I love you to the moon and back again.

Bird is working on a project for school that requires him to view the sky at different times of the day and sketch and reflect upon what he sees. I told my friend Susan about this project and how it made me think of her. Bird and I went out to look at the sky together, and I pointed out an extraordinarily bright star in a deep blue sky that was giving way to darkness. Bird said, “Mommy, that’s a plane. We wouldn’t see a star move like that. It’s too light out, let’s come back later.” No wonder I failed astronomy in college. Twice.

Mac Daddy and Deal accompanied Bird on his next star gazing mission. They blew through the front door at typical gasping speed (as little boys tend to do) clamoring to tell me that there was a bright star twinkling straight over our house. They thought is was a sign, a nod to Susan. Susan died today. Cancer is evil. Bird and Deal penned a short note to her boys and shed some tears along with me. Theirs were tears of fear; my tears tasted like loss, sadness, anger, injustice, and yes, fear. Susan was many things – mother, wife, daughter, friend, planetary scientist, advocate, writer – cancer did not define her. She moved people with her grace and wit and endless spirit. She moved me to walk 39.3 miles in her honor, and she sent me words of encouragement along the whole route, cheering me on in 140 characters.

Later tonight we stood on the front porch together and saw the moon, shrouded in clouds, emitting a halo of light that was angelic in its poignancy.  It was striking really, and my lousy photos don’t do it justice. But there it was, a glowing moon brightening the night sky on a day that has lost a great light.

Every night when I tuck in Bird and Deal I tell them each, “I love you to the moon and back again.” We even have a sign hanging in the playroom that says that, and my 40th birthday present from my boys is a half moon pendant with that saying engraved on it. Lately I’ve been saying “I love you to the moon and Bakugan” just to elicit an eruption of laughter before bed. The chuckle of a little boy is magical music. The moon has been a part of our ritual since my boys were babies. I shall think of Susan with each moon that passes and silently thank the stars for letting me enjoy her cheeky smile and hear her warm laughter. And I shall squeeze my sons and think of her little boys whose mother loved them to the moon and back again. 

Susan died of inflammatory breast cancer, one that presents without a lump. I had never heard of it before I read Susan’s story. Read her words and educate yourself. Forget the political jabs on the pink battle field. Donate to the Inflammatory Breast Cancer Research Foundation in honor of Susan Niebur and reflect on the light she graced us with. As her husband wrote on her blog when he shared the news of her passing, “Or please choose to make a difference somewhere, anywhere, to anyone.” Words to live by indeed.