“The days are long but the years are short.”-Unknown

I sit at a red light on a route I don’t usually take anymore. I look to my left and see in a field, an ocean of red clover, undulating gently in the breeze. And suddenly I am hit with a wave of sadness, so visceral, so sharp, that it takes my breath away. And then the memory of a thousand trips on this road, that leads to my children’s elementary school, flood in. The school is not even there anymore. And for just a moment I feel such a feeling of panicky loss that I would give anything to be back in that time again.

A time where I was the sun and they were my planets. Always underfoot, always dirty, always needing a bandaid, tumbling around me like puppies, vying for my attention. All the minutiae of life with little boys comes back to me in a rush, crazy mornings, eating lunch with them in the cafeteria when they were little enough that when they saw me their faces would light up. Kindergarten graduations and Science fairs and Spring Flings and so many costumes for so many things. Endless creations of construction paper and cotton balls and pipe cleaners, that weren’t endless after all as it turns out. And in the Spring, Awards Day. And I was always late, racing down this road; but I always noticed the beautiful red clover in this field. And the sight of it this day is enough to take me back instantly and make my heart ache with the loss of it all. A door to the past firmly shut.

Red clover, red clover, send my babies back over.

Then the light changes and I drive on, leaving the nostalgia behind me in the intersection, because I must. It’s the way of it. From the very first one, every step they take, is a step away from you. And as a parent, if I do it right, I am supposed to be working myself out of a job.
And I think of the men they are becoming. They are walking away from me now into their lives, one cautiously, one without a backwards glance, and one, it remains to be seen. For them it feels like a light step into the next thing, but to me it feels like tearing. They must increase and I must decrease. It’s the way of it.

But even bittersweet, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. For the refining fire that is being a Mother. They have shown me the limits and limitlessness in myself. They been my greatest teachers. Of all I have been and done I am proudest of them. My face still lights up when I see them.

I am drinking the last of the cup of Motherhood. It is joy, sorrow, fear, longing, hope, pride, and the slightest bit bitter, but in my mouth, it tastes just like love.

I’ve been to two funerals recently. Two “good” funerals. Both were for good people who left us too soon. Both of whom would still be here if it were a matter of who deserves a long life based on merit. I left both services wanting to be a better person.

The first was for Tom, a man I never really knew. The brain tumor that would take his life had already taken his ability to speak and move freely by the time I knew him. I mostly knew him through his wife, who was devoted to him and a wonderful person in her own right. You could see how loved he was though. After he got sick the men in his church small group, that he had poured so much into, brought the group to his home every week, right up to the week he died. Even though he couldn’t speak, they wanted him to feel community.

At his service people who had known him in many different ways spoke, and as they did, they painted me a picture of the teammate, church member, husband, father, brother and friend he was to them. And I could see for the myself the wonderful man he had been. The one thing said about him that has really stayed with me, was that he could always see when someone felt left out and knew how to draw them in. What a lovely gift.

And then I began to realize that I had known him, maybe not the stone itself, but the ripples the stone had caused, that are still going out. His wife’s kindness to me, drawing me in at a difficult time. The families of those men in his small group still diligently serving and living others. The way even in his death he inspired people to be better.

And then there was Rhoda, whom I did know and whom I loved. Who left us a week before her 60th birthday, after fighting two kinds of cancer. I heard so many good things about her yesterday, all of them true and yet somehow not enough to convey her sweet, serene spirit. She would’ve been amazed at the accolades and depth of love poured out for her yesterday, and probably feel she didn’t deserve it. Because part of why she was so wonderful was that she didn’t know how wonderful she was. Many people who knew her in many different ways, all saying the same thing. That from her closest family, to friends, to the custodian at her school, she saw them, that she touched them, that she cared.

And that was when I realized what it was about her. She was really good at loving people, and she just started with the people in front of her, whoever they were. And if you do that for 59 years you can touch a lot of lives and leave a lot of ripples behind you.

