We have all been marching along with the new school schedule this year where both kids get on the bus at the same time and come home at the same time. I like that I don't have to get in the car to drive Dal to school, but sometimes trying to get both kids ready at the same time in the morning is maddening. There is always the rush of getting dressed, brushing teeth, double-checking backpacks, and trying to stay clean. We seem to be getting into a pretty decent groove, so hopefully that will continue.
Along with the new school year comes new teachers and new friends. Both kids are absolutely nutso about their teachers, and they're both usually enthusiastic about going to school every morning. This last week was exceptionally long for Lottie, though. Monday night, I was at a meeting at the school when I ran into the mother of one of Lottie's pals. Lottie and the girl are in different classes this year, but they still play together during recess. The mom asked for my phone number so she could text me information about the girl's birthday party that was going to be on Saturday. A sleepover birthday party. The sleepover part was optional, but anyone who knows Lottie knows that she is all about keeping a party going for as long as possible. I made the mistake of telling Lottie about the invitation before I had received a text from the mom. Rookie error, right? The rest of the week, I was peppered with questions about the party, whether or not I had heard from the mom, and if I thought Lottie could just show up at the party. Saturday morning dawned with no word about the party and a 7-year old crying over breakfast. I cried, too, because I felt like I had somehow let her down, and I wished I had never mentioned the party in the first place. We planned a fun day of playing outside, a special dessert, and a family movie night; I could tell, however, that her mind was on the party most of the day.
The sky began to darken around 2:30 that afternoon, and I called the kids inside. I was in the middle of making the chocolate dessert that I knew my little sweet-toothed girl would love when I heard the chime of a text message on my phone. I picked up the phone in between separating eggs to see a text from the mom inviting Lottie to the party...the party that started in twenty minutes. All at once, I was angry, excited, irritated, incredulous, and frazzled. I hadn't bothered to get a gift because I thought Lottie had been forgotten. Lottie was sweaty and filthy from playing outside all day. A serious thunderstorm was headed our way. I could think of a million reasons why she shouldn't go and only one reason why she should. Even though I wanted to erase the message, I knew I should let her go to the party. After a quick whispered conference with T, I told Lottie what was up. I know it sounds completely hokey, but the sun shone out of her eyes. She hadn't been left out, and she was going to her first slumber party. She ran upstairs to take a quick shower while T packed an overnight bag for her. I tore downstairs to find and wrap a suitable birthday present from the box of surplus gifts I keep in the basement. Before she left, I held her face in my hands and told her that if anything felt off or she just didn't want to stay, she could call us any time of the night to pick her up. She hugged me tightly, kissed her brother, and skipped out to the car with her dad. About two minutes after they left, the tornado sirens blared, and I wanted to run out in the street and call them both back home.
I spent that evening with T and Dallas, and although it was cool --and totally weird, too--to be able to focus on just one kid, my head was with Lottie. I wondered if she was getting along with the other kids at the party. I wondered if the threatening skies and the heavy rains were scaring her. I worried that she wanted to come home but was too afraid to say so. Would she sleep well? Would she sleep at all? (And before all you other parents chime in with the "you-have-no-idea-wait-until-she's-a-teenager" stuff, just don't. It's never helpful and it diminishes what I am feeling now. Not cool.)
Of course, in the end, Lottie had a fantastic time at the party. She ended up staying with the birthday girl for most of the next morning while T and I paced around the house wondering when she would finally come home. She seemed exactly the same but also a little older, a little more grown up. It was her first night staying with anyone who wasn't family, and she loved it. I was thrilled that her first sleepover had been a success, but if I am being totally honest, I was a little sad, too. I realized that the first slumber party was just the beginning of many firsts that T and I wouldn't be a part of. Spending the night at someone's house doesn't mean that she's ready for her own apartment, of course, but it's the start of a whole new world for her. She is starting to realize that there is so much more to life than just our home and our family. My job as a parent is to give her those experiences and encourage her growth in every way; I just didn't know that it would all start so soon. Teaching her new things will continue to be my job, but now a new part of my job is making sure that home is where she will always have a soft place to fall.
