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

Not all wandering means we are lost

I got asked this question earlier in the week:

"Can you let me know some differences (good and bad) about having 2 vs 3 kids?"

Hmm.
I did blog a little about this in the past, however I find the question so much more powerful and reflective, now that Brooklyn and our family have endured such a fresh journey.

Why did we choose to have three children?
Hmm.

The truth is, we really only 'planned' our first two. To be embarrassingly honest Ethan is quite the love child. No really, he was a thought in our minds, but he was not at all planned for and discussed in advance the way our first two kids were.

To most people, we had 'the million dollar family' already. Two children, one of each sex.
To the logical brain, we 'had it all'.

But here's the thing.

'Having it all' to me meant I needed one more child on the dock, in that classic photo I blogged about back in 2013.

To one friend it meant one little man and absolutely no more.
To another, it meant adopting four gorgeous little ones.
To a third, it meant two, but with a large gap in between.

The thing that ties us all together is this:
We listened to our hearts more, and our heads less.

Yes, having two children means life is more expensive.
Tables are more difficult to come by at a restaurant,
Post-secondary tuition will be outrageous.

But life will always be expensive.
And you can live with less.
Trust me on this one.

Restaurants are overpriced.
Food is too salty when you don't make it yourself.
And the best meals are always inspired by little helpers with big hearts.

And lastly, our children will never come out of school debt-free.
Its an impossibility, as I see it.
So we'll save, and we'll help. But they will also be responsible for their education and their future.

We listened to our hearts.
Not our conditioned minds, ego voices trying to 'protect us' from its perception of danger.

Having two children is 'easier' in many ways.
Less laundry, lunches to make and hands to hold when crossing the street.

But for my heart to truly be full, to feel complete in this stage of my life, I needed my wee man.

Perhaps because his bum shaking made me laugh when his sister was sick.
Maybe it's because his "I love you mommy"s watered my withering heart.
It's certainly because his presence, as loud and crazy as it is, kept our entire family alert and moving when all we wanted to do was hide under our covers and cry.

He was meant to be.
Three was meant to be.

And so, for any family. Any couple. Any single adult pondering these important questions.
The question of if, or how many children to have can most certainly be answered logically by crunching incomes, counting bedrooms and looking to social norms.

But the real answer lies deep inside the heart.
In the quiet before bedtime.
The alone time on the drive to work.
While out for an early morning jog.

"If you want to know where your heart is, look where your mind goes when it wanders."

Happiness is felt in the heart.
Not all wandering means we are lost.

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

Adjusting to Anxiety

This week I visited my local early years centre with Ethan. It's one of his favourite places to play, run around and engage in some classic circle time.

This time it was stressful.
Anxiety overload.

You see, Ethan has a dairy allergy.
Children were running around with cream cheese bagels in one hand, and a ball in the other. Milk cups were bouncing off the gym floor and goldfish became a fun snack to eat at circle time.

I could feel my body temperature rise.
My heart flutter.
My ego voice began screaming to take control of the situation.

Thankfully, Ethan is not anaphylactic.
He will vomit, acquire skin rashes and go TOTALLY INSANE for 48 hours if he ingests dairy, but to date he hasn't needed his epi-pen (knock on wood).

I acknowledge that other parents are not responsible for keeping my child safe. The other caregivers had no idea Ethan has a dairy allergy, and they should not be asked to refrain from bringing dairy products into the centre. (side note: can we bring back the snack table mentality? Hold snack time sacred? It is a great line of defence for allergic kiddos.)

The part that threw me off was that I couldn't 'check' myself.
I couldn't tell if I was reacting appropriately, or if anxiety was leading judgement.

My brain is still very tired.
My body still aches all over.

I've heard other cancer families call this 'adrenal fatigue' or 'adjustment disorder'. I'm not entirely sure what it is, but it sucks. In some ways, being 'in treatment' was easier (I use this term lightly), as there was nothing to do but breathe and focus on the now.

As we step into the next phase of Brooklyn's journey, we are faced with worries about relapses, nerve damage and the awful, all too frequent nightmares both Jay and I have been living with.

This week has been a struggle for me <3
I promise to focus on gratitude and love in the week ahead.

Sharing for her future self

We are now home from our much-needed vacation and back to our new normal. Brooklyn is healing well, her next MRI is scheduled for April and from there she will endure monthly tests until June, after which she will have her first 3-month break from follow up.

Life feels mostly normal.

Though...
My body is still weak and tired.
My mind forgetful.
My pulse still races when I think about the last three months.

Part of our journey is saying thank you to everyone who took time to care for us the last while.
Cards will be sent. Emails written. Notes of thanks and love.

I am also committed to making Brooklyn a photo scrapbook, to help her see her acts of bravery, her Warrior Princess ways.

For this, I need your help.

I have created the email:

BrooklynWarriorPrincess (at) gmail (dot) com

Will you send her an email?
Share with her how her journey impacted you?
Changed your lifestyle? Opened your eyes to new perspectives?

If you could take some time, please email her at the address above. I know life is busy, I know words can be difficult for some, but if you could do this for her the impact will last a lifetime.

I will print copies of all the messages and store them safely away until the day I find she needs a reminder of her incredible journey. These will not be shared publically, only read by her and perhaps me as I print them for her memory box.

Thank you, from one proud mama.

#TeamBrookie #WarriorPrincess

Brooklyn proudly wore this button at Magic Kingdom in March.

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