So today as I head out into this rainy Saturday, the first of the rest of my life, be it long or be it short, may I remember the lessons. Look for the one who is is left out and bring them in, and love the one who is in front of me, whoever that may be, with everything I’ve got.

I’ve had this post building in me for some time. I only hesitated because it is a tender spot for us women, and the last thing I’d want to do is to imply any criticism of how any woman navigates her path. But, the other day, in the car, my son’s 14 year old girlfriend sighed and said that she was fat. She is of course, beautiful, inside and out, and definitely not fat. I felt an instant and intense despair and wanted to pull over on the side of the road and bawl my eyes out and beg her not to do it. Not to pick her appearance apart for the next 40 years. Not to let the world tell her how she gets to feel about herself, because it never ends, and you’re never good enough. To use that energy to live her life and not listen to the world. As I thought that might be alarming, I did not, but tried to give some words of encouragement, which I’m sure fell on deaf ears. The world being so much louder you see.

“But trying to pass for younger is like a gay person trying to pass for straight, or a person of color for white. These behaviors are rooted in shame over something that shouldn’t be shameful. And they give a pass to the underlying discrimination that makes them necessary.”-Ashton Applewhite

So, I turned 50 this year, and I’ve been thinking alot about getting older. For the most part, I’ve never felt more like myself than now. I know what is important, and what is not. I know that everyone is not going to like me no matter what I do. I know what’s worth my time (the people in my life) and what’s not (almost everything else). I know who I am, and who I’m never going to be now, and I’m okay with it. On balance, I’ll do. And I have a wonderful, rich, satisfying life.

On the other hand, the aging process has accelerated in a way that’s undeniable. I’ve crossed some line away from youth and beauty, and will never be on the other side of it again. It has been a bitter pill to swallow. Hard in a way I never expected. I was an ugly duckling, that became a swan in college. There was a season when my looks were the first thing people noticed about me. I grew to like the attention. I liked the power. I liked the pretty girl perks. That’s really a thing, and you get used to it. And then one day, it’s gone. Eventually, it’s gone no matter what you do. There comes a day when no one looks good in a swimsuit anymore. Then where are you? Do you let go gracefully or leave claw marks on it as it goes? Because it is going. That’s the choice. I remember an older friend telling me long ago that it was a blessing when her looks were finally gone, when female attractiveness was completely off the table. That it was the first time she ever felt that she was just herself. I begin to see what she means now, and I see it in myself. The panicky flurries of activity towards preserving, seeing if I’ve still “got it”. But longer stretches now of just being okay with letting it go. I had my turn. It’s their turn now. To hold on seems sad and somehow ungrateful. And it turns out none of that stuff was really me anyhow.

And what about the world, always telling me to try a little harder? Don’t let it go. It’s okay to be 50, as long as you’re actively trying to look 30. What’s wrong with looking 50? Getting older is a blessing, not a crime. As an oncology nurse for 21 years, I’ve had a front row seat watching people die that would’ve loved the privilege of growing old.

And then there’s this. Part of what makes my life so wonderful is that I am surrounded by a tribe of women. Many of whom are younger women, who right or wrong, think of me as an example. They look to me and my friends to see how we do this thing called life. Their eyes are on me, and if I’m going to be an example, then let me be a good one. A brave, unflinching, unapologetic one. Let me walk into my old age shoulders back, head held high. Still as much me, as I ever was. Maybe more so.

So I’ve decided to just be 50. The way it looks on me. Warts and all. My self imposed rule is that I can adorn and accentuate but not alter, and not pretend. I stopped coloring my hair after my 50th birthday bash. I have a couple of inches of gray shot through my hair now. And it does make me look older. But you know what? I’ve earned them. And I have a Mom bod, because well, I’m a Mom. I made, carried, birthed and fed three babies. This old body brought three wonderful human beings safely to the planet. The thing I’m proudest of in my life, my children. Truthfully, I didn’t look like a Victoria’s Secret model before all that, and that ship has definitely sailed now. But I can run and I can dance and hike and skate and play. I will continue to exercise so that I will be able to play in the floor with my grandchildren, should I have that privilege. And so that I can have a joyful old age like my Mother-in-law Jean, and my Grandmother Magdalene. And when the face in the mirror catches me off guard and tempts me to feel sorrow for what is lost? May I remember that I have lines on my face because I laughed, and because I played in the pool with my kids, and spent sunny days in the park and at the ballfield. I wouldn’t take anything for that.

