I did not go into Holy Week feeling at peace or calm, and
possibly there was a reason for that, a kind of premonition. Between Palm Sunday and Easter, Dennis’
coworker would lose his two-year-old son, 150 Christians would be killed in
Kenya, our pediatrician would call to discuss the possibility of Wren having a
tumor, Sammy’s face would swell up to three times its normal size due to
allergies, and my grandmother would start bleeding out due to a gash in her
colon (she’s okay now, we hope). The
cherry on top of all this crazy was rage inducing PMS and the fact that I had been
such a less-than-stellar parent for a couple of weeks that I couldn’t shake the
shame. D pointed out that our kids had
been acting kind of less-than-stellar, pushing boundaries and throwing sass,
but I asked him, “Do we really get to blame the people who still have issues
cleaning their own butts properly?” Only God knows how we survived.
But we did, and amongst all the news that shatters nerves,
He is still risen, every day, all the time.
It makes the not knowing bearable, the sadness momentary, the lack of
sleep, the stress, they become a part of the journey, one that leads closer to
Christ as we are refined. Opportunities
to grow and learn, sometimes to relearn, emerge. The goodness of others prevailed as my sister
gifted me with an hour long massage because she knew after four kids spent
eight days puking on me, a break was needed.
Plus, she sensed my crazy increasing during our phone conversations.
Grandparents cooked gluten-free breakfast, following every step of protocol to
avoid cross-contamination, while I slept in. My husband and family members collectively cared for our four young
kids and offered me an opportunity to drive the hour to the hospital where I spent time with my Nanny, who was small and pale in a hospital bed but still
wearing earrings and talking of escape.
And I remembered that the game-the one D and I call turtle, turtle-, the
retreating to the shell during distress is sometimes the answer, but not all
the time, and I might play it a little too often. Even in the midst of great sorrow and
agonizing waits, the cocoon of others is a salve.
And then after weeks of hearing the words “cancer”, “family
history”, “increased risk” and “has the symptoms” referring to my six-year-old
daughter, I learned new words: fat pad. That was the official diagnosis after the
ultrasound that easily shaved 10 years off my life. Fat pad.
As in, Wren’s thyroid is normal-sized, no goiter, lymph nodes within
normal-sized range. Yes, a few thyroid levels
are slightly off, her liver is obviously underperforming, she is still at
increased risk of papillary thyroid cancer due to Celiac, but as far as that
swelling in the throat that our very conservative doctors thought might be
cancer? It’s a fat pad. A pad of fat, my friends. My child has maybe 0.00001% fat on her whole
body, and apparently it is all in her neck helping hold up her head.
We’ve had fun with that phrase. I call Dennis at work and conversations like
the following commence:
Me: D, I think I’m
pregnant!
D: What?
Me: Oh, wait, that’s
just the fat pad covering my stomach!
D: What are you doing
today?
Me: Sitting on my fat
pad.
We will still have to be on the look out for tumors in Wren’s
thyroid since a gluten-free diet seems to lessen the risk of her getting this
kind of cancer by absolutely zero percent.
Her liver and thyroid have struggled since her Celiac diagnosis, but we’ve
avoided meds and both organs are just on the we-have-our-eyes-on-you list. It
will be challenging to detect any tumors in her thyroid gland since she is
already larger in the neck area. It
would be like if I was looking for a tumor in my thigh: unless it’s the size of a toddler, it’s going
to get lost in the fat pads. But still,
we know to look and watch, not as those who live in fear but as those blessed
enough to have the information to do the best we can.
After the ultrasound Tuesday, we came home and the kids
played in the backyard, looking for bugs and digging in the dirt. Here in the homeschool world we call that
science! I was watching all four of them,
and I was grateful for sunny days and naptimes, even when they go awry. I was thankful for little boys who pee in the
backyard because they can and girls who marvel at lady bugs, grateful for
toddlers who crack themselves up and give kisses to all of us. It felt normal. It felt surreal after weeks of not normal.
Then just to prove we had in fact arrived back at normal, I
heard Wren’s sweet voice.
Wren: Sammy, check it
out! I found a snail, I named him Slimy,
and he just sharted in my hand! IN MY
HAND!
For better of worse, for us, that's a return to charted territory.
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| Wren and Slimy |
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| Sammy, allergic to grass, pollen, and possibly certain types of air. |
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| Eowyn in the purple. The girls ready to blow this joint! |
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| Shaving your kids head because the rash caused by his allergies covered his scalp and had to be medicated? That's allergies, Ramirez style. |
