Tag: pain

Sibling Speak, Pt 2 [VIDEO]

In some ways, for her, it is the hardest. She was the oldest and remembers the most. She is the oldest and sees the most.

There are many days she would gladly slay when he is manic and won’t get out of her face for so many reasons – too many reasons. But there are just as many days she would gladly slay as she sits in tears, horrified that we live in a world where people look on her little brother with anything other than love and acceptance.

In many ways, she is ‘other’ just as he is – her soul too old for her body, her eyes witness to many things kids her age will never see in their whole lives. She lives with the guilt of resenting something and someone who feels extremely and more temporary than most. She worries that her loved ones will always stay alive and only stay close.

And sometimes, she crawls into bed next to me and needs to talk through how once upon a long-ago July, I yelled for her to stay in her top bunk even as her dad carried a seizing Chase out of the bedroom and the emergency lights flashed through the dark of their bedroom window as her whole world changed before she knew it – before she even ever fully woke up.

The life of a cancer sibling is often a silent, supporting role. It has to be, and they do it so well. But here, in her own words, is a little of Darcy (with some “help” from Chase). This is raw, unfiltered, uncut – All heart, all sibling, all laughter, all pain, all in.

Moment by moment…

 

This post is dedicated to the siblings of children with cancer and special needs. Please never forget that we see your patience and bravery. You are amazing and beautiful in the struggle.

Sibling Speak [VIDEO]

He doesn’t remember a time when there wasn’t cancer in the house; when his older brother wasn’t damaged, hurtful, screaming, and beside himself with pain. He was a sweet toddler who couldn’t yet sympathize with it all, so he became a witness to and – if we’re being very honest – a victim of cancer pain at the hands of a two-year-old sibling who didn’t understand any of it himself.

He is only six now and he’s tough as nails, but will weep at the thought of anyone in pain – ever. He has a love/hate relationship with Chase – wailing on Chase at times and wailing on anyone else who dares to disparage his brother. He is the youngest and yet he is not the baby. And he himself doesn’t completely understand why a scream turns him inside out, but I know. I remember how he would run during a lab draw, when neutropenia and pain left more monster than brother on the couch to his little baby eyes.

He will spend his whole life being a part of this and having it be a part of him, and by the grace of God and fervent prayer, we never stop praying that it will be the making and not the breaking of him.

The life of a cancer sibling is often a silent, supporting role. It has to be, and they do it so well. But here, in his own words, is Karsten – sharing a little of himself. This is raw, unfiltered, uncut – All boy, all brother, all laughter, all pain, all in.

Moment by moment…

Bullying [dictionary definition]: the use of superior strength or influence to intimidate (someone), typically to force him or her to do what one wants.

Bullying [Karsten definition]: the dictionary plus anything else he’s not a fan of Chase doing – a line of demarcation that changes every three to five minutes and may depend on how recently Chase has shared the iPad with him. 

This post is dedicated to the siblings of children with cancer and special needs. Please never forget that we see your patience and bravery. You are amazing and beautiful in the struggle.

 

Of A Cartoon Life and “No Trespassing” Signs

Do you ever find yourself wanting to sit back and laugh at your life?

Not a hilarious sitcom laugh, but a “Oh my goodness gracious stars! I cannot even believe we survived the last week!” type of laugh. The incredulous kind. Because raising kids is a crazy business and raising a neuro kid is crazy on steroids (and that can be taken, at times, in the most literal sense).

And what I’m working up to tell you is that Chase’s second eye surgery is tomorrow. You know, because, there’s nothing else really going on this week… HA.

It’s like he could just feel that it is a crazy season. And whether it was his back-to-back surgeries, the general loss of control, all the eye drops and pain… or possibly the name “Lucas” written in blue marker on his arm that he won’t let anyone wash off… whatever it was and quite possibly “all of the above”; Chase went a little off the reservation. Almost every single conversation has been a you-and-what-army authority struggle, he banshee-screams almost as much as he talks these days, and last week, he ran away from home twice and I found him sitting in a neighbor’s tree house, hissing and spitting about eye drops and having to obey and how terrible and mean we were for asking him to help clean up the toys. With his little body sitting rigid and angry right next to the giant, red “no trespassing” sign tacked to the tree house that his cloudy eyes and mind couldn’t read, and my palms sweating for fear that someone would see us and think I was the worst parent in the world, I had little choice but to embark on a round of oratorial genius (read also: sweet talk) and my best hostage negotiation skills, because, you know, it’s Chase. HA.