My aging face and body are a road map of the wonderful years I’ve spent on the planet and the inexorable work of the nature that I love so much. It will one day require me to return to it this wonderful home for my soul that my body has been, and I hope to do so with grace. So, I’ve decided. This IS 50. I’m going to own it. Besides, trying to be young and beautiful is alot of work anyway, and I’m tired. Can I just quit holding in my stomach now?

“Every single person has at least one secret that would break your heart.”-Frank Warren

I sat across from someone recently and she told me something about herself that I didn’t know. And as she did, everything about her suddenly made sense, her approach to the world, the way she carries herself, the things that matter to her. That one truth made everything about her fall into place like tumblers in a lock. Click, click, click, click. A door swung open into her life and I could see her then. All forward motion, trudging through life holding the edges of her wound together and dabbing quickly at the few drops of blood that came through. Always on her feet, enduring. A brave little girl, strong and fierce.

She walked out of the room, and you could see that she was lighter. She left it in my lap when she did and I wouldn’t have it any other way. But I felt pinned to my chair by the weight of it, unable to move until I cried the tears she never got to, and acknowledged the sorrow that wasn’t allowed expression. Secrets are heavy. You’d think between being a nurse and being in recovery for this long that I could no longer be surprised by what people go through, by what we do to each other. Maybe not surprised, but I’m always still sad. But wounds can be healed, and heavy things can be set down. There is nothing better than being a part of that process. The only thing better than having the miracle happen for you, is to watch it happen for someone else. It’s sweet and it tastes just like redemption.

As I walked away, I thought of all the people I see every day, with one thing I could know that would help me understand them. And I don’t always get to know what their one thing is. In fact, I won’t get to know it for most people, but it’s there. So many, bravely walking through the world holding themselves together, and doing the best they can. Each, a precious child of God, to be loved as much as possible, or at the very least treated with gentleness and respect. Because God loves them, and so must I. Because even when I don’t, He always knows the one thing you could know.

“I can see Your heart eight billion different ways. Every precious one a soul you died to save. If You gave Your life to love them so will I.”-Hillsong

“And in the end, the love you take, is equal to the love you make.”-The Beatles

Jackson had his last chemotherapy on a cold day in 2012. We hit the five years off of therapy mark this past January. That’s the point where they start to use the other “C” word, the good one. I just content myself with watching him grow and say to myself: 

“It’s a good day.”

 

February 14, 2012-CBJ

“So pack your bags, head out the door. You don’t need chemo anymore.”-Clinic 8 Nurses End of Chemo Song

Well, a procrastinator by nature, I have put off making this entry, perhaps because I don’t know how to sum up this experience in mere words. Still, I must try because this will be our last Caring bridge update. I have decided to turn my face to the future and go forward. It is time to think about something else, to BE something else than “that family that has a child with cancer”.

As we neared the end of treatment I wrestled with the angel over my fear of being “off therapy”. Even though the chemo is hard, you feel like you are doing something. As usual, God eventually gave me peace about it and by the time we finished I was able to be as excited as he was.

We had a wonderful celebration trip to Disneyworld with all of our family. Several of us, including me, ran the half Marathon there in Jack’s honor for LLS Team In Training. It was so symbolic and moving to finish the race and cross that finish line as my baby crossed his. All the fundraising that my family has done for LLS is in the neighborhood of $65,000, all for research. All in the hopes that maybe one day there will be a cure. We call that paying it forward. It was such a wonderful time of fun and family. In fact, the day of the race, the whole joyful day, I count as one of the happiest days of my life. Rarely in life is something as good as you hoped it would be, but this was. And didn’t we ALL deserve it?

