Every single time I do this. Unconsciously of course. I start to notice things. Google things. Compare things. I asked my sister to send me pictures of her kids legs today. She could have said " calm yourself crazy", but she didn't, she promptly sent the pictures. She reminded me that Tay is an active girl, and there are lots of explanations for her bruises. Truth- my worry for her will never end. It just won't. I walk a fine line of letting her live, yet letting nothing go. Scans are creeping up and it makes me feel like I can't breathe. Because cancer is out of control in this world. It's running an absolute muck. Stealing our loved ones....the suffering it's caused....the heart ache,....the worry. I ran from it when Tay was done. I sold our house, moved back home, and tried to start over. I remember not wanting to put in on her school medical form. My sister said " this is a part of her story", and that really hit me. It is. My prayers are that it is a story of survival. Scans do something to me... I won't be right until I know that are CLEAR. Please pray for my girl. Scan Date- February- 4th.  *Three year post treatment date- February 14th!!!!

Scan Time

The oncology unit was usually filled with faces that became familiar. We shared the same treatment days with several families, and although our journeys were different, our mission was the same. Save our kids. I felt so blessed with the amount of support we had. Our friends, co-workers, families, and most of all each other. I watched marriages crumble and felt my own turn into a something it had never been before. Sometimes it felt like Chris was the only person in the world who understood me. We formed an amazing friendship through this process, and honestly a more genuine love. One that could find a way to make me smile on a chemo day, laugh after days in isolation, and find hope in our darkest hours. I'm so thankful we made it. I remember looking for another mom for several weeks, her sweet little girl.....And what happened to my little buddy, the ward of the state.....and where is the little girl often mistaken for Tay.....Finally I put the pieces together, and it would wreck me. How can this happen? These kids....dying from this awful disease. Heart wrenching. I can't imagine that loss, and the fear of it rests quietly in the back of my heart. Every three months it stirs inside me, puts a lump in my throat, and keeps me in a constant state of worry until scans are over. Life seems to pause while a divine choice is made.....continue on or go back to the battlefield. 

I remember a new face on the unit, but something was different about this little one. She had rosy cheeks, long shiny blond hair, and a bouncy energy level that wasn't like the others, she wasn't like my skinny, frail little Tay that was watching her in awe. The mom looked at Tay, and at me ( I imagine I looked like a total hot mess), and asked what type of cancer, how many more treatments left, and seemed to know this life... She then explained they were there for scans, her little girl was two years post chemo and also had a sarcoma like Taylor. I congratulated her, and honestly wished I was in her shoes with Taylor. She then said something that at the time I thought was really insensitive, but now I get it..... she said, "It doesn't get easier you know, I mean it does as far as treatment, but it's never over."  She had tears in her eyes, and a trembling lip. I was confused by her statement, they called Tay's name to head back for an eight hour treatment, and I wished her good luck. Her words have haunted me. "It's never over." I know what she means now. Don't get me wrong, I am so grateful for the position we are in. We can handle scans. Taylor is strong, and resilient, and every February 14th her prognosis goes up. We are almost TWO years post treatment, and I have all my eggs in the basket that her scans come back clear. But I would be lying if I told you I wasn't packing life in, every single day of it, with this little family of mine.

Love.

Just found this post from October. I forgot to publish it, but better late than never. 


I just celebrated my 8 year anniversary. I honestly cannot believe I have been married for EIGHT years….that makes me old (ha!), and incredibly tolerant (wink Chris), and in all seriousness, truly blessed. I heard a lot of “wow, you made it past the seven year itch…”, and lots of comments of how it’s incredible we are still standing.  It has made me think about marriage, what it means, what I thought it meant 8 years ago, and how a little perspective can change your whole life.

