Switching Gears

Two weeks ago, I left The Job for good. Here are just a few of the reasons why:

First, let's visit everybody's favorite place - the break room, which is a former closet, now plastered in warnings, demands, and threats.

 

But nice effort on filling that bowl of oatmeal with water and leaving it 

in the sink for two weeks, like some kind of science experiment.

  

 Sorry, I can't quite make that out. There's too much GD food splattered on your sign.

And FYI, throwing up in your trash can while sitting in your cube does not count.

GO.AWAY.

However, shit thrown on that table over there? That can stay forever.

Liquefied circus peanuts, anyone?

 

Not sure what happened here ...

 

but they apparently mean business.

 

And please help yourself to some donuts - we got them for the temp who left Friday

and brought them back out for "Chris," who started six days later. Yes, really.

Now, a quick tour of the office.

 

Over here, we've got a wall full of these file cabinet's.

  

 Check out our modern decor.

 

Hungry yet? It's 9:45 - sure ya are!

And finally, the second most popular spot in the joint, after the break room. Which is also the order in which they are visited.

So many questions. Not the least of which is why 2 pumps or sprays?

Who decided that?

Do you see? Do you see why I had to go?

"Good."

"Many thank's."

VICTORY

From the blog I write for Peach:

Somehow, 28 months have passed in the blink of an eye and at a snail's pace at the same time. And here we are at the finish line. Finally. It almost seems like time should have been standing still, now ready to begin again - but it's over two years later, and I am in awe of the poised young lady we now have in our midst. She has faced every challenge with quiet strength and a wisdom and confidence well beyond her years. She has moved through this experience with grace and determination and, quite often, a smile. She has been patient and trusting and never ever doubtful. And she soundly and decidedly kicked leukemia's butt.

And so, it is done. I am overwhelmed by the messages, texts, and all-out LOVE that has been coming at us from all sides today. We celebrated by holding our second annual charity art show for childhood cancer research and our third annual blood drive and marrow donor registration drive - both hugely successful events, yet again. Peach did two television interviews, got hugs and well-wishes from just about everyone in Austin, Texas, and handled all the hoopla so very well. That girl, y'all - That.GIRL. It was truly the best day ever. Ever.

Much more to say, and I will, once I float back down to Earth. Love love love to all.

This Is Dedicated To The One I Love

Six years and 399 posts later, I think it's time to give T-Bone some love. I mean, I've told you before, many times in fact, about what a great partner and father he is, plus The Great Story of how we met. He's a keeper, that one. And I really do know how lucky I am.

But it still hit me like a ton of bricks at a blood cancer conference we went to this weekend. We listened to a panel of "cancer moms" tell their war stories, and several of them had the same doctor. They all nodded when one mom shared a moment from the beginning of their journey when that doctor took her husband and her aside and said, "I can cure your child's cancer. But I can't guarantee that you two will be together when it's over." Damn.

T-Bone and I talked about that at the start of everything - how we really needed to check in with each other every day and take a moment here and there to just BE together - but no one ever put it to us so bluntly, or really any way at all. We could immediately see how difficult this was going to be, even with a solid foundation, and I told him early on that "This is our trial." As a couple, as parents, as people. And it has certainly been that.

And we've kicked ass.

Two months from today, Peach will take her last dose of chemotherapy and go off treatment. Five months from today, I will shave my fool head in celebration of her victory and in support of St. Baldrick's and childhood cancer research. And 50 years from today, T-Bone will still be greeting me every day with "There she is." and his precious smile.

Truly, madly, deeply.

The Great Escape

So I'm plotting my departure from The Job. For real. Actually, I've been plotting it since the day I got there, over three years ago. JimiNEE, has it been that long? See, that's how they get you. The fluorescent lights, the Goody Days, and the GD banality of it all finally wear you down until one day, you look up, and 20 years have gone by, and they're planning some brisket plate (dessert's extra) retirement party for you in Conference Room 3. Well, not me, sister - no thanks. I'm OUT.

Not quite yet, but soon. The plan is to wait until Peach has finished kicking cancer's ass, and my officemate gets back from maternity leave (I couldn't leave them two warm bodies down. I'm not a total bitch.), and then it's adios, mofos. Somewhere around mid-May? Sounds good to me. And where am I going, what am I doing? What all bright(?), young(?) attorneys-at-law, esquires do - I'm hanging out the proverbial shingle.

