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.