Loss, Love, And Peace

On this Monday, as you rise and begin the day, Chase will be unconscious in an MRI tube – his first full scan in one whole year. This is the longest he has ever gone without anyone peeking inside his brain since before his diagnosis.

It is a good day because we look forward to greeting hospital staff friends, the special post-scan Starbuck’s hot chocolate, the promise of good results, and (dare I say it?) an extra day off school.

But it’s also a scary day because even though it feels like we do it all the time, he and I still tear up when unconsciousness separates us. It’s a very long day by the time full brain and spine are scanned, sedation recovery is achieved, and he meets with his neurosurgeon. There will be the missing of family and school friends as everyone goes back but him, and then there is the shadow of the “What If…” as always. Do you weary of hearing about it as much as I tire of acknowledging and fighting it? What if the MRI results aren’t great? I have no reason to think they won’t be good, for the brain usually has “tells” that exhibit in things like speech and muscles, but still, this is the nature of the “What If…” – the fear doesn’t have to make sense. This is the terrorism of worry.

This weekend, even as we’re still in family vacation mode, Chase grows increasingly more pensive and I know he feels the upcoming day. I know Bob and I do too.

As I pray, and foolishly attempt to prepare for the things I can do nothing about, I find that there are two very distinct paths my mind travels again and again. On the one hand, there is the very distinct memory of those who have gone before. Darling Mia who still tears at our heart with the missing of her. Wonderful Margie who fought for Chase’s book, fought cancer twice herself and will be laid to rest even as Chase rests in the MRI.*

Those who have gone before and those who fight on are always close when you step up to the battle lines. This is just how life works.

And then, on the other hand, there is the very clear picture from the end of the bible, the book of Revelation where there is the completion of all life and all things and all our hopelessness is wiped away in triumph and the eminent worthiness of God himself.

So, here it is: We wait in moment by moment grace on the edge of life and change once again, and we hold dear to those we have and do love even as we are held close to the One who loves us – and in that, we find peace and the ability to keep breathing.

“Whatever my God ordains is right…” Stephen Altrogge

Loss, love, and peace… moment by moment.

Then I began to weep bitterly because no one was found worthy to open the scroll and read it. But one of the twenty-four elders said to me, “Stop weeping! Look, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the heir to David’s throne, has won the victory.” Revelation 5:4-5a

 

*In loving memory of Margie Watterson, my beautiful, amazing Tyndale House publicist who fought above and beyond to put Chase Away Cancer in front of as many people as possible. Cancer might rob the breath of earth, but will never erase the joy and bravery of a life well lived.

Family vacation and family prayer, Lake Geneva, January 2018

8 FOR 8

Dear ones, by all rights and data, we should have never seen a 3rd year, let alone an 8th birthday! Yet, here we are and Chase still lives and breathes joy into our family and the world around him!

He is a miracle and we are so thankful.

To help us celebrate Chase’s 8th birthday this year, we are doing something different and new. We kindly ask that you consider making a donation directly to our Lurie Family – Ann & Robert H. Lurie Children’s Hospital of Chicago – through this online donation page. Give $8 (or more!) in honor of Chase’s 8 years.

Every dollar counts.

With your help, we can contribute to brighter futures and better outcomes for children like Chase. 

We have asked that all monies given in honor of Chase be sent directly to his wonderful doctors in the Pediatric Brain Tumor Program – these doctors that you all have come to know so well over the last several years. Imagine what they can do with your gift! All donations are tax-deductible and will be acknowledged by Lurie Children’s Foundation. 

On behalf of the patients and families of Lurie Children’s, thank you for your support. 

 

Moment by moment, with deepest gratitude,

The Ewoldt Family

 

Darling Girl,

I will never forget the first picture I saw of you.

You were tiny like a pixie and you radiated a charisma and love that instantly drew the viewer in – and I felt like I wanted to know you and your strength. And then I marveled that I, a full-grown adult, would have that response to a two-year-old child.

