Survivorship, exploded

Over the last month our family has battled some intense germs.
Fevers, coughs, lost voices, painful body aches.
Runny noses, headaches, exhaustion.

It's been a rough go, as anyone with multiple kids know its usually makes it way around a family, one child at a time. Ironically, the germs usually give parents a break of a day or two, just long enough to think it's over before it hits the next kiddo.

But that's not the point of this story.

Two weeks ago Ethan came home from school and told me he had a little nosebleed. Just a small drip that he said didn't hurt, only needed a quick wipe and off he went. I figured it was because his nose was all dried out from the germs, no big deal.

About 10 minutes later he had massive, gushing nosebleed.

GUSHING.

He absolutely flipped his lid. He was hysterical, screaming and crying and refusing to allow me to pinch his nose to help it clot.

I could feel my heart start to race.

I got him to sit, but I screamed for Nolan's help, I needed tissues and a distraction to calm his little brother. Nolan was such a good boy, he ran around the house grabbing everything we needed, including the ipad which he promptly tuned to Ethan's favourite show, Fuller House.

My hands were shaking.

About 10 minutes later, his nose finally stopped. It was a doozy, the garbage can was a third full of red tissue and he was pale and tired. I laid him down on my side of the bed, his brother on his dad's side, and together they watched Ethan's favourite episode.

Then, I unraveled.

I couldn't breathe.
I was shaking uncontrollably.

My mind raced so fast.... cancer... death... disease... hospital... needles... cancer...

I immediately picked up the phone, called my in-laws.
I know they have dealt with many a nosebleed. This is normal.
They didn't answer.

I picked up the phone again, this time to call my aunt.
She answered, thank goodness.

I bawled, like a crazy woman I told her what happened, and admitted that my mind was being irrational. I knew it, but I couldn't stop this auto-generated response my body was in, a full on mama meltdown. Her nurse instinct kicked in, reminding me that he was going to be ok, and so was I. She said that nosebleeds were common this time of year and he wasn't in imminent danger. She also reminded me that a nosebleed was not cancer.

I knew that, the logical me understood I was overreacting, yet I really needed to hear those words.

I couldn't stop shaking and crying.
I sat down against the wall of the dining room, clutching the phone.

I had completely fallen apart.
I couldn't move, and was terrified the kids would see me.

I felt like the ball I had been waiting to drop, the one that would break our family again, finally did just that.

-

Later that afternoon, as I recounted the experience to one of my best friends, she gently said something I didn't expect to hear, "I love you and I'm worried about you and I think you need to talk to someone. I am concerned about PTSD."

Woah.
Is that what that was?

This fall has brought back some terrible nightmares, heartbreaking memories and heightened sense of worry. Anxiousness. Restlessness.

To be honest, I think it's because Brooklyn didn't have any MRI scans.
I know that sounds crazy.

The thing about scans is, while they totally suck and create a wave of anxiety, once you endure them and provided they come back NED, you feel a sense of relief that lasts for months.

Months.

This is the first time Brooklyn doesn't have a fall/winter scan. She has one whole year off. Where we are used hearing she has a clean bill of health every 3-6 months, this time we wait 12.

Survivorship, while a gift our family never takes for granted, certainly has the power take my breath away.

She's been complaining of knee, shoulder and shin pain, as well as back and stomach pain off and on for the last two months.

Guess what I worry about?
Relapse.

And guess what I talk myself down from wanting to do?
Call her doctors.

So PTSD, perhaps.
Or perhaps it's just survivorship, exploded.

Either way, I think it's time to get some help to work through it all.
Thanks to a dear friend, I am committed to doing just that.

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.