8 years ago I was filled with dreams for my life. I had never been loved in a way that I was by Chris, truly and unconditionally. He made me feel like in my most unlovable moments that I was the best thing that ever happened to him. I could be myself…no makeup, sweatpants, sick as a dog, whole nine yards, and perfect in his eyes. He asked, I said yes, we had the most beautiful wedding, fun honeymoon, and life began. Years in, the honeymoon phase wears off (sorry newlyweds reading this, wink) and thank goodness we had this amazing friendship that made life really fun. We grew up, grew apart, questioned our love, but always came back to the commitment we made Oct 14^th, 2006. I lost myself in mommy hood. Literally, it was like “Chris who?”…bless his heart. We had our precious girl, soon after our little Max, and then cancer came in and wrecked our life. It literally came in and popped our balloon of happiness. We went into survival mode. Get her through this…. get her out of this alive. That’s all that mattered. Max was shuffled back and forth between my mom and sister. He would scream for my mom when she left at the end of the day. It killed me. My sister would bring him to the hospital to vist, and I remember watching her walk away, kissing his chubby cheeks down the hallway, and thinking “this isn’t the life I thought I would have.” I turned to see Chris watching him too, tears in his eyes, hurting too. At the end of the day, he was my husband, but also the only person in the world who truly understood my pain. He made me laugh during chemo days, smile after radiation, distracted me during Tay’s surgeries…..he worked every non- chemo day. He was my best friend during the loneliest, saddest time of my life.  I’m certain I didn’t wear makeup for a year….and he assured me I was still the best thing since sliced bread. That’s love.

We dedicated this last year to getting back to where we started. We went on dates again, vacations, and had honest conversations about our marriage. Our marriage isn’t perfect, but it’s an honest work in progress, and I truly believe that we get stronger every year. That seven year itch had nothing on us….

5 years and counting.....

Our little love turned 5 today. I sorted through pictures of her and couldn't bring myself to say anything about wanting to "stop the clock", or "freeze time", or "never let her grow up". My mommy goals for her are just the opposite. Every month that she moves closer to remission is a milestone. Every day outside treatment is an absolute blessing. And although my heart is not in absolute anguish anymore, I remember the feeling all too well. I am stunned by the way God has blessed our lives since Taylor's diagnosis. I am grateful for the way He changed our hearts, and redefined our priorities. I have so many hopes and dreams for Taylor. Yesterday our home was filled with friends, numerous times she pulled me aside to double check that they were her friends there to celebrate her birthday. Friends!?, how fun to finally have friends. She flips and spins and bounces at her gymnastics classes, she shoots hoops tirelessly with her daddy in our driveway, she whirls and twirls with her baby brother in our family room to her favorite songs.... and I have moments where fear will wrap around my heart and leave me terrified that her cancer may come back. I put my blinders on and force myself to look ahead. To enjoy this day. And to be grateful for this beautiful girl that made me a mommy. We are one year and 7 months post treatment, oh my gosh, so blessed. Just typing those words made me cry. Thank you so much for your continued prayers for our sweet girl. Scans are creeping up, October 9th, and I feel myself moving into panic mode. So I put my blinders back on, I remind myself to be thankful for this day and the health of my amazing 5 year old. Life is much sweeter with her in it. 

Fine Lines

I teeter on the edge of fine lines. That narrow path between joy and absolute heartache. I find myself cramming life in, because I am so scared of it being taken away. On the outside I am a happy girl. I have a husband who loves me much more than I deserve, and two precious kids who have taught me about a love so precious and innocent that I never knew before them. I’m an entrepreneur making my way in my industry, humbled by my new ability to give to others, but fear sits in the back of my brain, reminding me that all can be lost in a few months of hospital bills. How do I know? Well it’s happened once before. About two years ago. I called my little Tay’s teacher after the Valentine’s Day party. I remember sobbing to her on the phone, asking if Tay was happy….why was she lying in the corner of the room sleeping while the other children were enjoying the party? I would soon learn there was a 2 pound cancerous tumor in her abdomen that changed our lives forever. It rocked our world and re-defined our lives. No parent should watch their child suffer as we have, but life is much sweeter now. Her hair has grown back thick and wavy. Her lashes are long and shade her always sparkling steel blue eyes. Her scars have faded to fine lines, and her cheeks are full again. She is brave and funny, and has the kindest little soul. I took her and Max to the museum and I saw her looking at a boy and his mother in front of us. Her face was full of concern. “Mommy, is he getting chemo?” His mother turned to look at her, a mixture of shock and disbelief on her face. She moved herself in front of her little love, who was sick…. clearly very sick. His hair was gone, his body was frail, and his mask was on. He was hooked to an IV pole, but his eyes were sparkling as he took in the museum. I knelt down to Taylor, and said, “I’m not sure, I think he is excited to see the museum, just like you.” She shook her head, and said, “But I don’t want him to be sick.” His mother was confused. How could this little girl know anything of cancer? This healthy little girl? “Mental health day?” I asked. I told her about our days we just had to get out, risk the germs, and lift that mask off to let smiles be seen. That was 46 chemos, 25 radiations, and countless transfusions and infusions ago. I hugged her, and never felt more connected to an absolute stranger. She is in the trenches. Fighting for her baby, and my heart was overtaken with empathy for her. Taylor’s next scan is just around the corner and we are almost to her 1 year mark since her last chemo treatment. I decided to have pictures taken to mark the day….but of course not until the 14^th (her anniversary), and not until we’ve had a clear scan. I decided to shop though, hehe, this can’t just be any little dress. I found one that I loved, but it was much more than I wanted to spend, much more than I would spend on myself for heaven’s sakes….but I bought it. I don’t want to have regrets about things I did or didn’t do for her. There is a part of me that is terrified that could be taken away from me…so I bought the dress. My hope is to share that picture in just a few weeks. I hope I am able to be filled with joy and hope for my sweet girl who deserves a cancer free life. I would be lying if I told you I’m not scared. I’m human.  So I walk the tight rope, the fine line of joy and heartache…praying for my girl, and making the most of this one fragile life we are given.  

