(3 of 3)
diagnosis day. part three.
I've struggled to write this final post until today. If you've been following my blog, you know I've written the story of dday part one and part two. I've also written about the moment the nightmare ended, which picks up the story after Brooklyn's biopsy.
The realization I came to today is that part three isn't over.
Part three of Brooklyn's diagnosis day story began the same day active treatment ended, by a stroke of gorgeous luck or perhaps with God's grace. The most unusual case of stage one neuroblastoma seen in ages, which still causes imaging technicians and doctors alike to proclaim how lucky we are.
Part three is everything that has happened since.
It is the first scare.
The unwanted guest.
The first since's.
The follow up scans.
It is all of these things and so much more.
Brooklyn will always be a child who had cancer.
Her diagnosis will not change.
The problem is, the outcome could.
NED now, but what if the next scan tells us otherwise?
The most profound transition, one which is shared by many cancer families I have met and spoken with this year, is the one which takes place once the child completes active treatment and begins after care.
This is the place where a singular hole in one's mental wellness can result in a fall out.
Where anxiety and depression loom.
Where each worry must be replaced with the very powerful statement:
"In this moment, right now, everything is ok."
And so, as Childhood Cancer Awareness Month comes to a close, I'd like to suggest this:
If you know a family who has been touched by cancer, reach out and check in.
Not so much on their physical health.
But on their mental health.
Honour survivors and angels alike through a commitment to ensuring that each family member is supported through their grief, anger, fear, anxiety and even survivor's guilt.
In many ways, this is the diagnosis day story they struggle to share.
<3 <3 <3
d day. part three.
January 20th, 2016.
#CCAM #WarriorPrincess #TeamBrookie #MorePreciousThanGold
This blog was created in 2011 to capture my very personal journey of leaving full time work to become a work-at-home mother of three beautiful children. Naturally, this space has morphed into a place of personal reflection, celebration and sometimes even sadness. I’ve written about childhood cancer, food allergy and anaphylaxis, grief, marriage, friendship, parenting and everything in between, all with a growing sense of mindfulness and gratitude. Please, grab a cup of tea and stay awhile.
Showing posts with label guilt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label guilt. Show all posts
Friday, September 30, 2016
Friday, May 22, 2015
Missing you, little angel
I'm not really sure how this is going to sound, but I am going to attempt it anyways. My heart has been increasingly heavy this week and it's going to explode if I don't allow the penetrating feelings to come out my fingertips.
It's been two years since I lost my niece. And two years (less a day) that my son was born.
One of the worst weeks of my adult life. One of the best moments of my adult life.
I don't talk much, about those few days, but I relive them in my head quite frequently. There are some pretty intense memories floating around....
The moment my sister-in-law walked up my driveway in tears. The subsequent moment she told me that her baby girl had died in her womb. My heart breaking into pieces. My eyes holding back tears so as not to scare my children. The look of utter horror on my devastated sister-in-law's face.
The night she went into labour. Staring at my phone to check for messages of her progress. Dozing between conversations. Feeling insanely hopeless. Angry. Overwhelmingly sad.
The moment I first laid eyes on her. Little Kinsley. A simple photograph shared by cell phone, an intimate look at the beautiful little angel who was born still. Feeling the need to scream. Or throw my phone. Or run away. Heavy, deep grief.
The phone call from a distraught relative. The words - you tell that baby of yours not to come, this is not his time. He better stay in there for now - which seared my heart so deeply I nearly fell to the floor.
Labour pains. Frantic tears. Terrifying conversations about the possibility of having a child so close to such loss. Prayers begging for mercy, for a reprieve from labour for just a few more days.
The ultrasound. Confirmation of a breech, 8 day overdue child. Panic in my midwife's voice.
Laying on a hospital bed, wondering if my sister-in-law had been in the same room. Preparing for an ECV, nerves frayed and mentally exhausted. Looking up at my husband, tears flowing down his face as the midwife offered him a package of infant loss materials for his sister while I laid in reverse position in an effort to flip our child.
The pain. The excruciating pain of knowing our child was alive in my belly.
