I’m going to cut to the chase with this one: If I had one wish, it would be for the eradication of Cancer.

Cancer is a nasty fucker. Cancer has taken from me more people than I can count on my hands. It is a disease that takes: lives, time, joy.

How I feel about cancer…

I myself had my own little battle with it back in late 2001: Following his instincts, my OBGYN ordered a pap-smear, a test I wasn’t due to take again for another eight months. The result? A very aggressive form of cervical cancer that if I’d waited the next eight months (like I’d been scheduled to) to have to test ran, it would have been too late for me. I not only would have lost my cervix, but most likely my life as well.

I’ve watched loved ones battle the illness. I’ve seen the devastation of friends losing their six-year-old son to the illness, when his biggest worry should have been what book his Kindergarten teacher was going to read the next day. Some have won their fight, more often than not, I’ve been the recipient of a phone call from a family member or friend telling me that we had lost yet another part of our hearts and souls to the illness.

So you can imagine I didn’t react too well when I found out my dear friend Melissa Graham was diagnosed with breast cancer (in fact, I threw my mouse across the room in anger, which was only made worse by the fact the damn thing was attached to my computer by a cord and snapped back and smacked me on my own breast).

I was blessed to meet Melissa through Babycenter.com’s message boards when I was pregnant with my oldest child in 2004. Melissa was a source of information on all things newborn and baby related, and we quickly developed a friendship via the internet. Every woman has a go-to friend when they’re pregnant and going through the newborn period, Melissa became mine. She was always available for a chat, always responded to my questions as quickly as she could, and always gave me a laugh one way or another.

Melissa and her daughter, Meleah

So I’m pissed off. And I wish I could do something. But Melissa lives several states away, and as much as I’d love to hop on over and help her out by being there for her by helping with dinner or housework or taking her daughter to and from school, distance makes that impossible for me to do.

I can’t take this illness from Melissa, as much as I want to. I can’t be there to hold her hand, or to support her and her family as they go through this. I won’t be able to sit in the waiting room when she has a mastectomy or while she’s undergoing radiation and chemotherapy. But I can use my voice as an author and a podcast personality. And I can ask for help. Which I need. I need your stories of your own experiences with cancer.  It can be your own battle with the illness, or what you went through when someone you loved battled the illness. You don’t have to be an author, you don’t even have to be a blogger. What you have to be is honest. I can put together a collection of essays and poetry about this fucking disease, and set it up where the proceeds go directly to Melissa and her family, which will hopefully at least lessen the financial blow from all the medical treatments she will be undergoing in the near future.

Melissa ready to kick cancer’s ass!!!!

I’ll be taking submissions until September 30, 2013. Please email me yours at AmberMNorrgard@gmail.com, with the subject line “Cancer Can Suck It”

Thank you.

~Amber Jerome~Norrgard

She wasn’t a doctor, at least not one with an M.D. behind her name. She wasn’t a leader, except to her fifteen children and their spouses and children. She wasn’t a rock star, except to those of us who were blessed to have her in our lives.

She was my grandmother.

My grandmother and I on my first birthday, January 23, 1978. If she were still alive today, she would be celebrating her 114th birthday.

I was her forty-first grandchild. That’s right. The number four, followed by the number one. And despite a grandson being born four years later (my younger brother Jason), bringing the count to forty-two, not to mention more great- and great-great- (and great-great-great) grandchildren than a person could count (and that are still being brought into this world), I felt like her one and only grandchild.

Grandma had a way of making you feel as if you mattered, simply because you drew breath. I can remember watching throughout my life the look on her face when she saw the newest member of our family for the first time: Her eyes would light up, her arms would stretch out, and she’d gather close to her heart the newest part of her soul. It didn’t matter how many times before she had embraced a new grandchild, what mattered to her was that she had been given a new life to love, to influence, to teach faith to.

