“Mom, do we still have to go to school even though it’s your birthday? Can’t we just stay home? . . . Uh, to be with you?”
I couldn’t help but smile at the logic of Aidan’s plea. The part about actually spending the day with his mother was definitely an afterthought to the part about getting a day off school. “Get ready, buddy. The buses are coming soon.”
The birthday breakfast had been consumed, Aidan and Darcy were preparing for departure, and Bob had taken Chase to an early ophthalmologist follow up. It was another busy day and a part of me thrived on it as I stood in the middle of the living room and took in the backdrop of holiday lights around another morning with the ones I love.
The ringing of my phone on the table by the Christmas tree cut into my thoughts. It was Bob.
“Hey, we’re done with the appointment.”
“Good! He’ll be on time to school. How did it go?”
“Not great. Chase needs surgery . . .”
How things and feelings can change in a minute.
“What! Why?”
“The cataracts.” Bob’s voice was subdued. “They’ve grown. The doctor said his vision was about 20/40 in both eyes the last time he was in and now, he’s 20/60 in one and 20/100 in the other. It’s time.”
“Now?”
“After the holidays . . . after the next MRI.” There was was the subtle suggestion that if the cancer came back, failing eyesight will be the least of our worries.
And with those few words over the phone, the light and joy seemed to ebb from the room. I didn’t feel the holidays or the birthdays or anything, really. Just the numbness that comes with sad thoughts and the quiet whisper that has occasionally plagued for three years now: We did this to him. Oh, how I hate that whisper when it comes at me. And how I wish there were never any threat of guilt in the sadness.
In the broad spectrum of surgery, this isn’t that big a deal. In fact, it’s quite routine, so that isn’t the heartbreak. The part that makes my throat grow tight is that it’s one more. It’s one more and they’re pretty sure it came from the treatments that saved his life.
Everything becomes so mixed up in moments like this and the brokenness screams out over the good.
That afternoon, I sat with Chase and we talked about his needing surgery to help his eyes. As I spoke, he took my hands in his. “It’s okay, Mom, it’s okay. Hey, look at me. When was the last time you smiled? Can you smile for me? It’s going to be okay.” So I smiled through the tears because you have to smile when Chase asks. He’s an old soul, my bald boy. And one more surgery needs to be scheduled with no guarantee that it’ll be the last. And the voice of guilt is never fully squelched; rearing its’ ugly head in the moments of greatest vulnerability. But in this moment, I need to keep close to the things I do know: If God is for Chase, not even a hundred surgeries and complications can stand against him because he is fearfully and wonderfully made and despite the sadness, my soul knows this to be true. Even when I do not feel or see it, God promises that His plans for Chase are good and are lovingly orchestrated to give us hope.
These truths are the only lights that banish the sadness.
Choosing joy in the pain . . . Moment by moment.
