I wrote this whole entry based on things I was thinking about this morning. And the dumb thing got deleted as I was trying to post it and if that’s ever happened to you…that you pour your heart out only to have it all erased, you know how tiring it feels to try to re-do. It won’t be the same…but it feels important to get out so here goes, again. 

There is no silver lining to childhood cancer. There is no life lesson that makes up for the nightmare we’ve been living through. I will never not wish we could undo this diagnosis. But there is a perspective we’ve gained that can never be unseen, a lens I wouldn’t give back. 

When the earth crumbled beneath our feet, when we heard those words,  when our lives down shifted into before and after? There was a clarity. In those moments and the weeks that followed, there was a desperation to hold on to the only things that actually matter. If we could get Ronan through this, if we could all survive this, we could survive anything. 

My husband is the only other person on the earth who can understand the love I have for our children. He is the only other person who was there for every moment. The rush of finding out we’d be parents, the thrill of hearing that first heartbeat, the wonder at watching my belly grow and reading to it every night, and the Herculean effort of bringing those babies earthside, of cutting the cord. He’s the only other person who suffered through those sleepless nights, bickered with me at 3 am and held me through the wildness of post-partum, twice. He felt the immense joy of those first smiles, steps, words. He felt the anguish of worry when they were ill, when Ronan had his surgery. We felt the glow of watching them bond, the pride of their learning every new skill. And we felt the utter devastation of those words, of leukemia, the bomb that detonated in the heart of our family, together. 

If we could hold tight enough to one another, if we could help Ronan survive this, get through every terrible
painful moment he’d have to face. If we could hold Jack close enough to shield him from just any of the heartbreak he’d feel from this. Nothing else mattered. We could survive any relationship hiccup, any financial strain, any upheaval of work, any extended family stress. There is a clarity in having your world overturned. 

You’ve likely had glimpses of it when you drive past a terrible accident, or hear a harrowing story. It’s a moment you thank your lucky stars. But then you forget. Even for me, there are moments I forget. I feel mad about toothpaste all over the counter and attitude about picking up their toys. Bryce and I argue about how to handle a parenting situation. I feel angry about his backseat driving me. We are impatient, or grouchy. We are human. But this perspective now lives deep inside my soul and I can reach for it and remind myself to be thankful for these normal, boring, tiring moments. 

They are, funnily, the thing I longed for most in those quiet late nights at the hospital. I longed for so much normal that we could argue about dishes or driving. I longed for so much normal I could worry about the cost of a new fence. Because in the very hardest moments, those things don’t even register. 

If you’re lost, confused, unsure about your life decisions, the course of your future? Maybe borrowing this perspective would be helpful. If the earth crumbled beneath your feet tomorrow, if you were faced with the unimaginable, what would you grab on to and who would you want beside you? I have learned that those boring every day moments are the dot to dot between the core memories in the life we’ve built. Between the big moments and the vacations and the milestones are the every days in between. And they are everything. They are everything I would give anything in a fight for. 

I still remember like it was a few moments ago, one of the first days that felt like summer that summer. We had been home and out of the hospital for enough days that Ronan felt stronger and seemed a little more like himself. Jack had grown confident enough in renewed stability that he didn’t cling to me at all times. And our best friends came over and brought this water slide blow-up thing. And for the first time since diagnosis, our kids played together in the backyard. Ronan ran a little and they all laughed and played on that slide. We barbecued dinner, and we set up indoor camping for them. I cried with gratitude watching them play. We talked with our friends and we made s’mores and after the kids fell asleep in their tents and forts, we played games, like it was any other summer day, like so many others before it. Yet it was a day I had begged for every day for weeks, a day that felt almost normal. 

With this new lens, normal felt like a miracle. Even now, when many days feel normal, the ones that do not act as stark reminders of this perspective. I hold those normal happy moments like first s’mores of the summer and trampolines with cousins and time with our friends and family, with a little more care, gratitude, and appreciation. What is most important to me, what isn’t noise, is so very clear. And that’s one thing I wouldn’t undo. Normal is actually pretty amazing. 

*Photos are a flashback from that night ❤️

I’ll post a real update soon with all of our happenings as of late. Cancer has been blessedly boring lately.