Grandma could make chicken and dumplings like on one else. She taught me the ins and outs of King’s Row, and never once stopped cleaning the dove and quail my Dad, uncles and cousins would bring home on hunting weekends in the fall. My favorite childhood memories include sitting around her kitchen (with the requisite four feet of cigarette smoke hanging from the ceiling), and seeing her lit up with joy at having her family surrounding her, running up her back porch steps to throw open the screen door to hug her after driving from Oklahoma City and later Dallas to visit her in Chanute, Kansas, to the fact that she never once said no to my cousin Amy and myself squeezing into her full-size bed with her, long after Amy and I had grown taller than Grandma.

She never once forgot a birthday for any of her children, their spouses, or her many grandchildren. She always commemorated Christmas and birthdays and special events with a card.

While there was no blood shared between my grandmother and I (I was adopted at birth), still, Grandma gave me a rosary, the ability to hold on to faith  no matter how hard things become and the ability to love unconditionally. three things I carry with me at all times. She also gave me the gift of love and with that gift, the knowledge that I was a blessing and the ability to love my children in a way that will impact not only their lives positively, but the lives of those them come into contact with.

Every year, I write a blog post about my Grandmother. She has been one of the greatest influences in my life, so much so that as an author, the first piece of work I wrote that was ever published was about how inspirational she was. I was seventeen, and my essay, “My Inspiration” was published in the Plano Star Courier. Her impact on my life fueled my words, and today, writing from my heart with total honesty and wide open is what I’m known for.

I write about her every year on her birthday, and every year on the anniversary of the day she was called to Heaven to join those members of our family that had passed on before her, several of which were sons and daughters she lost to war, to cancer, to heart disease. I write about the most impacting person on my life, the person who kept me from straying from being a good person by her love and her example of faith and never giving up, no matter the odds. I might not always publish what I’ve written about her, but I always write in an effort to find the words to express how incredible of a person she was and how very blessed I was to have been the recipient of her love and faith.

But words are poor ways of expressing what cannot be expressed. So I’ll do it as simply as I possibly can, because I will never find the right words. Grandma, thank you for all  you have taught me. Thank you for your example of love, of faith, of hope. Thank you for showing me true strength and for never once faltering in your beliefs about God, and life, and family and love. I love you, and I miss you every day.

~Amber Jerome~Norrgard

July 17, 2012 really wasn’t a day that held any importance. It wasn’t a national holiday, in so far as I know, none of my nearest and dearest celebrate their birthday on that day. It was just a Tuesday.

But for me? Well, it became monumental, because I published a book that went on to be a bestseller within twenty-four hours of my clicking that “publish” icon. But the bestseller part is really like getting an ice cream cone at Disney World. Sure, the ice cream is awesome, but that’s not what will set the day into memory.

For me, July 17, 2012 was the day I clicked “publish” and put my poetry collection In the Gloaming out in the Indie Author Arena. And while I’d published before, and would publish multiple times after, it was the first time I felt like I had any business clicking on that lovely little icon at the bottom of my screen on KDP’s website. I knew without any doubt my words needed to be out in the world. And rather than panic before, after and during the publishing process, I took a deep breath, hit that button, and laughed in joy that I had done it.

We live in a world where the small things, the important things get lost in the shuffle of day to day life. We so rarely take the time to celebrate what’s truly important. So I’m celebrating a small moment in my life that hallmarks a changing point in my career as an author: that moment when I fully felt the joy of publishing, the joy of doing what I had dreamed of doing for most of my life.

From July 17 until July 24, 2013, all my work will be on sale for $0.99. Snag it here and help me celebrate a year of publishing with no fear, only joy at doing what I’m meant to be doing.

Lots of love,

Amber Jerome~Norrgard

My son pitched what can only be described as a hellacioius tantrum this morning.

While he’s three and at the perfect age to pitch tantrums, this time, it wasn’t over wanting candy before dinner, a toy, a television show or any other want that would cause a tantrum in any healthy three-year-old.

This time? It was over wearing his sister’s shirt. The gray one with the blousey sleeves that proclaims quite merrily: “Cute! Cute! Cute!” in every color of the rainbow. The tantrum was kicked off by his big sister telling him it was her shirt, not his shirt. To be fair, Autumn has a point: it is her shirt. And even further into the whole realm of fairness is the fact that telling a three-year-old “no” is the quickest way to having your ear drums ruptured.