I know, right! Me, the lawyer who really doesn't like practicing law. Here's what happened: I was at The Job a couple of months back, cursing my work and the asshole lawyers and their asshole clients who make my days so very unpleasant. I found myself saying, "How can you not get this right? Anyone can do this! Even I can do this!" And then I thought, "Yes, as dumb as I am, even I could really do this." Meaning, the same boring work I do now, but for the little guy, instead of The Man. And do it right, and make everybody happy, for roughly the same check each month, but over fewer hours and with exactly NO CRAZY. So T-Bone and I have been mulling over the logistical aspects of "opening" a practice and deposing law school friends about their experiences in the biz. I've done a lot of research on the procedural and practical aspects of this very narrow area of law and how I can get a case from Point A to Point B - and get paid for it. Also, I've spent a fair amount of time trying to grow the balls to actually do this.

Yes, it's risky, but it's also very necessary. As good as they've been to me during Peach's treatment, I'm going Nowhere Fast, personally and professionally, if I stay in that place. I'm really feeling called to the non-profit arena, so the short-term goal is to work to support my Cancer World volunteering habit. The long-term goal is to break all the way into a non-profit career and leave this fucking powdered wig behind for good, but I've got to get my foot in the door first. You know, the foot I've had out the door at The Job since orientation three years ago.

So, baby steps. But it's a start.

Wrapping Up

I'm backdating this post because I didn't want to end the year on a down note - especially since I'm writing you so few notes these days. Also, 12/31 is Peach's diagnosis anniversary (as well as the day two crazy kids I know went and got married 14 years ago), so I think a more celebratory post is in order, don't you? Yes.

Two years. TWO. Can you believe it? I'm sure I've said it before, but sometimes I feel like we've been doing "this" forever, and other times, I feel like just yesterday, we were sitting in the pediatrician's office and being told to go directly to the children's hospital, do not pay on your way out, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. And then all hell broke loose.

When I think about the sheer amount of information - in all forms - that has passed in front of us since that day, my mind truly boggles. When I think about the physical and mental toll that "this" has taken on Peach, I am in awe of her resilience. And when I see the light at the end of the tunnel getting brighter every day, and our family emerging on the other side of "this" healthy and intact, I am so proud. And grateful beyond measure.

If Peach continues at the rate she's going, we'll be having a big 'ol party on April 29th, her last day of treatment. And you're all invited. Until then, Happy Healthy New Year, y'all. It's gonna be a great one.

Sigh.

Sigh.

Papa Turista has leukemia. Stage 0 Chronic Lymphoblastic Leukemia, so we're in "watch and wait" mode until he needs treatment, if ever. It's about as common in adults as Peach's leukemia is in kids, but being that it's chronic vs. acute, many folks live with it for years and years before needing treatment. He's like the poster boy for CLL: White, Male, 70. Looking at past blood work (thankfully, he's very good about going to the doctor), it's likely it started developing in 2009. Again, like Peach. And of course I asked and the answer is: NO. Just a big fat fucking coincidence.

We found out about a month ago, and other than immediate family and about four friends, he hasn't told anyone. We won't tell Peach and Olive either, unless we have to, so keep it under your hat. I think if I hadn't been working on my De Facto Residency in Hematology Oncology over the last year and a half, I would be much more upset. And afraid. But as it is, I'm just really, really mad.

I tell you all this today because Peach is marking 20 months in treatment tomorrow. With, hopefully, about eight more to go. This kid of mine: Amazing. She just keeps plugging along - stiff joints, steroid weepies, and all - smiling every step of the way. Since we last spoke, she brought the house down at GGMS's graduation ceremony (don't get me started), she raised over $3000 for childhood cancer research, and she designed a freaking Hermione Granger video game. She made it through two weeks at sleep-away camp, and last week, she stared down Middle School - and won. Whatever the challenge, she takes it on and does incredible things. And sweet, sweet Olive is her biggest supporter. Truly, I'm about to burst over the both of them.

