Month: August 2025

• Before my mom was diagnosed with esophageal cancer at 69, she was the epitome of good health.
• Her death less than five months later, in July 2024, was — and still is — a total shock.
• Grief comes in waves — long-lasting with a killer crash. Great for surfers, but not for us grievers.

“So, Christine, I’ve got cancer,” my mother calmly told me over the phone one February morning.

I have no idea what I said next.

All I can remember is what felt like lava slowly, painfully rising from the pit of my stomach up to my chest, where it just sat bubbling, searching desperately for somewhere to escape my body. A sensation I hadn’t experienced for over 15 years, when I received a similar phone call from my father.

What followed was the start of my double life, in which I split my time between my home in San Diego and Dublin, 5,199 miles away and the place my mom called home.

Her treatment was supposed to be chemotherapy and maybe radiation before making a full recovery, but she never even got to that stage. She became an inpatient not long after that February phone call, and the following summer, on July 14, 2024, she died.

My mother’s death was — and still is — a total shock

The thing about cancer is that you know death might be coming long before it arrives, or in my mom’s case, not long at all. I tell myself this “advanced notice” is a good thing, a coping mechanism if you will.

Before she got sick at 69, my mother was the epitome of good health — playing tennis and hiking the Irish Wicklow mountains weekly. The thought that something could harm her wasn’t even on my radar.

I had already lost one parent to cancer. The made-up rules of life that lived in my head said it simply was not possible to lose the other, and to the same disease, no less.

The call that changed everything

I was heading out the door when “mom” popped up on my phone. After weeks of a raspy voice and a doctor’s appointment warning that “something sinister” was at play, my mom finally had a specialist consultation scheduled.

I knew the call was coming, and unlike the far too many other times that I screened her call — how I wish now I had answered the phone to her more — this was one call I answered before it even got through the first ring.

As soon as I picked up, I knew something was very wrong.

Maybe it was her calm voice, procrastinating sharing the specialist’s update by asking me how the weather was that day.

Like me, my mom would often worry about the silliest of things that she’d dissect from every angle possible. Yet here she was calling me after an important appointment, sounding as calm as I’d ever heard her.

Could everything be OK? No, because if it were, I’m sure the first thing she would’ve said was how bad she felt for wasting everyone’s time.

I gave my mom a few minutes of grace when it came to the chit-chat. I too, wanted to pretend for a few minutes longer that everything was fine, normal, and no one was dying anytime soon. That’s when she told me the news: it was esophageal cancer.

My double life between California and Dublin

I’d spend three weeks in Ireland before escaping to California for a week, where I could avoid the pain of seeing my mom go through the symptoms that come with that horrible disease.

Life would start to feel normal again, but reality would always sneak in. I’d see a message pop up on our family WhatsApp group — “Hey mom, heading into the hospital now” from my sister, or “Can you bring in tissues?” from my mom. Painful reminders that I wasn’t there.

Once my San Diego “break” was up, it was back to my Dublin life where I had quickly developed a new routine. Every morning, I would drive to the hospital and pick up two iced lattes (or hot, depending on the Irish weather that day) for my mom and me to enjoy together.

My mom couldn’t actually drink the coffee I bought her. She had a tracheostomy and no ability to swallow, so she would just sip the latte, slush it around her mouth, and spit it out. But she absolutely loved it. Don’t tell my siblings, but I’m 99% sure it was the highlight of her day.

We were simply doing what normal moms and daughters do — catching up over a coffee. I probably had more coffee catch-ups with her in those four-ish months than I had in years. Realizing that leaves a pit in my stomach.

My mom passed away less than five months after that February phone call

After the funeral, I returned to San Diego feeling relieved that I could settle back into a normal life. I could unpack my suitcase, and for the first time in months, put it away.

That initial relief lasted for a few weeks, but my birthday hit a month later, and not waking up to a sweet birthday card or text from my mom was one of the first moments of reality setting in.

My husband tells me that grief comes in waves — sometimes it’s a small ripple that comes and goes, oftentimes when I’m not expecting it.

Just the other day, I opened a Clarins moisturizer and boom, the grief hit. My mom used Clarins for as long as I can remember, and the smell of it took me right back to the master bathroom of her house in Dublin, where I’d bug her to borrow it while I was visiting because I would always forget to bring my own. I paused to take her in for that short moment, and then it was over.

Sometimes the waves are the type a surfer dreams of — long-lasting with a killer crash. Great for surfers, not so much for us grievers. You have no idea how long the grief is going to last, and you can’t get out of it. You just have to wait for the crash to come.

I’ve listened to Calm’s grief podcast series, I’ve read books like Edith Eger’s “The Gift” exploring how to overcome grief, but there’s no healing it. The sad reality is that there isn’t a pretty bow you can wrap around death. You can’t “hope” because the worst has already happened, but you can appreciate what you had.