Hope

It's amazing how life can change in just a few months. We are now 8 months post chemo. We moved to a new house. We had to. After being in isolation for a year, we needed a fresh start. That house felt like a treatment facility to me. Emergency numbers posted all over our fridge, bottles and bottles of medications engulfing our counter tops, buckets throughout the house for sickness, and memories in almost every room that flashed me back to a place I don't ever want to be again. Life is so busy now, teetering on too busy sometimes. Scans creep up on us every three months much too quickly. We have another month of freedom until I wait on those results again. It's terrifying and humbling at the same time.

I watch my 4 year old Taylor embrace her classmates at preschool, beaming at me, and introducing her new friends. She proudly announced that her cancer is all gone now, so she can have friends, and my heart swells with hope for her. She sits in front of the mirror in my bathroom, smooths her short pixie cut with my hairbrush, and runs to find her daddy so he can tell her how pretty she is. She is often a WILD woman, happy and sassy, no longer the quiet little girl resting on my couch. We are packing our days full of fun, full of thankfulness, and full of hope for our sweet girl. We continued to be humbled by those still fighting. My heart breaks for those families. There isn't a day that goes by that I am not so thankful for the health of my little Tay Tay.

Pray for Tay...

"Aunt Brooke, Aunt Brooke, I want a messy bun like you!" squealed my little niece. "Well, come on into my beauty shop, and I will give you a messy bun!" I told her. I scooped up her long blonde curls and put a sweet little top knot on her head. She pranced away happy, and I looked up to see my sweet Tay with tears in her eyes. My heart sank down into my feet. "I want a messy bun too mommy, I want to play beauty shop." she whispered. I unraveled my own hair tie out of my mess of a bun, and pulled her down on my lap. We gathered a tiny little tuff of hair, and I wrapped my hair tie around it. "There, a messy bun for you too!" I told her. She shot out of my lap, and showed each person in the room her "messy bun". My heart was so happy for her. My how far we have come... And then I felt myself starting to panic, and had to step outside to catch my breath. Scans. Scans are coming. How on earth are we just days away from scans? Fear has crept back into the back of my mind. It makes me sit up in bed in the middle of the night and cup my hands over my mouth. I pray myself to sleep, and life resumes. My little love starts pre-school tomorrow, and I can't help but be so thankful. I was drowning about this time last year, heart broken as all her friends went back to school while we shuffled back and forth from the hospital. We moved to a new house, in a new town, but I still have my same old fears. Here I am again, asking you, please, to pray for my girl.

Fear not..

"Is this Taylor's mom?" My heart sank. "This is the sedation team, and we need to go over instructions for Taylor's upcoming scans?" My heart began to pound. It's too soon, that's not right...we have one more month... we have one more month. And so we do. It was an error, and they will call me again in a few weeks. I hung up the phone and cried. Fear took over. For the last few days fear has taken over......again. It takes my thoughts on a wild goose chase, I drive aimlessly and forget where I am going. It wakes me at night, and makes me over analyze everything. I'm looking for signs, anything that may indicate a red flag. Her legs have a few bruises on them, and I find myself sending Chris pictures at work and asking him if that's "ok". I watch her prance and play, and find tears creeping into the corners of my eyes.... that familiar lump in my throat. My prayers are like mantras that I recite over and over a thousand times a day. Forget work accomplishments, moving to a new house, and all the fun things going on, I'm lost in this torture of "what ifs".