He’s missed the bus and he’s thrown fits and if I’m being totally honest and slightly comical, an awful lot of the last few weeks has reminded me of this…

Calvin and Hobbes, credit: Bill Watterson. (wikia)
Calvin and Hobbes, credit: Bill Watterson. (wikia)

And I share this because today, in the shadow of the second surgery, I need to remember that life hasn’t been pretty, but… we’ve survived. And Chase came safely out of the tree house, and there was even one morning when I could tell he wanted to run away from the approaching morning bus , but something clicked and he attack-hugged me with all his emotional energy and screamed in my ear “Mom!! I’m turning it around!! I’m going to do this!!” And though my neck hurt from his bony little arms, my heart was fit to burst with love and joy. Because sometimes the tiniest moments are huge victories.

Isn’t this just life sometimes? It can be an outraged stand-off, hostage negotiating “I so don’t want to do this” thing. And sometimes it’s just straight up “Please God, not this again…” exhaustion. And other times, something clicks and you get the briefest moment to breathe and rejoice in the total chaos and pain.

So we come to the day before another surgery and I guess I pour out all these disjointed little thoughts because it’s a ways of being raw and honest about life with a neurologically-challenged child. I hope it encourages you that you aren’t alone in whatever crazy “no trespassing”, you-and-what-army struggle you face today.

And Chase, he’s in his hyper pre-surgery zone now. He’s looking forward to a few days off school, some post-op popsicles, maybe being able to see better, and he’s already got “10,000 Reasons” ready to go on the iPad.

This is how we roll…

Moment by moment.

Whatever may pass and whatever lies before me, let me be singing when the evening comes… -Matt Redman, 10,000 Reasons

Fistful Of Band-Aids

How do you live out what you know? And how do you live out what you know when what you know is pain? 

Chase has felt many needles. Needles for chemo, needles for blood draws, needles to keep him hydrated and pass life-saving medicines into his veins. So many times, his skin has been pricked and prodded – his hands, arms, chest, and even the heels of his feet. If you look closely, you can still see many of the scars.

And somehow, somewhere along the way, needles became synonymous with  band-aids. This kid has accessorized with band-aids, played with band-aids, covered his arms with them in the hospital play room (which scared the living daylights out of his doctors who thought each of the ten band-aids up his arm were genuine) and competed against siblings for who has the most (spoiler alert: it was almost always Chase).

Band-aids have been a part of his life and a sign of his pain, and yet, this last week when his kindergarten class celebrated their “100th Day” of classes, Chase wanted to cover his “100 poster” with band-aids.

So, we sat at the kitchen table and covered a poster board in the little brown pieces of adhesive and we talked. We talked about gauze and flushes and old stories where he had screamed and been afraid. Sometimes just being around the familiar supplies is enough to trigger the memories.  And then, just at the moment it all felt a little sad again, we decided to look at the things we were most thankful for in those memories.  And you know what? There were quite a lot of things for which to be thankful.

These band-aids started as a picture of hardship and ended up on a poster full of memories. I can’t help but wonder if the moment pain crosses into beauty is the moment it forces us to be thankful.

And as he painstakingly wrote out “Chase 100” on the top of his poster, he paused for just a second to consider, and then added an exclamation point. As he finished, he turned to me and explained: “Chase. 100. Exclamation point, Mom. Do you know why?” He ran on before I could have answered if I’d wanted to. “It’s because this is happy. You put an exclamation point” his lips curled extra hard to form those words; “when things are happy.”

So there you have it . . . Lessons drawn from a band-aid, a poster, and a little boy who has been so brave.

Moment by moment.

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If God Is For Chase . . .

“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.

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