Tiny Wonderful Moments

A couple of our friends have said they’re holding their breath for the post that says: “we’re coming out the other side.”

 This is not that post. We still have at least one more round of chemo to go.

That said, after I update you all on how we’re doing, I plan to talk about happy things. I’m not making any promises, mind you, because you never quite know where you’ll end up by word 500 of a post, but happy is my intention.

In the last week we’ve seen the staph infection in Mike’s foot make a subtle but determined comeback bid. This = Mike on more antibiotics. We’ve also seen me develop, literally overnight, the first cellulitis infection in my bad leg that I’ve had in a decade. This = Lisa on antibiotics.

Where’s the happy in all of this? Well, for starters, cellulitis infections are the biggest risk for those of us with lymphedema and can easily land us in hospital and on IV antibiotics for weeks. That didn’t happen. My infection responded remarkably rapidly and is now completely under control. So that’s pretty happy, I’d say (you know, given that I had to pick up the damn thing in the first place).

Mike’s in week three of this round of chemo, so he’s feeling a little better and has a little more energy again. That’s been nice. Not so nice have been the various side effects that come and go, including ultra-sensitive, tingling fingertips. We’re really hoping that this side effect is temporary, because peripheral nerve damage is one side-effect of BEP chemo that can be permanent. Yup, there’s no happy in that, although at a stretch you could point to the fact we’ve managed to stay out of the emergency room all week and claim that for the happiness camp.

The kids?

Alex is now six and a half months old. This week I opened my regularly scheduled BabyCenter email to read: “Your baby can now roll over from his tummy to his back and vice versa.” Well, yes. He also crawls, pulls to standing, bends down to pick things up, and weighs almost ¾ of what Dominic weighs. He’s on three meals of solids a day and roars like a starving bear cub whenever he sees food – anyone’s food. This morning he started climbing up the stairs.

What big gains has Dominic made recently? Well, he’s developed a remarkable ability to repeat the word “no” at a range of volumes, varying durations, and with different shades of pathos, anger, defiance, and determination. What is he primarily protesting, you might ask? Mostly the practice of handwashing, any suggestion that he might want to use the toilet, the institution of dinner, and the existence of bedtime. Oh, and any time we deny him a marshmallow or an ice block popsicle. Or look at him wrong. His saving grace (apart from the whole “he’s my beloved child and I’d stand in front of a bus for him regardless” thing) is that he’s equally talented at laughing.

I wanted to write a casual update this week because the last couple of posts have been rather grim. Things are feeling hard around here more often that we’d like, so those posts are entirely appropriate.

But here’s the thing. That’s not the whole picture.

In fact, the recent “battle” stats about bags of chemo, and antibiotics, and emergency rooms all make life sound bleaker than it actually feels on average. Those battle stats allude to plenty of tiny awful moments, but they don’t even hint at tiny wonderful moments, and we’re having those, too.  

So, this week, here’s a peek at some of the wonderful moments.

Alex’s crib is right next to my bed, and at some point between 1am and 4am, he joins me in bed. I’m resisting the urge to wax eloquent about the many tiny awful moments that have sprung from this arrangement, because the point of this post is that it has spawned some tiny wonderful moments, too.

When I pull Alex into bed, he rolls over and burrows towards me with eager, relieved chirps. While he feeds, he reaches up with one hand to stroke and knead my face, tracing the shape of me in the dark. His downy head slots neatly under my outstretched arm, and his feet press down into the curve of my thighs with the rhythm of his sucking. After he’s had enough milk, he likes to drift back to sleep with one hand on my arm.

I don’t sleep nearly as deeply (or as long) with Alex nearby, that’s true. But there is a deep peace that comes from knowing that he’s resting beside me – that I can reach out and touch him if he stirs. Nourishing another being with my body, being able to calm their distress with just a touch – being a living anchor for my children – these things have been the most primal, the most pure satisfactions of my life so far.

What else?

We’ve never been the recipients of so many unexpected kindnesses from so many different directions. At least half a dozen members of my parents’ church have cooked and delivered meals. Our friends here and around the world have given us their time, cookies, coffee, Amazon gift certificates, uplifting cards, thoughtful emails, and even a shipment of six bottles of wine. They have also given us the gift of understanding why we checked out of emails, phone calls, and visits for the first shell-shocked six weeks or so after Mike’s diagnosis.

I know that Mike, in particular, has relished the sunrises. And whenever I step outside I’m grateful for all this green glorious space – space for Dominic to run and play, space that helps prevent Mike from feeling too house-bound during these long, isolated weeks, space that forces us to acknowledge the moment that this beauty inhabits and creates. And, on afternoons when everyone’s feeling well enough, Mike and I slip away for a walk and a talk up the lane. Sometimes we see wallabies.

Finally, it’s a pretty wonderful moment all the way around every time a grandparent says they’ll watch one of the kids, and there’s been a lot of that. While I’ve been writing this post, Dominic has mostly been outside with my Dad. They’ve collected eggs from the chickens, picked tomatoes, found the last ripe mango, mowed some grass, and even used a chainsaw to trim a tree. How much better can life get for a two year old boy? Dominic’s favorite thing in the world (and the first thing he prays for every night) is that “green mower”.

There are a whole lot of tiny sad moments coming down the line after we return to Laos and leave Papa and the green mower behind. By then, however, since we’re speaking of wonderful here, we’ll have also hopefully left cancer behind. Dominic might not completely agree, but I can’t wait.

I hope your week has had way more tiny wonderful moments than tiny awful ones. Catch you next week.

What wonder-filled moments have come your way lately?