The next day, I walked through the mall and saw a beautiful little girl with a bald head and dark shadows under her eyes. She was so thin, but her eyes were sparkling. Her resemblance to the way Taylor looked 6 months ago was crazy. Her dad walked a few feet behind her, holding her mask in his hand, and I wanted to go hug him. I know that feeling. He just wanted to let her be a kid. He chose her mental health that day, and let her be "mask free". I smiled at him, and saw relief in his eyes. I would not give him a pity stare, those were the worst. My heart broke into a million tiny pieces for those suffering, fighting, and lost to this horrible disease. It humbled me. It reminded me to be thankful for this day. To live in this moment. Didn't I learn this lesson last time? Gosh. There isn't a handbook for all this, I sure wish there was.

Then and Now..

Life is moving so much faster now. I flash back to a year ago, and I remember time standing still. We were just in the thick of radiation, and it was honestly the worst months of my life. I thought surely I would die of heartache last summer. I can't think of anything worse for a parent, than watching their child suffer. The only thing worse would have been losing her, and we are so incredibly blessed that we didn't. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't thank God, and continue to pray for her life. We are busy packing for her Make a Wish trip to Disney, and I can't help but think how far we have come. As I tuck her princess dress in her suitcase, I find myself saying a million prayers for those still fighting. Now it's our turn to help others, to give back, and to reach out a helping hand to those struggling. It's our turn to make our mark on this earth and be better people than we were the day before. Now we are off to Disney to show our two deserving kids an amazing time. Life is fragile and sweet. 

Big Faith

People often ask me why I write, or don't write. It's very therapeutic for me. Something is usually bothering me, or swirling around my head. So I write, and after, I always feel better. Maybe it's my therapy? Last week Tay & Max were playing in our playroom, Tay was making a make shift hospital, and Max and I were building towers so he could cannon ball into them. I heard Taylor saying, "Ohhhh dear. Ohhhh no. My pig is sick." She gently laid the stuffed pig on the pretend hospital bed and began digging through her doctor kit. She pulled out a pretend syringe, and pressed it into the pig's chest. "It's okay piggie, I'm here," she whispered as she pretended to access the pig's port. Tears rushed to my eyes when I heard her say. "I'm gonna give you some chemo, and then you will be ok again." Bless her little heart. I'm so happy she is able to process all this. That some how she did learn, and does know, that we did all this to make her better. "Mommy?! It's a chemo day for my pig!" she shouted. Max knocked down another tower and tackled me to the ground. I'm so glad neither noticed the tears creeping from the corner of my eyes. I said a million prayers for her continued recovery. I do this daily. I actually feel like God may be getting quite annoyed. He knows my heart, He hears me. 

I own a boutique (this is not a plug for it, hehe) and we have a warehouse that houses inventory for our website. I've actually always had a website, but mine just took off about 9 months ago. It took off right after a desperate prayer. I often go to the store at night to merchandise. One evening I sat on the floor thinking... praying... what can I do? How can I help contribute to our income as our medical bills were flowing in. I felt God tell me; work harder. Ummmm, what? Right now?! I'm tired, my kid has cancer, really?! And that was it. So I did, and it WORKED. My staff and I have worked tirelessly to keep up with this growing extension of the boutique, and we lost everything last Thursday to an electrical fire. It was heart wrenching...devastating...but also a reality check. All of my workers, a sweet little dog, and our fish (ironically named Smokey) were unharmed. Someone said, "Is this one of the worst days of your life?" and the answer was, "No, definitely no." We did a photo shoot later that day, made a make shift office, and trudged forward. There was no time for a pity party. It's just stuff. People matter. My staff matters. Life matters. No lives were lost. We are so lucky. I am in awe of the way God has blessed my life. 

Tay had scans today. Her first scan out of treatment. Her first scan not sedated. Our results come at the end of the week, and I have been a wreck. It terrifies me. It was a really hard day, but she bounced back to her happy self. She has faith. So again, I am inspired to have faith and know that everything is going to be ok. If it's not, we will go back to the battle field and fight for our girl. I'm a tough girl that won't give up on my business, and most certainly not my little girl. 

Undoing...