Not too long after reading time Sunday evening, I noticed that I hadn't heard a peep out of Lottie's room in a while. I went to check on her, and I found her fast asleep with her Lamby in her arms. I took a minute to drink in her quiet, sleeping face before I called T in to see how quickly she had passed out. I'm willing to embrace her newfound slice of autonomy as long as I can still tuck her in most nights for as long as she lets me.
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
Questions or concerns
We met with Trevor's surgeon yesterday at Northwestern and set a date for the surgery. October 13 is the big day, so this is really happening.
I like the surgeon a lot: she's funny and an absolute straight-shooter. She tells it like it is, and she doesn't sugarcoat anything. She described the pre-op routine, the surgery itself, and what would happen post-op. T and I spent that discussion time asking a few questions and nodding our heads like bobble dolls. At the end of the spiel, the doctor asked us if we had any other questions or concerns.
Did I have any concerns?
I mean, duh.
You know how in the movies there is a montage of life events that pass through someone's mind as that person faces danger? That happened to me, except instead of past events, all I could see was the future. I saw the next fifty years of our lives race before my eyes in the period of about five seconds. So many happy times were there, flying by at light speed. T was in every thought I had, so it wasn't like I was picturing life without him. On the contrary, I was picturing our future together, both as a family and as a couple.
What I wanted to tell the doctor was that there are always concerns. Always. When someone is having a serious surgery, it's always a concern. Any time there is anaesthesia or blood, there is a concern. Any time my husband is going to be lying on a table for four to six hours, there are going to be concerns.
What I wanted to tell her was that she was going to be taking care of the man who makes me laugh every single day, of the father of my children, of the smartest guy I know, of my best friend, of the love of my life. I wanted to tell her that she was in charge of getting every bit of that tumor out. I wanted to tell her to get a good night's sleep and have a healthy breakfast that morning. I wanted her to know that although I have the utmost confidence in her training and abilities, I will still be pacing in the waiting room, drinking cup after cup of coffee, and trying not to bite my nails until she comes out to tell me that my husband is okay. I wanted to tell her that although she isn't a cardiologist, my heart will be in her hands.
But I didn't. Instead, Trevor and I looked at each other, shook our heads that we had no other questions and concerns, and went to lunch. For that moment, that was enough.
I like the surgeon a lot: she's funny and an absolute straight-shooter. She tells it like it is, and she doesn't sugarcoat anything. She described the pre-op routine, the surgery itself, and what would happen post-op. T and I spent that discussion time asking a few questions and nodding our heads like bobble dolls. At the end of the spiel, the doctor asked us if we had any other questions or concerns.
Did I have any concerns?
I mean, duh.
You know how in the movies there is a montage of life events that pass through someone's mind as that person faces danger? That happened to me, except instead of past events, all I could see was the future. I saw the next fifty years of our lives race before my eyes in the period of about five seconds. So many happy times were there, flying by at light speed. T was in every thought I had, so it wasn't like I was picturing life without him. On the contrary, I was picturing our future together, both as a family and as a couple.
What I wanted to tell the doctor was that there are always concerns. Always. When someone is having a serious surgery, it's always a concern. Any time there is anaesthesia or blood, there is a concern. Any time my husband is going to be lying on a table for four to six hours, there are going to be concerns.
What I wanted to tell her was that she was going to be taking care of the man who makes me laugh every single day, of the father of my children, of the smartest guy I know, of my best friend, of the love of my life. I wanted to tell her that she was in charge of getting every bit of that tumor out. I wanted to tell her to get a good night's sleep and have a healthy breakfast that morning. I wanted her to know that although I have the utmost confidence in her training and abilities, I will still be pacing in the waiting room, drinking cup after cup of coffee, and trying not to bite my nails until she comes out to tell me that my husband is okay. I wanted to tell her that although she isn't a cardiologist, my heart will be in her hands.