By the time he took his last pills on Friday, January 13^th, it was kind of anti-climactic. He has felt great and I notice that he is already starting to have color again. We go for our first monthly check up on Friday, and I feel that all will be well. We will have monthly visits for the first year, then every 2 months for the second year, every 3 months for the third year and so on. He will be considered cured 5 years after the end of treatment.

So, now we come to the end of the road. How can we ever thank you? We could never have survived this all so well without the love, prayers and many kindnesses shown us. How could we completely regret this ordeal when it introduced us to so many wonderful people and organizations that we would never have gotten to experience otherwise? We can’t imagine our lives now without our “c” family friends, Make A Wish and Camp SAM. We got a chance to see God’s real presence in our lives and His love in action through all of you. Yes, it’s been a million dollar experience, but I wouldn’t give you a nickel for another one just like it!

So, from now on no news is good news. You can assume that we will be out devouring life. We have learned nothing else, if not this, to enjoy every moment of every day. I will continue to pray for you all and thank God for you. And I hope that we will meet you along the road as we go.

God bless you,

Mary

“May the LORD repay you for what you have done.”-Ruth 2:12

 

 

Epilogue

April 24, 2015-North Sokol Park

Tonight baseball practice has run long. When we get home there will be the homework, shower, bed gauntlet to be run. All around me parents are beginning to grumble.

But as for me, it is a warm spring night and I sit under a blanket of stars. A breeze rolls in from behind the trees, and with it the smell of fresh cut grass, and red dirt and sweaty little boys. I hear crickets, and bats clanging and children shouting.

And in right field I see him, my little boy, the one that almost got away. He is running, running, running away from me now, looking over his shoulder and laughing. I could stay here all night.

 

 

As a follow up to last night’s post, tonight’s is about the single best thing to come out of Childhood Cancer coming to our house, Camp Smile a Mile. After we enjoyed the day at the circus, one of the many fun outings they provide for families, we became curious about camp. So, we decided to go to Family Camp weekend and see what it was all about. It has provided us with some of the dearest friends of our lives, that we would have never known otherwise: and it remains, the brightest star in the dark sky of Childhood Cancer.

May 17, 2009-CBJ

Respite (res’pit) n.-A short interval of rest or relief

Can an empty bottle of Spray n’ Wash be an indicator of happiness? It can at this house where many of the clothes that came back from Camp Smile a Mile, were utterly ruined. After many sprayings and washings, many formerly “good” shirts have been relegated to that graveyard of the clothing world, the play clothes drawer.

How do I try to sum up Camp SAM? The boys were nervous about going, but as soon as they saw the pool, the lake, the volleyball and basketball courts, the boats, they exploded out of my van in three different directions and were rarely seen again. They each had their own counselor whose only job was to help them do whatever they wanted for the weekend. At Camp Sam no one looks twice at a kid with a bald head or an accessed port. You aren’t “that kid with cancer”, or “that kid whose brother has cancer”; just a kid for a while.

They take your child’s medicine from you when you get there. They have a medical staff and they do everything. Several of our 4 Tower nurses were volunteering their time there. They handled it all. They just let us be Moms and Dads for a while.

The kids stay busy from dawn (really) to dark and they don’t have time for you anyway, so you have time to just be. I enjoyed meeting the other parents. We did talk “shop” some, but about other things too. We had massages on a screened-in porch while listening to the rain and the distant sound of our children playing. We read, painted, took boat rides, napped, or just did nothing for the first time in months.

It was so relaxing and joyful that you could almost forget why you were there. Almost. On Saturday, a group of us were sitting around talking, and I happened to glance over at a man I met whose daughter is just starting Consolidation. He was looking at her with an expression of such naked sorrow that I was ashamed to see it, so utterly was he exposed before me. It was then I remembered the terrible price we pay for this free camp. It can only make it go away for a little while, but sometimes a little while is enough to get you through.