Life feels so wonderful right now. The days fly by, and I remember when I once counted the hours, minutes... seconds until our day could just be done. Sleep was the only form of escape, and morning always came to soon. We are in the thick of "undoing". I am carefully wading through the damage a year of treatment has done on Tay, Max, Chris, and honestly, myself. I watch her beautiful lashes grow in, her blond hair cover her once bald head, her cheeks fill out, and it warms my heart and terrifies me at the same time. Chemo is working it's way out of her body, and fear keeps waking me at night. I know where we have been, and can't imagine going back. So I humble myself daily. I give more than I get. I pray for her constantly. And I continue to "undo". Some days I feel totally unqualified to be her mother. I'm just a girl who loves her kid, I just want her to be ok, I just want to lessen the damage of what has taken place, I just can't go back. Scans are creeping up again, and tonight, four some more years of this seems like alot. So, I humble myself, and remember that I am so blessed to have my girl. I can't ask for anything more. Each day we begin again. And life resumes.

Thankful

"Tell her....tell Aunt Kristen mommy," Taylor whispered. My sister and I were pushing our double strollers through the mall, and I said, "Taylor's hair is growing back." Taylor proudly ran her hands over her head to show her little blond buzz with a sweet smile stretched across her full cheeks. Taylor loves it when my sister gives her girly attention. She likes to wear her fanciest dresses to Aunt Kristen's house, and I will never forget how pretty my sister made her feel the day she cut all her hair off.

I remember sitting wide eyed in my bathroom while my sister cut, and cut with Taylor sitting in the sink. They chatted and giggled, while I silently talked myself out of a hysterical melt down. I remember my sister saying, "Tay Tay, you look SO pretty!" after she cut it all off, and Taylor beaming at herself in the mirror. I'm sure my sister cried on her way home that day. I'm sure she cried a million other times, but only after she carefully convinced me I was fine. She would remind me how strong Tay is, how resilient she is, and she had hope when mine was lost.

I watched my sister cut up Max's lunch yesterday, and felt so lucky. (Of course I was too busy mauling her baby to notice Max was eating a strawberry with leaves on it.)  I rocked her baby while we ate, and pretended he was mine to anyone who commented how cute he was (hehe). Simple days are such a blessing. It's not lost on me. I thanked God the whole way home, especially for my sister.

Life is sweet.

Have you done something with your hair? Lost weight? Been on vacation? You look rested! Something is different about you........These are the things people say to me now. I had quickly forgotten what a process "getting ready" can be. Taylor has a fuzzy blond halo of hair, and doesn't seem to mind my hair anymore. I haven't lost much weight, just took off my comfy yoga pants and started getting "dressed" again. I do feel like I have been on vacation, a vacation from chemo, and gosh it's wonderful. I sleep much better now. I don't wake up crying in the night anymore. I don't pace the house worrying. I don't wake up and work compulsively because  I don't know what else to do. I sleep until my little Max wakes me... it's always before the sun comes up, God love him. Our days go by so fast now....it's amazing. I found myself motioning for my family to watch Taylor eat on Easter. She raced through the house with her cousins, squealing, and chattering with delight. I didn't leave my parent's house with that old familiar lump in my throat, with that gloom of treatment hanging over my head. I didn't see the pain in my family members faces when they looked at Taylor yesterday. I saw relief, joy, and hope. I think about what our families and friends have been through, and it breaks my heart and makes me so thankful at the same time. She is your girl too. You love her too. And when people ask me how I could have praised God through this nightmare, I am reminded that He loves her most. This hurt Him far more than it hurt me. Unimaginable but true. Life is sweet. 

Faith.

I didn't know what to say, so I didn't write. I didn't feel relief, and people want me to be relieved. It didn't feel over, yet we are done. (Well, not totally done.) This happened to me once before, in the beginning of our journey, when fear took over. It started waking me at night. Clouding my dreams. Stealing my happiness. This is what happens when I allow fear to take over.

Reality check. We are so blessed. Taylor is done with chemo and radiation. We are one clear scan away from a surgery to remove her port, and life to be normal for her again. Every day her immune system is getting stronger and stronger. People lose their kids every day. To cancer.... to tragedy..... to things that come without any warning at all. How lucky am I to have a changed heart at 32 years old? I know what's important in this life. Chris and I have walked through our darkest days, together, and somehow came out on the other side of this. So we have scans every 3 months..... we can do scans. Taylor is not a statistic, a prognosis, or some kind of ticking time bomb. She is an amazing, resilient, little fighter. My faith is in God, and now I feel relief.