But I didn't. Instead, Trevor and I looked at each other, shook our heads that we had no other questions and concerns, and went to lunch. For that moment, that was enough.
Saturday, September 6, 2014
2,190 days
My baby,
Today you are six years old. I know I say it every year, but once again, I have no idea where the time has gone. It seems like only yesterday when the doctor put you in my arms, and I thought, "A boy? I have no idea what to do with a boy!" Despite my concerns, I think you have turned out pretty darn well so far. It's hard to believe that you are the same chunk-a-bunk baby who basically slept for the first twenty-four hours of your life, making everyone but me concerned that you would never wake up to eat. Once you did wake up and start eating, you basically never stopped.
You have done so many things in the last year. You finished pre-school at the Montessori Academy of Valparaiso, and you truly thrived there. I will always be grateful for the wonderful program and amazing staff who helped guide you through the last two years. Because of everything you learned there, you were more than ready to enter Kindergarten this year at Flint Lake. I love that you and Lottie are at the same school, on the same schedule, and riding the same bus. I thought you might be nervous about riding the bus to school, but you hopped on the first day like a boss and you haven't looked back again. You're on the twenty-seventh list of sight words already, so I am eager to see what happens when you have mastered all of the lists. Perhaps you will start reading Camus next.
Your interests are varied as usual as you begin your sixth year. There has been a surprising dinosaur renaissance which prompted you to tell me that your school has a "fairly decent selection of dinosaur" books. You still enjoy Star Wars, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and anything that involves any type of weapon. Sometimes I worry about your love of "shooting" but then I remember that you love to sit down with a good book just as much. Everything in moderation, my love. Scatological humor is still number one here as well. When you're feeling especially naughty, you talk about poop or butts because you know it annoys me. I have a feeling that annoying me thing will continue for the rest of my life.
You're a funny kid because you're very literal, and things are pretty black and white for you. You and Lottie are about as different as siblings could be: that makes it very hard for Dad and me to ever know exactly what to do or how to do it. I think you're breaking out of your shell a bit, though, and enjoying new things with an ease that you didn't have before. You have really enjoyed your tae kwan do class, and I hope it's something you continue to practice. I love that you're in class with other kids but the work itself is individual.
One of the most exciting things in the last year is that you outgrew your egg allergy. A whole new world of food has opened up to you now. Some of the things you have been really excited to try, but eggs themselves, whether hard-boiled or scrambled, are not your favorites yet. Maybe someday. You're naturally a little wary of trying things with eggs in them: after all, you spent the first five years of your life being told to stay away from eggs. However, you're slowly starting to accept that you can try new things without the fear of getting sick.
You enjoy doing things by yourself like reading or playing with Legos®, but you hate to be alone. You want someone nearby at all times but that person should really not talk to you unless you desire interaction. Total paradox. I think it's great that you're so good at entertaining yourself, though. That is a quality that will serve you well throughout your life. But don't ever be afraid to get out of your comfort zone and open yourself up to others; I'm sure you'll find plenty of people who share similar interests. After all, you're an amazing guy with a lot to share with the world.
*I love that you still love to snuggle with me before bed every night.
*I love that you are such a great brother.
*I love the way you are kind to Mimi and PopPop's dog, Sally, and help us take care of her and how you constantly tell Judy that she's the best cat in the world
*I love how you sometimes chill out on the living room couch and stare at the trees out of the window
*I love the way you laugh with your entire body
*I love the way you have started to create your own things with Legos instead of just following the building directions
*I love your bone-dry sense of humor
*I love how excited you are when we get a new catalog in the mail, especially if the catalog has anything to do with Halloween
*I love your freckled nose and your gorgeous, long-lashed blue eyes
Dad and I are proud of beyond compare. In my wildest dreams, I cannot even begin to imagine all of the wonderful things life has in store for you. Promise me that you will always stay sweet, forever love to read, and never ever change who you are inside.