Which is why I feel guilty when I complain, like when I unloaded on Karla May the night I found out about Papa Turista. Even though cancer has become part of our daily conversation (and that of this neglected blog - I know! I said I was going to ease up on the cancerspeak!), we are still so very blessed. As difficult as it is, especially for Peach, this trial isn't near what some people have to endure every day, forever. And while I wouldn't ever choose it, wish it on anyone, or want to repeat it, we have learned so much, met some unbelievable people, and watched our baby rise to her fullest, best self. So there are some gifts to be had, and things to be thankful for.

But I'm still mad as hell.

Gratitude

Really? This is what it's come to? Quarterly reports?! I mean, I told you last time that I wasn't going to be quite as cancer-y going forward, but I certainly didn't mean to leave hanging the teaspoonful (smaller than a handful) of you who actually stop by here every day. My apologies!

That said, it's been five years since I started this blog. Huh.

I scroll through old posts every now and again, making myself laugh. Or cringe. Or just reflect. And I find something new every time. It occurred to me recently that when I wrote this, I neglected to mention that I made it through that MRI by thinking about how many times my friend's daughter had powered through the many MRIs she had - and hated - while battling a brain tumor. Then, when I wrote this, I didn't say that the real impetus for my giving blood for the first time was because of a family friend's recent lymphoma diagnosis. And then, of course, there is the irony of all ironies in this post, where I mourned the loss of both of those precious souls. A post that I revisited at this time last year.

I'm a big believer in The Cosmic Connection, so I look at those events as not only my attempts to pay tribute to Bailey and Sharon, but also as my preparation for what was to follow. I had no idea that nearly a year to the day after that blood drive, I would be encouraging my own family and friends to donate blood in honor of Peach. I could have never dreamed that after following Bailey's family through the world of pediatric cancer, I would be helping Peach navigate her own journey.

But here we are, on the eve of another blood drive in honor of Peach, and nearly one year away from the end of her treatment protocol. And we are so grateful. This child continues to amaze and inspire all of us with her attitude and her fortitude. Not only is she tolerating her ever-fluctuating med schedule without complaint, she's even been "reminiscing" about different moments from the past year - like, "Remember that time after my 13th spinal tap, and we got yogurt in the rain? That was so fun!" And because her ticket did in fact get pulled for The Most Awesome Secondary School for Girls in the History of the World, I'm sure world domination is imminent.

No, I couldn't have predicted any of this, but we landed here just the same. And we're doing great. So thank you, Bailey. Thank you, Sharon. Thank you, Universe.

In Which I Go to 11

I think y’all have a pretty good handle on all of that for now, so let’s start anew.

Since we last spoke, the family and I thoroughly enjoyed the holidays and our trip to Florida. Again, I am amazed at how many “Pooh size” folks there are in Mouse World. I don’t even know how they make it from the parking lot to the gate, not to mention through acres and acres of parks for days at a time. It’s quite painful to watch, actually. I did notice, though, that Mouse World and its progeny seem to have revamped their menus so there were many “healthy” options available, and I had at least one good salad a day. Lots of fruit, too. Of course, they also added something that, in all my years, I have never seen at Mouse World – turkey legs. Eight dollar turkey legs. The sight of someone eating one always unnerves me, but it’s that much more upsetting to see a 3-year-old in a princess costume gnawing away on one right in front of It’s a Small World. Yech.

On the home front, Peach and Olive are happily ensconced in their beloved GGMS, while all hell breaks loose around them in the AISD. Thanks to Governor Hairdo and a host of other factors, public education in the Great State of Texas is in a world of hurt, and the Capital City is facing a major, major school budget crisis – one that the brain trust in residence thinks could be solved by closing some of the most successful, most active elementary schools in town. One of which Peach and Olive would be happily ensconced in were they not at GGMS. My limited faith in the AISD is rapidly disappearing, even as we help Peach apply for The Most Awesome Secondary School for Girls in the History of the World – which is public. Gulp. And where class spots are determined by lottery. Double gulp. If she doesn’t get the golden ticket this year, we have the wonderful option of having her stay one more year at GGMS, the symmetry of which I rather like, and we can try again next year. But the lottery pool is weighted 75% for girls coming from Title I schools and 25% for everyone else, including us, so either way, it’s a long shot. That said, I seem to recall Peach’s ticket being pulled from the smallest percentage for a lottery we never even signed up for, so I think karmic justice requires that she gets something she actually wants and deserves this time. Thank you, Universe.