The guilt. The take-your-breath away guilt of knowing we'd meet our son that day.
Then, the rush. Of clothes being removed, needles being inserted, questions being asked. The shaking of my entire body as they rushed me into the OR for an emergency C-section. The tears. The inability to stop them from falling down my face.
Then, there was Ethan.
Loud, alive and healthy.
More tears.
Heart pounding guilt.
Shame.
Two years ago, and less than 30 hours apart, two children were born into our family. They were suppose to be best friends. Go to school together. Play together. Grow up side by side. But the story we had written did not meet the reality of our life.
Two years later, the guilt has become tolerable though still overwhelming at times. I cannot help but wonder to myself, would she be as tall as he? Would she love his favourite show? Play ball with him?
Why is he here? Why is she not?
When he hugs my sister-in-law, is his hug filled with divine purpose, a greater gift from his angel cousin? Does he love his aunt so intensely because he is loving her not just as himself, but as his cousin, too?
He is, in many ways, greater than the sum of one child. I cannot help but wonder if in some small way a little piece of his spirit is connected to the spirit of my little angel niece. That a smile from Ethan is, in a way, a little glimpse of heavenly love as well.
Happy birthday baby girl, we miss you and think of you every day.
xo
It's been two years since I lost my niece. And two years (less a day) that my son was born.
One of the worst weeks of my adult life. One of the best moments of my adult life.
I don't talk much, about those few days, but I relive them in my head quite frequently. There are some pretty intense memories floating around....
The moment my sister-in-law walked up my driveway in tears. The subsequent moment she told me that her baby girl had died in her womb. My heart breaking into pieces. My eyes holding back tears so as not to scare my children. The look of utter horror on my devastated sister-in-law's face.
The night she went into labour. Staring at my phone to check for messages of her progress. Dozing between conversations. Feeling insanely hopeless. Angry. Overwhelmingly sad.
The moment I first laid eyes on her. Little Kinsley. A simple photograph shared by cell phone, an intimate look at the beautiful little angel who was born still. Feeling the need to scream. Or throw my phone. Or run away. Heavy, deep grief.
The phone call from a distraught relative. The words - you tell that baby of yours not to come, this is not his time. He better stay in there for now - which seared my heart so deeply I nearly fell to the floor.
Labour pains. Frantic tears. Terrifying conversations about the possibility of having a child so close to such loss. Prayers begging for mercy, for a reprieve from labour for just a few more days.
The ultrasound. Confirmation of a breech, 8 day overdue child. Panic in my midwife's voice.
Laying on a hospital bed, wondering if my sister-in-law had been in the same room. Preparing for an ECV, nerves frayed and mentally exhausted. Looking up at my husband, tears flowing down his face as the midwife offered him a package of infant loss materials for his sister while I laid in reverse position in an effort to flip our child.
The pain. The excruciating pain of knowing our child was alive in my belly.
The guilt. The take-your-breath away guilt of knowing we'd meet our son that day.
Then, the rush. Of clothes being removed, needles being inserted, questions being asked. The shaking of my entire body as they rushed me into the OR for an emergency C-section. The tears. The inability to stop them from falling down my face.
Then, there was Ethan.
Loud, alive and healthy.
More tears.
Heart pounding guilt.
Shame.
Two years ago, and less than 30 hours apart, two children were born into our family. They were suppose to be best friends. Go to school together. Play together. Grow up side by side. But the story we had written did not meet the reality of our life.
Two years later, the guilt has become tolerable though still overwhelming at times. I cannot help but wonder to myself, would she be as tall as he? Would she love his favourite show? Play ball with him?
Why is he here? Why is she not?
When he hugs my sister-in-law, is his hug filled with divine purpose, a greater gift from his angel cousin? Does he love his aunt so intensely because he is loving her not just as himself, but as his cousin, too?
He is, in many ways, greater than the sum of one child. I cannot help but wonder if in some small way a little piece of his spirit is connected to the spirit of my little angel niece. That a smile from Ethan is, in a way, a little glimpse of heavenly love as well.
Happy birthday baby girl, we miss you and think of you every day.
xo
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