this. It was just the way I had felt when I was sick—wanting to be strong and show Mom that I was okay, but also needing her to be there for me.
After a few minutes, the nurse put Nolan back in his incubator. He needed to rest, to grow, and to go back into his regulated environment. Randy said, “Suz, it’s time to go. We’ll come back tomorrow. Nolan needs to rest.”
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