The five-year finish line

Our sweet, beautiful warrior princess has crossed a finish line we've only dreamed about. Today Brookie is officially cancer-free five glorious years!

She was in agony.
She was so sick.
She fought PTSD post-treatment.
She still fights preverbal trauma related to her journey.
She has a very real phobia of stickers that creates panic, leaves her in tears and interrupts her daily life.
She has a long, deep bravery line covering her tummy.

But she survived.
She is thriving.
She is healthy.
She is beautiful.
She is brave.
She is stronger than she even realizes.

And while she is enduring a new journey of life with celiac disease, she continues to show all of us how life is meant to be lived.

She is so real and authentic.
She deeply loves her family and friends.
She enjoys her hobbies.
She provides herself and others grace.
She embraces creativity and laughter every, single, day.

It is not lost on Jay and I how fortunate we are. We remember the dark days wondering if Brooklyn would honestly live or die. We know many children do not make it to this milestone. We wish we could change that. It hurts our hearts. xo

So we humbly celebrate today with a giant dog on the lawn, Paris decorations in our dining room and gluten-free cupcakes and pizza after school.

We will keep crying, today.
Keep hugging.
All glory to God for our healthy, beautiful baby girl.
Thank you Lord Jesus.

#cancerfree #fiveyears #childhoodcancer #thankGod

Scanxiety for the child who lives

Once again we find our bags packed and nerves frayed.
Tomorrow is Brookie's next MRI.

All week long we were quietly preparing ourselves.

Saying extra prayers.
Making plans for the boys after school.
Choosing a movie for her to watch.

We talked about Alex, her cancer.
Why she was lucky. Why she wasn't.
She asked for a detailed account of her first and second hospital stays.
A story that never gets old.
Except it does.

I even caught her reading a hospital book to her dolls.

When I woke up this morning, I felt the dread kick in full throttle.
I didn't want to get up.
I felt sick to my stomach.
(I've been in and out of the bathroom all day)

Brookie and I were eating breakfast, when the first wave of tears fell.

She expressed that she didn't want to go, tomorrow.
Didn't like the goggles she will wear while watching her movie.
Feels like the MRI takes too long, and the bed is too hard.
Hates being at the hospital, and driving there.

She cried.
I did, too.

Then I felt guilty, knowing some parents don't have their child alive for this test.
Two years later, and we pray Brooklyn is still cancer-free.
Guilt for the child who lives.

The afternoon moved along, though I felt heavy and sad.
My eyes stung with tears held away from the surface.
My heart pumped with scanxiety.

Cancer still lives in my head.
And the what if's came on strong.

While I was making dinner, Jay and I embraced for a moment.
Both of our hearts hurting in synchronization.
When our eyes met, we shared the same exact fear.

WHAT IF.
What if it actually came back?
What if Alex reappeared?

More tears.

Every single MRI throws us right back to the day we heard those words,
We think your daughter has cancer.

What if this time we weren't so lucky?
What if me telling her after this MRI she has an entire year break is a lie, because there is a mass, a shadow, a lymph node swollen larger than six months ago?

This is scanxiety.
This is survivorship.
This is the reality of cancer.

And yet the guilt, so palpable and thick, reminds me how damn lucky we are to have her in the first place.

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.

d day. part two.

(2 of 3)

diagnosis day. part two.

Immediately following the news of Brooklyn's cancer diagnosis, Jay and I agreed we should call a few people to update them. I offered to call our three sets of parents, and ask them to share with the rest of our family.

I remember the exact spot I sat in, a crumbled heap on the floor.
I was outside 3B2, where a mechanical penny machine sits in glass.
I sat down on the ledge beside it, unable to walk any further.

It was cold.
Hard.
Exposed.

I didn't know where else to go. I think, in a way, I needed to be in a public place, and as it turns out God blessed me with a McMaster mom angel who stopped not once, but twice to check in on me.

"I can see you are having a hard day. Please let me give you a hug." she said. I was so shocked by her kindness, yet so grateful for her in that moment.

