All the way there

I've been a bit of a mess this month.

We've dealt with our usual MRI appointments and follow ups (which were all NED, thank God), a lovely bout of lice (yes, you read that correctly) and the back-to-school-crazy-transition that rocks the lives of parents the world over.

It has been grey and rainy outside for a couple of weeks.
A new world leader took power, threatening peace.
People are protesting.
Hearts are angry.
So much negativity.

My instinct has been to retreat.
Into my house.
My family.
My thoughts.

I didn't realize how much I was holding inside until this week, when I finally had a good cry and was honest with my husband.

Truth is, I am struggling.
Not with worry.
Not with anxiety.
I think I am just sad.

The reminder posts on social media of the events that took place this time last year are very overwhelming. Full of emotion and fear, it's almost as if I am re-living it all now, a year later.

As my husband puts it, we went all the way there.
We didn't just think about our child having cancer, we actually heard real words from real people.
We are reminded every three months that it could come back.
We belong to a club of amazing people with the worst possible connection.

We went all the way there.
All the way.

As another cancer mom explained it to me, we aren't fearful of what COULD happen.
We re-live what DID happen.

And so as this month comes to a close I am doing something I haven't done in 10 odd years. I am going to donate blood.

To honour another childhood cancer warrior and his family.
A friend's mom gone 15 years.
All who battle this horrific beast.

I will lean into the sad.
Stand strong and rooted in my fierce desire for peace.
I will go all the way there.
And grow as a result.
<3

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.

Isaak Family Christmas Card

Photography courtesy (Nanna) Heather Isaak Photography

Christmas is a few short days away.

The gifts are wrapped.
Dinner plans have been made.
Our dogs are clean and pretty.

This Christmas feels different for our family.

We've spent less money.
Worried infrequently about organizing every moment.

For the first time ever, our family has chosen the 'four gift' rule:

1. Something I want.
2. Something I need.
3. Something to wear.
4. Something to read.

Four gifts per child, plus a visit from Santa, who has always generously filled our stockings and left one toy per child under our tree.

This Christmas feels calmer.
Less cluttered.

The kids have delighted in the glow of the lights.
The pending family gatherings.
Advent candles.
Christmas movies.
Our kindness countdown.
Silly versions of classic Christmas songs.

This year I've stopped - really stopped - to watch my children play with the nativity scene in our living room. My eyes delighted in the joy of their recounting of the Christmas story, and I laughed hard and loud when I realized Ethan has been referring to Baby Jesus as 'Baby Jeez'.

We are blessed.

This Christmas, in lieu of the Christmas cards my hands never wrote, my note to you is this....

Find peace in a hot cup of coffee.
Feel the warmth of a family member's hand in yours.
Laugh so hard your belly hurts.

Look for silver linings in times of grief.
Breathe deeply in times of anxiety. 
Melt away the sadness with festive food and drink.

Be grateful for a warm bed.
Look with fresh eyes at the snow outside your window.
Hold your furbabies close and thank them for being steadfast companions.

Put
your
phone
down.

Be present.
Relish, deeply, in the charms of the holiday season.

Let's really live, this Christmas. 
Look with wonder upon the things which we too often take for granted.

Let's really love, this Christmas.
Take it upon ourselves to boldly declare our adoration to our most cherished loved ones.

Let's really appreciate, this Christmas.
Because we never really know when life's tide will turn and leave us far from shore.

Be
Peaceful.
Loving.
Joyful.
Gracious.
Kind.

And know that you are loved, beyond measure.

Merry Christmas
xoxo

MRI eve

After school today we came home and the kids had some free time to play. Brooklyn was agitated, and eventually had a meltdown 'because she didn't get to type on google classroom.'

I knew it wasn't about typing a few letters.
She hid in the corner for awhile, and eventually the truth came out.

"I don't want to go to my MRI on Friday!" she said, with tears streaming down her face. "Friday is a fun day at school. We go to the library, trade warm fuzzies and have a spelling test."

My heart fell.

I hugged her for a few minutes but was interrupted by our old dog's urgent bark to go outside. By the time I came back in, she had shut herself in her room. I intended to leave her there as she was calm, but she slowly crawled out of her room and looked up at me, ready to talk.

What happened next made me both very proud, and very sad.
Tonight she shared her feelings with a brave heart.

She said to me, "The cancer isn't coming back mama, because God is in charge and he won't let that happen. I prayed to him mama, my nighttime prayer. He's listening."

I explained that I wasn't sure why cancer existed. That I didn't think God chose her to have cancer, but rather that he was a capable companion along the journey.

