The oak fought the wind and was broken, the willow bent when it must and survived.” – Robert Jordan

I was being chased and despite my long legs and dodgy feet, I was cornered and needed to get rid of the ball.  Scanning left, I saw Meagan move behind the wall of boys closing in, soon to tackle me and strip the ball. We made eye contact, and I lobbed the ball over Erik’s head and into her hands.  She landed the pass, tucked the ball carefully under her arm and dove into the endzone, scraping a knee on the way.  The game was now tied, 14-14, and we Corpus Christi girls were energized and ready to finish off the Corpus Christi boys before the bell rang, ending our precious recess.

This was the game of Keep Away Football, as conceived and played by uniformed third graders in the large fenced-in parking lot of Corpus Christi Catholic school.   It was the highlight of our elementary school days and was always formed as girls versus boys.  We would spend the morning exchanging gentle threats in class, afternoons hashing it out on the hard pavement, and then return to our desks either celebrating a win or plotting tomorrow’s revenge. 

The girls came up short yesterday, and we were determined not to lose again.  Two days of hanging our heads low was more than we could stomach, our childhood pride was at stake. Meagan reluctantly handed the ball to the boys for their next possession, and they began passing in circles, attempting to run down the last minutes of recess clock left.  Desi went in for a blitz, pressured, Troy sent a high pass left, Michael leapt up to land it, and instead of closing his hands around the ball, he tipped it up even further in the air and over the 8-foot fence.  We all watched with dread as it landed and slowly rolled, finally stopping next to the doghouse of a neighboring yard. 

An out-of-bounds pass meant change of possession, giving the girls an opportunity to claim the day’s win, yet no one was celebrating. Students were forbidden to leave school property for rogue balls.  Rules dictated we notify the teacher, let her walk (at a teacher’s pace) around the playground fence, perhaps knock on the front door to speak with owners, and attempt to retrieve the ball.  We knew this endeavor would consume any remaining recess time and the Corpus girls would lose the chance to turn third grade tides today.

The girls huddled and quickly formulated a plan.  Meagan ran to the teacher and began pointing to her banged up and slightly bloodied knee.  Successfully distracting the playground watch dog, Erin, Beth and Desi reached down and gripped the bottom of the fence, pulling with all their might to bend the chain link, somehow finding just enough space for me to slip under on my stomach.  I commando crawled low and quietly to the doghouse, whispering a Hail Mary verse with each step, hoping my Holy Mother would keep the savage dog napping. I reached the ball, tucked it inside the fold of my uniform and was back under the fence in seconds.  Detecting I was safely back on the playground, Meagan spontaneously healed, told the teacher she was fine and quickly returned to the game.  Three minutes later, the girls scored again, just moments before the whistle blew, ending recess.  The Corpus Christi girls were on top once again!

Settled back into our classrooms for the afternoon, full of playground pride and confidence, I noticed my headache was finally gone.  My parents were right, I would be better by lunch. 

Last evening, my mom came home from work and told us she was having an important work meeting at our house and my dad, sisters and I were to stay upstairs and out of sight.  I knew my mom was an engineer and worked as a civilian for the Army, a few miles from our home.  Other than that, we didn’t really know what she did there, or to be honest, ever really ask.  We knew she dropped us off at school and was back home after we got off the bus, always available to feed and shuttle us to sports or friends’ houses.  I guess as children, that was all we really cared to know. 

My mom unloaded groceries and worked quickly to prepare one of her nice dinners, one we were not allowed to eat tonight.  As headlights started approaching down our country road, my father shuttled us upstairs, fed us our less fancy version of dinner, and prepared to read us stories.  I asked him if I could read alone in my room, I was feeling too old for his stories tonight, and he reluctantly acquiesced. 

Instead of going to my room, I settled down at the top of the stairs and listened to the deep, male voices downstairs, eating and talking at our dining table.  Soon I could no longer hear these voices and knew they had moved to the living room to start meeting.  I bravely determined this was my opportunity to swipe some fancy leftovers from the kitchen.  I quietly tiptoed down the steep 100-year-old stairs, careful not to step on any creaky spots I managed to memorize over the years.  As I walked toward the kitchen, I peered into the living room and noticed 3 men, meeting with my mom and talking in lowered voices.  I didn’t linger, for fear I would be caught, and moved into the kitchen to claim my prize.  

