Get On Board (A Reblog From The Conley Chronicles)

They came to visit about two weeks after we got to Memphis — I was still in that perma-blur like the woman I saw today.

I remember laying our hearts out on the table. I remember talking about how the proverbial train had left the station without me.

She speaks to that moment better than I ever could. When I read her words tonight, it was almost like I was reading about someone else’s life.Except that I wasn’t.

I thought about what a sad chapter that is in our story — the early days here in Memphis when all we wanted was for everything to be the way it was.

It got me thinking about all of our sad chapters. Lord knows we’ve had our fair share.

But, we’ve had wonderful chapters, too. And when you put them all together it makes a pretty amazing book.

Like us, The Kennett’s have one heck of a story. They know all about that line in the sand and understand that the train can go off the track at any second. They know when to hold on and when to let go. They teach us so much. Go read Sheila’s beautiful words and support our friends on their own crazy ride.

Anyway. It’s not a coincidence that I started writing this post today. That I got that text. That Sheila and I touch on the same themes when we write about our lives.

We’re just two mamas. Two wives. Trying to answer the question we get asked the most:

How do you do it?

And the answer is always the same:

You just do.

You stop resisting. You stop resenting.You accept. You surrender.

You help each other along.

You ride the train until you have to transfer to another one. And when you’re told there’s a new route, you get out the map. You adjust. Find your way.

When we first got to Memphis, all I kept thinking was whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhwywhy.Why us?

I wanted OFF the train.

I knew a thousand people, and I didn’t know one person whose child had cancer. (Sound familiar? I thought all of the same thoughts with his previous diagnoses.)

Every other mom I knew was minding their own business. Dropping off the kids, picking them up. Making dinner. Worrying over bedtimes and temper tantrums and potty training.

Why couldn’t I be one of them? Why couldn’t we just be a normal family like everyone else?

In a flash, we seemingly had nothing. No home, no clothes, no dog, no family, no friends, no security, no comfort.

No Sleep Number bed. No Breville juicer. No homemade peanut butter cups.

(Sheila got one part wrong — I did bring along my Obagi Skincare line. The important things, people.) 

No beautiful backyard with the five oak trees that I curse every year for dropping 40 tons of shit onto our lawn, but oh man, what I would give to watch Pat rake it all up now.

All we had to our name was fear, sadness, and another pamphlet with another unremarkable title: Your Child and Acute Myeloid Leukemia.

I was a complete train wreck — pun intended.

These days, I’m feeling good.

I’m still exhausted. Sometimes I’m so tired that I feel numb.

But, mostly, I’m the old me.

A lot has changed. I’m sitting comfortably in a king-sized bed with my pug snoring loudly at my feet.

We left St. Jude housing for a larger apartment. There are no visiting hours here. No room checks. No one asking me why I get so many boxes from Amazon. (I mean, do I even need to dignify that question with a response? Because Amazon is The. Best. Thing. Ever. And sometimes you find yourself in a situation where you have to have organic coconut flakes delivered to your house rightthissecond or you will simply just die.)

Some things you have to accept. Some things you have to change.

Unfortunately, we are currently a family divided. For a long while, we were mostly together. Pat was going back and forth and my mom was helping with the kids. But for the past few weeks, Patrick and Elle have been in Shreveport while Reid and I stay in Memphis. Elle has a direct connection to germs at preschool, and we have to do everything in our power to keep Reid healthy. Pat has to work, so he’s there with her. We’ll eventually switch off and bring Elle back and forth. It was a hard decision, but it’s actually working out quite well for right now.

We miss them. And they miss us.

We’ve had family in and out to help. I have a group of girlfriends coming up this weekend to help me drink some wine.

I have only taken one real break. But it was to the beach with Monica, and it was extremely cathartic.

Memphis is becoming more like home. St. Jude is becoming more like family.

Sure, I’d love to be in my real home right now.

But, I’m no longer fighting. I no longer dream of Shreveport every second of every day. (Insert joke here.)

I don’t spend all my time thinking about how to survive until this is over. If all we did was survive this life, then we wouldn’t be living.

Instead, I work a lot at being grateful. I try to let things go. I try to stay focused and present. I read and I think and I do everything in my power to keep Reid healthy. The days are long and sometimes they really suck. But, I FaceTime my babies in Shreveport and we share even the smallest parts of our day. I tell Elle that I miss her more than I ever knew I could miss another person. I blow her 10,000 kisses through the phone. I tell Pat how much I love him. I wait for them to come back to me. We’re making it work the best way we know how.

It’s hard, but it’s the ride we’re currently on. And the route changes everyday. Sometimes every hour.

But I no longer ask why?

Because I know the answer.

Why not?

I am not immune to suffering. To sadness. To veering off track.

No one is. Not even an innocent little baby. It seems unfair, but there are no answers to why.

Why does my son have leukemia?

Why does my wonderful friend, Chip — who introduced me to my husband, by the way — have terminal cancer?

Why couldn’t that mama I saw this morning walk her daughter into a classroom instead of an exam room?

Why can’t we all have 2.5 perfect children and a labrador and a white picket fence?

I used to wonder why I was the only person I knew who had a child with cancer. With Down syndrome. With a heart defect.

But, I don’t wonder that anymore. Because now I know that God gives you what He gives you.