“Autumn,” I asked, “Can Benjamin just borrow your shirt for a bit? I promise he’ll give it back.” To which my darling four-year-old sighed and said, “I guess,” before she sat down, her bottom lip pooched out.

I’ve long written (and spoken) about that moment you get a glimpse of I am in your children’s lives. That moment in the early years when they say or do something that gives you a preview of who they’ll eventually turn out to be. Today, my eyes filled with tears and my heart swelled with pride at my son showing me who he will eventually be.

You see, Benjamin didn’t care that it was a girl’s shirt. Benjamin didn’t care that it was a shirt decorated with “girl” colors, that it was a shirt that was two sizes two big. Benjamin instead found something he loved and wanted for his own. And he fought for it, kicking and screaming, determined to have it in his life. He didn’t care what other people’s opinions are about the shirt. What he cared about was the fact that he found something that fit him, and him alone, and it meant enough that he went after it.

I helped my son put the shirt over his head, and the joy that beamed from that beautiful smile at his took my breath away.

I hope my son always feels that pure joy and passion at finding something he loves. I hope he always fights, as hard as he has to for those things and people in his life that he loves, that he never gives up. That he does whatever it takes to keep what means something, even if it only means something to him.

~Amber Jerome~Norrgard

Ask and ye shall receive…

Or, after today’s experiences, I’m going to go with: Be careful what you wish for!

After taking my four year old out for a mom and daughter day that included candy bar pancakes for Mini~Me at my favorite cafe, we ran a few errands. When we arrived home, I figured I’d take advantage of the fact I had someone keeping an eye on the kids to get caught up with the piles of laundry that are plaguing the house. Walking through our upstairs loft, I said offhandedly to my four-year-old, “Hey, do you mind putting the clothes in a basket for me?”  I could hear her huffing and puffing as I folded towels in my bedroom, but really didn’t think too much of it. When I next stepped out in the loft, the clothes were gone, along with the basket. When I asked said four-year-old what happened to the clothes, she said very sweetly: “I took them downstairs, Mommy!”  A bit surprised I asked, “Are they just laying around down there?”  “Oh no, I put them in the laundry room.”

Yeah, she most definitely did put the clothes in the laundry room. And by “clothes”, I mean, every single clothing item that belongs to her, her older sister, and her younger brother, clean or dirty, made their way into a huge pile in our laundry room. While I stared, totally amazed and totally daunted by the idea that I now had at least four times the laundry to wash as I had before, my very spitting image looked up at me with the eyes I passed onto her and said, “Did I do a good job?”

While I struggled to not burst out laughing, I gave her a hug and said, “You did the very best job you could have done, lovie.”

Moral of the story? Be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it.

Parental lesson of the day? Our children pay very close attention to us.

Life lesson of the day? Very carefully word what you want!

~Amber Jerome~Norrgard

“You need to know your limits and not go past that point,” is the advice my therapist has been giving me for over four years now.

Sadly, it’s rare I listen to one of the best pieces of advice I’ve ever been given.

You see, I’ve been working on the same book for the past thirteen years. And it’s a highly personal book. The first and second drafts were the biggest struggle I faced in 2012, and I breathed a huge sigh of relief when I sent it off to my editor. When it was returned several weeks later, I put off again and again even looking at the track notes. When I finally did look at the track notes, I sighed, hit save, and ignored the file for several more weeks. Well, that’s not exactly true: I’d try and start working on it, but just couldn’t bring myself to write my story any longer. My heart would start racing and my chest would tighten up.

And maybe I’ll never finish writing Searching. Or maybe I’ll finish writing it in a few years, or in ten years. Or maybe after I’m long gone, one of my kiddos will pick the story up for me and finish it and be able to do so from a distance. Because I? I can’t distance myself from this one enough to finish writing it.

For the past year-and-a-half, I’ve pushed myself past my own limits in writing my story. And if I was being told my side of things by anyone else, my suggestion would have been to step away a long time ago, to wait to tell the story. But we’re our own worse enemies and our own worse critics. I feel like a failure and like I’m quitting.