I lifted a plate into my hands, added a spoonful of shrimp and a crab cake, and then cut a large slice of my mom’s famous chocolate cake.  As I was leaving, I noticed my beloved Sundance coolers in a bucket and added one to my stash.  Sundance Coolers were my sisters’ and my favorite sparkling waters and a staple of the 1980s, but because they were expensive, mom only bought them for us for special occasions.  Well tonight was special, and I decided my mom would not miss the one I just claimed for myself.  I headed back upstairs with my food trophies, enjoyed the meal in my room, sliding the empty plate under my bed to hide evidence until I could secretly dispose of it in the morning.

Well, the next morning, I woke up with a terrible headache and slightly upset stomach.  I groaned for my mom, wanting to let her know that I was too sick for school, sure I had the flu or maybe something worse.  She walked into my room, examined my pitiful face and body curled in half on the bed, and listened as I shared how sick I was.  Her face softened and I could tell she felt bad for me.  She left to get me a cup of water and as she returned to place it on my nightstand, noticed the empty Sundance cooler. 

“Honey did you drink this bottle last night?”, she asked with alarm in her voice.  Busted, I knew I had no choice but to tell the truth.  “Well…. yeah, I was so hungry, and went downstairs, just to get a snack, but then I saw you had extra Sundance coolers, which you know I love, and, well, I figured you were meeting and didn’t need them anymore, so I thought it was probably fine if I took one.” 

“Mike, you need to come here right now”, my mom urgently called for my dad. As he walked in the room, she sighed, “Honey, that was not a Sundance cooler.  That was a wine cooler that has alcohol, and I am pretty sure you have a hangover.”  My dad examined me, assured us my mom’s hangover diagnosis was correct, and announced that, with time, I would be okay.  They both looked at me with a blend of compassion and disappointment, unclear if directed at me or at themselves, “You were told not to be downstairs at all last night and I am sorry this happened to you, but you ARE going to school today.  Your hangover will go away by lunch time, but until then you will feel terrible and that should be enough punishment.  Go get ready, the bus comes in 30 minutes”. 

As I sat in my desk later that day, happy to be free of the pounding headache, we opened our books to get started on our math lesson.  Five minutes later, we heard a voice come over the intercom.  “Ms. Walker” we heard principal Herter speak, “Can you please send Teresa Gaudiose to my office immediately?”.  

I was frozen in my chair.  Was that MY name called?  I looked at Erin to see if she heard it too, and she returned my look with a face filled with concern.  I knew then, somehow, I was in big trouble.  I had never been to the principal’s office before and did my best to be a student who would always steer clear.  Did someone see me slip under the fence and tell?  Did Ms. Herter somehow know I came to school with a hangover?  My mind ran through my possible misdeeds and their punishments, and I began to spiral. What would I tell my parents?  I glanced over at my Corpus girls and their eyes shouted back at me, “we will walk out behind you, we are sticking together”, but I looked back with a fake smile that answered, “I will be okay” and reluctantly rose and walked out the door to collect my punishment. 

I walked slowly down the hallway, trying desperately to find time to figure out an explanation that would protect me from my fate, but no excuse emerged before I reached her door.  My hands were shaking as I knocked gently.  I heard Ms. Herter say, “Hello Teresa, please come in and sit down”.  As I opened the door, I was stunned to see my two sisters sitting in chairs across from her.  This made no sense; they weren’t on the playground with me and neither one was nursing a hangover. My body started to fill with relief thinking I must be in the clear, but quickly plummeted to an even worse feeling of confusion as sat down next to them.

Ms. Herter spoke slowly, her face holding a serious expression.  “Girls, your parents are on their way to pick you up.  I don’t know any details, other than there is a family emergency, and you will not return to school today.  Please remain in my office until they arrive.”

A few minutes later, out the window of Mrs. Herter’s office, I saw my our 1980 Econoline van pull up to the school.  My dad climbed out, walked into Mrs. Herter’s office, collected his three daughters, and quietly ushered us into the van. 

My parents did not say anything at first, us girls were too traumatized from being called to the principal’s office for the first time, and we weren’t brave enough to start the conversation either.  After two miles on the road, my mom pulled the van into an abandoned parking lot downtown, turned off the engine and told us to join them outside the car.