My most special memory of camp was on Sunday morning. I got up a little bit early and walked over to the “Happy Camper Garden”. It is a lovely spot on a point, overlooking the lake. It is a garden and in it, granite markers with the names of the “happy campers” who came to camp, but have now gone where children go when they don’t have to suffer anymore. There are markers from the 1990’s up to 2008, and spaces for where more names will inevitably go. When I come back next year, there will be names on there that I will know. I will instantly be able to call up a sweet face to go with them.

There is a swing there, bearing a small plaque saying that it was dedicated in memory of someone who was “a friend to Camp SAM”, someone who has helped me and my family in some way I suppose. I sat down for a while and just enjoyed the morning, foggy and overcast as it was. A V-formation of geese passed overhead, though whether coming or going, I cannot say. Instead of feeling sad for the kids that are gone, I felt glad that they had had some fun days in the sun, in this beautiful place. They had done all the same fun things my children got to do and got to forget about it all for awhile. I felt in some odd way that we are all connected, all part of some great whole, that the echoes of their lives are still present here. It was a comfort somehow.

If you are interested in knowing more about Camp Smile-A-Mile, Alabama’s only camp for kids with cancer, visit:

Home

Okay mea culpa, it is no longer September, no longer Childhood Cancer Awareness Month, but I have three more posts. I could give you some heart felt sentiment that I purposefully went over into October to illustrate that cancer is never over for those of us affected. That is one truth, but my truth is better. My Survivor, now aged fifteen, and six feet tall, is playing football two nights a week, plus practices. Truthfully, I just got run over by September in the best possible way.

A couple of weeks ago, my husband took Jack to a University of Alabama football game. They stopped by the tailgate tent of our friends at A Team Ministries. Andy and Jan Thrower walked a mile in our shoes with their son, Anderson, who like Jack, is through with treatment and doing well. They used the lessons of their tragedy to start A-Team Ministries, a non profit organization that supports families going through cancer. I will include the link at the end of the post. 

 As the adults caught Up Jack noticed a young boy, Sam, sitting alone, a little disengaged from the action. He had the tell-tale bald head, and was sitting in a wheelchair. He went up and introduced himself, and began to share his story with Sam. Before long they were comparing scars. Jack showed him where his port had been, Sam showed him the scar on his head from surgery. They talked drugs, hospitalizations and all of it. My husband said he watched Sam come to life as he talked to someone who really understood. And as Jamie talked with Sam’s parents and encouraged them, their eyes never left Jack, devouring the sight of a healthy Survivor. He said:

“You could tell they needed to see him. It was a total God thing.”

As he related it to me that night, it reminded of the time God did the same thing for me.

January 29, 2009-CBJ

“Great is they faithfulness, great is thy faithfulness, morning by morning new mercies I see.

All I have needed thy hand hath provided, great is thy faithfulness LORD unto me.”-Thomas Chisholm

I have a wonderful story to relate tonight. I always MEAN to take my kids to the Circus every year;  but  it comes right after Christmas, when you’re broke and tired, so I just never have. Poor deprived darlings right?

So, while I was at Children’s Hospital one day, I see a sign saying Camp Smile A Mile has circus tickets for cancer patients and their families. I called and talked to a nice young lady, Jennifer, who said she’d be happy to send enough for all 5 of us to go this Saturday. Great!

When the tickets still had not arrived by Monday, I emailed her to let her know. She replied that she had sent them over a week ago and verified my address, which was correct. No telling what had happened to them, and alas, no more tickets were available.

As this ain’t my first rodeo, I had not the Circus to the kids so they would not be disappointed in case something (usually a trip to the hospital) happened. So, no harm no foul, story over right?

Yesterday, I got a call from Jennifer at Camp SAM. She says:

“Boy, this must be your lucky day! I’ve just had a call from a Mom, who will not be able to use their (wait for it) FIVE Circus tickets after all.”