But so you were and will always be – the one who drew people in and changed lives with nothing more than the sunshine of your presence.

Right now, I can’t pass anything in any store with emojis and not think of you.

I want to scream and say it’s not fair and that you should have been eight on this, your birthday, and not two weeks gone already.

But this I know beyond a shadow of doubt:

You did more in eight that many will do in eighty.

You became braver than most will be in a lifetime of trial.

You found more joy simply because you wanted it more.

You spread more love because you knew the truth of it.

So, as much as I want to scream against the seeming unfairness of a world you no longer inhabit, I would not have you back in the brokenness for a second, dear girl, for I know you are free now and forever.

Love you, care about you, and will never, ever forget you.

Give us a minute to change the world with the story of your legacy and then we’ll see you in a little while, beautiful Mia.

“I’ll see you in a little while
It won’t be too long now
We’ll see it on the other side
The wait was only the blink of an eye
So I’m not gonna say goodbye
‘Cause I’ll see you in a little while.”

~ Steven Curtis Chapman

 

In honor of the one and only Mia Bennett Gurevitz

12 November 2009 – 25 October 2017

 

Just Stop

Dear ones, hello again… It’s been a long season of silence and I have much to catch you up on, but today, for now, I feel compelled to share these thoughts that came together in this one picture.

We, the mamas, first joined together because cancer threatened to tear us apart, and so we became stronger as a unit than an individual – bound by empathy, understanding, and an outrageous number of texts every day.

We met last night across miles and life because cancer did it’s best to wreak havoc and it still lost out to love in the end.
[Take that, you wicked, despicable illness – there will be no more pain for her …EVER.]

We are torn, we are broken, we grieve and will do so until we stop breathing, but we are also strong, filled with joy, and connected in ways we never would be if not for our pain.


As we sat at the table and processed life around a giant box of tissues (because we are nothing if not prepared at all times), I heard the couple at the table next to ours worry for their adorable infant son lying in the carrier next to them – for there was a baby playgroup with no openings for their sweet boy. And here they sat, next to us… ha.


I do not seek to trivialize worry, but how I longed to get up and go over to them. So I will tell you what I would have said to them…


Stop.  Just stop what you’re doing right now and breathe deep. 


Of all the things that will weigh on you in your life, only a small, grasped, handful are truly important.


And I know life feels nicest when we control and compare and excel, but it’s a dirty, rotten lie because the best and most joyous moments are often the unexpected, the crazy, the totally out-of-our-hands insanity that eventually weaves its way into something beautiful.


So just accept what you’re given as the gift it is and will be.


Trust that God has a plan for the things that you cannot see or understand.


And learn to cherish the journey and those you meet along the way, because it and they will anchor you in ways you’ve never never dreamed.


Moment by moment.

 

[picture: Crazy Mama Cancer Warriors and Sisters of the Heart – Meghan, Lisa, Ellie, Sue – or, as you might know them better: Maddie’s mom, Mia’s mom, Chase’s mom, and Matthew’s mom]

Five Years

Our darling Chase,

We have never expected you.

You were our surprise baby with your surprise personality and a most surprising life ahead of you that we could not have imagined if we’d tried.

We would apologize for our lack of expectation, but somehow the silly, crooked grin every time you perform the unexpected makes us wonder if you sort of just adore shocking us all.

Like living when they thought you would not…

Like walking when they thought you would not…

Like talking when they thought you would not…

Like a dozen other things that started as “NOT”, but you said “WATCH ME”.

You will always defy expectations, our sweet boy.

And somehow it’s only fitting that your cancer diagnosis includes the word “atypical” – because that’s exactly what you are and we love you for it.

Five years ago this morning, I doubt very much that five months were expected, let alone five years, but of course, you showed them and you continue to show us.

You will never have the easy life, my darling Chase, but you will have the precious life, for sure and always.

Whatever may pass and whatever lies before you…keep singing when the evening comes.

We love you,

Mom and Dad