A Proud Mom

Yesterday it happened. I finally broke. Since Jack’s been diagnosed, I’ve definitely had my share of tears. Tears trying to talk about it, tears when no ones looking, tears when I see kids doing something and I think will he get this chance, car tears, shower tears, tears from a song, tears, tears, tears. But lately I’ve allowed myself to become numb. I’ve had others cry and looked at them with dry eyes. I’ve been so lost in my “everything’s okay” bubble that I didn’t let myself feel any emotions that suggested otherwise. I’ve become so used to our new normal that I didn’t let myself feel. It took a mother/daughter trip with my girls for me to let myself finally let go and allow myself to get the heck out of my cancer cloud. 

It first occurred to me what I was doing in the car with my mom, my buddy Emily, and her mom - who is also someone I am lucky to call a friend. My mom asked Em a question that made me snap out of my fog and realize just how long a life we’ve lived since that day in March. “How was the Fleetwood Mac concert?”I was so confused. Was I so out of the loop of my friends’ lives that I didn’t know they went to see our gal, Stevie? Was I left out? Who the heck did she go with if not with me? As Emily described what sounded like an amazing show, my mind raced...like it always does. It took minutes of being lost in my own mind before I finally remembered... I was supposed to be there. I had completely forgotten that the morning of my concert girls night trip of a lifetime, I was instead at the Doctor’s office with Jack. It was the day he was diagnosed. Instead of calling my girls to ask what they were wearing or what the plans were, I called Em to tell her we were going to Danville because something was wrong with my baby boy. 

The fog I’ve been living in isn’t one that I’ve necessarily minded. Instead of cloud nine, I live in cloud cancer. There hasn’t been one moment that I’ve had a clear mind ready to relax. I think about Jack, I think about Coop, I think about schedules, what-ifs, if-thens. I think about things that don’t matter one bit and I think about things that matter so much. I tell myself over and over again how everything is okay because it just has to be. But the problem is, I rarely can get these thoughts out. 

If mommy brain is bad, cancer brain is off the charts. I find myself losing my train of thought constantly... Forgetting what I was trying to say or what I was going to do. If I don’t say what I’m thinking immediately it’s gone. Lost in the fog. I forget words - names, medicines, basic things. But my mind still races. It races all night long when I should be sleeping. It races when I go anywhere. Are people looking at me? Do they know? Are they proud of us or have pity for us? Am I doing a good enough job? Do people know how ridiculously, overwhelmingly thankful we are for their love and support? So. Many. Thoughts. 

So it took some time out of town, some lifelong friends, and more drinks than needed, for me to finally let go. This trip was so much more than a night away for me - it was a breakthrough. I let my mind relax. I vented - oh I vented. And I cried. I finally let the tears flow late at night, surrounded by moms who knew I needed it, in the arms of my mom. We all cried. We cried for Jack and we cried for us. And since that moment I realized how damn proud I am of myself, my family, and my friends. Because we’ve all gotten through so much...Together. 

Now back to my boy. Jack has finished active chemo for round three and it was intense. No, literally it’s called the intensification round. Basically it is like God’s way (or maybe more accurately the Devil’s way) of saying, “you ain’t seen nothing yet.” Jack did great with the chemo, but then in the first week after everything got real. He slept much more and ate much less. He got sick. A lot. It wasn’t pretty. But he got through it. We all did. 

He’s still there waiting for count recovery. But what made this hellish round better was that finally Cooper could come to the room and be with his brother. Within minutes of being there, the entire place changed. Toys that had been there for weeks were being used in new ways, the crib became transformed into new imaginative things - a cage at the zoo or jail, and I couldn’t be happier. We are back - A family again. 

Of all the moments since we’ve been able to be together, there is one that I especially love. Jack needed a blood transfusion just after Cooper arrived one day. Now if you know Coop Callahan at all, you know how inquisitive he is and how is imagination runs wild. Since Jack started getting blood, we’ve often joked it’s superhero blood, given how quickly he rebounds back to his best self once it’s given. So when one of Jack’s many amazing nurses came in to do the infusion, I told Coop we had requested Thor (his favorite) Blood this time, as Spider-Man was last time. Without missing a moment, his nurse played along. She even had Cooper watch as the blood went to Jack’s “brave spot” the name he coined for his brother’s port. Coop was fascinated. And I know it’s a stretch think that was the first time he realized just how awesome his brother was. Our superhero boy. 

Since that day, everyone has talked about the superhero blood and doctors have even asked if I mind if they use it with other patients. Jack has been brought in to other patients who are scared or nervous about getting a port. They see this baby smiling away, without a care, wearing his brave spot like a badge of honor. Because it is. I’m so proud of him. And us. And because of a room filled with moms, I finally feel okay to say that.