Two days ago the biggest worries on my mind were: securing funding for speech therapy, my children’s potential texting addictions, and getting my butt out the door for book club.
In the space of a single phone call that all disappeared. In fact, it feels like the ground beneath our feet disappeared too. A cosmic upending. As if some powerful hand has shaken our world like a snow globe. We are left dizzy, reeling, surveying the damage to our orderly plans and expectations. And terrified.
Was it God?
Or something less mysterious, some faceless force?
Chance?
Biology?
Cancer?
I blame Leukaemia.
Our 10-year-old daughter has it. Our tiny, charming, iron-willed sweetheart has this disgusting disease.
She wasn’t sick that day, the morning before we got the call, just infuriated as I forced another routine blood test on her. Screaming and betrayed by it, as usual. Then happy as a clam 20 minutes later, also, as usual. Everything seemed normal that day. She hadn’t been sick. We had no warning, no foreshadow, just a punch in the gut when we least expected it.
I’m writing to make some sense of all this. It’s moving so fast. And my brain is moving so slow. That feeling when you walk into a room to get something, but you can’t remember what. The fog. I feel like that – all the time.
They kept asking us “do you understand why you’re here?” Over and over. Were they expecting more tears? Are we doing this wrong? What a stupid thing to think at a time like this. But I need to know we’re helping her, somehow. Even by going through the right motions in the right way.
We must looked stunned and stupefied. Which, of course, we totally are. But I’m hoping it plays as competent and calm.
There are already sparks of hope in the story, hints of Providence and amazing wonderful generous people all around us, holding our world, and us, together. There will be more, I know. I’m grateful. I’m making a list.
But I don’t need to write about that, not now. Maybe not ever. There are already lofty, inspiring stories out there aplenty. After all, kids with cancer = sentimental goldmine.
Which, you know, kind of pisses me off. I’m so sick of being brave and inspiring and wise. Since I’m actually weak, scared shitless, and incredibly ordinary. In thousands of ways I cleverly conceal. Because who wants to be known as the mom who just fell all to pieces and swore in front of her kid (and in her prayers, and on her blog) and yelled at her shell shocked husband for sleeping too much and not helping out enough?
Well, not me. That’s for sure.
So I’m writing to process, to make sense in my own mind of all that is happening so quickly. And hopefully get through it with less yelling and falling apart, and more loving my family.
The best I can at least, because it is happening so fast. And I’m pretty sure when this stuff happens we’re all weak, scared, and incredibly ordinary in the face of it. That’s life.
Right now I’m hoping that they can surgically implant a tube near my daughters heart, so that we can pump powerful drugs right into her bloodstream. The sooner the better. That’s right. Two days ago we were planning for Halloween and tonight I’m praying for chemo to start ASAP. Surreal.
Feel free to follow this journey in my blog, but don’t expect the pretty version. So far this experience is raw and exhausting, yet somehow closer to the pulse of life than usual, with gusts to boring and mundane. A bizarre mix. That’s life.
Our daughter, meanwhile, is the hero of the story. As usual.
So here’s us, in the well staffed, cheerfully decorated hell that is children’s hospital.
So Here's Us... 
October 31st, 2014 at 3:37 pm
We love you so much lady and are thinking of your whole family as you take this on. Please let us know what we can do to help.
November 6th, 2014 at 7:56 pm
Thank you for all your support! xo
October 31st, 2014 at 5:24 pm
I am soo so sorry! I j stumbled on your blog through wordpress (I am new to blogger). Childhood cancer is gut wrenching and hard to endure. It will change every fiber of your being. I know, I am a cancer mom. Thank you for keeping it real. I hope that your journey is filled with hope, support and lots and lots of unending compassion.
November 6th, 2014 at 7:57 pm
I can’t say I’m happy to join your club, but I’m sure glad that we’re not alone. Just starting week 2 and I’m kind of in awe of parents farther along on this journey
October 31st, 2014 at 5:41 pm
Guys, this is surreal even for me, so far away. Our cousin just embarked on this journey suddenly and unexpectantly with their 2 yr. old girl only 2 months ago. She just shared how this is not a path they would ever choose but their life is fuller and richer because of it. There are no answers and maybe you won ‘t ever understand why this is happening. Just know God is there. We’re praying for sustenance and peace in this very trying time, especially right now when everything is a whirlwind. It will become familiar in time, a new normal, even though it’s not one you asked for. Thanks for your candidness and real feelings in a time that is, like you said, surreal.
