motherhood and the sharp right turn

I walked upstairs from my coffee yesterday morning to take a shower and stopped at the top of the stairs after I caught a glimpse of Bailey sleeping.  I took two more steps and saw my Kate with her wild hair barely peeking out and her little tornado body swirled up in the sheets.  Sleeping children are irresistible.  I guess that never changes.  

At thirteen and nine, maybe even more so.  Bailey was shirtless, so I could see his body and the pink indention on the right side of his chest, scarred over now, but still fresh enough to not have faded.  The memory of his lifeline forever branded.  Night after night I prayed for his body to sleep, and walked in all hours to make sure that his chest was still rising and falling.  I pulled tubing out from under the covers, pushing buttons on a pump trying to keep it from alarming, hooked up more medicine, more fluid, more food.  All night long I set my alarm but mostly didn’t need to because instinct woke me up. I spent hours on the floor in his room trying to open my eyes and read numbers by the flashlight on my phone so I wouldn’t wake him up if he was asleep.  And those were the good nights. Some nights the pain couldn’t be comforted and the vomiting was uncontrollable and we laid together on the floor in his room until the sun came up.  

I guess you’d say my journey in motherhood took a sharp right turn last year.  I had no intention of entering the world that I found myself in.  None.  I did not want to try that one out.  I’ve done cancer.  I already had the perspective of the sanctity and fragility of life.  I watched my best friend slip slowly into the arms of Jesus.  She happened to also be my mother.   I prayed that God would never allow my children to feel that emptiness.  I did a terrible job of helping them grieve because I could not come out of my own grief.  I could not answer his questions about what it felt like when my four year old asked on the way to school how it felt when she got her wings.   I could not call her about the random rash on my baby, the decorating question, or what she put in her cornbread.  Yet, it was enough.  She had taught me how to mother and the rest I’d figure out.  I did not know that her death would be a catalyst for my own survival.  

I mothered two babies and clung to life and had experimental drugs poured through my veins in order to make peanut butter sandwiches and sit at t-ball games.  I put my toddler’s smocked dresses on for church while I propped myself against the bed wondering how many more Sundays I would be able to dress her.  I bathed him barely able to get up from the bathroom floor.  They had no idea how their chubby little baby bodies fueled mine to keep fighting.  My spine was cut open in a last ditch effort so I could hang another birthday sign, make it to kindergarten graduation, French braid her hair, and watch him jump off the diving board.  I woke up from surgery, honestly surprised but with some sense that my purpose on earth was not complete.  I told God I do whatever He wanted if I could be here for them.   

And in January of last year, there I sat nearly five years out of my own miracle and staring at my son on a paper table.  I saw the doctor’s mouth moving as he explained the chemo schedule and the side effects, Bailey’s head down staring at the floor.  I couldn’t listen to the words so I started calculating the bills in my head and how on earth we would manage when I quit working which from the looks of the schedule I was handed, appeared to be exactly tomorrow.  Math seemed easier.  Then I heard it.  I heard nothing else in the room on January 25, 2017, except for one sentence, 

“I will provide.”  

As comforting as those words were, the part that I could not see is the provision - the how.  What I could see is the tiny pieces of the motherhood I had been stacking up over the last twelve years, the ways that He provided time after time, the unlikely miracles.  He didn’t count me out, instead He taught me to trust enough that when everything is stripped away and all you have is Jesus to rely on, that will be all that you need. 

Day after day last year, I sat in the left corner of a plastic couch in a pediatric cancer hospital, wrapped in my cardigan.  My scene was mostly my bald and sick little boy under a pile of blankets and most of the time he was the exact same color as the blankets.  Sometimes I had a view of the city or the parking garage or the construction site, but little could distract from what was in front of me.  The sun came up and went down and if it wasn’t for that, I would have had no idea that a day had passed.  The passing of time there is the strangest thing - like it never passed at all and the only sounds were the whir in the machine pump and him calling my name which happened about every time I thought about reading a book or turning on the TV.  I mostly walked in circles in the room, straightening blankets, stacking things up, refolding clothes - anything mindless.  I did the same thing at home.  I had a thousand things and projects that I considered starting but I couldn’t because my brain wouldn’t function on the minimal sleep except for what was needed and that was to give his medicine, fill his IV bags, organize his supplies, flush his line, or try a thousand times to get him to eat.  I tiptoed in his room every morning to give him medicine in his line before he woke up to keep him from vomiting but it never helped.  Every day greeted him the same way and every day I wanted him to be able to lie in his bed and sleep but I had to dress him and get him in the car for another appointment or blood or platelets or whatever the day threw at us. 

