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

d day. part three.

(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

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