People ask the same two questions all the time, "Are these all yours?!" and "What brings a single mother from New York all the way out to the southwest?!"

Our journey from the gold coast of the United States to the vast majesty of the valley of the sun begins in my youth. Growing up with two critically ill parents and a developmentally disabled brother left little time or money for family vacations. In fact, my first and only vacation with my family was to a Catskill Mountain hotel at the age of 13 as my mother battled terminal breast cancer. School vacations came and went, friends traveled the globe and returned tanned with stories to tell and I was, admittedly, jealous. Would I ever wear a bathing suit for my February birthday? Would I ever see Disney World? Blue water? Have those cute little beads put into my tightly braided hair?

I met my husband on a blind date when I was 24 years old. We became fast friends, but the relationship did not turn romantic for a full year. I was fully involved in my education and career and he was, well....not. It was an unlikely pairing. Truthfully, when he first declared his intentions, I ran scared and somewhere in a box of love letters and keepsakes, I still have the card he wrote which said if he couldn't have it all, he couldn't bare to have anything at all. The loss of his friendship and the fact that, after a three week hiatus I missed him terribly, was what eventually brought us together. On October 1, 1993, I married my best friend and until May of 2005, I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world. During that time, we became the proud parents of four beautiful, healthy children - three girls and a boy - and laid our foundation for a sound future. After many years of financial struggle, we had a beautiful house, a luxury vehicle and were able to enjoy sideline hobbies that I had once only dreamed of - boating, travel, fine dining and entertaining. Friends still tell me that I was the only person they knew that never had a single complaint to say about the man I married.

That's not to say that we didn't have our differences and our struggles. Every couple does. Ours tended to center around the very different values and backgrounds of our friends, families and the everyday struggles of raising four young children while maintaining busy careers. While I was pregnant with our last child, my husband became critically ill with diverticulitis and nearly lost his life. This followed a bout with Melanoma when I was pregnant with child number three. Looking back, I can now see that that was the beginning of the end. His illnesses triggered in him an awareness of his mortality and in me, a rekindled fear of abandonment. I found peace in my beliefs and the friendship of those around me, he found the motorcycle shop. I focused on the security of our family and building a strong support network, he focused on sports cars and what "fun" he had that day. He worked out constantly, I couldn't pick my head up from the pillow.

Our family was complete when our wonderful son was born. We were about to enter a new phase in our marriage and it felt good - but I didn't. Something wasn't right - I never seemed to fully recover from his birth. Now, those who know me, know that the LAST place I want to be is anywhere near a doctor's office for any reason whatsoever. Watching my parents suffer and losing them both at a very young age had left an indelible mark on me that caused panic and fear unlike anything you can imagine. No amount of therapy - no amount of experience - could erase the horrors of what I was forced to witness. When I began pounding on doctor's doors and demanding medical tests, this should have been a clear signal to all that there was something seriously wrong. Instead, I was made to feel insecure and over reactive - like a hypochondriac instead of a very sick woman. For two years I was told everything from "it's stress" to "it's postpartum depression" to "give yourself time you've had four babies in six years." I didn't give up, but those around me did.  But for a few very special, diligent physicians, I would not be alive today.  Humbling, huh?

On February 8, 2005, I received a phone call that would forever change my life. As my first grade reading class entered the room, I was told that I had thyroid cancer. My instructions were to contact a surgeon immediately - my first of many "outer body experiences" that I would navigate over the next few years.

My initial concern was for my husband. I was deeply concerned for the pressures he was under at work and what additional stress my illness would cause on our family. In fact, I called a few friends before I called him because I wanted to "rehearse" the words that had to leave my mouth. Add to the fact that we had just signed contracts on a new house and committed to a kitchen renovation.....I was very, very scared!

Thanks to family connections, I had surgery at Yale New Haven Hospital on February 17, 2005. I barely had time to digest the tremendous news of my disease before the first phase of my treatment was complete. During the long, exhausting weeks of hypothyroidism and subsequent radiation treatment ahead, I placed what energy I had into caring for my family and focusing on our future. By April 15, 2005, my treatment was complete.

Now, what I've learned over time is that if something doesn't feel quite right, it usually isn't. When we speak to children, we often refer to this as the "uh oh feeling." It's that internal alarm that signals a fight or flight response from deep within. I've also learned that if you sit long enough, wait, listen intentionally and read body language, people's true colors come shining through - the good, the bad and the ugly. This is true in relationships, friendships and business partnerships. Needless to say, my "uh oh feeling" was in full tilt.

Less than one month after my treatment and one week before moving day, my husband left our family - three outfits, a tennis racket, a motorcycle and a cell phone in hand. Weakened from my treatment, I still managed to pack up our home and move the children into that dream house we purchased only weeks before. We lived in that house just one year - a year filled with heartbreak and hurt - before our divorce was final. On Wednesday June 21, 2006, our marriage ended, on Friday June 23rd I had a clean cancer scan and on Tuesday June 27th, I boarded a plane with a one way ticket to Arizona, the beautiful place we now call home.

This was no easy decision. My reasons for the journey are many and I am a true believer that if doors open, you cease the opportunity and you walk right on through. The children embraced the beauty of the southwest immediately, soaking up the sun, the swimming, making fast friends and basically proving, once again, how very resilient children are. For me, it was a slower adjustment and once the feeling of being on vacation lost it's hold, I mourned long and hard over what was, what used to be and what was to become.

Three years later, we now live in a beautiful home that works for us in a terrific neighborhood teaming with children. Friends near and far pass through on a regular basis because, well, we live in that family vacation spot I dreamed of visiting as a child and while it's still a tad too chilly in February for a bathing suit, we are in short sleeved shirts to celebrate my birthday. Although the sight of the mountains no longer takes my breath away, the glorious sunsets and early morning hot air balloons still do make me stop and appreciate the sincere beauty of our world almost daily.  We are happy.  We are healthy.  We are a family.

When the journey first began, my children were ages 8-2.  They are now 13-7.   In those quiet moments at night as I listen to the steady rhythm of their breathing,  there are still moments of disbelief which grab hold of my heart as I look how very far we've come!

Life is what happens when you are busy doing something else.
































was scared; very, very scared.

(More to follow)