I called my mother-in-laws. One at work. One at home.
I also called my parents, my dad picked up the phone.

Never in my life have a stuttered like that.
Never.

I couldn't string a sentence together.
I remember saying 'Brooklyn... has... cancer.... surgery... biopsy....'
But I don't remember being able to say much else besides a quiet request that they each contact our siblings and extended family to update them of this news.

For the first time as Brooklyn's mother, I was useless.
There wasn't a thing I could do to stop the train.

A train which derailed, earlier that morning, and was speeding.
Speeding down a hill so steep, I was breathless.

---

Because Brooklyn was on the 'add list' as a registered patient in surgical, hospital OR time was very fluid and changed in a heartbeat. We knew she would have surgery later that afternoon, a laparoscopic biopsy, to test the tumour inside her abdomen.

What we weren't prepared for was hearing the head of oncology tell us they'd like to insert a port-a-cath into our daughter's chest. This tool was vital for chemotherapy, a medical procedure they believed essential given the potential for an advanced stage cancer.

I remember sitting in the social room in 3B2, surrounded by families playing games, laughing and participating in craft time.

I remember our table was not laughing.
Not having fun.
Not even close.

The rest of that afternoon was like a hyperspeed episode of a hospital drama.

From the meeting, to a child life specialist racing down the hall to tell us she was being taken for surgery.
To the OR holding area, only to be bumped and forced to wait almost two more hours for surgery.
Into the OR, where my daughter begged to go home, then fought every doctor and nurse who attempted to touch her.

I left my daughter in an OR.
Cancer in her stomach.
Her future resting on the results of a biospy only moments away.

I left her.
I couldn't help her.
I couldn't fix it.

I remember falling into Jay's arms, a heaping mess of exhaustion and anxiety.
I remember him forcing me upstairs to Brooklyn's room, to my waiting mother and aunt who, despite my best attempt to tell them to leave, stayed to care for us. Thank God.

I was completely numb.
I was shaking.
Thousands of pounds on my shoulders.
My head was exploding.

They made me a sandwich.
I sat in stunned silence.

d day. part two.
January 20th, 2016.

#CCAM #WarriorPrincess #TeamBrookie #MorePreciousThanGold

d day. part one.

(1 of 3)

In honour of Childhood Cancer Awareness Month, I've decided to write and share a few deeply personal stories about our childhood cancer journey. I hope that by posting them, they may inspire other cancer families to share as well, as a way to honour their grief, spread awareness and find healing in their own words.

Today I begin sharing the story of d day.

diagnosis day. part one

Day three of our Warrior Princess's first hospital stay.

The evening prior, Brooklyn had completed a CT scan under sedation. Doctors had been very deliberate in using the term mass to describe the fist-sized growth in her abdomen.

This morning it was different.

Jay and I knew that surgical rounds were early in the morning, 7am-ish, so he raced from our home in Niagara very early to make it up to McMaster in Hamilton, on time.

Brooklyn was tired and groggy, I was beyond exhausted.
The first two days had been painfully long, wrought with fear and anxiety.

This morning, the surgical fellow assigned to Brooklyn's case, a man not much older than myself and who I instantly came to trust, leaned into B's room stone-faced and serious.

"We need to talk about Brooklyn's tumour."

I could feel the heat rising in my chest.

We took a slow walk down the hall, into a room which we later discovered was the staff lunchroom.

We sat down.
Jay and I on one side.
Dr. Flageole and Dr. Amar on the other.

My hands shook.
Jay was white as a ghost.

In the minutes that followed, the surgical team explained the size of her tumour, the location and the concern regarding her aortic vessel. Over and over again they spoke, drawing pictures and asking for us to confirm we understood. Finally, they asked if we had any questions.

In a whisper, with my eyes full of tears, I asked,
"Is this cancer? Does Brooklyn have cancer?"

His answer broke me in a way I was never prepared for and still have not recovered from just yet.

"We need to do a biopsy to find out, but yes, we believe this is cancer."

