Waiting For The Ship

I can tell you many things, but there is one thing I absolutely cannot even begin to describe.

There is a road I’ve thought I might see from a distance just a few times, but it is one I’ve never yet been asked to walk. However, one of the dear “cancer mama sisters of my heart”, Christina – she was asked to walk this road as her darling Noah went from her arms into Jesus’ on September 27, 2015 at 5:46PM. Just over six months ago now, and if you were to ask her, she might be able to tell you the days and maybe even the hours that have passed too. For Noah was just three when he stopped suffering and his family started anew.

Throughout this time, I have so admired Christina’s strength and faith and so when she opened up her hurting heart just recently, I asked her permission to share her gorgeous, raw words with you. Take a minute and hold her up in prayer as you hold up her honest, heartbroken words, and please, oh, please, let them change you as we live and move among the grieving.

Time sucks.

I am struggling with the fact that as it passes I am moving farther from the time I last held my son. Last held his hand, kissed his cheek, felt him breathe, fed him, heard his voice, and the list goes on. I know with each day that passes I am technically getting closer to the time we are reunited. But being in this middle is hard.
It kind of feels like I am swimming away from an island where life wasn’t perfect but was good, towards a ship that I cannot see but know will be coming to rescue me. The island is moving farther away as I keep swimming forward, but I don’t know when I’ll reach the ship. And in the mean time I’m struggling just to keep my head above water. I know how to swim. And I know I’ll be rescued. But this period of time in the middle is so hard.

[stock photo credit: Pexels]
[stock photo credit: Pexels]

I’ve been given little rafts along the way, breaks in the pain, but eventually have to keep swimming. I’m trying to see the blessings God is providing. And there are many. Some days I see them more clearly. And other days it gets clouded.
As life moves forward I have moments of feeling so alone.
Around here it’s not commonplace to have a child die. We don’t see it happen on a regular basis in our neighborhoods, schools, groups of friends… I know it is in many other parts of the world. But our friends, family, coworkers, and classmates get to look forward to celebrating their kids/friends/siblings next birthday. Or look forward to summer with bike rides, pool passes, vacations. We do too, but with one member of our family missing. It’s raw, and devastatingly hard. Winter has been a way to hide from a lot of what I’m scared to face. The sandbox that’s not being played in, Noahs truck sitting in the garage, his bike that he never really got the chance to ride, other little brothers running around outside with their big sisters.


Tonight has been a lot of hard. Really since we came to the year of diagnosis it’s been hard. A lot of emotion and grief overflows. Life is moving forward and I feel like I’m ready for another raft to be thrown. In the beginning there are many, and now I feel like they’re farther apart. Mostly because I’m getting better at swimming. But when I tire it comes out of nowhere and I struggle.

Noah feels farther away, I don’t see a ship, and tonight I’m tired of trying to see the positive in everything. So I’m going to allow myself to feel, to be a little angry, and pray for some relief.

Moment by moment.

[stock photo credit: Pexels]
[stock photo credit: Pexels]

Of Breathing, Growing, And Being An Ambassador

Sometimes Chase remembers that things change as he grows and sometimes he doesn’t.  The last time he had a continuous EEG (the process of monitoring the working of his brain for hours on end), he was newly 4, six months off chemo, and his heart and body were both still deeply hospital weary.  He had to be wrapped and held and he screamed the whole time as the wires and goo covered his head, so when I told him on Monday that the time was coming again, he slumped down on the couch next to me.  “Mom, stop talking.  Please don’t say anything else.  I need to breathe.  No more talking… I need to breathe in and breathe out right now.”  And I sat half laughing and half broken that he’s 5 and yet he’s 107 for all of his experience.  

The awkward "can't-climb-into-the-hospital-bed-with-you" snuggle
The awkward “can’t-climb-into-the-hospital-bed-with-you” snuggle

In preparation, we wandered through Target last night and found a new movie and some popcorn because seizures can happen when you go from sleeping to waking and so he had to be able to sleep during the test, and as the kids sat on the old, blue leather couches and munched around giggles at WALL-E, there was another July EEG night on my heart.  One when Darcy and Aidan were still too young to stay up terribly late and Bob and I took turns napping and walking a two-year-old Chase around the block and at 10:30, when I simply couldn’t stand anymore Thomas the Tank Engine and decided to put him to bed, he lost his balance and fell, and my stomach turned, but many things can cause a fall and so we went to bed anyway…never knowing that it was less than 48 hours til we’d sleep in an ICU under the shadow of imminent surgery and tragic diagnosis.  I always think of that night come each July and it was my turn to breathe in and breathe out and remember that by the grace of God, that night wasn’t a minute past, but nearly three years ago.  