And if you’re one of the lucky ones, you just have to pick up the phone next time you see “mom” pop up.

• Spirit Airlines warned on Monday that it might not survive another year.
• Its share price plummeted while competitors, like Frontier, soared.
• Less competition could lead to rival airlines raising ticket prices, analysts at Raymond James said.

Budget airline flights could be about to get more expensive in the US.

In a quarterly report filed Monday, Spirit Airlines warned that it might not survive another year. If it did go under, then competitors would, in theory, be able to raise ticket prices, analysts have said.

Spirit previously filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy last November before exiting the process in March.

However, it has continued to report losses, which totalled $245.8 million in the second quarter of this year, and said there was “substantial doubt” over its “ability to continue as a going concern within 12 months.”

Analysts at Raymond James said that rival airlines Frontier, JetBlue, and Southwest overlap the most with Spirit, which means they could be the most likely to increase fares.

“The biggest benefits to industry pricing from further pullback or exit by Spirit would be in routes where both Spirit and Frontier compete,” wrote Savanthi Syth, a senior research associate at the firm.

She added that fares on these journeys are typically 15% cheaper than those operated by only one of the two airlines.

Spirit Airlines’ share price fell by 40% to $2.10 on Tuesday.

Frontier rose 29%, JetBlue by 12%, and Southwest by 5%.

Syth said Raymond James analysts hadn’t expected stocks to move as much as they have, given that Spirit’s warning was “not necessarily a surprise.”

The airline said there was weaker demand for domestic leisure travel, the core of its business model. Economic concerns over Donald Trump’s tariff plan have seen people cut back on travel, while post-pandemic fliers are more interested in paying for premium options.

Spirit could sell aircraft and the rights to gates at several airports to try to make money, as its credit-card processor is demanding collateral.

If it ceases operations, thousands of jobs would be at risk.

Spirit’s failed merger

Some industry players have criticized the government’s decision to deny JetBlue’s attempt to buy Spirit for $3.8 billion over antitrust concerns, which went to trial in October 2023.

When JetBlue announced it had terminated the merger agreement last March, the then-attorney general, Merrick Garland, said it was “another victory for the Justice Department’s work on behalf of American consumers.”

In a Tuesday X post, Sara Nelson, the president of the Association of Flight Attendants-CWA, said: “The objection to the merger was a fanciful idea that Spirit would just keep playing the [ultra-low-cost carrier] ‘role’ of consumer choice and competition with the majors.”

Spirit Airlines, Frontier, JetBlue, Southwest, and the DoJ did not immediately respond to requests for comment sent outside US working hours.

• It takes days of research and problem-solving to plan a family trip.
• On vacation, I am called upon to problem solve when things go wrong.
• I also feel responsible for everyone’s fun. I want to ease up and not worry so much.

“So, what’s next?” my 12-year-old asked as he sucked down his caramel milkshake.

It was only 10 am on a June morning in Georgetown, and we’d already had to stop to get a cold treat to rally the troops in the muggy 100-degree weather. As desert rats, we’re accustomed to a dry heat, not what felt like an insufferable, sweat-inducing sauna.

I looked from my son’s flushed face to the rest of my family, fanning themselves, and knew the itinerary that day — frolicking through Georgetown’s historic streets — was doomed.

There was a heat wave during our trip and we had to pivot our plans.

As the designated trip planner, everyone waited for me to make a decision, so I called an audible. My husband and his father would take the older kids to visit the Spy Museum, while my toddler, mother-in-law, and I stuck to the original sightseeing plan.

Thankfully, my well-researched itinerary kept everyone happy. I’ve planned more than 100 trips for my family, but I’m not sure they know just how much time and effort go into it.

A lot happens behind the scenes when booking a family trip.

For our eight-day trip to Washington, DC, and Philadelphia, I spent hours considering flight options, choosing an affordable hotel in a prime location, and strategizing whether or not we needed a car.

Parking in the city would be a pain, so I opted for public transport. But we wanted to take a day trip to Mount Vernon, and the bus route was rumored to be arduous. That’s when I found a ferry option from DC to Mount Vernon.

Next, I had to consider how to get from DC to Philadelphia. I decided to book the Amtrak train, but read that they didn’t allow larger suitcases to be stowed on that particular route.

I had to research a lot to make this trip happen.

After some research, I found a company, Ship & Play, that would allow me to bring a full-size suitcase on the first leg of the trip and then ship it home directly from our first hotel, along with any purchases and half of our clothes.

And what about a car seat? No sense lugging one around only to be used once on the day trip we planned from Philadelphia to Valley Forge. With another search, I discovered a baby rental company called Babyquip that would let me rent a car seat for the Philly portion of our itinerary.