A
MILLION
P
I
E
C
E
S

My heart broke into a million pieces.
I lost my breath.
I gripped Jay's hand, afraid to look at him.

scrappy imagery from the doctors

The doctors excused themselves, offering us a few minutes alone. The sound of the door sliding closed was deafening, I couldn't take my eyes off the paper image drawn of this beast, called cancer, inside my baby girl's stomach.

We fell apart.
Heavy tears.
Shattered hearts.
Parenting soulmates.

Broken.

There were no words.
There was only numbness.
Burning in my soul.
Ringing in my ears.
Cold skin and hands.

Grief.
Painful, breath-taking, instant.

After five minutes, we dried our eyes, stood up and did the only thing we could.
We walked back down the hall to our beautiful daughter's room, and we smiled at her.

d day. part one.
January 20th, 2016.

#CCAM #WarriorPrincess #TeamBrookie #MorePreciousThanGold

Haircuts and healing

Today I crossed something off my bucket list which I never, ever thought would be so personal.

Today I cut my hair off.

Two, 12-inch pony tails.
Two, 9-inch pony tails.

All four ponies will be delivered later this week to Wigs for Kids, an organization that provides free wigs for kiddos with cancer and other life-threatening illnesses.

It was always my intent to grow and donate my hair someday, it was a bucket list 'must do' before I die. When I left my full-time career and 'gave up' highlighting my hair I knew I was one step closer.
Last summer, when Brooklyn decided to donate her hair, I made a promise to grow mine and donate it as soon as I could. Frustrated with the length, but determined, I continued to grow it. After all, a friend battling breast cancer had no hair... why should I complain?

Less than 6-months later, Brooklyn was diagnosed with cancer.

My hair, growing for an unnamed, blank faced child was suddenly replaced with the vivid image of my own daughter.

What if she needed my hair? What if I needed to shave my hair in solidarity with my daughter?

Early in her diagnosis, when doctors believed she required chemotherapy, my hair suddenly became a way to 'help' her in some way. I held on to this perception for many months, even once doctors were firm that she did not require chemo.

I couldn't stand the thought of cutting it off.
I felt like it needed to be on my head.
Waiting for Brooklyn.
Just in case.

Even in July, when we celebrated with our family and friends, I secretly planned a surprise hair donation chop off and couldn't execute.

What if she needed my hair?

It has taken until now, today, to take this next step in my healing process.

On the drive to my girlfriend's salon, I whispered up to heaven, asking for a sign my family angel guides were with me. I was sick to my stomach... that ego voice in my head had been telling me for DAYS that if I cut my hair off, her cancer would return.

Today, in the company of a dear friend, I cried and laughed and cried again.
She took her time, kissed my head and reminded me that it was going to be ok.

Slowly, she cut the ponies, one by one.
I laid them in my lap, crying.

Crying in the moments following the big cut <3

That sign came, as clear as day, as my dear friend worked away on my new cut. Playing in the background of her home salon, these lyrics....

"Courage, my word
It didn't come, it doesn't matter
Courage, your word
It didn't come, it doesn't matter
Courage, my word
It didn't come, it doesn't matter
Courage, it couldn't come at a worse time."

(The Tragically Hip, Courage)

Tonight I will pray over this donation, and ask the Lord to bless this hair with strength and love for the child who will wear it next. I will also pray for her mother, whose heart is broken in a million pieces. I won't ever meet her, but I understand her more than she knows.

#TeamBrookie #WarriorPrincess

The unwanted guest

What a July it's been, for our family.

Brooklyn's latest test results came in a little over a week ago. Her MRI was NED (no evidence of disease) and while her urine markers were up, the oncologist assured us it's nothing at all to worry about as random urine samples for absolutely anyone can change from day to day.

The spot on her liver has not changed in any way, therefore the doctors will continue to monitor it with ultrasounds every three months after her MRI scan and bloodwork.

She has officially moved to the 'aftercare' clinic in 3F at McMaster.
The secretary congratulated us when she handed back our appointment card.

This month we celebrated and thanked our friends and family with a big party at our place... food, cold drinks, ice cream, fun and lots of laughter. We cried a little, hugged a lot and ended the day feeling overwhelmed with gratitude for our village.