On the job front, I’m still at The Job, for better or worse. Everyone was incredibly supportive the past year, allowing me to work from home when I needed to and adding a ton of paid sick time to my tally. But, but, but, I’m still pushing paper, which, especially now, seems so mind-suckingly(?) insignificant, I really really need a change. Since the day I started The Job, I’ve been looking for another one. I’m not even sure I want to practice law (was I ever?), and after seeing what I’ve seen this year, I’m just embarrassed to get paid for what I do. I’m not knocking The Law, just The Job. Rah rah rah, Atticus Finch and all that, I love him. Really. But I doubt Atticus ever got Employment Manual updates clarifying that t-shirts, caps, and shorts are not appropriate work attire and that colored ink, bouncing emoticons, and pictures of pets are not to be included in the signature block of work emails. REALLY. We have to put this shit in writing, y’all. Now with all the budget mess, even historically secure state jobs may have to be cut, and maybe mine will be one of them. And maybe I wouldn’t be too broken up about it. For now, I’ve got about seven different versions of my resume being sent to the four winds, and we’ll see what turns up.

Finally, it’s official – I Kick Ass. Earlier this month, the lovely Karla May (and her evil minions) set me up for a big surprise in the form of a 2011 Spike Gillespie Kick Ass Award, commemorating the helluva journey we Turistas have recently been on (did I mention?). I was shocked, very moved, and very appreciative. I love the award and what it stands for, but I love the gal that gave it to me – and the rest of y’all – immeasurably more.

Now let's get out there and have a Kick Ass New Year, y'all! Hi - YAH!

The Girl of The Year

Happy Everything, my Peachy Pie

Me and My Big Cliche

We’re closing in on the one-year mark, and I have no idea where the time went. I’ve told Peach that I feel like this was the fastest year of my life, and she agreed that most days moved so quickly, but some lasted forever. True. So, as a reward for her hard work, we’re celebrating her birthday, her diagnosis day, and a brand new year at Disneyworld, courtesy of the Make-a-Wish Foundation.

When we were checking out of the hospital way back when, the Child Life Specialist had all sorts of information about special programs Peach was eligible for, including Make-a-Wish. It was all I could do to hold it together and take that GD pamphlet, which I quickly stuck in the bottom of the pile, destined for the first recycling bin – or fireplace – I could find. Six days into this thing, I refused to “go there,” so I had no intention of discussing it with Peach any further.

About a month later, we were at the clinic for a long day, and the Child Life Specialist there asked Peach if she had made her wish yet. Shit. Peach said no, so, bless her heart, the CLS went into great detail about what Peach could wish for, and "here, let’s look at their website, and that kid over there did this, and that kid over there did that" … I was cringing. That is, until I caught a glimpse of their FAQs page, and the post for “Are wishes only offered to kids who are terminally ill?” And the answer is NO. Exhale.

After that, the process began in earnest, and we knew within another month or so that Peach’s wish to go to Disneyworld was granted. I say *we* meaning T-Bone and me. I didn’t want to tell Peach in case I needed “something” for incentive on a really rough day. Which, thankfully, we didn’t have that many of, and I was able to keep the surprise until our grand Back to School Feast. We’ll be going to Universal Studios, too, so the big reveal was done via owl and an official letter from Hogwarts, inviting Peach to enroll the day after her 11th birthday. She is beyond excited, but she told me last night that she doesn’t know what she’d be thinking right now if “all that hadn’t happened last year.” Me neither, my love.

If I did a word search of my posts for this year, I realize there would be a handful of buzzwords and catchphrases that are repeated ad nauseum. You know the ones. The words that everyone uses to describe cancer and treatment and people going through it. The phrases that every non-profit uses to promote their cause and tug at your heartstrings and encourage you to open your wallet. I don’t know how it happened, but I just slipped into that language (Cancerspeak?), and the clichés flowed like water. Or wine. You choose.

But here’s the thing: Cancer IS a monster. Treatment IS a battle, fight, journey. People going through it ARE brave, amazing, inspiring. And we MUST raise awareness, funds, and hope to find a CURE.