You are always my best, best boy,
Mom
Today you are six years old. I know I say it every year, but once again, I have no idea where the time has gone. It seems like only yesterday when the doctor put you in my arms, and I thought, "A boy? I have no idea what to do with a boy!" Despite my concerns, I think you have turned out pretty darn well so far. It's hard to believe that you are the same chunk-a-bunk baby who basically slept for the first twenty-four hours of your life, making everyone but me concerned that you would never wake up to eat. Once you did wake up and start eating, you basically never stopped.
You have done so many things in the last year. You finished pre-school at the Montessori Academy of Valparaiso, and you truly thrived there. I will always be grateful for the wonderful program and amazing staff who helped guide you through the last two years. Because of everything you learned there, you were more than ready to enter Kindergarten this year at Flint Lake. I love that you and Lottie are at the same school, on the same schedule, and riding the same bus. I thought you might be nervous about riding the bus to school, but you hopped on the first day like a boss and you haven't looked back again. You're on the twenty-seventh list of sight words already, so I am eager to see what happens when you have mastered all of the lists. Perhaps you will start reading Camus next.
Your interests are varied as usual as you begin your sixth year. There has been a surprising dinosaur renaissance which prompted you to tell me that your school has a "fairly decent selection of dinosaur" books. You still enjoy Star Wars, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and anything that involves any type of weapon. Sometimes I worry about your love of "shooting" but then I remember that you love to sit down with a good book just as much. Everything in moderation, my love. Scatological humor is still number one here as well. When you're feeling especially naughty, you talk about poop or butts because you know it annoys me. I have a feeling that annoying me thing will continue for the rest of my life.
You're a funny kid because you're very literal, and things are pretty black and white for you. You and Lottie are about as different as siblings could be: that makes it very hard for Dad and me to ever know exactly what to do or how to do it. I think you're breaking out of your shell a bit, though, and enjoying new things with an ease that you didn't have before. You have really enjoyed your tae kwan do class, and I hope it's something you continue to practice. I love that you're in class with other kids but the work itself is individual.
One of the most exciting things in the last year is that you outgrew your egg allergy. A whole new world of food has opened up to you now. Some of the things you have been really excited to try, but eggs themselves, whether hard-boiled or scrambled, are not your favorites yet. Maybe someday. You're naturally a little wary of trying things with eggs in them: after all, you spent the first five years of your life being told to stay away from eggs. However, you're slowly starting to accept that you can try new things without the fear of getting sick.
You enjoy doing things by yourself like reading or playing with Legos®, but you hate to be alone. You want someone nearby at all times but that person should really not talk to you unless you desire interaction. Total paradox. I think it's great that you're so good at entertaining yourself, though. That is a quality that will serve you well throughout your life. But don't ever be afraid to get out of your comfort zone and open yourself up to others; I'm sure you'll find plenty of people who share similar interests. After all, you're an amazing guy with a lot to share with the world.
*I love that you still love to snuggle with me before bed every night.
*I love that you are such a great brother.
*I love the way you are kind to Mimi and PopPop's dog, Sally, and help us take care of her and how you constantly tell Judy that she's the best cat in the world
*I love how you sometimes chill out on the living room couch and stare at the trees out of the window
*I love the way you laugh with your entire body
*I love the way you have started to create your own things with Legos instead of just following the building directions
*I love your bone-dry sense of humor
*I love how excited you are when we get a new catalog in the mail, especially if the catalog has anything to do with Halloween
*I love your freckled nose and your gorgeous, long-lashed blue eyes
Dad and I are proud of beyond compare. In my wildest dreams, I cannot even begin to imagine all of the wonderful things life has in store for you. Promise me that you will always stay sweet, forever love to read, and never ever change who you are inside.