She then gave me the lady’s number so I could call and arrange to get the tickets. As I was punching in the number I had a sudden, overwhelming thought:

“You didn’t get those tickets because you are supposed to meet this person.”

I called her and she was very nice. We made arrangements about the tickets. Then she asked about my sick child. I told her about Jackson, and asked about hers. Her daughter Sarah Anne, had leukemia when she was two. She is eleven now, and finished all her treatment six years ago. She goes to school, she makes straight “A’s”, plays basketball, and is a “normal” kid in every way. They went on to have two more children and went on with their lives.

When I met Kelly today to get the tickets, she had all the kids with her. I could hardly take my eyes off Sarah Anne. She sat there, blonde, with big blue eyes and ear-buds in her ears listening to her ipod, bored while her Mom and I talked until the cold got to us. Being every minute of eleven years old. It was a beautiful sight.

When I looked at her I could see a day when this will all be over, and it will seem like a long time ago. I didn’t even know I needed that today, but God did. How can I not trust a God that even takes care of needs I don’t even know I have? And I got Circus tickets.

Mary

 

P.S. I am happy to report that Sarah Anne is still doing well, and is a sophomore in college. And the original tickets? They came  in the mail the next week. God’s perfect timing.

If you would like to know more about the wonderful work being done by the A Team, go to:

http://www.ateamministries.org

This photo is the first one of our family “after”. Our brave smiles break my heart, but the strength that would carry us through is there also. It will be 9 years ago tomorrow.The truth is, eventually you can learn to live with anything…because you have to. In the world of cancer things move along at a breakneck pace immediately after diagnosis. It can’t wait until you get your mind around it, and there is not much time to mourn your life, which has just imploded. There are tests to be done, procedures to be endured, medicine to be swallowed or injected, arrangements to be made, and in our case other children to be considered. And always, always, the silent specter of cancer in the corner of every room you go in.

In Childhood Leukemia, the first phase of chemo is called Induction, and lasts 29 days. At the end of it the bone marrow is sampled to see if the chemo has “induced” a remission of the cancer. Everything hinges on that, and no future can be envisioned without that information. Each week brings different medicines and treatments. I learned to only plan a week ahead, and it ended up being a pretty good way to not lose my mind. Jackson didn’t want to think about the clinic when he wasn’t there, so we began to wait until Sunday evening to talk about what would happen that week. It ended up being a pretty good way for him to cope too. The rest of this post is from our Caring Bridge Journal entries about this time.

 

 

October 11, 2008-Caring Bridge Journal

“Yes, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me…”-Psalm 23:4

Good morning everyone,

I hope you enjoyed the nice weekend. The big boys went to church with Jamie and jack and I went to the park for a little while, but he got tired and we had to come home.

We celebrated jack’s last dose of Prednisone by grilling hamburgers tonight. He will not be allowed to eat in the morning. He is already worried about that.

Tomorrow we head to Birmingham for a lumbar puncture and a bone marrow biopsy. These will be tested for the presence of leukemia cells, and see if the chemo has put him into remission. The doctors will look at it there and will be able to tell us something, although it will go to another lab for the final report. The possibilities are: complete remission, partial remission and no response. Because his day 8 bone marrow was completely clear, making him a “rapid, early responder”, it bodes well for remission. These results will determine the rest of his course.

I think Jamie and I have both been feeling anxious these past few days. I have had trouble sleeping and have felt a little out of it. Even when you know God has you in the palm of His hand it is hard. It is an odd thing to walk into a room with a doctor and know that whatever he says will direct the course of your life. Oh the power a sentence can have.

I have spoken with all the boys and they know what is ahead tomorrow. I think they are doing well with it. I am so proud of them.

I prayed for all of you today. You cannot know what it means to have your love and support. I hope you never have to.

God bless you!

Mary

 

October 13, 2008-Caring Bridge Journal

From your lips to God’s ears:

 

IN REMISSION!!

More later, we are headed home!

 

 

October 14, 2008-Caring Bridge

“Our God is an awesome God, He reigns from Heaven above.