My dad turned to us and said “Girls, we have something important to tell you.  You know how your mom works with the Army and sometimes has to travel for a few days at time?”, we all three nodded.  “Well, that is not exactly what she does.  The truth is, that your mom has been working on some top-secret projects. The meeting last night, well that was when she found out we need to go into hiding immediately.  They are working on creating new identities for us, and we will get more instructions soon.  We don’t know anything other than we are to start driving south to a rendezvous point, somewhere on an island, and we will get more instructions as we get closer. We brought some books for you to read today, but we cannot have lights on in the car at night, in case we are being followed. We have a map they gave mom last night and I brought a flashlight to look at it when we need to.  But the less we take it out, the safer we will be.  Mom packed your suitcases with clothes this morning, so you can get changed out of your uniforms now and head back into the van.  We need to get going as quickly as possible”. 

And with that, time stopped, and I was blown straight into the gateway of the unknown. Human beings are wired to seek safety, and my 9-year-old gut reaction to this uncertainty was full blown paralyzing and debilitating fear. Not knowing what to do, I grabbed my sister’s hands and studied our parents’ faces.  They seemed serious but calm, focused, but assured. 

What I saw on their faces was that my parents understood uncertainty and possibility were two sides to the same coin.  That uncertainty is an essential part of life, one that despite all our careful plans and precautions, cannot be avoided. My nine-year-old brain perceived that they somehow seemed okay with not knowing what was next, and I tried desperately to soak up their confidence as I climbed back into the car and buckled up, with no choice but to ride in a van headed straight for 1-81 South. 

As we rounded the bend, I looked out the window and said goodbye to the school I was so fond of, filled with friends I have known and loved since birth, goodbye to my cherished farmhouse and our life full of adventures on Frecon Road, goodbye to the cornfields and natural beauty of Franklin County.  I knew as we crossed the Mason Dixon line into Maryland, that my old life, the one I loved, the only one I knew, was gone. 

An hour later, I curled up under a blanket, laid my head on a pillow, and opened the book my mom packed for me.  I tried to read the first page, but every word appeared fuzzy, and my mind whirled with questions.  Where were we going? Where would we live? Would my new identity involve cutting my hair and dying my blonds curls black? How was I supposed to remember my new name? And remember my sisters’ new identities too?  Michelle was Michelle and Becky was Becky, no way I could call them something other than their names.  Would I ever see my cousins and grandparents again, eat Cornersburg pizza and Handel’s ice cream with them, laughing and telling stories over holiday weekends?  Would I have to go to a new school and somehow make new friends?  I had no idea how to make friends, mine were forged in infancy during our own mother’s close friendships.  I was awkwardly tall for a nine-year-old, with frizzy curls and braces on my large front teeth.  Who would befriend me?  I immediately thought of the Corpus girls who knew and loved me despite myself, and a tear climbed down my cheek. 

“Dad” I whispered, choking back a tsunami of tears.  “How are you and mom not scared? I mean, we are leaving everything, and I already miss my friends.”  He knew my question was much deeper than the one I posed and paused before turning to face me.  “Teresa, I want to tell you a story about your great grandfather, Michael Gaudiosi”.   “Okay” I replied, desperate for anything to calm my anxiety.

Your great grandfather was born in 1864 and grew up in the small town of Colliano, just north of Naples, Italy.  One night, when he was in his early 20’s, he got into an argument with a miscreant man who was causing trouble and victimizing others.  He threatened this man to prevent further trouble.  About three or four weeks later, this same guy was found dead, with no witnesses or details about his death.  Someone reported they had seen the argument and words exchanged between my grandfather and the dead man, and with no other leads to go on, authorities made assumptions and accused Michael of killing him, even though he had no part in the murder.  He pleaded not guilty because he knew he was wrongly accused, but even so was sentenced to prison for 20 years to life.