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Being perfectly still

This movie night lasted until 11:00 and the EEG day started at 5:00 and in moments like this, grace and coffee are my best friends.  By a mile down the road, it was time to find the nearest bathroom just because that’s what happens with 5-year-olds, and as we sat on the Eisenhower in the long lines of traffic, as soon as he saw the top of the Willis Tower, Chase pulled out his iPad and turned on 10,000 Reasons, because sighting the tower means he’s almost there.  Three years have nearly passed and this is still how he prepares for a hospital day.

Within minutes, we were there in the familiar rooms again and then came the moment he knew things had changed for he sat completely still while they put 21 brightly colored electrodes all over his skull and the only time he ever got cross was when I tried to make him laugh. IMG_1250  And I got to hold his hand and not hold him still.

Chase never relinquishes a fight and it took him until 5 hours into the test to fall asleep and that was 5…long…hours… of sitting in a bed with virtually no radius of movement unless a bathroom was absolutely necessary.

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Sleep finally wins

 

When the test was done, having mercifully lasted only 6.5 hours, he pulled some St. Baldrick’s brochures out of his pack.  They had his picture inside, his and Dr. Lulla’s, and to anyone who would stop, he gave a brochure and said “I’m an ambassador.”  And even though he doesn’t always give Dr. Lulla the time of day during clinic visits, to any and all who would listen, he would explain and point, saying “This is Dr. Lulla and he’s my favorite doctor in the whole world.”  He even stopped a security guard and somehow managed to encourage him to shave his head next year, and it was a precious moment of conversation and meeting, because if I’ve said it once, I’ve said it here a dozen times…this is how Chase rolls.  And I wish you could have seen the tall security guard fold down and give tiny Chase a big hug.  Those are the good moments to breathe in.

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Chase and his “favorite doctor in the whole world”

And now Chase has learned that things change as he grows and what was hard a year ago wasn’t very hard at all anymore, though the sitting still and his mom trying to make him laugh at inopportune moments will probably remain trials for many years to come.  

For now we await results.  No matter what comes of this, we’ll breathe in, breathe out, and take it…

Moment by moment.

It’s Only A Side Effect

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The pieces lie in our hands…

We’ve talked about this.  We are the lucky ones…the ones still breathing.

The pieces are broken and jagged, like a shattered vase, but…he lives.

Many are the times we’ve cried out for wisdom and wandered the farthest regions of our motives in search of the right and wrong in saving treatments that cause great damage.  And we’ve steeled our hearts that if our hope comes true – if, by some means, some day, better cures are found – they will have passed too late for Chase.  The seeds of damage were sewn when we opted to save his life.  We ask ourselves almost every day… are we ready for this?  …whatever this looks like?  …the fruit of our decisions?

Absolutely not.  By grace alone, we stand.

Would we go back?

 Absolutely not.  Ready or not; no regrets.  The pieces are jagged and some are ugly and sad, but we’ve steeled our hearts and have set to fixing the vessel and it never ceases to amaze us how much beauty there can be around the broken.

On Wednesday, we heard our very good news, but that was not the only appointment we had.  We also sat with another doctor.  One who monitors things like growth, organs and hormones.  Chase lay flat and still while she measured and he held his arms out like a bird while she measured more and he stayed patient as she checked everything and we talked family history back into the generations.

Even though his weight is in keeping with other children his age, it’s starting to show already: Chase’s height is having trouble keeping up.  His tiny black dot was still on the growth charts before our eyes, but just barely…like someone clinging to a precipice by their fingertips.  How much longer until it falls off completely?  Nobody knows.

The consultation came down to blood for now.  Tests and blood.  More decisions will come in the next year or two.  Decisions that bring with them risk of secondary cancer.  This is the cost of trying to grow up when your spine was radiated.

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Our hearts are heavy with these things some days, still, even in the heaviest of moments; no regrets.  We set to mending the pieces because it’s only a side effect and some day, Chase will be better than better.  He will be perfect.  In the meantime, we’ll use the pieces to reflect the light.

Moment by moment.

For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known.  1 Corinthians 13:12
And he who was seated on the throne said, “Behold, I am making all things new.”  Revelation 21:5a
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The Caregiver’s Perspective

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Speaking as the primary caregiver of a brain tumor patient who is technically classified as “terminally ill“, my life has more sad moments and nightmare scenarios than you can imagine.  …And I wouldn’t trade any of it for all of the moments I have with Chase – even on his worst days.  Life is unspeakably precious and you cannot imagine beforehand the beauty and refining to be found in painful life and the living of it, can you? 

My life has greater purpose and meaning because I’m caregiver to a terminally ill patient. I grow and am strengthened when I suffer with him and learn to love the way he’s changed. I literally cannot imagine having the decision to walk this road with Chase taken from me to keep me from pain and bad memories. At the moment of diagnosis, it’s already too late.

The redemption comes in walking the road…the whole road.

Moment by moment.

“So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal.” 2 Corinthians 4:16-18