With wisdom, power and love, our God is an awesome God.”

-Rich Mullins

Good morning everyone,

 

I hope you will forgive us for not posting an update last night. We both agreed we were EXHAUSTED. The tension of the day caught up with us and we could barely move. Think deflated balloons.

Thank you so much for your wonderful posts and the way you shared our joy. Obviously, it is the best news we could hope for. Jack feels great and his immune system is in good shape and will stay that way until we go back on Monday. We are hoping to ALL come to church on Sunday, and Jack is definitely hoping to come to Fall Festival at church on Sunday night.

Now, what comes next? Remission is not cured. It means we have induced a remission of the leukemia, hence the name “Induction chemotherapy”. Research has shown that most kids would not stay in remission without further treatment, the leukemia could come back or “relapse”. Jack is at more risk for this because he has T-cell ALL as opposed to Pre B-cell ALL, and because his WBC count was so high at diagnosis. He is considered “Intermediate Risk” but not “High Risk” so he will not have to have as much chemo as those kids.

So, starting Monday we will move into a new phase of treatment called Consolidation. It will involve some of the drugs he has been on and some new ones. It will be a two-month cycle. He may feel pretty bad and hi immune system will be even lower than it was before.

After Consolidation, he will move into Interim Maintenance, then Delayed Intensification and finally Maintenance which will last the remainder of his 3 ½ years of treatment. At some points during these treatments he will be able to do normal kid things. We are told that he should be able to go back to school before the end of the year.

So, now you have completed Childhood Leukemia 101. There will NOT be a test! If you feel confused, you are not alone. I had to consult my notes several times while writing this. I am trying to process our new road too, but like everything else so far, if I just focus on what’s right in front of me, and stay in today, I do fine.

We are still eating elephant…one bite at a time.

As I wrap this up I want to share with you something else that happened today. After our sweet doctor gave us our good news, he went across the infusion room to give another family theirs. I could not hear the words, and didn’t try to, but I could see that their news wasn’t as good as ours. My heart just bled for them. All around us are children in worse situations than ours. We are so thankful, but just so you know, God is still God no matter what he had come and told us. I turned it over to Him that day in Dr Phillips office and have not felt the need to take it back.

I hope you have a great day, and if you need me look on the ceiling!

In the time now known as “before”, September meant returning to school, and football and a break from the heat. Then came September 11, 2001 and it meant something else as well. But, September 11, 2008 became the great line of demarcation down our lives, by which all events are now placed in time. “Before” or “After”. September is Childhood Cancer Awareness month, and all the posts this month will be about our journey, most drawn from our Caring Bridge Journal  which I have turned into a memoir of that time. My deepest hope is that you will read only as a spectator into the terrible, heart breaking, yet inspiring and joyful world that is Childhood Cancer. Spoiler alert: this story has a happy ending!

 

“This is the way the world ends.”-T.S. Elliot

I never saw it coming. Veteran nurse of 15 years, oncology nurse for 11, I never saw it coming. The blow when it came, was a sucker punch, a bolt of lightning from a clear blue sky. Once I knew all the pieces clicked into place, and then I wondered how I could not have known.

Jack came down the stairs that morning to find me at the dining room table, having my quiet time before the day began. My Bible was in front of me but I cannot for the life of me remember what I was reading. Did it help sustain me through the day that was to come? I hugged him and I could feel that he was hot. I took his temperature and it was 101. He still had that cough that I had been attributing to allergies, although in retrospect, it had a strange barking quality to it. I called into my job at the Cancer Center and arranged to take him to the doctor. I predicted a diagnosis of Bronchitis, a quick prescription and a day on the couch letting him beat me at Battleship. If only it had been that simple.

As we walked into the Pediatrician’s office in the bright sunshine, I noticed for the first time that he was very pale. As I helped him undress I noticed all the bruises on his legs, and always that cough, that strange cough. Maybe you do not see what you do not want to see, or maybe you are busy living your life and do not see the pattern in the random details.