A front AND backyard full of our family and friends. We are so blessed.

Brooklyn is, by all definitions, back to normal.

She'll be participating in the Heater's Heroes event next month in Niagara Falls.
She's happily attending camp twice a week.
Swimming in the pool with her brothers.
Playing with friends.

She is a survivor.
She is a hero.
She is my daughter.

Despite all this goodness and normalcy, lingering doubt remains.
My mama brain never shuts off.

She expressed feeling very dizzy two days in a row this week and the roller coaster of worry began...

What if?
How could?
Why?

Let me tell you, the thing about cancer is that once it's arrived, you can never really pack it up and send it out the door. There will always be an unwanted guest in the heart of a parent whose child experiences cancer.

I pray for, and worry about my kiddos every. single. day.
But this unwanted guest called cancer, it has the strength to overwhelm gratitude.

#TeamBrookie #WarriorPrincess

First since

This weekend was a special one.

Brooklyn celebrated her 6th birthday.
She also participated in her third-ever dance recital, a tap number for Fascination Dance Studio.

This birthday was her first since being diagnosed with cancer.
This recital was her first since being hospitalized.

First since.

The thing about cancer is that once someone you know is diagnosed, mortality bullies ego.

I thought about the death of my daughter from cancer.
I considered that it was possible to lose her, after more than five years on this earth.

Children die of cancer.
Despite medicine, surgery and prayer.
Daughters and sons die.
Brothers and sisters leave their siblings.

Brooklyn's outcome is far and away a small minority of cases. Last I spoke with Brooklyn's oncologist I was told that most children Brookie's age land on the opposite end of the spectrum, with widely spread and stubborn tumours requiring intense therapy.

But that didn't happen to Brooklyn.
She is NED.
No evidence of disease.

She is gorgeously recovered, and as a family we find ourselves marvelling at the first since situations.

This weekend we shed more tears of joy, felt more pride and healed more than we ever imagined. Jay shared with Brooklyn that he shed those tears today, while watching her dance her final tap performance to Bippity Boppity Boo, a fitting tribute to the princess who lived by 'have courage and be kind.'

Brooklyn responded to her Daddy's story by reminding him that the last time he shed those tears was when she was discharged from the hospital, post-surgery.

Tears of joy, another first since we feel so blessed to experience.

#TeamBrooklyn #WarriorPrincess

A lifetime of courage

I was at a local early years centre this morning, chatting with my sister-in-law about my messy morning and as we're talking, she was tickling my niece. Anyone who knows my niece can attest to the fact that she's adorable (and reminds me of Brooklyn's little days) and silly and fun.

My niece lifted up her shirt, begging for more tickles.

I stared.
My eyes were fixated on her adorable stomach.
There was no scar there.

My heart hurt.
My eyes stung.
It caught me off guard, to feel such grief.

Brooklyn's belly will always mark the place where doctors saved her life.
She will tell her cancer story every time someone notices the scar.

A four inch bravery line.
A lifetime of courage.

#TeamBrooklyn #WarriorPrincess

National Cancer Survivors Day

 

Today she climbed wooden obstacles. Tackled hay stacks. Crawled in the dirt.

Today she proved why neuroblastoma couldn't win.

Today, Brooklyn demonstrated why she is a child cancer survivor.

Today she is my hero.

 

#TeamBrookie #WarriorPrincess

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

The first scare

Yesterday I brought Brooklyn (and her brother) to visit their pediatrician.

Ethan's breathing has been problematic.
Brooklyn was having acute pain in her lower left abdomen, which made my mama instincts scream.

The doctor recommended we go to the hospital for xrays and an ultrasound.
We slowly walked out to the van, I buckled the kids in and shut the door.

My heart began to flutter.
I wanted to vomit.

Thank goodness for retired parents, as they (without hesitation) agreed to take E immediately so we could head to the hospital.

Now what?
What do I need to pack?
Who do I need to call?
How long will we be there?

