It's never really over

The thing about trauma is that it's never really over, per se.

Thoughts.
Feelings.
Painful memories.

They linger.
They take up space in our busy brains.
They can easily take over one's ability to feel happy, whole and in control.

The last couple of days I've been marvelling at how all roads in our family life led to the last 6 weeks. Gave us a 'tool kit' so to speak, for dealing with our family trauma.

I spent the last year engaging in meditation and mindfulness practices, resulting in the ability to see light during the darkest of our last six weeks. Friends, both old and new, who allowed me to entrench myself in their personal and family cancer experiences the last number of years, took it upon themselves to prop me up every single day of this journey. The practical way Jay and I rebooted our finances last fall, so that me being without work right now is a setback, not a sinking ship. The family yoga classes that Brooklyn and I started prior to her diagnosis  attuned her to the power of her breath, and taught her a simple song that calmed her worst fears and silenced her tears during our 15 odd days of inpatient treatments.

All of these roads have led to today, and just weeks after I posted about my self-declared 2016 Year of Celebration, we found ourselves stuttering and gasping for breath, trying to verbalize the sentence, 'Brooklyn has cancer' to our closest relatives. I will never forget making those phone calls, in the third floor hallway of McMaster Children's Hospital, a pile of mush on the floor. Trying, so so hard, to breathe.

I could be angry.
After all, it feels entirely unfair that a five year old should fight cancer.

I could be depressed.
It was painful to see my daughter, my own flesh and blood, in intense pain.

I could feel anxious.
After all, there are more results pending, and there will be follow up tests for many, many more years.

I could loathe God.
Many people do, following a trauma.

The thing is, I don't.
I have moments of anger, sadness and anxiety.

But I mostly feel gratitude.
Intense gratitude.

For the 'doers' who carried my family and I through this journey.
For my husband, whose love for our family carried us when I fell apart.
For my dearest, most incredible friends who lived inside my head throughout the last six weeks, offering daily support, checks ins and countless opportunities to say they loved me.
For my body, which carried my soul.

You see, we will all experience trauma at some point.

We will lose people we love.
Parents. Siblings. Babies. Neighbours.
Some of us will fight cancer, disease and mental illness.
Be unemployed, battle addiction and see our children struggle to succeed.

We will hurt, deep down in our souls.
We will feel like we cannot go on.
Like the world is better off without our pain.

But wait.
We can choose another path.

Gratitude is a conscious choice to look at every single interaction in our day as a gift, a silver lining through the thick grey clouds of trauma.

Let's be honest here, trauma brings out the best in the people we love. Coincidentally, trauma also showcases the tragic flaws in others, some of which I can personally say have been disappointing to witness.

But I can still choose gratitude.

I can choose to feel 'lucky' that Brooklyn's type and stage of cancer was the best possible outcome in the medical books. Even if being truly 'lucky' is having a child that never experiences cancer at all.

I can choose to be grateful that I am home with my children, snuggling and caring for them, despite the fact that this means my income is nil for the foreseeable future.

I can choose happiness.
Peace in my soul.
Love in my heart.
Faith in God.

A very wise friend said to me, once you battle cancer it's never really over, it just becomes the new normal. You live for today, and you make a choice not to worry about tomorrow.

And so it may never really be over, per se.
But I firmly believe the aftermath of trauma is manageable with a heart full of gratitude.

#TeamBrookie #WarriorPrincess