You are always my best, best boy,
Mom
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
Shrink, shrank, shrunk
Today was Trevor's first CT scan post-chemoradiation, and the first time he has been back to NMH since chemoradiation ended. He had the pleasure of downing some lovely banana flavored barium concoction, waiting for an hour, then being scanned for five minutes. We had a quick lunch together then met with the medical oncologist.
The news was great: the tumor has gotten smaller and nothing has spread. YAY doesn't even begin to describe how happy we were. Things are progressing as they should, and it looks as though surgery will be scheduled for sometime within the next four weeks. He'll have a month of recovery time post-surgery, and then he'll do a second round of chemo for about four and a half months. He won't have to go into NMH every day like he did for the first round, so that is already a big improvement. Plus, think how awesome it would be if he could keep the hospital gown and dress like an escaped mental hospital patient for Halloween! Right?
Having a better idea of when the surgery will happen has been, I think, a relief to both of us. The last month of normalcy in our lives has been fantastic, but we both know it is just a holding pattern until the next step in the plan to kick this cancer's booty. We are trying to enjoy spending time together, spending time with the kids, and doing typical family activities. In the back of our minds, though, we know it's only a matter of time before it will all come to a screeching halt yet again. It's difficult to live with the mentality that we need to get a certain amount of things done "before." First we wanted to do things before chemoradiation, and now we want to fit in as much as we can before surgery. Sometimes it feels like we're living at a far more frenetic pace than we were pre-cancer, and we really should be slowing down to enjoy the quiet, unexpected moments.
I'm trying to take the time each day to stop and be mindful of the small things that make a life a life: Trevor making me laugh until I cry in the middle of a quiet exam room, Dallas holding my hand as we snuggle at night, Lottie's enormous, beautiful blue eyes watching me as we read _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_ together. These are the things that truly have meaning, and these are the things I need to learn to appreciate. If this stupid, horrible, ruthless cancer has taught me anything so far, it's that all I really need to be happy can usually be found within my reach. If that doesn't make me one damn lucky gal, I don't know what does. Well, that and a big lottery win. I could make the Mega-Millions have a great deal of meaning if given the chance.
The news was great: the tumor has gotten smaller and nothing has spread. YAY doesn't even begin to describe how happy we were. Things are progressing as they should, and it looks as though surgery will be scheduled for sometime within the next four weeks. He'll have a month of recovery time post-surgery, and then he'll do a second round of chemo for about four and a half months. He won't have to go into NMH every day like he did for the first round, so that is already a big improvement. Plus, think how awesome it would be if he could keep the hospital gown and dress like an escaped mental hospital patient for Halloween! Right?
Having a better idea of when the surgery will happen has been, I think, a relief to both of us. The last month of normalcy in our lives has been fantastic, but we both know it is just a holding pattern until the next step in the plan to kick this cancer's booty. We are trying to enjoy spending time together, spending time with the kids, and doing typical family activities. In the back of our minds, though, we know it's only a matter of time before it will all come to a screeching halt yet again. It's difficult to live with the mentality that we need to get a certain amount of things done "before." First we wanted to do things before chemoradiation, and now we want to fit in as much as we can before surgery. Sometimes it feels like we're living at a far more frenetic pace than we were pre-cancer, and we really should be slowing down to enjoy the quiet, unexpected moments.
I'm trying to take the time each day to stop and be mindful of the small things that make a life a life: Trevor making me laugh until I cry in the middle of a quiet exam room, Dallas holding my hand as we snuggle at night, Lottie's enormous, beautiful blue eyes watching me as we read _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_ together. These are the things that truly have meaning, and these are the things I need to learn to appreciate. If this stupid, horrible, ruthless cancer has taught me anything so far, it's that all I really need to be happy can usually be found within my reach. If that doesn't make me one damn lucky gal, I don't know what does. Well, that and a big lottery win. I could make the Mega-Millions have a great deal of meaning if given the chance.
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