Truth, cancer sucks. I hate that word...sucks....its so rude, but then again, so is cancer. Cancer rudely disrupted my life....my two year old daughter's life...and all those who adore her. It has wrapped its claws around us, and every day we fight to break her free of this rude disease. This past week of radiation was absolute hell, and this coming week will be worse. Late appointments every day....(fasting + sick toddler = torture)......and 8-10 hours of chemo, plus radiation on Thursday. I'm so tired.
On Friday, going on 18 hours of no food or drink for Tay, an adorable 6 year old girl came into the kid's playroom where we were waiting. "Does she have cancer too?" asked this bald little beauty. I told her she did. "Where is it? Mine is in my stomach, I got it from daycare." My heart cracked, and instantly I adored her. I told her that Taylor's was too. Her beautiful eyes lit up, "Is it a Rhabdomyoscarcoma?!!!" she squealed. She and Tay both have sarcomas, their bond was instant. This little girl has a fire to her, a sparkle, a spunk..... she is nowhere near done on this earth. Taylor was enamoured by her, and I can't think of a better role model than this brave little fighter. Later, I watched the bald little beauty's mom carry her out to their car, she was motionless, sad, with her arms wrapped tightly around her. I felt so much respect for her mom, as she gave me a half smile and headed home for the day. I know how that feels. It sucks. (Ick, hate that word).
Truth, this week is going to come and go, like it or not. My little love is going to go through hell, and so are Chris and I, but I am making a decision to fight through it. I am making a decision to have fun every single day, and end things on a good note damnit (hehe, sorry). I can do this. We can do this. She can do this.
"What is wrong with those fiders?" Taylor is crouched down peering at some dead spiders in our garage. "Ummmm, I'm not sure." I reply, really not ready to have an in depth conversation about death and spider heaven. "Are they sick?" she asked. I tell her they must be. "Did their mommy make them sick?" Oh. My. Gosh. I feel like I may get sick. "No, no, their mommy helps them get better, she never wants her babies sick." I answer. The next day she tells my mom that the spider's mommy made them sick. Ouch. Later that same day, I tossed away those dead spiders, along with all the guilt I feel. She doesn't understand all this now, but someday....she will. So, to my 20 something Tay Tay, when you are reading this blog someday, know how much I love you, and you can say a million things to me that may break my heart, but that will never change.
Today was so incredibly hard. Every Monday Taylor is "masked down" (given anesthesia through a mask rather than her port), and she hates it. The worst part of the morning is "restraining" her while they do this, the second worst is handing her limp little body over to the nurses, and the third worst is walking down the long quiet hallway without her to go wait. I am not sure how long it usually takes for Chris and me to start speaking after this process. I know he usually hands me an ice water, and I come floating back down to planet earth.
I locked eyes with a mother in the waiting room last week, and her heart-sick look tugged at my heartstrings. She was holding an adorable little boy with dark lashes, shading beautiful, brown, sleepy eyes. He has a brain tumor, not a candidate for chemo, and doing radiation to buy more time. Heart wrenching. Her eyes are watery, and it's hard to tell if she has been crying, or may be about to cry. I teeter on this brink myself, caught off-guard daily by grief. She seems frantic, and all I can do is think about what I can do to help her. I give her my number, I console her, commiserate with her....pray for her. I see her every day now, and every day she inspires me. Our kids both have cancer....our babies....little pieces of our hearts walking around in human form....and there is absolutely nothing we can do but hope for miracles, be good mommies in the mean time, and have courage to fight through this. Please add baby "E" to your prayers.
Sticks and stones may break my bones....but your words can devastate me. To call this week difficult is an understatement. Radiation is a whole new ball game, and so incredibly hard. The waiting room feels like a Lifetime movie.... each family with their own heartbreaking experience. A few weeks ago, Tay went down for scans and to be fit for the radiation bed. As we waited to meet with our doctor, a woman came out of the radiation room surrounded by a burst of cheers and joy. She rang a bell, and hugged the nurses goodbye...it was her last treatment. My heart was full for her, I smiled, and whispered, "Congratulations!" Across from me sat a 70ish woman who was silently blotting away what seemed like a million tiny tears seeping from her eyes. She looked wounded... heartbroken. Shortly after, her flushed husband came hobbling out of the radiation room. She hurried to meet him.. taking his arm and throwing it over her shoulder to steady him to the car. I now understand her pain. We all wish we were done, able to fast forward through the torture that our loved ones go through....that we go through. I found myself challenging our doctor today, "Does she really need this?" "Why are we doing this? She could barely walk last night, she was in pain, this isn't what we were prepared for..." I was fuming, I was exhausted from spending most of last night plotting to just STOP everything. What if we just didn't go?? Then what?? And as if her doctor could read my mind, he looked at us and said. "If you don't do this, you will lose her for sure." The record stopped. Time stood still. I stared at him wounded, heartbroken, defeated. His words stunned me, humbled me....hurt me. Yesterday the nurses had to pry her from my arms, and today I handed her over.... willingly.... praying that this will fix her. Each day, when radiation is complete, and they call us back, I run down the halls to her. I don't care if I look like a fool, because when I tell her that mommy will be there when she wakes up, you better believe that I will be.
Today a cashier eyed my two bald beauties, " Twins?" Me, "No, two and ten months." Cashier, "Well, which is the oldest?" (Ouch) I reply, "My daughter." The cashier eyes her mask and asks, "Allergies?" Me, "No, cancer." I felt that familiar knot form in my throat, tears burning behind my eyes, and a sea of hurt wash over my heart. He didn't respond, I finally looked up to meet his eyes, and they were full of tears. His 70ish year old spotted hand was over his mouth. I didn't know what to say, so I grabbed our bags and wheeled my little loves to the car. Thank goodness for sunglasses. I pulled them over my eyes, turned the Elmo movie up, and cried the whole way home.
We begin radiation and a 5 weeks of isolation tomorrow. I was trying to grab a few crafts, gifts, bribes.... to help pass the time. I went to the store as soon as it opened, trying to avoid people, germs...ect. I shouldn't be shocked that the cashiers words hurt me so much, we are not even half way done. Shoot... I must have needed to get that last bit of sadness out, because now it's go time. I need to be a happy, brave, mommy who is able to lead my little love through this. This isn't my time to break down. So I am done with all that, focused, with my eye on the prize. I want my little Tay Tay to complete the 5 weeks, ring the bell, and never look back. I began preparing her today, "Do you remember Dr. B?" (Oncology Radiology Doc) "Would you like to have another picnic in Bloomington?" And so it begins...
