Dads

I think when something is happening to a child, the Dad's get overlooked. They become an almost afterthought. They're not overtly emotional (generally speaking), and the Mom's are generally handling the majority of the circumstances. Maybe I should state that this is how it is in my house. Chief gets overlooked, while I'm disintegrating into a million little pieces.

Last night I looked over at my amazing husband's face and he looked so defeated. He looked deflated, exhausted and destroyed. He looked exactly how my heart was feeling. I asked him what was wrong. He said he was tired. Isn't that what men often say? "Tired" translates to: I'm feeling every single thing that you're feeling: helpless, broken, terrified, angry, sad... but I know you need to feel that so I'm going to be strong for you and for her and I'm going to not give you one more thing to worry about.

The truth is, we're both in the same boat. We're both frustrated by the waiting... We both want to know, for good or for bad, what is going on with our daughter. We both want to be able to step back and survey what we're facing and then figure out how we're going to get through it. We're both hurting. We're both angry. We're both helpless.

Chief's love for me is like a lantern in the darkness. He's in the shelter with a light and I can go there to get my bearings. Somehow I forgot that he needs a little bit of light too. Somehow I forgot to create an environment where it's okay for him to grieve this process.

I love you Chief. You are an excellent Daddy. You're an excellent husband. You are the glue that holds me together. We will get through this. We've weathered some incredible storms. And even though this one feels like the hardest yet, we are all going to be okay.

navigating

I've been sitting here staring at the cursor on this page for a while now. I know I need to write something, but the words are struggling to come out. There are too many angles, too many directions to look in. All of the paths are completely dark. All of the emotions are completely overwhelming.

I. am. overwhelmed. It's really the best way to communicate my own perspective. And it's awful because this really isn't my experience. It's hers. It's her body getting shot after shot after shot. It's her blood going in to vial after vial after vial. It's her flesh being poked, prodded, analyzed.

There I stand, by her side, helpless. I can't make it not hurt. I can't make them not do it. I can't protect her from whatever the hell is going on inside of her. I. can't. fix. this.

So I let her squeeze my hand, and watch her knuckles turn white, when they draw blood. I let her hide behind me when the doctor's come around. I sit and listen when she asks me if she's dying...

What mother should EVER have to hear her 7 year old daughter ask her if she's dying!?!?!

When we were walking into the Oncologist's office today, Lolli was so scared she was shaking. She said I'm scared Mommy. I said I know. And we sat next to each other in the waiting room with her curled up against me.

The looks you get when you walk your daughter into the Pediatric Oncology office are heart wrenching. It's the looks of mothers saying to themselves "Oh my gosh... What if that was my child?" I know, because I've done it before.

Sitting across from me, in the waiting room, was a little girl who looked about the same age as Lolli. Her head was bald and she was getting some sort of treatment (I thought I heard a nurse say Chemo, but I'm not sure). I couldn't look at her. What kind of sickness is there in me that I couldn't look at that child? My inner voice just kept saying Don't cry. That's not your daughter. Don't cry. She's already scared enough...

The truth is, this situation is hell on earth. The truth is there's nothing than any one can really say or do. The truth is the only comfort that will come to me is when some doctor says that my child is fine. The truth is that the only thing I want is to honor God in the circumstance. I don't have to have peace. I don't need to not worry. I don't need to "give it all to God" and then live in some completely illusion-filled mentality that this isn't a living nightmare.

She is flesh of my flesh. Bone of my bone. Blood of my blood. She grew in my body, nursed at my breast, cuddled, snuggled, spit up on, cried to, and found comfort in my heart beat. She is half of my DNA, and the first human bi product of the fact that her Daddy and I love each other. She is the most immaculate human being, with the most awe inspiring heart, of anyone I have ever known. She doesn't deserve this.

In truth my emotions are all over the map. I have moments of calm and comfort where I genuinely believe she will be just fine. Then I have moments where the hysteria is so intense that I can't breathe. It's difficult to talk about it all. What is there to say? I mean, what the hell should I really say? Um... Yeah... My daughter might be dying. In fact it's beginning to look more and more like something really terrible is happening here... 

I'm angry. There's no denying it. This situation pisses me off. And that's okay. But it's important for me to remember that this really isn't about me. Yes, she's my child. Yes, this is immensely impacting my emotional and mental state. But this is ultimately Lolli's adventure and it began in May 2004 inside of my body. And on that day that she began, her father and I were chosen to be her hiking instructors. We were chosen to teach her the ways of the trail: how to climb up mountains, and climb down them; scale rocks, get through ice, quicksand, and rain. How to enjoy the amazing days of the adventure and navigate the horrible ones. We were chosen to help illuminate the safer paths, and help her to get through the scary nights. This is her adventure. And as terrified as I might be of the grizzly bear that is standing in front of us roaring and growling and showing us its teeth, I choose what I will teach her about how to react.