But on the other side of that, the part of myself that has grown over the last year and a half recognizes that my sanity needs this break, needs to stop feeling pressure to complete something that causes me this much pain. That its my right as a person to say “yeah, I’m done” no matter what the situation is when I’ve had enough. To recognize my limits and not ignore those flashing red lights that have been going off for over a year now.

And there will be other books. Clearly, there will be other books since I currently have four I’m working on that don’t make me want to go running for the nearest bottles of Xanax and Smirnoff.

Time to let go and heal.

~Amber Jerome~Norrgard

My son Benjamin will be three this Friday.

Three!!!

While I’ve never been one to bemoan my children growing and achieving milestones, for some reason, Benjamin turning three has tossed me for a loop.

If you’re not familiar with parental-speak, “turning three” is another way of saying “no longer a baby”. And while Benjamin will always be the baby of the family, his time as an actual baby is over in just four short days.

Which means that a major phase of my life that began on December 18, 2004 is drawing to a close. Much like turning thirteen, twenty, thirty, and graduating from high school, my youngest child turning three and leaving babyhood is a bittersweet experience.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like Benny’s snagged a briefcase and a spiffy suit and is taking off in the world. He’s still all about cuddling up on Mommy as often as he can. Hell, my oldest daughter is all about cuddling up on Mommy when she gets the chance. Nothing will change really, except for the fact he’s no longer a baby.

And I’m not even upset about there being no possibility for any more babies. For one thing, I no longer have the proper equipment to become pregnant. For another, I don’t have the energy, either physically or emotionally to go through another newborn period spiked with post-partum depression. Time’s just shot by way too fast.

And I watched, carefully. When 2 a.m. would find me rocking one of my kids to sleep, I’d remind myself that it was just a short blip on the radar of my life, and they’d no longer be able to fit comfortably against my chest in the circle of my arms. I’d remind myself that for only this short time, they’re mine, that the world would be pressing in on us sooner rather than later, and they’d have school, friends they’d make, boyfriends and girlfriends, colleges to go to, life partners they’ll pair with.

And I’m not making the mistake I made with Amethyst, which was the laughable experience of thinking that once she turned three, things would ease up in regards to tantrums. It’s like some sick joke, the idea of the terrible twos, when the reality is the twos are just the warm up party for the full throttle tantruming that’s on its way in year three.

But oh! The last three years just shot by. I blinked and Benjamin went from this pink cheeked newborn who wanted to be held all the time to a toddler who loves doing drive by kissings and hugs around your knees. Where once was a bottle of breast milk is now Benjamin sneak attacking your lunch when you step out into the garage to get a bottle of water.

So, this part of my life is coming to a close. And I’m on to bigger and better things. But oh my lord, these past three years? Graced with a gift I was afraid to even ask for? My heart skips a beat and my stomach clenches when I remember how not three months before I found out I was carrying Benny within my body, I asked my doctor to perform a partial hysterectomy. The idea of a life without Benny in it, if my doctor had gone ahead with the surgery? It’s a thought that causes tears to well up. Because a life without my son? There’s no way of imagining it. I often wonder how in the world I got through my life before he was born. He’s too necessary to my sanity and my joy for me to imagine any other type of life.

So a very happy birthday to my youngest, my son, my miracle, the greatest surprise I’ve ever been given. I hope you know just how much joy you bring to my life, just for the simple reason you were born.

~Mommy

I recently came across the article A man’s top 5 reasons to grow up and get married when looking over my Facebook stream.

It takes little to offend me. This article did it in under five seconds. Bravo, Steven Crowder!

In October of 2012, I released The Allegory of Dusk, a short story fiction collection that focuses on what happens when the bottom drops out and life isn’t how we were told it would be. In the introduction, I speak very candidly about how our parents and society have done us a great disservice by touting the need to be married to find true happiness.

