One year and a lifetime ago

Today is Brooklyn's one year cancer-free-iversary.

One year ago, doctors meticulously removed her tumour, diagnosed as stage one neuroblastoma for the mix of benign and malignant cells inside its walls. The cancer had not spread beyond her tumour, a reality I like to call being lucky, as far as unlucky goes.

One year ago we began healing.
All of five of us.

First, Brooklyn's physical body.
Her bravery lines.

Then, mom and dad's physical selves.
Back pain. Acid reflux. Sleep issues.

Now, all five of us are focused on our mental health.
Kicking the nightmares.
Lessening the anger.
Managing the guilt.
Feeling the sadness.

All this and we are the lucky family.
We endured a mere five weeks of treatment.
Quarterly follow ups.
A healthy child.
(This is where my guilt takes hold)

Thankfully Brooklyn is finally speaking about her time in treatment, thanks to an incredible play therapy program offered by Wellspring Niagara, which is led by Liz Christie of Playful Solutions. Just last week she said to Liz that every child with cancer is sad, but that sadness is really just being afraid. She has been able to articulate, through sand tray therapy, that sadness has taken her heart, a crushing reality of childhood cancer and medical trauma.

Her progress is slow but reassuring.
And we are grateful.

Little brother still clings, worries with every doctor's appointment and hugs his sister like a deity.
Big brother still feels jealous of the attention she has received, but we're discovering a level of anguish in his anger which seems to be tied very closely to all that happened last year.

And we were the lucky family.
Our daughter is alive.
NED.

She has grown over 10lbs and 3 inches in the last year.
Her hair, ironically cut as a Wigs for Kids donation two summers ago is growing long and thick.
She expresses her desire to be a dance teacher, play therapist, babysitter and mommy someday.
She reads beyond her grade level and next week will be doing a long first reading of Genesis at her school's monthly mass.

She's a freakin' rockstar.
A Warrior Princess.

So, in honour of this special day, we've decided on morning muffins, pasta day at school and then a meal at the kids' favourite restaurant.

We will laugh, eat and play as a family.
Be together as a family of five.
Tell the guilt of having a healthy child to go away, for a day, so we can celebrate.

Today, our Warrior Princess is one year NED.
And our prayers tonight will be plentiful.

#TeamBrookie #WarriorPrincess

Performance indicators of a life well-lived

Today marks exactly five years since I announced I was leaving an awesome full time job to become a freelance work-at-home mom. It was a very scary decision, but it felt innately comfortable.

Five years and a lifetime ago.

What astounds me about the last five years is that I do not have a single regret.

I do not regret putting my career on the back burner.
I do not regret the late, late work nights.

Not the burn out.
Not the exhaustion.
Not even the lack of 'me time'.

Don't get me wrong, the last five years have been incredibly difficult.
Painful at times, both physically and emotionally.

But my performance indicators were simple.
My decision to leave my career was based on the desire for simple things.

Balance in our home.
Time with our children.
A deeper family love.

I say 'our' in each of those first two statements because this wasn't a decision I made alone. I made it with my greatest cheerleader and best friend in life and parenting. We made this decision together.

To have less vacations.
But more time.

To buy less stuff.
But share more meaningful moments.

The performance indicators of my freelance business were not what a student reads in business texts.

I did not intend to build a large clientele.
I had no desire to work entrepreneurial hours to grow financially.

I chose balance.
I worked some, but less than full time.
I said no to projects, if they threatened my ability to be a mom.
I turned down dozens, dare I say hundreds of networking opportunities.

All to be with my family. At home. Together.
And I regret none of it.

So while a textbook may say that, by growth standards, I have failed, I am proud to have succeeded in business the last five years based on the deeply personal and engaging relationships I have with all three of my children as well as the equally strong and loving relationship I have with my husband.

Life is not always about income.
A position title on a business card.
Professional growth.

For some of us, at one time or for a long time, the performance indicators of a life well-lived are simply based on love, family and balance.

All the way there

I've been a bit of a mess this month.

We've dealt with our usual MRI appointments and follow ups (which were all NED, thank God), a lovely bout of lice (yes, you read that correctly) and the back-to-school-crazy-transition that rocks the lives of parents the world over.