So, no apologies. Just immense gratitude for Peach’s success and for the love and light surrounding us. And for this disease? A lasting hatred that I’ve been told is – yes – inspiring.

Deja Vu

Has it been a month already? Hell, a whole year? Although my brain is working daily overtime, processing too much information that is way beyond my limited intelligence, I've tried to cobble together one focused post a month (with all apologies to July). Without loading you down with details, I just wanted to share a moment or an aspect of this experience and maybe get it out of my head, to make room for the next day's news. I hope you've been entertained (is that the right word?) or learned something or done something. Or something. I've been grateful for the friendly ear at least, so thank you.

Now as we barrel ever-faster toward the first anniversary of Peach's diagnosis (we celebrate these things in Cancer World, did you know? Oh yes.), I am nearly overcome by the enormous sense of deja vu. Me, who is ALL ABOUT the calendar, and special days, and traditions, and memories, and generally making a big GD deal out of everything, I can't help but recall every second of the last time we did this or that. Especially since this fall, when Peach was gearing up for her triumphant return to school and "normalcy," I have been struck by how quickly the time passed, how far we have come, and how much everything feels exactly the same and completely different.

When Peach was in the hospital, I came home on the third night to stay with Olive. I walked into the kitchen, and staring me in the face was the perpetual calendar we've had since we got married. It was still stuck on December 30th. Peach's birthday, the day everything changed. Again. I walked straight to our bathroom and quietly fell to my knees. But only for a moment, because Sweet Olive was close behind, wondering if I was hungry. The Amazing Mama Turista knew the problem in an instant, and that calendar was changed by the time I came out of the bathroom. If it were up to me, it might still be on December 30th, but what good would that do, really.

I am not dwelling in "the past," not any more than in your run-of-the-mill "they grow up so fast" sense, and I am beyond hopeful for the future. But I can't ignore the seismic shift in our lives since the last time we put up Christmas decorations. Will it get easier as the years go by? I think so. And I also think it's okay, at least this first year, to struggle with the New Normal's impact on the Old World Order.

Give thanks.

And Now, a Word About Olive

Outstanding.

Lest you think the talk around here is All Cancer, All the Time, I can tell you it is most assuredly not. In our never-ending quest for normalcy, we have had many moments of laughter, levity, and downright joy, but one of the brightest moments has been The Blossoming of Miss Olive.

Absolutely remarkable, this one. Olive hates everything to do with the doctor, and at first, I was so worried that she would be forever traumatized regarding all things medical after watching Peach go through treatment. In fact, I caught myself thinking, God forbid, if this were Olive, it would be a whole different story - compliance-wise. But now? I'm not so sure.

We have all been pleasantly surprised by, and immensely proud of, the way Olive has handled herself and made her way through all of this. She cried the very first night because she didn't want Peach, T-Bone, and me to spend the night at the hospital without her, but after that, and a few heartfelt, age-appropriate conversations, she has been solid as a rock. Pink granite.

She is so empathetic, just patting on Peach and cheering her on at every turn. She is a huge helper, bringing Peach a cold rag when she's not feeling well and making sure we're all quiet when Peach is resting. She was genuinely more excited for Peach to get back to school than for herself, and the first time we saw one of the American Cancer Society's "Happy Birthday" commercials, she reached over to pat Peach and just smiled at her. It was just the sweetest thing. She so GETS it, but she's not afraid of it.

So in the waning hours of this, her birthmonth, I want to celebrate my brave, beautiful 7 year old girl and say Happy Happy Birthday dear Olive. I love you!

Genesis

I had A Moment at the dance studio the other day. To promote the upcoming Nutcracker auditions, the lobby television was playing a DVD from a past production. It took me all of three seconds to realize it was last year's production. The one Peach was in two weeks before her diagnosis. Try as I might, I couldn't look away, and as the time for her number grew closer, the knot in my stomach grew, too. As per usual, the few other mothers that were there were too busy bitching and kvetching to even notice the TV, so I stood up right in front of it, put on my sunglasses, and cried as I watched Peach dance. And then I went out to the car and called T-Bone. And I bawled.