"I don't want to have the MRI. It's like having the cancer out again."

It took me a few moments to take that in.
My experience with her 'having the cancer out' ranks far worse than any MRI.

 I asked why she felt that way, if it was because it hurt or was scary.

"Its both, mama. It's both."

"Mom, cancer can grow and grow and grow and grow."

I agreed, but explained that I didn't expect her cancer to return, That if it did, the MRIs help us discover it early so it didn't have to make her really sick. I reminded her that I loved her, and that I just wanted her to stay healthy.

"Mom, what is the name of the cancer I have?"

I stopped her there.
"HAD, honey. You HAD cancer. You do not have cancer anymore."

We worked on pronouncing the name of the cancer she HAD.
Neuro-blast-o-ma, she kept practicing, with a smile on her face.

"I need a hug, mama."

And just like that, she crawled into my lap and we sat.
More silence.

When she chose to speak, she said this.
"Mama, can you write a note in my agenda? Ask if I can write my spelling test on Monday?"

And just like that, fear loosened it grip and we went on with our evening.

This, is MRI eve.
This is cancer's aftermath.

What's the worst case scenario?

I was at a meditation class last month where we talked about fear.

Discussed the way fear can rule our life.

Create unhealthy habits.

Build anxiety.

Fear is one of those feelings that doesn't go away.

It lingers.

Wakes you up at night.

Follows you around all day

The voice of fear is loud.

It bullies you with its scary messages.

Often difficult to manage, fear has the ability to control us.

Our thoughts.
Our health.

Our body.

I have learned this year to notice when fear is present.

My body tenses up. Becomes achy.

My mind races.

I struggle to relax.

For my kids, fear presents itself with a strong need for extra hugs.

Cuddles at bedtime.

Tearful outbursts.

A question was posed, at meditation that night.

What's the worst case scenario?

If I dug to the greatest depth of the trance of fear, what is the worst possible outcome?

Truth is, I cried when I was honest with myself.

Brooklyn's death is my worst fear.

Seeing cancer take her from me is my greatest fear.
Every. single. day.

But wait.

The interesting thing about this exercise is that since I was honest with myself, I have felt less weighted in this fear. The truth helped me realize how much this fear was ruling my every thought and movement throughout the day.

I am now trying to meet this fear with love and courage.

Faith in God.

Radical acceptance.

It's damn hard.
But it's possible.

So, next time you feel fearful, ask yourself:

What is the worst case scenario?
Dig deep, keep asking 'so what' until you really get to the root cause.

You might be surprised how much relief you find in exploring the answer.

To be more peaceful

It's been some time since I wrote.
In many ways its been a purposeful move.

I have little to say.
Correction.
I have few positive feelings to speak about.

Truth is, this fall has been very hard on our family.
Brooklyn is experiencing symptoms similar to PTSD... generalized anxiety, fear of being alone or in the dark, exaggerated startle response, refusal to discuss her trauma and deeply negative emotions.

She recently expressed to me that she 'feels happy on the outside, but sad on the inside.'

At play therapy this week she worked with a sand seive, choosing to place 'heavy things' onto its plastic surface. Coffins, tombstones, fences, doors and houses were chosen over people, strollers, and other more happy items.

Its horrifying.
A six year old should not feel this way.

Should not literally freeze up and be unable to walk when asked to visit the doctor.
Should not scream and cry when someone knocks at the front door.
Should not be worrying about the cancer coming back.

But she is.
And we are struggling to manage.

Tonight, her big brother broke down in tears as he recounted how he feels like the last to receive love and help. Suggested two kids would be better because then he wouldn't have to wait for us to read to him at bedtime. He cried when I admitted his sister is very sad. That her fears are real and its ok for him to feel sad too.

That I feel sad too.

Truth is, we are struggling.
I am struggling so badly.
I can't even articulate my emotions.
But I am weak. Tired. Foggy again.

We are fighting the aftermath of cancer.
For me, it feels like waiting for it all to happen again.
For her to relapse.

Over the next four weeks Brooklyn will complete a plethora of tests including an EEG, ECHO and MRI to determine if she is having small seizures, if her lymph nodes have enlarged beyond 3cm, if her heart is causing her dizzy spells or the cancer has returned.

We are quietly fighting.
Still fighting.

And so we pray for strength and love.
And we ask for your patience.
We do not feel ourselves.

In the words of Brooklyn, when asked what emotion she'd like more of, we'd really like 'to be more peaceful.'
Here's hoping that Christmas brings just that.

<3 <3 <3

#TeamBrookie  #WarriorPrincess