So while I have all of my feelings, fears, and experiences, I have to remember that the best gift I can give to my daughter is my love, strength, dedication, and comfort. The best I can do is wrap my arms around my frightened daughter and tell her it's all going to be okay. This bear will eventually go away and this long, long, long night will eventually end. And she will still be standing. Because I swear on my life, come hell or high water, that I will be there to pick my sweet child up and help her to keep standing in the face of this crippling nightmare. I will fight, I will scream, I will sing, and I will shine with all of my might until she believes, until she knows, that she handled this terror and the amazing days have returned.

blood

When your daughter's pediatrician talks about sending your daughter to an oncologist, you sort of have a mini panic attack. If you've seen enough death in your life, your mind goes to places that you don't want it to. For moments, your brain feels like it's standing on the ledge of a 800 story building and you have to sort of talk yourself down. She is fine. This is just precautionary. Don't worry until you know for certain there is something to worry about. Everything isn't cancer...

It's amazing how one blood test can take a mother from being thankful for her family's health, to something else. And it's all so silly really, because we don't have the results and I'm sure she'll be fine. She has to be. Right? People with cancer are "sick". She's fine. Just tired. But she's fine.

Last night, she, Chief and I were all playing. It's something we do often after the triplets have gone to bed. In this random moment, I grabbed her and I just couldn't let go. My mind went to the moments where she was tiny and I could keep her safe. Then it went to the images of people I have known who sat by their children's bedsides while they struggled for life.

She'll be fine. I know she will. But there is this tiny little piece of my brain whispering but what if she isn't?

Fire watching

Sometimes life can feel like a disaster. Sometimes I can feel like I'm hiding out in a bunker somewhere while a nuclear bomb explodes all over the people I love and care for. I'm helpless and hurting, but it's not really my crises. It's not my injury or my trauma. But I'm stuck standing here watching the fires burn and helpless to prevent them.

Needless to say, this has caused some emotional overload in my heart. It has been impacting me down to my core and deeply effecting my sleep, mood, and compassion. 

Yesterday I was talking to someone who is quickly becoming a dear friend of mine. The soon to be Mrs Godfather said one statement to me (after listening to me unload a lot of statements on her). She said: You have to pray and just let this go. It was spoken in the midst of a tangle of a thousand other words but it was right on. It was exactly the truth.

I don't like feeling helpless. I don't like having problems that I can't fix. I don't like watching people I love disintegrate, or pass away, or do foolish things.

However, in each of the scenarios of those people I love, what I am capable of doing is praying and sitting/standing/walking/being right beside them as they experience their agonies. I am capable of not ditching them in their crisis, or judging them for not doing things the way that I would. I am capable of loving them fiercely, passionately, desperately regardless of the outcomes. I am capable of showing them that the person beneath the struggle is beautiful and wonderful. I am capable of giving grace. 

I have to let go of my emotions, and just love. It's strange because that is so utterly simple to do, but yet so completely challenging to do when the bombs are going off and the fires are burning. 

So I've decided that today I'm going to listen to worship music and fill my heart with prayers. I'm going to fall against the strength of my beautiful husband and appreciate that he holds me up so that I can grab on to these beautiful people I love. Even if it's just squeezing them hard enough, while their worlds burns down and everything falls apart, so that they'll never forget they are not alone and they are loved.

Choices

It's too easy to forget the humanity in the people around us. It's too easy to look at our screaming, angry children and view it as a "power struggle" or as someone who's trying to get their way. It's too easy to view our spouses, parents, friends' failures with pinpoint accuracy all the while ignoring our own. It's too easy to expect people to live up to the pedestals that we've imagined for them, and forget that they're human beings.

Every day there is probably an internal list in Chief's mind of all the things he'd like me to do. I make mistakes constantly. I'm thoughtless and selfish and lazy. I am human. But what does Chief see when he looks at me? Does he see the sink full of dishes that I chose not to do, despite knowing he'd come home exhausted? No. Instead he chooses to see the way I smile when he walks in the room or the way my skin gets goosebumps every time he touches it. He puts his mind on the way I will sit and listen to his bad/great day and try to cheer him up or rejoice with him. He targets in on the way I cheer him on when he succeeds. He chooses to focus on my successes instead of my failures.

The same is true on the other end of the spectrum. This might surprise you to read, but Chief isn't very romantic. The man has deployed five times and I think I have received about 20 hand written letters TOTAL from all of them (I will remain mum on the amount of letters he's gotten from me). I have a list of things that I'd love for Chief to do every day that he doesn't. He's thoughtless, selfish and lazy. Just like me, he is human. But I choose what I will focus on. Chief doesn't decide the way that I will view him, I do. Chief doesn't "make" me feel the way I feel about him. I do. Chief's action or inaction does not dictate what I choose to ignore and build up. Every single day Chief doesn't do a bunch of things I wish he would, but every day Chief does a thousand things I adore.