I haven't cried that hard in a while. I just don't have time for it, really. But seeing Peach doing what she loves so much, smiling and enjoying herself without a care in the world - it just undid me. "It" was all there, and we just had no idea. She wasn't showing any of the signs that ultimately led us to the doctor two weeks later, but It had already started.

I have spent way too much time and energy trying to pinpoint the exact moment this all began, and the truth is, we will never know for sure. I look at pictures from weeks, days, even hours before diagnosis, searching for the tiniest indication of change - any evidence of what was to come - and I can't find it. And it drives me crazy. Even though I know we caught It as early as we could have, and much earlier than many people do, I can't get over the fact that there was A Moment when a cell in Peach's perfect little body decided to wreak havoc, and I didn't have the opportunity or the capacity to stop it.

In the first few days and weeks after we came home from the hospital, I had a hard time seeing healthy children, out and about in public with their happy parents, enjoying their holidays. I wasn't envious or angry, just very sad. For them. I thought how blissfully ignorant those parents were of the fact that their baby could get cancer. I wondered if it ever occurred to them that their healthy child could ever get so sick, seemingly in an instant. And, of course, the answer is NO. Because I used to be them, and as much as I worry about everything, real and imagined, it never truly occurred to ME that this could happen. And that's saying a lot.

People ask me questions all the time about leukemia and blood cells and chemotherapy, and they often apologize, saying, "I'm sorry. I just don't know much about all of this." My answer is always, "Of course you don't. Why would you?" I didn't know much about all of "this" either before now, and I'm learning all the time because I have to. I need to. I want to. And with all the learning and emoting I've been doing, maybe someday I'll be able to let go of my obsession with Its birth. Even better, maybe I'll finally be able to accept (without having to remind myself first thing every morning) that this is actually happening at all.

September is National Childhood Cancer Awareness Month. Please consider supporting CureSearch's efforts to fund life-saving research for all childhood cancers. Peach thanks you.

I'm Beginning To See The Light. I Think.

Peach has one more week of treatment. Well, one more week of primary treatment plus two years of maintenance, or "chemo light," as the nurses call it. Somehow, almost eight months have flown by, and my girl has kicked serious ass nearly every single day. Besides (almost) feeling relief, I am consumed with pride. Peach has amazed us with her strength and humbled us with her grace. And Olive? I can't even tell you how incredible she's been - so brave, so empathetic, so on top of it all.

So now, like most survivors and their families, I'll take my place atop the razor's edge and pray like hell (um ...) that when she's done, she's really done. For good. I am not a pessimist, but I am a huge worrier, and I'm quite sure I'll never rest completely until there's an absolute, bona fide cure for this evil. Because the only thing that scares me more than having to go through all of this is having to go through it all again. The chances of a recurrence are small, but so are the chances of getting childhood cancer in the first place. So because of the worrying thing, and the fact that I am very superstitious, I shy away from grand, all-encompassing words like "last" and "forever." Everything is qualified with some grey-area BS, if only in my head. Even the night before Peach was diagnosed, the night before her birthday, when we had NO idea what was to come the next day, she started to say something like,"This is the last night I'll sleep in my bed ..." and I actually knocked on wood and said, "As a nine year old." Turns out, it was the last night she slept in her bed for nearly eight months. And counting.

I am confident that Peach has received, and will continue to receive, the best care possible. Again, the fact that there was a proven treatment plan ready for her, one that has worked so well for her, is a HUGE source of comfort. But when the answer to most of my (many) questions about any of this is "it depends," it's hard to be completely comfortable. For now, however, I'm stepping back and marveling at our family's journey and feeling grateful for the love and support we've been shown. We will continue to take it day by day and keep on fighting, raising money, and celebrating Peach's victories because, thankfully, there are many.

Father's Day

When this whole thing started, when we were on our way from the pediatrician's office to the hospital for an actual diagnosis, I called my dad. I was in the car by myself, trying to process what just happened, and what was about to happen, and when he answered, all I could get out was, "Dad. We're on our way to the hospital, they want ...," and he cut me off with, "I'm coming." The more I tried to get the words out, he just kept calmly saying, "I'm coming. I'm coming. I'm on my way right now." And he did come. And he was there with us every minute, even when we went to "the little room" where the doctor gave us "the news." As a father, and a grandfather, I know it was one of the most important, most difficult moments of his life, and I still haven't found the words to thank him for being there. I love him, and I'm so lucky he's mine.