We left the office and managed to get to my parents house within the half hour, with a stop at home and at the pharmacy in between the two. As I unbuckled E, the tears began streaming down his face.

He begged to go home.
He clutched my neck.
His entire body wrenched with heartache.

Guilt overcame me.
I could not comfort my son in his time of need.
I had to leave him behind, knowing he was struggling with great fear.

Will I tuck him in tonight?
Will I be home in my own bed tonight?

Brooklyn and I spent about six hours at our local hospital. I re-told Brooklyn's entire story from start to finish three separate times, each time feeling more and more anxiety. Brooklyn was so angry to be there, but thanks to some colouring supplies gifted to us during her illness she was distracted while I recounted hospital stays, pathology reports and the like.

I kept telling her it was going to be ok.
She was going to be ok.

Truth is, I had no freaking clue if I was right.
And that scared me to my core.

What if there was a pocket of infection left?
What if we needed to travel back to McMaster that night?

Then the list making...

I need gas, groceries for the boys, an overnight bag....

The spinning, circle of anxiety began.
Post traumatic stress and painful memories flooded my heart and mind.

-------

The good news is this:

Brooklyn has a couple of abdominal wall hematomas.
She is also thoroughly constipated.
Both are manageable, non-life threatening situations.

The bad news is this:

I can't stop crying.
I am so so sad.
My heart hurts full throttle again.

I cannot figure out a way to function today, other than to sing the song Brookie and I learned in family yoga class. Sung more than 100 times by now, this song is an invisible tie that will forever tether mother and daughter together.

Inhale (breath in).
Exhale (breath out).
I say thank you every day.

Inhale (breath in).
Exhale (breath out).
Namaste.

Sometimes we just need to honour our tears. <3

Gratitude

Our intense winter is now over.
Brooklyn is officially in remission.
We do not anticipate any additional hospital stays.
(ok, I am knocking on wood here)

Our family is now home.
Together.

Back to 'normal'... ish...

To be honest, we're struggling with what our 'new normal' looks like. We've all changed, grown and been very deeply hurt by the last two months and so in many ways we are grieving. As we move through the next few weeks and months, we know one thing for sure:

We couldn't have done it without you.

The food in our freezer.
The cookie bouquets.

Sleepover fun nights for our kids.
Playdates.
Hockey games.

The toys and books and games.
Homemade cards made by children, for our child.

Love in the form of muffins, lasagnas and snuggly blankets.

Coffee deliveries, McMaster hallway hugs and surprise food and drinks and balloons to Brooklyn's room.

Beautiful jewelry.
Prayer shawls.
Stuffed animals.
Cozy new sweaters.
Scented bottles of instant relaxation and stress relief.

Walking our dogs.
Washing our clothes.
Changing our bedsheets.
Cleaning our house.

Checking in on us.
Every. Single. Day.

Sending simple messages of hope, love and strength.

Advice.
Words of wisdom.
A shoulder to cry on.

Your prayers.
Your dedications.
Your overwhelming energy healings.

Gift cards.
Money.
Loving cards and surprise gifts galore.

Old friends.
New friends.

Friends who dropped absolutely EVERYTHING to help us.
Over and over again.

Grocery shoppers.
Errand runners.
Snow shovellers.

Family who stepped up to parent our kids.
Take care of our house.
Love up our dogs.

We couldn't have done it without you.

Let me tell you a story...

The day of Brooklyn's biopsy in January was also the first day we heard the doctors use the word cancer. We signed consent for the biopsy, as well as a port-a-cath insertion, assuming she would begin chemo in the coming days.

We waited hours for the surgery, only to be rushed down and then told we got bumped.
We waited again.
Once she finally went under, Jay sat vigil in the surgical family waiting area while I wandered up to Brooklyn's room with the intention of getting something to eat.

When I sat down I could barely move.
My heart hurt so badly, my head was foggy and my eyes were swollen from crying.

There was no way, in that moment, I could have made myself something to eat.

Thank GOD for our village.

My dearest friend and her mom had delivered hot meatballs, fresh buns and cheese and cold drinks just a few hours earlier. I felt such gratitude, for their act of kindness.