November 6th, 2014 at 7:58 pm
Thank you so much! And you’re right, it feels like a bizarre nightmare some days.
October 31st, 2014 at 8:25 pm
Cuss away. Enjoy a great cocktail every once in a while. And cookies any time you need it.
November 6th, 2014 at 7:59 pm
Hell ya!
October 31st, 2014 at 8:26 pm
I’ll be praying. Keep us posted as you are able.
November 6th, 2014 at 7:59 pm
Thank you!
November 1st, 2014 at 6:30 am
Praying for you all!
November 6th, 2014 at 7:59 pm
❤️Thanks!
November 1st, 2014 at 8:40 am
I wish there was more I could offer than listening, wishing, and hoping, but that’s all I’ve got. If you have a list of things that would be helpful for virtual strangers to contribute in an act of T21 solidarity, my family would be glad to help! My seven year old daughter (who also has T21) was next to me as I read this today, and she asked me what was wrong. When I told her, she assured me that she could make things better…
November 6th, 2014 at 8:00 pm
Aw… what a sweetheart! This made me smile! And that does help!
November 1st, 2014 at 11:48 am
We have walked the cancer fog this year. Though your walk is different from ours, I understand the realm of your fog and yes, it sucks! Take one day at a time. Celebrate all the good things. Be surrounded by friends, family, love and prayer. You can do this! Thanks for sharing your journey.
November 6th, 2014 at 8:12 pm
Thank you Jessica! And for the visit/gifts – such a blessing to us. We are feeling overwhelmed with support, right alongside the other kinds of overwhelmed.
November 2nd, 2014 at 6:18 am
I don’t know what to say – when I heard this news it winded me. Your family has been running through my thoughts so often and each time I have prayed. We will continue to pray for you guys. We are so sorry you are going through this.
November 6th, 2014 at 8:12 pm
Thank you so much for your prayers
November 2nd, 2014 at 12:11 pm
I am just so sick for you. So sick and so so sorry and so sad. We love Becca so much. I cried my heart out when I heard the news.
Sending you strength and love as you embark on this journey. Let us know if you need anything.
Leah (the mom who emailed you a few times about preganancy loss and special needs and then has been too shy to really say hi at school…but we smile 🙂 )
November 6th, 2014 at 8:15 pm
I’ve always thought of you as the friend I’ve never talked to, but always mean to. Thank you for your support! ❤️
November 3rd, 2014 at 5:01 am
Hey — just saw your comment on my blog (and then went back and reread that post and marveled at my own wittiness). So, a belated welcome to the club of special needs, and OF COURSE, welcome! To Childhood Cancer! The club you REALLY never wanted to join! Woohoo! Feel free to ask me anything.
November 6th, 2014 at 8:17 pm
Thanks Abbi! I’m in love with your snarkiness, that irreverent gallows humour is just what I need right now. Lurking through all your posts for advice. Worst. Club. Ever.
November 3rd, 2014 at 8:19 pm
Sending prayers.
November 6th, 2014 at 8:17 pm
❤️ thanks!
November 5th, 2014 at 7:57 am
Jan called the other day and told us about Becca. We are praying for your family in a special way because our grandson Jordan had ALL. All that you just shared we so identify with and brings tears to my eyes. A verse that helped carry us was from Is.43:1-2 “When you pass through the waters I will be with you – they will not sweep over you – because I love you!
November 6th, 2014 at 8:18 pm
Thank you so much! That’s a great verse for today and the next few years.
November 5th, 2014 at 7:59 pm
My heart is heavy for you, Becca and your family….thank you for sharing!
November 6th, 2014 at 8:20 pm
Thank you for all the gifts and your kind support. We had a tea party in the bath tonight, which saved the day since she’s pretty thrown by the tubes in her chest and having to be Saran wrapped before getting in. Just what we needed!
November 20th, 2014 at 10:49 pm
I can’t believe I missed this post. This is unbelievable. I am so terribly sorry to hear this and cannot imagine what you’re going through right now. It’s okay to be raw, to get it out. That’s what you need and there’s a great community of people here for you. Hugs to you and my thoughts and prayers are with you all.
December 23rd, 2014 at 10:06 pm
[…] our daughter’s diagnosis we were assured that we had the best possible prognosis (90% cure rate), a fact I didn’t […]