As for T-Bone, y'all know how I feel about him. And so does he. Honestly, they broke the mold.

Mother's Love

About a year ago, I wrote this post. The irony, I know. So today, Mother's Day, I find myself thinking about Stacey waking up without a mother and Amy waking up without a daughter, and my heart is heavy for them.

When Peach was diagnosed, I was encouraged to reach out to these people, and I didn't (still haven't) because I knew, even in the first confused moments of this nightmare, that Peach's journey would have a different outcome. And I felt incredibly guilty about that. I thought it was too soon for these people to be supporting anyone but their own families and how selfish it would be to drag them back into this world when they've barely begun to crawl out of it themselves.

From Day One, we were given a plan, a proven, successful plan, and all we've had to do is follow it. We haven't had to experiment or "best guess" anything, and the clinical trial Peach is enrolled in just tests the administration options for a certain medicine, not its success or effectiveness. There are no Hail Marys here. Not medical ones anyway. Truly, the only surprise we've had is that Peach was ever diagnosed in the first place. How lucky we are.

I am in NO WAY diminishing what Peach is going through, but every time we visit the clinic or the hospital, we see families with much harder rows to hoe. Some have little hope for recovery or they have life-long, life-altering effects and disabilities to manage. Many have few resources and no support outside of their treatment team, and just to get their child to appointments is a monumental feat. These families are fighting just as hard as we are, even with the deck stacked against them in one way or another, because what else can they do? No one will ever care for their child as much and as well as they do, and somewhere inside, they know that, and so they press on. And on and on. It's inspiring and gut-wrenching at the same time.

Of course, nobody wants to do any of this. You do it because you have to. You watch as your child gets pumped with medicines with "toxin" in the name because what choice do you have? You consent to procedures with page after page of risks and potential side effects (some that won't surface for YEARS) because how can you not? You focus on the here-and-now or you will come undone. And still, I am thankful. I know Peach will get better and this is what we do to make that happen.

Today, we spent a few hours at the hospital, where Peach was getting the last two of 12 shots she's had over the last 12 days (two, every other day). The shots take only a few minutes, but we have to stay for observation for two hours in case she has an allergic reaction. While we waited, we snuggled up in the hospital bed together, watching the rain outside. I held her close and kissed her fuzzy head, and we decided that this was the best Mother's Day gift ever. And it was.

Born Again

This experience feels so much like having a newborn. So very much like that. When we were first leaving the hospital, I was so glad to be going home but so scared to be leaving the people who actually know how to do all of this. Since then, there's been a constant reporting of All Things Peach: Did she sleep? Did she eat? Did she poop? Is she cold? Is she hot? Wash your hands! Wash your hands! Wash your hands! And now, I can't believe how it feels like we just started everything but also like we've been doing it forever.

Little by little, we're making our way along - always learning. And Peach is just the champion of all champions. This past month or so has been the hardest so far, and she has 10 pounds less of herself to show for it. She had a severe allergic reaction that required a night in the hospital a couple of weeks ago, but other than that pretty big hiccup, she's progressing as expected for this protocol (which I've been told by those in the know is as highly successful as it is highly miserable). She is still engaged and interested, and I know her cooperation makes it so much easier for the treatment team. They often practically fight to get to her first because she's such a joy to work with. Her hair has started to grow back (for now - will likely come in and out several more times), and it has that peach fuzz texture I remember from the first time I watched it come in. I am, again, amazed by and enamored with this beautiful creature.

A lot of people have told me a lot of things about a lot of stuff recently, and just like with a newborn, you have to filter through all the "advice" and find what works for you and yours and just do that. Of course everyone means well, and I know it's hard to find the right thing to say, and I am the MOST guilty of saying things that don't come out right at the worst possible moment. That said, the other day, a friend was tearfully talking about Peach's "character" and how this experience will "really build her character," and the whole conversation just didn't sit right with me. I understand what my friend was trying to say, but I thought, NO. Just NO.

Addressing that fucking monster in her blood, I thought, this child already has more character than any grown person could ever dream of having. Any 100 grown people. She didn't need this experience to build character, she's there. She's been there since the day she was born. Will this nightmare impact her life going forward? Yes, unfortunately forever. But it will not change who she is and what she's made of because that is what's getting her through it right now. It's what's getting us ALL through it.