The same is true with our children. Every day there are many things that I wish they would do, but don't. But every day there are also many things they do successfully/correctly/appropriately. As a parent, yes I have to train them, equip them and prepare them for adulthood. But as a parent it's important to put a bulls eye on their accomplishments (example: Lolli left her stuffed animals on the living room floor, Charchee picked them up for her and put them away. She wasn't asked to do it, she just did. That is an accomplishment. Charchee saw a problem, solved it, and carried on her way.).

My point for all of this is to remember that you choose what you will dwell on. You choose if you're going to adore your spouse for what they did right, or resent them for what they've failed to do the way you hoped. Your choose if you're going to focus on the positives or the negatives. But be warned, focusing on the negatives stifles love and growth and generally ends up creating a miserable environment for all involved.

God Father

Last night I was sitting here with Chief and I started to feel really sad. I started to miss you. It's really socially ridiculous that you've been gone for months and it just randomly hit me and hurt me. I think the awkwardness of our personalities made the goodbye situation uncomfortable. I think my overall discomfort with emotions and vulnerability made it easier to focus my attention on other things. And well, you know how I am about talking about my feelings, etc...

I just wanted to talk. Not that I have anything really particular to say, and the precious moments of time that you have available for phone calls should go to your love. I know I could write you a letter but what the hell would I write? I've only ever written love letters, or thank you notes, and frankly I'm not very good at writing "Hey Pal!" things... They always end up seeming so contrived or superficial even when they aren't.

People have been irritating me with their religious combatives lately. I know it's something that would equally irritate you. I miss that. I miss having our hours long tirades about the ridiculousness of people's religious view points. I miss having a sounding board to bounce off my own responses, and having someone to give me comebacks or to make me recognize the arguments that would be thrown back at me. I miss my religious-fighting-partner-in-crime...

Do you think we'll ever get talked out? I mean, will there ever come a time where we just run out of things to say? Maybe this is an aspect of friendship that I've never known. One in which, words don't really have to be spoken... One where things don't have to be explained or psychoanalyzed. Perhaps that's what's so bizarre. I don't have to say everything. You just get it. I don't have to justify or defend or mouth vomit a bunch of words to you. You don't have to say a bunch of reassuring things to me, because I know...

So all of this sappy, emotional/girly crap aside... I miss you. I hope you are well. Stay safe.

Parenting

Some days being a parent sucks. Today was one of those days. One of our children has a very feisty temper. Well, she just has a feisty everything really, but her temper can be especially trying on one's patience and kindness. For the past week or so, she's been pushing every single button she can. She has exhausted the gentleness of her father and me. Today was no different. She was especially awful today.

I had tapped out of parenting her by the evening. When I start clenching my fists it's time for me to say that I'm finished in that moment, and I had to tell her Dad that it was his turn. Chief took over and she was as ferocious as ever. In a beautiful moment, Chief came out of the girl's room, walked up to me and hugged me. He said "Help me to use kind words." I said "Who are you talking to because I'm so mad I can barely see straight!" He said "You and God. I think she needs kind words but I'm so angry with her I just want to scream at her."

It was powerful. It was also beautiful. There we were, two grown ups, being pushed and challenged by our five year old child. There he was coming to me for a regroup, and bringing us both to God for a collected mentality.

We snuggled for a few minutes and then off he went back to fight the good fight. When he went back in to her room, in the midst of her screaming tantrum, he walked up to her and hugged her. I know because I had an overwhelming sense that I should hug her myself and when I walked in I saw them hugging while he was talking to her. We all stood there hugging in her room, talking about this behavior.

The thing that is neat to me, is that the story didn't turn out like you might have imagined. It didn't all wrap up neatly before bed. She continued acting like a lunatic. She didn't all of a sudden start to behave and apologize for her rude actions. She didn't have any sort of revelation about respecting her parents and treating people with kindness. But we did. We were reminded that she is a person (it's extra neat that as I was writing that sentence, I was reminded of what our priest said today in church: missionary work is reaching out to people and connecting with them. It's not protests and agendas, but connecting with a person in a trusting and intimate way. Powerful stuff!). We were reminded that so are we. We were schooled on the notion of self control and kindness (notice I did not say surrendering, but rather kindness). We also were drawn closer to each other and we stood side-by-side tackling this challenge as one unit.

It's amazing to me how the behavior of our children can teach us so many lessons. In the heat of this outrageously challenging evening, Chief and I could have turned our emotions on each other. We could have become angry and yelled and screamed and acted just like our child. But because of Chief's wisdom... because of his self control, the entire tone of our conduct changed. That, my friends, is leadership. It is leadership and missionary work in the most excellent of ways.