Five years later, the man who committed the murder confessed and Michael was let out of prison and exonerated.  However, the shame and a record of having been in prison followed Michael and made finding work difficult.  He recognized that he had no choice but to leave Italy for a clean slate and new life in the United States.  He loaded all his earthy possessions into one chest and bought a ticket to America.  At the time he left Italy, he was betrothed to my grandmother Maria.  He had to leave the woman he loved behind until he found work and a home, and then could send for her.  After a long and exhausting journey across the ocean, he landed at Ellis Island.  He traveled alone, no one waiting for him or there to welcome him safely to his new home in the United States.  The only information he had when he arrived, were rumors of some Italians from Colliano working in the coal mines of Crabtree in Western PA.  Teresa, that was all he had to go on, vague rumors with no specifics about where to go, where he would live, or how he would find work. All he knew was he needed to load his chest on his back and start walking.  And he walked all the way from New York to Crabtree, just west of Pittsburgh. 

My grandfather lost everything when he was put in prison. He was faced with incredible uncertainty when he left Italy and had to learn to be okay with not knowing what’s next.  You see Teresa, being okay with uncertainty doesn’t mean you don’t feel nervous or anxious about your situation, just that you are able to move forward even with those feelings of distress.  Michael knew he had to face uncertainty with courage and move forward, even if that meant walking over 300 miles to learn what was next. 

My grandfather made it to Crabtree and found work, saved his money, built a home and sent for his future wife Maria.  She arrived safely to the US, they married and together raised eleven children and built a good life in Crabtree. 

Teresa, I think my grandfather had a hard life, but he also learned that there’s a certain magic that comes with walking into the unknown. When there is mystery, there is a chance to uncover something new and extraordinary, and that is where true adventure lies.  Teresa, I bet you can think of 100 reasons to be scared and fearful right now, or maybe, like your great grandfather, you can choose courage and think of 100 reasons to be hopeful about the possibilities ahead. 

We drove for hours, crossed through Maryland, Virginia, North and then South Carolina.  As it got close to midnight, my dad took out the secret map, shined the flashlight on the highlighted portion and then whispered to my mom.  It was time to stop and rest for the night.  Mom maneuvered the Econoline into a rest stop, parked and announced we would be sleeping in the van.  Using a hotel room was too dangerous of course, someone might trace our credit card charge and catch up to us while we slept.  This was our new life, and apparently sleeping in our car was part of it.

I looked around the van and saw my family covered in blankets and settling in for rest.  We were fleeing, but we were together.  Reason #1.  I thought about the unknown island we were headed to and pictured my sisters swimming in the ocean and then lying in the sand, letting the warm sun paint tans on our backs.  Reason #2.  I closed my eyes and tried to find sleep.     

36 years later, I sat next to my husband in the waiting room of Vanderbilt Ingram Cancer Center.  A nurse opened the door to the clinic, glanced down at her clipboard and called “Ms. Rippy”.  I looked at my husband, examining his face to see if he had also heard my name or, if like me, he believed it impossible that we should even be here, somehow mistakenly called back to an oncologist’s office. 

Early this morning, as I was dropping our boys off at school, the fifteen doctors of the Vanderbilt tumor board had met to study my case and determine a diagnosis.  Three hours later, here I was scheduled to meet with Dr. Eng to review their conclusions.   My name had been called, and it was time for me to hear the news.  John grabbed my hand, I looked at him, faked a smile signaling I would be okay, and stood up and headed toward the waiting nurse. 

I sat down in the triage room chair and uncrossed my legs as the nurse wrapped the blood pressure cuff tightly around my arm.  She placed a thermometer in my mouth and handed me a box of tissues to wipe the tears sliding down my face.  My mind was consumed with anxiety and fear, so afraid of what I might hear in the minutes to come.  The nurse finished recording my numbers, and then sat down next to me and grabbed my hand.  “Honey, I know you are scared.  I don’t know why you are here exactly or what you have going on, but I want you to know something.  I have worked here for 15 years, and well, Dr. Eng, she is the best damn oncologist I have ever seen.  I don’t know what you are facing, but I do know she will climb a mountain for you”.  She squeezed my hand and then stood up and motioned for me to follow her back to the exam room, where John and my parents were waiting.  I closed my eyes before I stood and whispered through my tears, Reason #1 – best damn oncologist.