You can accept it as a gift, or throw it all away.

He gave me my sweet girl and my baby boy.

And now I know a ton of people who were given beautiful children just like Reid.

Kids with cancer. Down syndrome. Heart defects.

In fact, here at St. Jude, we’ve gotten to know two other little ones with the trifecta. They’re also both from Louisiana, if that doesn’t blow your mind.

I’ve met people who have children with Cerebral palsy. Treacher Collins syndrome. Cystic Fibrosis. Lymphoma. Brain tumors.

People I would have never otherwise known. People with amazing stories.

When I meet these people and I hear their stories and I see their children, I connect with them deeply. We all know a secret that is hard to put into words. We all cry silent tears at seemingly inappropriate times. We are always thinking of our children when that happens.

We know that life can be hard. It can be heartbreaking. But from heartbreak comes indescribable joy.

Joy so big that sometimes you think it will overwhelm you.

Sometimes instead of asking why, I wonder how it was possible to live so long without knowing all that I now know.

How did I live my whole life before Reid and not know that there are trains everywhere careening off the tracks? Trains that seem lost, but are quite possibly heading exactly where they need to go?

I didn’t know before. But I know now.

Before Reid, I’d never met a person with a true disability. Never had first-hand experience with cancer.

I couldn’t fathom that my child would end up even in the NICU. And that seeing him there would literally break me into a million pieces.

Never thought I would have to give him over to a surgeon for heart repair, all the while feeling as though my heart was being ripped in two.

It never once occurred to me that I would have to see him sick again. This time with leukemia. That I would watch him suffer through chemotherapy. And that doing so would leave a hole so big, that at first I wouldn’t begin to know how I would survive it all. But that, eventually I would start to fill it piece by piece with faith, love, understanding, patience and acceptance.

I realized that having a child is not about Perfect Pregnancy! Perfect Delivery! Perfect Baby! Perfect Family! Perfect Pictures!

I wish that were the case for everyone and I’m grateful that it is for so many people.

But, for many of us, that’s not reality. We don’t get to abide by the the fallacy that everyone else clings to — as long as he’s healthy! 

Because, what if your child isn’t healthy? What if s/he is one of the hundreds of children born everyday with a birth defect or genetic disorder or degenerative disease or neurodevelopmental delays? Or one of the millions more that will receive a diagnosis later in life?

Did I ever truly believe that an unhealthy child means less or isn’t as much of a gift as a one that is healthy?

Before Reid, I didn’t think about the millions of parents who spend each night praying for their children to be well. The ones who pray for just one more day.

Every morning some parent, somewhere, hands their baby over for chemotherapy or open-heart surgery or a bone marrow transplant or brain tumor removal or cranio-facial restructuring. And when they do, they wonder deep-down inside if that’s the last time they’ll ever see their child alive.

I never once thought about all the parents who spend months and years of their lives at hospitals — doing whatever they have to do to get their child well. The ones who hold their children tight through daily blood draws and painful procedures and the horrible side effects of medicine.

I certainly never knew that I would be one of them.

Before Reid, I never knew what it felt like to sit in a room and get bad news.

I had no idea that it was possible to live your life in a hospital room, trying to delicately balance the care of your family, even though you rarely have your entire family in the same state.

I didn’t know that I would worry just as much, if not more, about the well-being of my little girl. She may be healthy, but her needs are just as important.

I didn’t know that I would stress so much about Reid’s development and cognition and spend enormous amounts of time making sure he doesn’t get behind. Whatever behind means at this point.

And oh Lord. I really didn’t know that I would collect his hair strand by strand as it fell out from chemo.

And save it in a ziplock bag because I can’t bear to throw it away.

That I would perfect the way I hold his head while he’s anesthetized — holding it just right, so that it doesn’t fall backward when the drugs finally kick in.

That I could sing The Itsy Bitsy Spider for hours on end, if it means keeping him calm enough to be poked and prodded “just one more time today.”

I didn’t know that I could survive for months on no sleep, crappy cafeteria BLTs and adrenaline.

That I could spend so many nights in a hospital room that I would one day lose count.

I didn’t know that I could get up every morning and smile and laugh and have a thousand conversations with a thousand different doctors and actually have the wherewithal to comprehend what they are all saying. (Thank you, Starbucks.)

I didn’t know that I could do it.

But I can. And I am.

Every day, every hour, someone gets bad news.

Way worse news than we’ve ever gotten. And it’s not just cancer.

People go through so much in this thing called life.

Unfortunately, lots of people get run over.

But the ones who are along for the ride always end up right where they need to be. Even if they don’t know where they’re heading.

We’re on board for wherever life may take us. And in the meantime, we’ll try to love harder and forgive faster. To laugh quicker and live slower. We’ll enjoy all the things we took for granted before. The house and the dog and the family and the friends. The hairstylist.

We’ll pray for all of the people that can’t go home. For all the mamas who rock their babies to sleep each night in a hospital room.

And for all the sick daddies who teach their children by example. Who so expertly maneuver this ride called Life.

We’ll reach out. We’ll help them through.

And then. The four of us will make it home. We’ll sit under those big oak trees and reflect on our story while we wait for the next train to come.

(Only this time it better be the freaking Orient Express…)