I had a plan. I never mind trying something new. It’s the sticking with it that gets tricky for my ADD brain. And I’ve always loved writing. I’d keep it light and write every week. Family recipes and my favorite ways to make a cozy home. Maybe I’d sprinkle in some meatier pieces about the real-life parts of proudly helping children launch into their own lives, while missing the littles who needed more from me back in the day. If I got real brave, I’d write about the insane dynamic of watching your once highly productive, involved and independent parents need your help more and more. But every time I started those stories it felt like an invasion of their privacy, so I kept it to myself.
But I wrote. For six weeks. Of course, the plan was at least once a week for six months and then reassess. I knew I was writing into a void of mostly just me and that made it easier. It was just about building back that part of my brain. To see if I had it in me to someday write the great novel that is rolling around in my head.
Then a simple doctor visit turned into another, which turned into another, which has now turned into a biopsy scheduled for next week. Pens down. Engage survival mode.
I’ve been here before and unfortunately I know I am not special. But in the past it was my child. I simultaneously shut down the outside world, built a cocoon around my loved ones and went into battle. I didn’t purposefully shut out the world. It’s like my brain could only handle a certain amount of bandwidth and I needed to save it for battle. Every day was draining. My good friends and family figured it out and when I went quiet they would check in to see what gunfight was currently being mobilized. I have an amazing support system and am extremely fortunate for that.
So while I made my next appointments I kept feeling this nagging urge to write it down. To be able to look back and see how hard I fought and, when I struggled, what got me out.
My son had cancer at 16.
I hate that fucking sentence.
But it happened and he kicked ass. At the time I was an interior designer and interior design blogger. I just shut it down, wrapped it up and never looked back. It was the right decision for me. My kids were still young: the youngest in grade school, the oldest applying to colleges and the middle heading into battle. But I think I was also quiet about it because he was old enough that it was his story, not mine.
I cannot write his story, but I can talk about what it is like flying to another state with my oldest child and walking around a strange campus, stepping aside to take a phone call that will change your life. I can talk about what it’s like driving to different states to see the top surgeons in the world and not telling my husband, the person I’d never kept anything important from in 20 years, that we were sitting in the office of a doctor who might not take our insurance. I didn’t want both of us deciding with clouded judgment who should save our son, and whether we’d have to sell our house to do it.
So this time around it might be me. I have always felt that writing helps me air my dirty laundry and release it. Maybe then I will sleep a little better. Telling my loved ones that we are headed back into battle is what’s currently keeping me awake. Time it right, keep it light, show the facts: this is surmountable. The battle? No problem, bring it on, fucker. But it’s how to make sure everyone else stays okay. I mean, Jesus, Christmas is right around the corner. There is a binder of traditions and recipes and decorations and gift-giving that needs to be adhered to. And there is mostly one elf on the job. Well, that’s not fair. There is a head elf, but as head elf, I’m solely responsible for the morale of the group.
I digress. We will live to fight many a day before Christmas and all will be fine.
All will be fine.
I hope I will be back here to say this was all a false alarm. Call off the dogs. But for now I just wanted to put it on paper to see what that feels like. Thanks for pulling up a chair. Now I need a cup of tea.