It has been grey and rainy outside for a couple of weeks.
A new world leader took power, threatening peace.
People are protesting.
Hearts are angry.
So much negativity.

My instinct has been to retreat.
Into my house.
My family.
My thoughts.

I didn't realize how much I was holding inside until this week, when I finally had a good cry and was honest with my husband.

Truth is, I am struggling.
Not with worry.
Not with anxiety.
I think I am just sad.

The reminder posts on social media of the events that took place this time last year are very overwhelming. Full of emotion and fear, it's almost as if I am re-living it all now, a year later.

As my husband puts it, we went all the way there.
We didn't just think about our child having cancer, we actually heard real words from real people.
We are reminded every three months that it could come back.
We belong to a club of amazing people with the worst possible connection.

We went all the way there.
All the way.

As another cancer mom explained it to me, we aren't fearful of what COULD happen.
We re-live what DID happen.

And so as this month comes to a close I am doing something I haven't done in 10 odd years. I am going to donate blood.

To honour another childhood cancer warrior and his family.
A friend's mom gone 15 years.
All who battle this horrific beast.

I will lean into the sad.
Stand strong and rooted in my fierce desire for peace.
I will go all the way there.
And grow as a result.
<3

This race called life

Sometimes it takes a whole year to realize how far you've come.

The last twelve months began like a sprint, then politely dropped into a cross country race.

Slow and unwavering.

Eyes on the path.

Steady pace.

Able to speak, yet completely out of breath.

Capable of continuation, however yearning to quit.

Heart pumping, chest thumping.

I don't know alot about running, but I gather there are three ways to get through a race.

The first is to isolate.

Run alone.

Listen only to the voices in your head.

Ego, its name.

Risking its accuracy and truth.

Forever being your own cheerleader.

The second is to compare.

The runner ahead is faster than me, so obviously better than I am.

The runner behind me can't keep up, they must be in really awful shape.

I am doing better than some, worse than others.

Rank-ordering pain and therefore outcomes.

The third is to belong.

I am a runner in this race called life.

So too, are these companions on the journey.

We are all struggling for breath.

We have our great races, and our really difficult ones.

But we all suffer and celebrate, together.

Sometimes we choose to isolate. Exhaustion and depression are often the result.

Sometimes we choose to compare. Fear and anxiety are often the result.

But when we choose to belong, we hit the sweet spot.

Whether it is my daughter's cancer.

Your husband's unusual illness.

Her mother's death.

His traumatic childhood.

If we belong, we are strong.

Our hearts fill with love and we say,

Me too.

I understand.
Your pain is my pain.

And the divine presence above us shines light on our souls and says, thank you.

This was your lesson to learn.

<3 <3 <3 

In control of what comes next

What a year it's been.

So many lessons learned.

This year I hurt deeper than I knew was possible.

The pain in my heart literally took my breath away.

I stuttered for words.

I lost myself in grief.

Fear.

Anguish.

This year I learned about resilience.

Getting up each and every day despite the bully in the room.

I lived on coffee and text messages.

I stared fear in the face.

I told myself it was going to be ok, even though I felt I was lying.

This year I felt loss.

Loss of a child's innocence.

Loss of a family's routine.

Loss of control.

This year I felt love.

Deep, unwavering love from family, friends and even strangers.

I felt energy transfer from others' hugs, prayers, gifts and kind words.

I was literally lifted by the affection of others, 

I found myself reflecting and wondering...

Am I doing this right? 

Am I giving it my all? 

Will I have regrets?

Am I the person I really want to be?

This year transformed my children.

My marriage.

My body.

My spirit.

It shook us, but it did not break us.

It won't break us.

As this year comes to a close, I have made the conscious decision to usher out the negative aftermath. The pain and suffering, the worry and the fear. They are not welcome in my home or in my heart any longer.

I cannot control every twist and turn in my life. 

Life does not feel fair or equitable all the time.

Sometimes, life feels incredibly hard.

Painful.

Unrelenting.

My only source of control comes in my reaction to it all.

I am absolutely in control of what comes next.

I choose love.

Kindness.

Peace.

