This morning was a tough one

Brooklyn and I went up to Mac for her three month check up, sprinkle donut in hand, singing loudly to the 90s mix on the radio.

 

We arrived on time, and B was happy to be there.

She ran to the far right desk in the entrance of the 3F clinic, proud to know her way around.

She grabbed her paperwork, and in we went.

 

The 3F clinic was quiet. We may have been the first family to arrive.

She was happy to play toys and wait for the doctor until we found out she required a finger poke, as oncology teams call it, down in the lab.

We hadn't been there before.

A finger poke was new.

She was used to IV lines and major blood draws.

Because of this, she immediately shut down the moment I told her we needed to take a walk.

 

The child life specialist and I bribed her with ipad time and treasure chest rewards.

She was leery, but she went.

 

Upon entering the lab, her switch flipped.

 

Happy, agreeable Brooklyn was gone.

Angry, anxious Brooklyn had taken over.

 

The nurse, child life and I couldn't convince B to walk into the finger poke room.

She literally dug in her heels, crossed her arms over her chest and started shouting NO WAY.

 

My heart sank.

My body started to shake.

Tears formed in my eyes.

 

A beautiful, teenaged cancer kicker (who was waiting for her own finger poke) noticed.

With her thin frame, cute hat and positive smile, she came over to Brooklyn.

 

She was in for her second finger poke of the week, she said.

Do you want to come and see how we do it, she said.

It's really ok, she said.

You even get to pick the bandaid, she said.

 

Brooklyn's shoulders dropped a little.

Leery once again, she held my arm tightly and entered the finger poke room.

 

This gorgeous cancer kicker, with her wide smile, talked Brooklyn through the process. Why they warm her finger, how quick the poke was, how she looks for a cool bandaid while the nurse works in order to stay distracted.

 

B watched.

B listened.

 

In the end, it didn't matter. Brooklyn has post-traumatic stress associated with needles and her fight or flight instinct did kick in. She completely lost herself, kicking and screaming and hitting and crying so hard she was sweating.

 

It was overwhelmingly sad.
My heart broke into a million more pieces.

Cancer fucking sucks.

 

But, this girl, this teenager who's fighting cancer the way a boxer would his opponent, she reminded me of something.

 

Even when our bodies feel weak.

Even when our spirit is on empty.

Even when every single OUNCE of our mind tells us life isn't fair.

 

We have to fight back.

We have to stay focused.

We have to lead with love.

 

This girl, she led with instant and genuine love for my Warrior Princess, and for that I am so grateful.

 

This morning was a tough one.

I will take some time to cry.

Grieve.

Hurt.

 

And then I will pick myself back up and love, the way this beautiful girl demonstrated today.

I hope you'll do the same <3

 

#TeamBrookie #WarriorPrincess

My heart is with you

I find myself struggling to move through the pieces of trauma still fresh in my mind.

In quiet moments, I find myself re-living life at the hospital.
I think about the 'what if's'.
I feel guilty Brooklyn's journey was so favourable.

I cry a lot.

Take today, for example.
I cried because our priest told my son he was a gift to my husband and I, as his parents.
I cried because my son made an honest, yet embarrassing mistake.
I cried because I fought with my husband.
I cried because I was grateful for the love of my family and friends.

I feel angry a lot.

When life throws a curveball, I want to scream.
When I forget for the fifth time in a day, I want to throw something.
When my children press my buttons, I lash out with mean words.

The interesting question that has been ruminating is this:

Am I reinforcing or releasing my emotions?
Am I enabling the cyclical behaviour of repeating my feelings, or am I recognizing and accepting my feelings, then letting them go?

With trauma and grief, we still have some control.
It pains me to admit this, because over the last few months all I've truly wanted to do is crawl into bed and sulk, alone, in the dark.
But it's true.

During the trauma, most of us manage quite well.
Call it autopilot.
Or adrenaline.

But when the dust settles, we struggle.
When we realize what is lost - our mother, our daughter, our health, our normalcy - it is our minds that go into overdrive, processing and analyzing and storing the complicated mess of feelings inside each of us.

It is then, knee deep in our grief, we must take control.
We must ask ourselves, are we acting to accept our feelings?
Because if we can do so, we can move to release them.

Or, are we reinforcing them?
With food. Alcohol. Guilt. Unworthiness.

The truth is, I'm stuck here.
I can observe how I feel, but I am not yet capable of accepting the range of my feelings..

I don't have an answer to the question 'Is it ever going to get easier?', but I am grateful for the realization that life is uncertain at this time. Somewhere between observing and accepting feelings and emotions, I hope to discover healing in letting them go.

So.
For my friend who's lost her sister-in-law.
For my sister-in-law who's daughter never lived outside her womb.
For my friend who watched her mother pass away before her eyes.
For my friend who's daughter died too young, after such lengthy illness.
For my friend finishing radiation therapy.

My heart is with you.
My grief is your grief.
My love extends to you, as it does to me.

One hour. One day. One week at a time <3