After an exam, our Pediatrician, Dr. Phillips, did a chest X ray and drew a complete blood count, or CBC, which looks at all the different types of blood cells. Then he sent us to the hospital to have both tests redone. I began to have a sense of dread that mounted with every passing moment.  While we were still there his nurse called and told us to come back to the office.

Funny, how you can know, and yet not know. How you tell yourself that there is nothing wrong, that it could be something else, anything else, even an old oncology nurse who should know better. But, when we got back to the office and the nurse came to take Jack out to the desk to color, there is no denial that can survive that. Then you know.

As I waited for the doctor I knew I had about 30 seconds to decide how to live the rest of my life. I prayed:

“Father, whatever is coming, it’s too big for me. I put it in Your hands, and I will do my best to walk through if You’ll go with me.”

Then Dr. Phillips came in to tell me what I really already knew.

He said: “His white blood cell count is 100,000 and there is a mass in his chest.”

I said: “Is it leukemia?”

He said: “I think so. You have to go to Children’s Hospital tonight.”

And just like that, the life we knew was over.

 

“And now for something completely different.”-Monty Python’s Flying Circus

I’ve been a member of some gym or other all of my adult life, membership being one thing, attendance being another. At the moment I am pretty faithful, and have observed in my current gym, as in others, some universal types one runs across. They include but are not limited to the following.

Super Sweaty Guy:

I am over here on this treadmill killing it, but you? Well you are taking it to that next level. You make me look like I’m just not trying and have LITERALLY made a puddle under you on that Elliptical. A puddle folks. I would seriously love to see an infrared map of your sweat glands, I bet you have double the normal amount. The nurse in me wants to start I.V. fluids on you, the human in me just threw up in my mouth a little. And now you’re done, and you moving on, just leaving it there, like your Mother will be coming along any minute now to clean it up for you. Seriously dude, I have two words for you, or maybe it’s just one, I don’t know? Sweat Band. Move getting one to the top of your priority list. Maybe two.

Conditionally Helpful Guy:

He make rounds of the gym,  happy to interrupt his workout to provide form tips and suggestions, but only to those who fall within a narrow category, i.e. young, cute and female. That older lady who can’t figure out how to turn on the treadmill? He moves right past her. That old dude who is about to decapitate himself with the chest press bar? Well, he’s on his own. But to the young and cute he’s all yours. He is steadfast even though he has to  overcome obstacles such as earbuds and lack of eye contact, but he perseveres. Being as this is the south, he is usually met with tight, forced smiles, polite attention and then attempts to flee. Occasionally he encounters the filter-challenged who, shall we say, offer alternate suggestions of what can be done with his advice. Fortunately for him, his super powers include unsolicited advice and  being impervious to social cues.

Weight Machine Succubus:

Hey buddy? You see me over here standing a polite distance from that machine you’ve been holding hostage for, oh, 10 minutes now? Yeah, I’m talking to you. Another 5 minutes and I will quit hovering and begin my campaign of laser death stares to get you moving. Perhaps you are unaware that weight machines are for EXERCISE purposes only. Additional uses do NOT include:

a. Meditation areas, for staring into space and thinking really deep thoughts, and being sure that you are being observed doing so.

b. Facebook/Twitter/Instagram/Snapchat updating/Selfie taking kiosks.

c. Appearance monitoring stations, for flexing and sneaking sidelong glances into the mirrors to be sure you’re still fine.

Keep it moving buddy, we have limited lifespans.

Cleavage Woman:

You are absolutely fit, of that there can be no doubt, and you want us to know it. You are a miracle of spandex, strategically place straps and insecurity. Still, as you go about your workout I live in fear that you are about to blow and rain down breasts on Planet Fitness. I don’t even hit for that team and I can’t quit looking at them, so I know there’s not a guy in this room that could tell me what rep he’s on. You are leaving here with a husband or a respiratory infection, whichever comes first. And as you go in for the dead lift, I hold my breath and pray for “the girls” to stay put, while all around me, men fervently counter pray.