I have a theory that I shout quite loud and proud. And that theory is that the problem with marriage as an institution and why its failing is due to the bullshit ideals that Hollywood, as well as sitcoms and cheesy-assed romance novels project, and therefore give us a very skewed view on reality. You see, none of what we see on the big screen, our television screen and read in our books is reality. And yes, my mom and dad explained to me it’s just a made up story when I’d watch or read anything. I get that. But what those movies, shows and books do is give the world an idea that love is nothing but hearts and flowers. There’s no six months, six years, sixteen years down the road. They do not show the downs in relationships, only the ups. They don’t show what its like when a husband is faced with not only a screaming newborn, a pissed off eighteen-month-old, and a cranky kindergartner along with a Mom to those three kids in the thick of postpartum depression and anxiety. If they show the projectile vomiting and the explosive diapers of the newborn phase, it’s done humorously. Let me tell you, when you haven’t slept for three days due to your baby girl having colic and then she shits down the front of your body as you take her out of the bathtub? There are no hearts and flowers to be found.

I’m all for hearts and flowers. But I take issue with Mr. Crowder describing marriage as a 24/7 slumber party. And I’m a fan of slumber parties, so much so, I’m planning a week-long one with my podcast-partner-in-crime, Dionne Lister and several other Indie Authors this October. But that’s a week. And I’m not married to any of the people attending. I don’t live day-to-day with them, and while they are all there for me, supporting me when the bottom drops out of my life, they aren’t in the thick of the chaos of reality with me.

I’m going to guess that in a couple of years, Mr. Crowder will be handed a hefty reality check. Marriage is work. It’s hard work, and I truly believe that if people knew exactly what it was like, there would be less marriages taking place. And while I’m a fan of it, and am known for tearing up at family and friend’s weddings, and beam when I catch sight of a bride and groom and wish them all the best in love and joy, still, the true reality of marriage is that it’s filled with ups and downs. What is going to happen when Mr. Crowder and his wife hit the first rough patch of their marriage? When a parent is diagnosed with a terminal illness, if one of the Crowders gets ill, if there are fertility issues? What’s going to happen when Mr. Crowder’s new bride is in the thick of postpartum depression and no one has slept for several days?

Even more offensive is Mr. Crowder’s superficial focus on sex and money as real benefits of marriage. How’s that going to work out for him when the inevitable down cycle in sex takes place within his marriage or he or his wife gets laid off of their jobs and suffer a drop in income?

While marriage has it awesome side: Love, partnership, sex with someone you trust and has learned which buttons of yours to punch to make you need a cigarette after, still, it has it’s rough side. It’s the rough side, or the possibility of the rough side that few people look at. How often do people really sit down and think, “My partner is just gorgeous, has a rockin’ body! But yes, I’ll still love them when they’re fifty pounds heavier and they’ve accumulated lines on their face…” Not many.

And while the bulk of Mr. Crowder’s article was offensive to me due to his lack of looking at things realistically and giving a child’s view point on marriage, number five on his list of why you should get married really chapped my ass:

5. Don’t die sick, miserable and alone.

Really, Mr. Crowder? Care to explain to me what happens when your spouse is the one who passes on first? What about those people who were brave enough to say, “Hey, marriage isn’t for me.”? Not being married isn’t a guarantee you’ll be miserable, no more so than being married is a guarantee you’ll be happy. How happy are those people who got married for the sole reason of shutting up the peanut gallery or due to pressure from everyone else getting married?

There’s only one reason a person should get married, and it’s not because you don’t want to die alone (chicken shits!), it’s not for financial gain, and it’s most definitely not because you or your significant other got pregnant. It’s for the reason that you have found the one person who fits you, who you cannot imagine not seeing every day. It’s because you’ve met that person that just gets you. It’s because you’ve found that person that is the one person on the planet you’d rather have annoying the hell out of you (because no matter how awesome the person you fall in love with is, they’re gonna annoy the shit out of you from time to time). Because when everything else falls apart, when you’re facing the most god-awful and heart wrenching experiences of your life, you’d rather be going through it with that person, than not be going through it at all and not have them in your life.

Any other reason? Is bullshit. And I can only hope Mr. Crowder has a low-level of readers, because he’s done a lovely disservice to those who have already bought into the heart and flowers line of bullshit Hollywood crams down our throats.

~Amber Jerome~Norrgard

I am thrilled to tell you dear readers that Julie Frayn has a new book out: It Isn’t Cheating If He’s Dead.  I was one of the lucky few who had the opportunity to ARC read this wonderful book, and it gets five stars from yours truly.