My only escape from the hospital was the three hours in the evening when Stephen came in so I could go home and see my other baby.  In the middle of the summer I rolled down all the windows and drove in the blasting heat to feel the warmth on my skin and breath the unsterile air.  I could not wait to get to Kate, to hold her, to smell her, and to hear her chatter.  Those couple of hours were not a break, but my only chances to be her mother.  She mostly wanted to just play and be home and I felt guilty that I couldn’t give her that.  Our time together was rushed with bath and dinner and loading back up to go to the hospital.   She was so patient and never complained but would ask how many more nights until I was home and would count down to Fridays when it was just her and me.  She longed for my undivided attention and I truly longed for hers too.  We cherished Fridays with whatever dinner she asked for and she curled in bed with me to watch whatever show she chose and I enveloped myself in real sheets on a real bed.  I felt like more of a shell of a person giving her only the leftovers and I hoped she didn’t notice.  I don’t think she cared, honestly, because my presence was all she needed and I was present.  I sent her to every activity I could to keep her busy but sometimes she would just ask to sit with me at the hospital for the day so she didn’t have to be shuffled around.  I found notes from her tucked into pages of the books I was reading, into my luggage, left on the notepads beside my plastic couch.  I wrote her ones too, counting down days until I could give her me again.  

I lived a complete double life and emerged and immersed over and over again from the well child to the sick child, from packing the school lunches and signing folders to filling IV bags and giving medicines.  Bailey had every complication from that surgery that it seemed like was listed - wound healing issues, nerve pain, nerve damage, loss of movement.  We sorted through the list of problems, realizing some may not ever resolve and watched him sort through them in his own brain, which led to frustration and anger as he listed what he may never do again as he looked down at his foot that he could no longer feel or move. 

And, then the infection.  Bacteria invaded his sick body and leg and sent us down yet another path.  Nine days straight in the hospital with no real answer except a refrigerator full of IV antibiotics and hope for the best.  I ran out of words and thoughts as the next six months were full of surgeries, more cultures, more surgeries, and finishing chemo which was delayed more and more each time because he couldn’t clear the last one from his body.  I kept moving our finish day on the calendar until it was so scribbled over that it couldn’t be read and I put my cute planner on the shelf and went with whatever the days threw at me. 

School started and I remember someone asking how our summer was.  I stared blankly.  I wanted to tell her I didn’t even remember the seasons changing for the last eight months and the last thing I recall was winter and my sweet boy was blowing out twelve birthday candles and then week I was staring at a fuzzy white cancerous cloud around his once perfect bone.  I wanted to tell her that I combed lice out of my daughter’s hair (that certainly didn’t come from all the bald people in my house) while I filled bags of fluid with nutrition and tried to clean the vomit out of my rugs.  I wanted to say that sending her to school with her big brother at home needing my full time care seemed completely unfair and unreal but it was my only option and she deserved a break from the mess we were in anyway.  But, I smiled and said, “we got through it.”  

That’s pretty much my answer to it all if I look back at anything.  But, here’s the other thing.  We got through it because Jesus has led us through it.  And, though I’ve been unable to see the hours in front of me or the actual ways He would provide and lead us, everyday I wake up and think,

 “I got through that.”  

No one has been more surprised than me to see the sun actually come up some mornings - a new day, wiped clean from the one before.  His mercies are new.  I think my view of God as a child, and maybe most of my life was more of a scorekeeper, counting my sin and maybe I had a healthy fear.  Motherhood and cancer has changed that and I have for certain found the God of grace and mercy in all five of the cancer clinics I’ve sat in.  The absolute only reason for my survival and for the survival of my son is His grace.  He is all I have, our only driving force, and when I forgot how to pray, He knew the desires of my heart.  

The past eighteen months, I’ve clung tightly to His words, “I will provide.”  And, though I thought at the very moment I heard them that He meant we would have all of the material things we needed to get through this, I learned that He meant He would provide in so many other ways.  He has provided a medical team full of people who would do the very best possible for Bailey.  He has taught me to use my voice to push people further to find the answer when the first one is “I don’t know.”  He has taught me to look at my son and my daughter more like He sees them - completely perfectly made in His image.  Where the world sees a broken little boy, He sees mended and He’s teaching me to see mended too.  

And, as for the tangible things, it’s been there too - right down to checks in mail for the exact amount that were needed to pay for appliances that went out, the yard that flooded, and my own medical bills.  There were rolls of paper towels on my doorstep, food in our porch cooler, and gift cards that have bought nearly every other meal.  I never missed one of her cross country meets, soccer games, choir performances, or track meets in spite of all of the hospital admissions and discharges.  He provided me with a husband who is the best of who I am, spends every morning in a church praying for us, and seamlessly picks up where I leave off.  And, all three times that my own body has been scanned, I’ve returned home still cancer free and returned back to my post of mothering within hours.    

I knew from the very beginning that our Bailey had more grit and determination and stubbornness than most children his age.  He also had more wisdom and intuition.  I knew that one day it would serve him well but I didn’t know it would be when he was twelve.  I also knew our Kate is more sensitive than anyone in the house but also carries more joy in her heart than any of us.  I didn’t know that at nine she would use hers to overflow into my heart and pull me out of the darkest days.  