 



Almost done.

The end is near. The bell is almost within our grasp. There is one treatment left, and we get our lives back. All of us. I remember sitting in the oncologist's office with tears streaming down my cheeks while he told us Taylor's stage and treatment plan. I had a notebook with me, to write down important things, and the only word written on my page was cancer. For months I was unable to say it, the word cancer, or that Taylor has cancer, I couldn't do it. I thought the treatment plan was impossible. How could we do this to her? How could her little body handle this? How could her spirit handle this? What about my 6 month old baby? My business? Our life....what about our life? And all of the sudden I realized that Taylor was crying, worried, and watching Chris and me fall apart. I decided that day to be an example of strength and courage to her. No matter how scared, or heartbroken, or sad I was, I would put a smile on my face and be a happy mommy in front of my kids. I kept myself on a strict discipline of keeping my eye on the goal, getting her through this, and did not allow myself to focus on the negative. We settled into isolation, and my breakdowns seemed to happen in the car, or the grocery store...those were really the only places I was alone. I remember wanting to stop treatment during radiation. It felt like too much, what if this was overkill, but her doctor's quickly gave me a reality check. Do it, or she may not make it through this. We have been living in this nightmare for a year. Is this working? Will she survive? How could we ever live without her? And all of the sudden, we are here. We did it.

I have cried all week. I feel relief, but I also feel so scared. What happens when she isn't being watched so closely. What if it comes back? I wanted her oncologist to tell me it never would..... and he can't do that. I believe that everything will be okay. Through this process I wished I could do this for her, and now I can. I can carry the worry about scan results every 3 months, while she enjoys her life. I can continue to pray for her life, while she rests easy. I got my wish. I can't ask for anything more. I put 100% of my faith in God through this process.... that He is stronger than cancer, and I am so thankful that we shared the same plans for my girl. I can't wait to see all that is in store for this one beautiful life we are given. It feels like someone just hit the "play" button after a year of being on "pause".  We blindly followed our oncologists treatment plan, trusted that he knew best, and as I sit down to write him a thank you note, I don't know where to begin. How do you thank someone for saving your child's....your most prized possession's.... life?

Eye on the prize....

"I want to see it mommy, the bell, I want to look at it," so after ten plus hours of chemo I rolled her over to the bell and she just stared at it. After a minute or so she said, "Ok, lets go." and we rolled away.

My three year old beauty was lounged back in her stroller, quiet, and seemed to be a million miles away. I buckled her into her car seat, and handed her the travel bucket in case she was sick. "Mommy.... that bell was so high....will my daddy lift me up to ring it?" she asked. "Of course he will, of course," I managed to say. She drifted off to sleep, and I cried the whole way home. Is that what she was thinking about? Worrying about? I love her.

A few weeks earlier I noticed a teen oncology patient really watching us.. .Taylor and me. It was hard to read his face behind his mask, but his eyes almost looked like tears were threatening to spill. I smiled, and we headed back to the infusion room. Later that same day I stepped outside of Taylor's curtain after she recovered from a melt down. I took a deep breath,and before I could turn to walk back in I heard, "She won't remember this..." and looked up to see the teen. "I was little when I started, and I only remember what people told me." It was so comforting, so kind, so heartbreaking all at the same time.

I feel out of sorts..... Is this really almost over? I felt a wave of guilt when a doctor sang out that we had just a few treatments left. A women across from me looked at me and smiled, but I could see the hurt in her eyes. She wants her baby to be done too. All these kids are united by their disease, their bravery, and their will to live. No child deserves it more than another, they are all equally entitled.

Kindness Matters

I called a supply store I use for my business on Thursday because I needed to pick up a few things without going in. They know our situation, and often process my payment over the phone and meet me outside with my items. One particular worker there is quiet, and rarely meets my eyes when I see him. The times we have been able to go inside he gives Taylor an extra wink, and kneels down to her level to talk to her. Sometimes he gives her a party hat or a beaded necklace, it always warms my heart, and makes her day.We pulled up, after a long day of chemo, and he came out in the rain to put my boxes in the car. I thanked him, and turned to get back in my car. "Brooke? We are here for you." I heard him say. I turned to see him with tears in his eyes, looking straight into my eyes. He glanced into the car, and looked at my sick, sleeping girl, and shook his head, "No kid should have to go through this," he choked out. Isolation didn't feel so lonely in that moment. How kind of him to step out of his comfort zone and show his support. Being kind matters. It saves people. It strengthens people. Kindness can give people hope about their situation, and the state of this world in general. Kindness matters.

