(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.
Friday, September 30, 2016
Saturday, September 24, 2016
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
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
Monday, September 5, 2016
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.
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
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 |
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
Thursday, August 25, 2016
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.
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."
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
Wednesday, July 27, 2016
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.
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
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
Monday, June 27, 2016
A snapshot of child life
Last week Brooklyn and I took a trip up to McMaster Children's Hospital to visit our friend Nancy, one of two child life specialists in oncology. The pre-planned appointment was set with a goal of preparing Brooklyn for her next MRI, taking place this week.
Brooklyn spent about an hour with Nancy, focusing their time together on IV insertion and use as well as the MRI machine. Brooklyn's last experience went very poorly in nuclear imaging so Nancy kindly suggested we be more proactive in our approach this time around.
Brooklyn learned about how the needle retracts after entering the vein and leaves only a 'straw' behind in her body. She was reminded how helpful emla cream is in reducing needle pain, and practiced removing bandages carefully and slowly to diminish hurt. They talked about the difference between 'sleeping' at home and 'sleepy medicine' at the hospital, and why its so important she sleep through this test.
She also made a diagram to remind herself what she can and cannot do on the day of her MRI. The outside depicts things she can do - play ipad, close her eyes, take a deep breath, etc - and the inside marks the four things she cannot do - run, hit, yell or kick. She also pre-picked a special prize to reward her for good behaviour at this week's appointment.
Here are a few photos to help visualize her experience.
The child life team at Mac are incredible people. They are courage-builders, peace-makers, teachers and cheerleaders for children experiencing traumatic and scary situations. My heart is always so darn full after spending any amount of time with them.
Brookie's MRI is this week. I will share her results later in July.
Please pray for a NED result.
#TeamBrookie #WarriorPrincess
Brooklyn spent about an hour with Nancy, focusing their time together on IV insertion and use as well as the MRI machine. Brooklyn's last experience went very poorly in nuclear imaging so Nancy kindly suggested we be more proactive in our approach this time around.
Brooklyn learned about how the needle retracts after entering the vein and leaves only a 'straw' behind in her body. She was reminded how helpful emla cream is in reducing needle pain, and practiced removing bandages carefully and slowly to diminish hurt. They talked about the difference between 'sleeping' at home and 'sleepy medicine' at the hospital, and why its so important she sleep through this test.
She also made a diagram to remind herself what she can and cannot do on the day of her MRI. The outside depicts things she can do - play ipad, close her eyes, take a deep breath, etc - and the inside marks the four things she cannot do - run, hit, yell or kick. She also pre-picked a special prize to reward her for good behaviour at this week's appointment.
Here are a few photos to help visualize her experience.
 |
| Visual reminder of can and can't dos. |
 |
| Brooklyn giving her doll 'sleepy medicine'. |
 |
| Step one of IV insertion. |
 |
| After placing 'emla' on Nancy's hand, she then practiced taking the band-aid off to reduce pain. |
 |
| Miniature MRI machine |
Brookie's MRI is this week. I will share her results later in July.
Please pray for a NED result.
#TeamBrookie #WarriorPrincess
Thursday, June 23, 2016
To my husband on our anniversary
On June 24th Jay and I mark a very special milestone.
Ten years of marriage.
We don't remember our wedding song. (and we think this is funny)
I can't remember our first date. (movies? dinner?)
But we will never forget the day we sent our first fur baby over the rainbow bridge.
You love beer.
I love rum and coolers.
But we secretly prefer a cold fountain pop to just about anything alcoholic.
We've endured two apartments.
One mouse house.
One family mortgage.
Three dogs.
One fish.
Two induced labours.
One emergency c-section.
I've had three surgeries.
You've had one. And a pretty scary MRI I do recall.
Throw in a broken ankle for good measure.
We've struggled to connect.
Taken our anger out on each other.
Minced words over nonsense.
Sleepless nights.
Anxiety filled days.
Overwhelming weeks.
Yet here we are.
Strong.
Faithful.
Loving.
In love.
Our relationship is built on a foundation of mutual respect, deep love and genuine appreciation for our similarities but more importantly our differences. We couldn't care less about the jones' or any other societal pressure to be something we are not.
We are who we are.
And it feels so darn good.
We've learned that stuff - possessions and displays of income - mean very little to us. We took a giant financial leap backward just to prove this point. And we both still appreciate this decision, four years later.
We are raising our children to express love.
Help the helpless.
Trust in God.
Sing because it feels good.
Dance for every reason possible.
Cuddle.
We've admittedly allowed our relationship to take a backseat to the daily rituals of life with three kids. But we don't mind because we know we love one another. Our bond is quiet, yet the strongest piece of our family. We know it, and our kids find comfort in this.
Thank you for loving me, especially on days when I don't even love myself.
For picking me up off the floor on my worst days.
And celebrating the best ones.
For reminding me of our blessings.
And turning down the to-do list echoing in my head.
For making me laugh every. single. day.
Thank you for being an incredible father.
Husband.
Best Friend.
Soul Mate.
Thank you for ten years, Jay.
Love, pure love, our love, will always carry us <3
Here's to ten more.
Ten years of marriage.
We don't remember our wedding song. (and we think this is funny)
I can't remember our first date. (movies? dinner?)
But we will never forget the day we sent our first fur baby over the rainbow bridge.
You love beer.
I love rum and coolers.
But we secretly prefer a cold fountain pop to just about anything alcoholic.
We've endured two apartments.
One mouse house.
One family mortgage.
Three dogs.
One fish.
Two induced labours.
One emergency c-section.
I've had three surgeries.
You've had one. And a pretty scary MRI I do recall.
Throw in a broken ankle for good measure.
We've struggled to connect.
Taken our anger out on each other.
Minced words over nonsense.
Sleepless nights.
Anxiety filled days.
Overwhelming weeks.
Yet here we are.
Strong.
Faithful.
Loving.
In love.
Our relationship is built on a foundation of mutual respect, deep love and genuine appreciation for our similarities but more importantly our differences. We couldn't care less about the jones' or any other societal pressure to be something we are not.
We are who we are.
And it feels so darn good.
We've learned that stuff - possessions and displays of income - mean very little to us. We took a giant financial leap backward just to prove this point. And we both still appreciate this decision, four years later.
We are raising our children to express love.
Help the helpless.
Trust in God.
Sing because it feels good.
Dance for every reason possible.
Cuddle.
We've admittedly allowed our relationship to take a backseat to the daily rituals of life with three kids. But we don't mind because we know we love one another. Our bond is quiet, yet the strongest piece of our family. We know it, and our kids find comfort in this.
Thank you for loving me, especially on days when I don't even love myself.
For picking me up off the floor on my worst days.
And celebrating the best ones.
For reminding me of our blessings.
And turning down the to-do list echoing in my head.
For making me laugh every. single. day.
Thank you for being an incredible father.
Husband.
Best Friend.
Soul Mate.
Thank you for ten years, Jay.
Love, pure love, our love, will always carry us <3
Here's to ten more.
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