“The tumor board met, and we agreed you have Cancer of Unknown Primary, with metastatic disease to the liver.” Dr. Eng spoke practically, trying to explain the unexplainable.  “This means we don’t know where your cancer came from, and because we don’t know exactly what type of cancer we are fighting, it can be difficult to treat.  This is a rare cancer, especially in someone your age.  I know you probably have many questions, but I just need you to know that we are somewhat in uncharted territory here.  I cannot tell you what the next six months or next year will look like.  We need to take this one step at a time, and the first step is to send your biopsy for genetic testing and get a PET scan.  This testing will determine our front-line therapy and will take about 2 weeks to come back.  Once I have that information, we will likely start therapy.” 

My brain felt imprisoned during the past five weeks of testing and appointments, waiting for the release of a diagnosis.  The weeks of waiting felt like death by a thousand small cuts, the knife of anxiety slowly making its slices.  And now, even my cancer was called unknown.  I let myself fall into the space between question and answer and knew I had no choice but to get comfortable here. 

We were in the car on the way back home.  My eyes were swollen, and I was exhausted.  I picked up my cell phone and called my boss at work.  It was time to say goodbye to my colleagues and the engineering work I loved.  I texted friends the news of my diagnosis and let them know I would not be able to join the 40^th birthday beach trip we planned next weekend.  I said goodbye to the good health and fitness I worked so hard to keep and let go to the lightness of life.  I knew as we pulled into the driveway and gazed at the porch lights, that my old life, the one I loved, the only one I knew, was gone. 

It was Mother’s Day, and I was starting chemotherapy tomorrow.  We had waited as long as we could, but it was time to tell our four boys that their mom had cancer.  I was scheduled for port placement surgery early in the morning, and I knew that was not something I could not hide.  Jackson was first, and his heart immediately read between the lines of our positive words, he knew how serious this was and that his mom was scared.  I knew he wanted to encourage me and tell me not to worry, but he gave me a hug and went into the garage and cried.  We sat with Garrett and as soon as “cancer” left my mouth, he shot back assuredly “Mom, you are the healthiest person I know, you will be fine”.  He had no questions, these words he spoke were all but certain in his mind.  Michael listened stoically; his quiet strength evident as he assured us that he would be okay.  Henry hugged me and said, “I am just afraid I won’t get to be with you”.  I assured him I was not going anywhere, returned his hug and laid my head on his.  Reason #2 – holding tight to what really matters. 

My nine-year-old eyes opened slowly in the van.  We were moving, and I could tell my mom had been driving for a while, I was seeing Florida interstate signs out the window and knew my sisters and I had somehow slept through Georgia.  My dad noticed we were finally awake and turned around to face us.  “Girls, we are almost at the island, this map says we are so close”.  He seemed excited, and I noticed my mom smiling as she drove.  I started to relax and sense maybe things would be okay; we had arrived safely to our new life.  I picked up my book, saw words that were clear and began reading.  A few minutes later, I heard Becky cry out “Mom, Dad!”, “I see Mickey Mouse”.   I put down my book and looked out the window, just as we were driving under a huge banner that said, “Welcome to Magic Kingdom”. 

Our island destination was a surprise trip to the most Magical Place on Earth.  Our parents explained we were spending the week at Disney, there was no one chasing us, just a story they came up with to keep us from guessing their surprise.  It took a few minutes, but our shock transformed into joy.  The rest of that week was unforgettable and filled with lovely memories.  We filled our days with adventure, posed with characters in front of castles, ate our way through Epcot, drank rounds of Shirley temples, and even learned to water ski in seven seas lagoon.  In these experiences and the joy of the memories we created, we learned the magic of the destination unknown.

My phone rang and woke me from a nap.  I had just finished 16 weeks of hard chemotherapy, and my body was tired.  This was my second eight-week scan and Dr. Eng was calling with the results. “Hi Teresa, this is Dr. Eng. I am in my car headed home from work but wanted to call you before the weekend. I got the results of your scan, and it looks great.  You had a tremendous response, the cancer is now small enough that we can explore liver directed therapy, and maybe even get rid of the liver lesions.  I put in a request for consultation with the liver specialist and they should be calling you on Monday.  I just wanted to let you know you are doing great, and we have options now”.

My 44-year-old eyes, seconds ago groggy from my nap, opened wide and a smile spread across my face.  Six months after my diagnosis, I still have cancer.  I am still on the journey.  I do not know where the road will lead, when or how I will heal, but I know there is an island out there waiting for me, some magical life worth living, one I will only find with courage to embrace the unknown.