One Year

On Saturday, we will celebrate one year from the day Tessa walked out of the hospital after her final round of chemotherapy.  My little baby bird, blowing kisses and making her way through a bubble parade toward sweet freedom.  Bittersweet freedom, that is.  We hauled our things to the car and headed for home, anticipating that final homecoming and the chance to get our lives back after cancer tried to take it all away.  No more dated events in our family history that would be marked in sadness because of leukemia.  It was the end of an era.

Some warned us about life after treatment; preparing me for the unforeseen part of this fight that can come when all is said and done.  But I wrote it off.  Because I thought what we needed most was to be free of treatment and back together at home as a family of five.  The last twelve months of rebuilding our fragile structure, post-treatment, proved harder than I allowed myself to be aware of. At first glance, we were solid.  We took care of our kids, got right back to work, bought a campsite and dreamed about what our future would be.  We traveled to Disney World and sent Tessa to school for the first time.  But things were different; and we had to learn to cope with the tides of leukemia, even though we successfully brought Tessa home with us.  People would comment “how strong we were,” assuming that our lives had slid perfectly back into place. Eventually my confidence in the words of others faded. Instead of saying thank you, I would smile to save what little face I could bare. Just because it was over did not ever mean than it was really over. There were scars, not visible to onlookers, but present to us.  Life moved on without addressing the damage, but knowing full well that it is there.  That was then.

Relax.  What I know now is that all of this was and is normal.  Totally and weirdly normal.  The kind that is okay, but not okay at the same time.  It is a process, much like the various components of our life. We have to navigate every stage, even the most undesirable.  I am grateful for time that has allowed healing over the last year.  We learned how to love in ways that made us reevaluate the past, present and future.  We did it.  All five of us.  We carried Tessa through the unimaginable.

Families who endure life with disease or sickness often face more than the medical struggles the come along with it, often feeling they cannot talk about the various stages of healing that follow such events.  I personally know that I cannot possibly expect to forget the hardships that pushed my family close to the edge, often stretching us as thin as possible. I do not wish to forget it all either. Because I am still learning how to deal; how to grow from each moment that knocked us down.  From each of those times came opportunities to stand. That was the difference between getting by and getting ahead.  And it still is.

It has been a long year.  We have come so far from our extended days and nights spent in the hospital and the cancer lifestyle.  I never experienced raw humility until I had to beg for mercy on my child every single night to heal her…to save her.  That shifted me.  Even now when I am lost or frustrated or confused, I recall the moments that brought me to my knees. When I am joyful or excited, I do the same.

last chemoWe can never fully prepare for the unexpected.  Trust me, I have tried.  I am relieved to have let that part of me go.  (My husband would most definitely agree.)  Replacing fear with hope and finding the silver lining in every situation has been my saving grace.  I cannot wait to see how we change month after month into the following years, using our personal experiences for growth in the future.

It is early in the week, and I am already quite sentimental.  I remember the day the doctor told us that we could take Tess home.  “Are you freaking kidding me,” I cried to her doctor followed by an obscene amount of tears. Dan picked up his phone and before he could even say hello, I screamed that she could go home.  He arrived an hour later with twenty celebratory McNuggets, french fries and ice cream. Because Tessa’s dad knows the way to her heart.

Thank you all for being on this journey with us.  For each and every person near and far…thank you for letting me be honest and real. Most importantly, thank you for letting us feel love and for showing us how to give love back.  On Saturday I will share Tessa’s letter for March.  World Down Syndrome Day and her one year anniversary from hospital freedom. It will be a whopper and I can’t wait!


2 thoughts on “One Year

  1. Hi Becky. I really enjoyed this addition to your journal, as I have all of them. The last paragraph brought out the tears, which has happened many times in the past, as well. I remember feeling all of the things you talk about in this letter, as our dear little Lucy went through those same things…and all of us with her. You are such a good Mom, and I know you serve as a model for many other parents, grandparents, siblings, and all of the other relatives, when it comes to handling the bad, as well as the good, which can be difficult to do. I wish all the best going forward, for Tessa and all of you.

    Mike Young

  2. This post feels like you wrote it just for me. This is such a strange new territory. I really FEEL where you are. I have never felt prouder or closer to you than now, after reading this.

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