There will never come a moment where we say, "Remember that time you had leukemia?" But as much as we search for and drain every drop of positivity out of all of this, Peach will not be defined by it, not now, not ever.

From the moment we got the diagnosis, I told the doctor that we have to fix this. That Peach is a special, special girl and anyone that knows her will tell you that. That she has many great things to do and that we just have to fix this. And we are. So as I feed her and bathe her and watch her sleep, I think about how far my baby has come, and I'm confident that this is all leading to the greatness she was already destined for.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

I'm shaving my head tomorrow. On live television. Holy hell.

We've been fundraising for St. Baldrick's, an amazing organization, and the big event is this Saturday. Individuals and teams volunteer to shave their heads to support childhood cancer research, and one of the local organizers contacted us about doing an interview/live shave as a promotion. Ever the drama queen, I said YES, so off it comes tomorrow morning.

Compared to everything else she's been through, losing her hair hasn't really bothered Peach in the slightest. When she first heard that it would happen, not having any experience or even a passing knowledge about cancer, she got a little upset. But when I explained that her hair would grow back, and that Daddy's hair would never grow back, she laughed and hasn't given it a second thought since.

I'm excited to see what it looks like when it grows back - maybe the Shirley Temple ringlets of her babydom. As for mine, I'm confident that the silver mini-fro will be the next big thing in coiffure.

Also, somehow my FOUR year bloggiversary was in February. The hell?

Remission

Yes, you read that right. That's apparently how leukemia treatment works, when it works really well. Peach is in remission a little over four weeks after she was diagnosed. Amazing. Now comes the hard part.

The thing is, I can talk about all of this all day long (and I do, sometimes), and I can hear the words "cancer" and "chemotherapy" and "Peach" all in the same sentence, and still. STILL. There is a little part of me that can't believe, won't believe, this has happened. A little part that is just sure the next time we go to the clinic or talk to the doctor, the jig will be up, and they will know we've blown this whole thing out of proportion. When T-Bone was shaving her head the other night, I actually thought to myself, "Oh, here we're doing all of this, and it isn't really even necessary. It's all just a big mistake."

I know that "little part" is named Denial, I know. And try as it might, Denial's voice is very small and has absolutely NOT kept me from forging full-steam ahead on the treatment plan from Day One. But I do think Denial has kept me from losing my ever-loving mind at times because I have decided this: If a parent in this situation ever completely processed what was happening, they would be rendered useless. It's just too huge to fully comprehend and still be able to function. There's a disconnect in there somewhere. The first thing I said to the doctor when she gave us the diagnosis was, "Are you sure? Because I really feel like you're talking to someone else." And I still feel like that.

But she was sure, and she was talking to us, and now, it's been four weeks, and the leukemia cells are gone. The problem is, they have a habit of not staying gone, so now we begin six months of IV and spinal chemotherapy, followed by two years of maintenance therapy, during which Peach will take oral chemotherapy and have regular visits to the clinic. She should be able to return to school in the fall, and her hair will start coming back once she's through with the harder IV meds. She's tolerated everything really well so far, and the main thing we have to watch out for is any type of infection. We're lucky that she and Olive both are normally very healthy kids, without any chronic health issues (allergies, asthma, etc.) to manage on top of treatment. We have every confidence in her doctors and the facilities here, and we are surrounded by loving family and friends. We are truly blessed in many ways.

The biggest blessing of all? Peach. At diagnosis, I told the doctor that we had to fix this because Peach has many great things to do and anyone that knows her would say that she is a special, special little girl. And she continues to prove me right every day. She is confident, engaged, and actively participating in her treatment. She knows she will be cured but will have to fight to get there, and she proceeds as the thoughtful, quiet warrior that she is. How lucky I am to be her mother. I am amazed by her courage and happily bear witness to her incredible grace. And while I have my quiet moments of doubt, I am buoyed by a strength that is not my own, and I have never seen more clearly that God is good.

New Year, New Normal

Two days ago, our precious, precious Peach turned 10 years old.

Yesterday, she was diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.

Today, our entire world, and everything in it, looks completely different.