My review of this wonderful book: “Julie Frayn shows once again how to write a novel that plays more like a movie. It Isn’t Cheating if He’s Dead is an accurate portrait of life after the loss of a loved one. The simple facts that healing has no timeline, there is no expiration date on grief, and tragedy can result in a positive outcome when those left behind choose to learn from their loss, are beautifully portrayed.”

One of my favorite parts of this book is how Julie so beautifully shows that from a tragedy can come something beautiful. The main character Jem takes her grief and turns it into a positive by helping those less fortunate. As someone who’s had her ass kicked by life, this book very much spoke to me on several levels.

 ~~

About the book: Jemima Stone is tortured by the disappearance of her schizophrenic fiancé, Gerald. She blames herself for not being able to keep him on his meds, for not seeing the signs before it was too late. 

She seeks refuge from her pain by feeding the homeless, only to see Gerald’s face among them. But before she can reach him, he is gone again.

When he is found murdered in a city three thousand miles from home, she finds salvation in the arms of the detective who has obsessed over her case for four years. And she finds redemption by reuniting one of her homeless friends with the family he thought he’d lost.

~~

Snag It Isn’t Cheating If He’s Dead from Amazon.com and Smashwords.com

About the Author: Julie Frayn is the author of Suicide City, a Love Story, as well as several short stories, and silly poetry for kids about smashed peas and birds with gastroenteritis. You can find her on her website and follow her on Twitter.  Also, be sure to check her out on the TweepNation with Amber and Dionne Podcast right here.

Now quit reading my blog and go read Julie’s book. Like, yesterday. Go go go!!!!!

~Amber Jerome~Norrgard

We live in a fucked up world.

Last week, my father-in-law was watching the news, and walking through our living room to get another cup of coffee before going back to the piece I was writing, I overheard the newscaster announce that the Pope made the faux paus of dialing a telephone in the Vatican without the aid of a secretary.

I might be wrong, since I was so furious my memory is tinged in red, but I think what came out of my mouth upon hearing that was, “Are you fucking kidding me?!”

We live in a world where there is a war going on at all times. We live in a world where people take a gun into an elementary school and kill children and teachers. We live in a world where people hatefully judge one another based on skin color, size, religious beliefs, and heritage. We live in a world where I have to explain to my eight-year-old daughter why the date September 11 is remembered.

Last week at my favorite coffee shop with a friend, I watched one of my favorite waitresses, Christine,  interacting with a customer, and it was fairly obvious there was interest on both sides. After the customer left, I mentioned to Christine that her friend clearly found her attractive. “I think she likes you!” I said in a sing-song voice, and Christine laughed. “No seriously!” I said. “Chicks don’t do this,” and I lowered my lashes coquettishly in example, “unless they’re diggin’ on you. Trust me, I know.” Christine laughed, but the way her eyes sparkled totally made my day.

Because I had just witnessed joy, the possibility of love, and bliss in a split second in my friend’s eyes.

I’ve seen and experienced hurt and heartache more times than I care to admit. And I’ve seen and experienced it far too much that if seeing the first blushes of love is what stands out as a rarity in my day to day life as opposed to being the norm?  That right there shows the problem.

With the recent bombardment of Marriage Equality, my back hair is up. I’m pissed off, I’m angry, I’m seeing red. Because the world we live in is filled with so much negative. Why is it that one of the last things in the world that is positive, love, being confined and boxed in with rules and what is and is not right?

Fuck that.

In this world that is so filled with anger, hatred and loss, why does it matter if two men or two women want to marry? Why is it so necessary to state what’s right and what’s wrong?

I’m not going to do either. What I am going to do is state how I feel: the only two people who have a say in a relationship are the two people in it. And I hope like hell that in this world we live in where there is so much hurt and heartache, my children find the person that fits them and will love them unconditionally. And if my daughters give me daughters-in-laws and my son gives me a son-in-law? Thank you God for blessing my children with life partners who complete them and love them unconditionally.

~Amber Jerome~Norrgard