Isaak Family Christmas Card

Photography courtesy (Nanna) Heather Isaak Photography

Christmas is a few short days away.

The gifts are wrapped.
Dinner plans have been made.
Our dogs are clean and pretty.

This Christmas feels different for our family.

We've spent less money.
Worried infrequently about organizing every moment.

For the first time ever, our family has chosen the 'four gift' rule:

1. Something I want.
2. Something I need.
3. Something to wear.
4. Something to read.

Four gifts per child, plus a visit from Santa, who has always generously filled our stockings and left one toy per child under our tree.

This Christmas feels calmer.
Less cluttered.

The kids have delighted in the glow of the lights.
The pending family gatherings.
Advent candles.
Christmas movies.
Our kindness countdown.
Silly versions of classic Christmas songs.

This year I've stopped - really stopped - to watch my children play with the nativity scene in our living room. My eyes delighted in the joy of their recounting of the Christmas story, and I laughed hard and loud when I realized Ethan has been referring to Baby Jesus as 'Baby Jeez'.

We are blessed.

This Christmas, in lieu of the Christmas cards my hands never wrote, my note to you is this....

Find peace in a hot cup of coffee.
Feel the warmth of a family member's hand in yours.
Laugh so hard your belly hurts.

Look for silver linings in times of grief.
Breathe deeply in times of anxiety. 
Melt away the sadness with festive food and drink.

Be grateful for a warm bed.
Look with fresh eyes at the snow outside your window.
Hold your furbabies close and thank them for being steadfast companions.

Put
your
phone
down.

Be present.
Relish, deeply, in the charms of the holiday season.

Let's really live, this Christmas. 
Look with wonder upon the things which we too often take for granted.

Let's really love, this Christmas.
Take it upon ourselves to boldly declare our adoration to our most cherished loved ones.

Let's really appreciate, this Christmas.
Because we never really know when life's tide will turn and leave us far from shore.

Be
Peaceful.
Loving.
Joyful.
Gracious.
Kind.

And know that you are loved, beyond measure.

Merry Christmas
xoxo

MRI eve

After school today we came home and the kids had some free time to play. Brooklyn was agitated, and eventually had a meltdown 'because she didn't get to type on google classroom.'

I knew it wasn't about typing a few letters.
She hid in the corner for awhile, and eventually the truth came out.

"I don't want to go to my MRI on Friday!" she said, with tears streaming down her face. "Friday is a fun day at school. We go to the library, trade warm fuzzies and have a spelling test."

My heart fell.

I hugged her for a few minutes but was interrupted by our old dog's urgent bark to go outside. By the time I came back in, she had shut herself in her room. I intended to leave her there as she was calm, but she slowly crawled out of her room and looked up at me, ready to talk.

What happened next made me both very proud, and very sad.
Tonight she shared her feelings with a brave heart.

She said to me, "The cancer isn't coming back mama, because God is in charge and he won't let that happen. I prayed to him mama, my nighttime prayer. He's listening."

I explained that I wasn't sure why cancer existed. That I didn't think God chose her to have cancer, but rather that he was a capable companion along the journey.

"I don't want to have the MRI. It's like having the cancer out again."

It took me a few moments to take that in.
My experience with her 'having the cancer out' ranks far worse than any MRI.

 I asked why she felt that way, if it was because it hurt or was scary.

"Its both, mama. It's both."

"Mom, cancer can grow and grow and grow and grow."

I agreed, but explained that I didn't expect her cancer to return, That if it did, the MRIs help us discover it early so it didn't have to make her really sick. I reminded her that I loved her, and that I just wanted her to stay healthy.

"Mom, what is the name of the cancer I have?"

I stopped her there.
"HAD, honey. You HAD cancer. You do not have cancer anymore."

We worked on pronouncing the name of the cancer she HAD.
Neuro-blast-o-ma, she kept practicing, with a smile on her face.

"I need a hug, mama."

And just like that, she crawled into my lap and we sat.
More silence.

When she chose to speak, she said this.
"Mama, can you write a note in my agenda? Ask if I can write my spelling test on Monday?"

And just like that, fear loosened it grip and we went on with our evening.

This, is MRI eve.
This is cancer's aftermath.