The two most important mothers in my life were in the room when I arrived, and quickly jumped into action, making me food, hugging me tightly and forcing me to drink while I sat in complete silence.

Thank you, God, for these women in my life.

That was the moment I realized I was in no way capable of doing this alone.
That despite our courage and love, there was no way Jay and would manage this without our village.

And you, our village, just jumped right in and did your thing.
You said you were in awe of us, but really we were in awe of all of you.

Your selflessness.
Your ability to help at (literally) a moment's notice.
Your unrelenting love for us that saw you balance our life and yours at the same time.

Did you know my mom was recovering from major surgery when she took over as 'Sama-Mom' in my absence? Or that she had no voice for days on end... sicker than a dog and still, she came to help.

Every. Single. Day.

I will never forget speaking to my dad on the phone, that biopsy day in January.
Telling him his beloved Buttercup had cancer.
Begging him to tell me we were going to be ok.

He said to me,
"We've got you. We've got all of you. We will do this, together. We love you."

And that is why my gratitude is so fierce.
God has blessed me beyond my wildest dreams, with people who will never, ever let us fall.

So, thank you.
Thank all of you.

Your kindness, love and devotion to our family has been seen, felt and heard.
And we love you all for it.

xo

Warrior Princess - 1, Cancer - 0

Today Jay and I went up to McMaster to meet with Brooklyn's Oncologist, Dr. Portwine. Pathology confirmed the following:

Brooklyn had a stage 1 neuroblastoma tumour.

About 5% of it still contained 'hot' (active) neuroblastoma cells.
About 40% of it contained 'maturing' ganglioneuroma cells.
The last 55% of the tumour contained 'matured' ganglioneuroma calls.

The location of the tumour (in her abdomen, attached to the aorta) was such that they could not ensure a healthy margin between the end of the diseased tissue, and the beginning of the good tissue. As such, it is possible some cancer cells were left behind, though to the naked eye there was nothing left to see.

The tumour was 8.5 x 6.9 x 2.8cm.

What does this all mean?
Well the interesting thing about this cancer is that is actually works reverse to common knowledge about the disease. As the tumour matures, it moves from highly malignant to entirely benign. The concerns come when the neuroblastoma cells spread to other parts of the body, moving children from a stage 1 situation to something much more serious.

As far as unlucky goes, we are entirely blessed to be very, very lucky with a stage 1 scenario.

Brooklyn's oncologist is not requiring any further treatment, but she will be followed with regular MRIs (every three months) and urine tests (monthly) for the next year and beyond. Should something unusual arise, then additional tests will be ordered.

We've found two very good links to more information about this type of childhood cancer, read them here and here, should you desire.

Relapses for this type of cancer occur in 5-15% of low-moderate risk cases.
Brooklyn is not at a higher risk of a new cancer occurrence as a result of this one.

Brooklyn's wound is nearly healed, however she is still having some pain in her legs and numbness in her feet. They hope this nerve damage is only temporary. It is uncomfortable, but does not require meds for pain.

Oddly enough, Jay and I are mellow tonight. I will blog about our feelings once I have pinpointed them, but we think we just feel emotional and exhausted all over again.

Sad that pathology proved she had cancer.
Sad that she went through such trauma.
Sad that our new normal will leave us regularly worrying about a relapse.

I am sure our positive attitudes will return soon, but in the meantime we'll wait to celebrate until we feel good and ready.
xo

#TeamBrookie #WarriorPrincess

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

Warrior Princess

What does it mean, to be a Warrior Princess?

 A warrior is brave.

 

 

 

 

 A warrior has a strong heart and fighting spirit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A warrior defeats pain and is left with bravery lines.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 A warrior believes she can do anything, even if it’s really hard.

 

 

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A princess is beautiful, inside and out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A princess cares about and loves others.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A princess knows a twirly dress makes everything all better.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A princess believes she can do anything, even if it's really hard.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
 

She is the perfect combination of warrior and princess.

And we are so proud of her.

 
 
 
 
#TeamBrookie #WarriorPrincess