Except for The Game of Life, I have always been competitive. I never bought into that saying, “It’s not whether you win or lose; it’s how you play the game.” Bullshit. The objective is to win. Many people don’t play games with me anymore because I am too obnoxious. My husband and I can’t play each other in Trivial Pursuit because we get too mean, but we make a ferocious team. I love games because like math the answers are definite.
1 + 1 = 2 or Earn six pie wedges by answering tough questions and then answer one final question (selected by your opponent) in the center hub. Of course people interpret them differently, but for the most part, the rules of games are clear.

Real life, however, doesn’t work that way. It is far more subjective, enigmatic. I remember my dance teacher used to wear this t-shirt that read, “He who dies with the most toys wins”; he collected Porsches. Unlike the board game, I used to think “winning the game of life” meant having an incredible career. Later, I realized that being Adrienne’s parent made me happier than any acting role ever did. For example, I scheduled the final dress rehearsal of a play that I directed, produced, and wrote around Adrienne’s 13th birthday party, which I refused to miss. No matter what, she always came first.

Even though I did everything that I could, a part of me feels that I failed Adrienne. I didn’t help her win the game of life. I didn’t see to it that she made it to the finish line. It is as if she lost her turn and never came back to the game. Like she quit, but that is not what happened. She never gave up even when she knew her time was running out. Like a tired boxer in the ring, she kept fighting and every time a doctor counted her out, she got back on her feet and threw another punch. She refused to suffer a knockout. She finished the fight on her terms—she died at home in peace.

All of these years, I thought Adrienne had “lost” the game because she didn’t survive cancer and because I had lost her. I had it all wrong. Even though Adrienne was not as competitive as I am, I instilled in her the same aim: Play to Win. If life were a boxing match and the judges had to decide between Adrienne and her opponent—cancer, there is no question. Adrienne won. She led a successful life. She made some of her dreams come true. She inspired her friends; she continues to inspire me. While cancer may have beaten her down physically, she never allowed it to take away her heart, her spirit, or her soul.

When asked what they want for their children, parents usually reply, “as long as they are happy and healthy” but all parents have dreams for their children. When I was a kid, my father told me that I should be a doctor because I love to read. I guess he figured that I could survive medical school. I didn’t have a career selected for Adrienne, but I wanted her to leave home for college, preferably a four-year university such as Stanford, Berkeley or an Ivy League school on the East Coast. (She preferred my alma mater USC.) I wanted her to realize that there was nothing wrong with making money from her art. I wanted her to learn to drive a stick shift. And of course, I wanted her to be healthy and happy.

But Adrienne never graduated from high school, sold her art, or drove any car. She suffered from depression long before cancer invaded her body. She didn’t have a chance to do the things that I wanted her to do, but my dreams for her should have no bearing on whether or not Adrienne lived an extraordinary life. Even though I don’t like the outcome, Adrienne won the game.

It does not matter how you play the game of life  … it is how you define winning. Therefore, Adrienne is a champ.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. Happy Birthday baby—you are the champion of my world. I miss you so much. Keep playing Queen for me, okay?

I’ve known the answer all along, and it’s so damn simple. I don’t want people to forget about Adrienne. Her life. Her experiences. Her unbelievable strength. Her sadness. Her courage. She’s my hero. Please don’t forget her.

Don’t you forget about me
I’ll be alone, dancing—you know it – Simple Minds

AWW — XoXo

I hate answering the question, “Why are your writing your book?” because sometimes, I don’t know. It is not a cathartic experience unless opening your femoral artery and bleeding nonstop is good for you. Give me the scab please so I can heal already.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. I’ve been reading Angela’s Ashes. Well-written but I don’t like it. The last time I looked forward to finishing a book this much was James Frey’s A Million Little Pieces. Since when did writers stop using quotation marks? Guess I’m a purist.

AWW — XoXo

As I wrap up the end of Adrienne’s third round of chemo in my memoir, I relive it and I discover things I didn’t know about myself and about her. That third round was the worst. I can only compare it to the California wildfires. Adrienne had so many things happening in her body at once—so many fires if you will—that the doctors didn’t know which ones to put out first, how the “fires” started, or how to put them out. The more medicine they pumped into Adrienne’s body, the worse she felt, and I couldn’t make her better.

Tomorrow I start Day 73, which means I’m halfway done with this monster, I mean, memoir. I’ve written 82,385 words so far (yes, I’m that anal); many more to go.

AWW — XoXo

AWW — XoXo