Hold your family close this Christmas . . .

I've been following the story of a friend of mine, two friends, really . . . I went to high school with Corey and Ronda (both a few years younger than I); Ronda's family were next-door neighbors to mine growing up, Corey and I were in speech and theater together. The most adorable couple, both so full of life, great sense of humor, have been such amazing sources of support for Bob and me during his ordeal, and continue to be for me . . .

Corey is a two-time cancer survivor. His first cancer, a brain cancer, occurred maybe seven or eight years ago. I feel bad that I don't recall all the particulars any more (but not surprising—I have a hard time remembering what day it is. Maybe it's time to get a real job, if for no other reason to know when it's at least Monday and Friday). Corey was gravely ill at that time, but went through the whole host of cancer treatments and lived to tell the tale. I don't know if was considered cured or in remission, but has lived a healthy, grateful life for several years beyond that first cancer diagnosis. This past summer, he started experiencing difficulties with motor skills and speech (Corey is a motorcycle designer, by trade), and was once again diagnosed with a brain tumor. I believe it's a different kind of tumor this time, a more aggressive type, extremely difficult to treat. After a litany of treatments—chemo, radiation, surgery, more chemo, seeing doctors in Kansas, the Mayo, specialists in Texas at MD Houston—Corey was recently told there is no more treatment available, and he is now home, in hospice care.

Corey and Ronda's story hits so close to home for so many reasons; being long-time friends, their story moves me. Corey is one of the funniest people I've met—seriously inappropriate sense of humor that very likely blows mine out of the water—in high school, he was a talented actor and so gifted as an artist, he was able to turn that a real-life, adult career—designing out-of-this-world motorcycles. My sisters and I logged endless hours playing with Ronda (and her siblings) as kids; Ronda's family were so incredible when my parents divorced—stepped in and helped us, without asking, without judgment, with pure kindness and generosity, it's how those Duerksen's roll . . . we all went our separate ways after high school—Corey and Ronda ended up in Kansas—but we'd run into each other now and then, when visiting family back home, and they're the kind of friends that we could just pick up where we left off, the years between visits melting away.

Through the "miracle" (. . . chorus of angels goes here . . .) of facebook, we all reconnected a few years ago, and have kept in touch via silly posts, sharing pictures of our lives, and occasional e-mail messages. It was through friends and family that Corey and Ronda learned of Bob's cancer, and last summer (2010), they carved out time from their schedule to come visit Bob and me out at Wrenwood (Bob was recovering from his second heart attack, we were patiently waiting for him to stabilize, gain weight, get stronger for his pending "curative" surgery; Corey and Ronda were in MN visiting family). Their visit meant so much to us, and Bob was so touched, that people he didn't even know, were rooting so hard for him, and would take time out of their travel schedule to visit us.

The parallels between their story and ours is uncanny. . . Corey was in the final interviewing stages for his dream job at Indian Motorcycle (with the possibility of moving back to MN) when his cancer (and its debilitating symptoms) reared its ugly head; Bob had barely started his dream job back at Surdyk's when his manifested . . . Ronda is a hairdresser; I was a hairdresser . . . Corey is a two time cancer patient, as was Bob . . . I could go on and on, but the particulars, the graphic details mean nothing to anyone who hasn't been on this horrific journey.

Being the wife of a cancer patient, and now his main caregiver, Ronda's role in Corey's situation instantly grabs my heart and doesn't let go. The most difficult job on the face of the planet, in my not so humble opinion . . . but also the best job I will ever, ever have the honor of being blessed with. Reading their brief posts on facebook and Caringbridge, they don't share too many details (not like Diarrhea Mouth, here, who flung it all out for the world to read. . .those things called "filters?" Ummmmm, yeah. . . not well-developed in some of us), but I read between the lines and simply know that this has been a road to hell for this beautiful family. They also have an adorable 9 year old son, Zane, another intricate layer woven into this already complicated situation.

I have no words of wisdom for this precious family. But I send them messages often. An e-mail here and there. A facebook message now and then. To let them know I'm thinking of them, always. They are never far from my heart. Several years ago, in an effort to curtail the out-of-control insanity of the holidays, my family gave up the gift-exchange between adults on Christmas and developed our own little "silent auction" event to replace it. In the past, we'd pick a local organization—say a food shelf—to be the recipient of our auction proceeds. This year, it was unanimous that Corey, Ronda and Zane would receive our proceeds. It wasn't a "windfall," by any means, but I'm sure it will help. Maybe with some groceries. Pay a bill or two.

I know it's so cliche, because I know we will all live our lives the way we chose to, not the way anyone else tells us to, but if I could just say one thing this Christmas season, it's something I've said before, and it's something I believe it with my whole being: Please. Peace, Love and take care of each other. Not just on Christmas, but always. In all ways.

A most blessed holiday season to everyone. . .