Then I researched activities, museums, and restaurants in each city. Which tickets needed to be pre-booked? What was our threshold for activities? How could I creatively include everyone’s “must-do’s”?

This research and fact-finding took days.

As the family trip planner, I feel responsible for everyone’s fun.

Even then, things didn’t turn out the way we intended. Although the car seat rental, luggage shipment, and ferry ride went smoothly, the unexpected heat wave and a costly missed train ate at everyone’s patience. And since I’d booked the train, I was the one who shouldered most of the disappointment at missing it, and I was also the one to speak to Amtrak on an hour-long call to work out the logistics of rescheduling.

I realized this trip that I tend to take every grumble, sigh, and frustration as a personal slight. After all, I’m the one dragging them around and “making” them do things.

I’m grateful to be the planner and wouldn’t swap roles if I could.

Admittedly, the heat was miserable. We ended up ducking into multiple museums not on our original list just for the cooling A.C. All this museum hopping, coupled with the high temperatures, left everyone worn out.

When things go wrong, I often feel like I am either the creative problem solver or the scapegoat.

Still, I am grateful to be the elected planner.

On our next trip, I’ve resolved to try harder to shake off everyone’s grumpiest moments and release the guilt of feeling responsible for their fun. It’s not my fault when things go wrong; it’s just part of traveling.

• At 26, I chose a preventive double mastectomy after testing positive for the BRCA1 genetic mutation.
• The 13-month reconstruction process was physically painful, and people’s jokes didn’t help.
• Opening up about my journey helped me reclaim my confidence and empowered others to ask questions.

Two days before my 26th birthday, cancer was the furthest thing from my mind until a phone call from my sister changed everything. At 31, and just three weeks postpartum, she had been diagnosed with stage 3C breast cancer.

Genetic testing revealed she carried the BRCA1 mutation, which gives women up to an 87% lifetime risk of developing breast cancer. I got tested next, and I had the mutation too.

Suddenly, I saw my breasts as a ticking time bomb.

The choice I never thought I’d have to make

I had two options: monitor closely with regular screenings and hope for early detection, or have a preventive double mastectomy.

It felt like no real choice at all, and the decision wasn’t easy. I’d always imagined breastfeeding my future children. I wasn’t even close to starting a family.

After meeting with surgeons, I opted for the mastectomy with implant reconstruction using cadaver skin. It had the shortest recovery time, but it was still a massive surgery. I was overwhelmed by the options and the gravity of what I was about to do.

The comments I received didn’t help. Some asked, “How big are you going to go?” It felt invasive and disheartening, as if people were more focused on my aesthetics than the life-saving reason behind the surgery and how scared I was for it.

My operation took eight hours and left me with diagonal scars across each “mound,” as my surgeon called them. I chose to remove my nipples, too; they’re made of breast tissue, and I didn’t want to leave any cancer risk behind.

The physical aftermath was brutal. My pectoral muscles were cut and repositioned; I couldn’t even hold my phone. I had to use my chin to pump soap. I had expanders placed to slowly stretch my skin for nine months before getting implants. Each saline injection was painful, sometimes causing intense spasms that sent me back to the hospital.

Public reaction was strange

The expanders were disfiguring, hard as rocks, and nothing like real breasts. Even though people knew I was having a mastectomy, many tried to lighten the mood with jokes comparing it to a “boob job.” Their comments weren’t malicious, just painfully unaware of the difference between elective enhancement procedures and a medically necessary, painful amputation and reconstruction.

I felt minimized, misunderstood — like my experience was trivialized.

Then, there was a seemingly insignificant interaction that changed everything for me.

A self-conscious woman at the pool bravely and nervously asked if my breasts were real. For once, someone couldn’t tell I was “different.” I smiled and told her the truth. She looked relieved and thanked me for being so open. That moment sparked something in me. Perhaps being more proactively transparent could help others feel seen as well.

I continued sharing my experience

I had already been sharing my journey on Facebook, but I continued to open up, both online and offline, about the good, the bad, and the painful. I talked about genetic testing, reconstruction setbacks, and how awkward people can be when they don’t know what to say. I often would joke about how you could bounce a quarter off my expanders (“but please don’t because it hurts!”).

The more I shared, the more comfortable I became in my new body. I found strength in the scars, humor in the awkwardness, and connection in the vulnerability.

One day, a former college roommate reached out. After following my posts, she inquired about her family history and underwent testing. She and two other women in her family were positive for a similar mutation. My story helped her.

When I first looked at my post-op body, I felt disconnected, disgusted, and self-conscious. Now, despite bright scars, numb patches, and misshapen “mounds,” I’m overcome with gratitude when I see myself.

My risk for breast cancer isn’t zero, but it’s significantly reduced. And every day I get to rock and sing with my two kids at night, something I hope to do for a long time.