In this outside-the-box life, the brain tumor cut deep and far into the language center. Though Chase’s brain bravely held it’s ground and kept it’s words, sometimes, he experiences what appear to be gigantic non sequiturs. A word or phrase comes into his mind and he wants to…and even needs to say it over and over, but it’s not always apparent why.
In the days following the initial surgery trauma, it was most pronounced as he’d lean his two-year-old little body close to me and gleefully warble “Congratulations!” again and again – like a greeting and a benediction. Congratulations, indeed, my sweet boy…you survived major brain surgery.
But this new year, this new season, as he sits at the table munching turkey bacon -his always favorite- in his winter jacket, waiting for the bus to arrive; his brain comes up with the best yet…
“Mom,” he sighs; “You aren’t getting any younger.”
I sit back and laugh incredulously. “Chase! Do you even know what that means?”
The rest of the turkey bacon stuffed into a cheek, he chews contentedly and thinks aloud. “No. Not really. But I think it probably means that you’re getting younger. But also, not really.” And then he reaches over and pats my arm, repeating “Mom, you’re not getting any younger, but it’s okay. I love you.”
And there it is. Love helps us make the most of our time.
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.
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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.
This morning, a couple volunteers stopped by our room to check in. One volunteer brought blocks for the bed-bound, wiggly Chase, and the other volunteer brought a chunk of poop.
Yes, it’s true! This volunteer is a retired archeologist from The Field Museum who brought a chunk of fossilized dinosaur excrement for the kids to see and touch.
As I held the brownish rock in my hands, I turned it upside down to view the smooth, polished surface of a man-made cut. Imagine my surprise at seeing what looked like a beautiful crystal inside!
Given time and refining elements, something that was complete excrement is now a thing of beauty.
Call me crazy, but I suddenly felt like I was holding cancer in my hands… This life season that feels like nothing but poop, will in time, polished by the elements and circumstances, become beautiful.
I laugh at myself gathering deep insights from waste, but I am in awe of the timely reminder over the hospital bed. Moment by moment.
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