There is a light....

I registered Taylor for pre-school this Fall. I signed her up for a mother's day out program at our church for this Spring. I'm looking into tumbling classes that she and Max can do together. Swimming lessons are in the works. I finally located our library.... I booked a trip. I bought Taylor barrettes for when her hair starts growing back. We all get our lives back soon......6 more treatments my dears. There is a light. 









Happy New Year

I have spent the past year living in the right here and now. I couldn't look back, it was too painful. I couldn't look ahead, it was far too overwhelming. So I lived moment to moment, treatment to treatment, scant to scan. Today, I have found myself with that familiar lump in my throat, hurt in my heart, and sheet of tears glazing over my eyes because on new year's eve, you can't help but look back. Back to the bump, the pokes, the surgery, the diagnosis, more surgeries, leaving Max, chemotherapy, kids living, kids dying, radiation.....oh my gosh the hell of radiation, missing birthday parties, missing weddings, bad scans, good scans, isolation, and more chemotherapy. I can see myself dropping to my knees when she was diagnosed. I can see myself crying in the hospital bathroom until it was Chris' turn to go cry. I can see Chris and myself running through the halls of the radiation center to get our crying baby girl. I can see Max crying hysterically when my mom left after watching him for long periods of time, reaching for her and calling her mama. I can see Taylor...oh my gosh, and I pray that no parent ever has to witness their child suffer the way we have.

And in between all the heartache there was God's good grace, shining through, lifting us up, and carrying us through this nightmare. There was each and every one of you, throwing us a life preserver when we were absolutely drowning. My house was cleaned during our first long stay, my dog was washed, meals were brought, cards and gifts were sent, bills were paid, benefits were organized, smaller clothes for Taylor were left on my doorstep, hugs were given, and most of all,  millions of prayers were said. There were times, in the midst of my darkest days, I would feel complete and total peace, for a few moments my heart would stop breaking, and I know that was from all of you.

I called a friend the other day, in a rare chipper mood, and she said how great it was to see a glimpse of the "old Brooke". I know what she meant, the happy Brooke. I miss that Brooke too. Thank you for bearing with me. For waiting for me to come back. 2013 is about health and healing for us. Rebuilding our family, our friendships, marriage, and growing our faith. I can't wait to go on a date with Chris without the gloom of cancer hovering over us. I can't wait to really rest, and let go of all this heartache. I can't wait to stop torturing my girl every Thursday. But most of all, I can't wait to watch our sweet girl ring that bell, and get her life back. Happy New Year to you and yours.



Rule Breaker

I broke the rules today. Many of them actually. A plate broke and profanity raced off my tongue. Mommy fail. I meant to say "shoot" I promise. Taylor kindly informed me that ladies don't talk potty talk, and suggested I sit in time out until I could think of something nice to say. Clever little thing...I pulled up to our mall at 9:58am, it opens at 10am. "WHAT are we doing Mommy?!" Taylor asked me. "Max and I won't touch anything, we will just sit in the stroller, yaaay, the MALL!" she squealed. She knows the drill. Mask on, stay in the stroller, don't touch ANYthing. "I want to show you something." I told them. I raced them in, and they both starred in awe at the holiday decorations. We rolled up to an over sized chair and there sat Santa Claus. "SANTA?!!!" she squealed. We waved at Santa from behind the rope, and I saw the sparkle come back in her eyes. I couldn't look at the workers starring at us, I just kept looking at Santa. I saw kindness and empathy in his eyes. He made our day with a simple wave. We rolled away and Taylor looked back and said, "Mommy, will Santa make me sick if I go see him?" Ouch. I explained that Santa was just waving today, maybe another time we would get closer. She seemed fine with that, and giggled to Max about seeing Santa. The piano was playing in the department store, and I let my little ones out to dance for a minute. (Max went straight to the shoe department and began throwing shoes across the room), but Taylor danced....and pranced.....and hopped around to jingle bells. It was 10:15am, and we were back in the car. I drove home with a lump in my throat. Everything hurts. I'm exhausted. 9 more treatments, 9 more treatments...