As a mother, you do not know what lies ahead even when you have your own plan.  None of this was my plan.  No mother chooses this.  

This year in motherhood has changed me more than any other year.  God has daily shown me my purpose, the reasons He saved my life.  When I cried out that I wanted to jump off that plastic couch and run for the hills, he said “stay in.”  He’s given me what I need to stay in.  I am not strong at all.  I’m an actual a complete chicken who hates hospitals more than anything.  I hate needles and scans and certainly hate watching my child do these things.  But, His strength is made perfect in my weakness.  I never actually knew what that meant until this year.  

Last year on Mother’s Day, we all piled up in Bailey’s hospital bed while he got chemo.  We were only together for a little while before I left with Kate and Stephen gave me the rest of the day off.  This year we were home.  We sat in our church pew, ate lunch, rode in our jeep, and I walked down the street to the top of the hill to watch Kate on her bike and him on his scooter.  It was extraordinarily ordinary and yet, miraculous.  

I have wanted to rewind back to January 22, 2017 a thousand times.  Take back that X-ray and throw it in the trash.  I want to erase from my mind all of the children I see daily clinging to life, the mothers and dads trying to make sense of it all, the ones that held on as long as they could.  But, I cannot.  This is where He put me.  

Enough days have not passed where the sting has not worn off, where one smell from the plastic bin that I carried every week to the hospital causes me to close it back up and not unpack it.  Enough days have not passed that I do not grieve the loss of my little boys perfectly free moving leg, now replaced with a metal bone and covered in a pink scar, causing him to work hard at absolutely everything he does.  Enough days have not passed that I don’t worry that I wasn’t there enough for her or didn’t account for her sensitive heart enough.  

But, enough days have passed that I can see that same little boy rising up to be more that I thought he was going to be - more because God has made this into more than I ever could.  Instead of him pulling away in his teenage years, I listen to his every word on middle school drama, how he recalls this experience.  It’s hard to shock me and he knows it, so I don’t have to work to talk to him, he freely tells me everything.  Enough days have passed for me to see that I’m getting a sideline view of his redemption story, with every step he makes toward shedding his crutches, pushing through therapy, and choosing brave.  Enough days have passed that I know that she knows she is loved and understood, that even though there are things that she missed, she cares very little about those and very much about me being present, even if it’s for fifteen minutes in her school cafeteria or her track practice, or her bed every night when I kiss her goodnight.  

Enough days have passed that I know that having two sleeping children to see every morning at the top of my stairs is enough to completely take my breath away.  It’s enough to know that I can do this and that I am enough for them.   

They are fearfully and wonderfully made. 

"I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well."  Psalm 139:14

January 12, 2005

May 19, 2008

Mother's Day 2017

Mother's Day 2018

my beautiful mama

thirteen

Dear Bailey, 

You are thirteen today - I can hardly believe it!  Every year when I write these I go back to that little tiny squishy baby boy that I held for the first time and wasn’t quite sure what to do.  I knew instantly that I loved you but I didn’t know how much you (and later your sister) would redefine love for me.  Every year I also write about the new things you did and learned and although this year has looked very different, I am certain that what you have learned will carry you through the rest of your life.   

Just a few days after you turned twelve we found that nasty tumor in your leg.  You and I spent that first day together trying to be brave but I think you were braver than me.  You told me that you were born to fight this and I do believe that you were.  The day we walked into St. Jude you were wearing a Superman shirt, maybe it was a coincidence, but it seems that you just might have always been  Superman after all.  I watched you count to three the first time they stuck your arm, never flinching, and I knew then that you had been storing all of your brave since you were born for this very time. 

I watched you go through your first scan machines, your first X-rays and remembered how I felt the first times I did the same thing.  I knew you were scared but you laid there as I watched the timer count down and talked to you over that loud machine.  I watched your face as the doctors talked to you and I knew that you understood what you were up against, yet you stayed still and calm.  I wanted to pick you up and bolt but we both managed to stay.  I wanted to freak out I saw that big line sticking out of your chest but you didn’t so I didn’t either.  You figured out how to walk on your crutches with that heavy brace so fast I couldn’t keep up with you.  

I watched you as you faced every round of chemo - almost forty weeks because of all those delays - all of those awful mouth sores, that fever that we thought would never end, that leg infection.  I watched you carry that backpack everyday full of your fake food, your wound vac, and even though I carried it a lot, you never sat down.  I watched your beautiful hair fall to the patio as I shaved it which made me sad but then when I saw what a cute bald kid you were and how much of your face I could see, I loved it.  I have so loved kissing that bald head for the last year but I am loving those soft sprigs of auburn hair that are back even more.  I was also glad that your teeth came in straight since that’s the first thing you could see when your hair was gone!  

You taught me a lot of things this year - I may have even learned more than you. I have learned to be more trusting - in people, but mostly in God because of you.  The day after Easter when we sat in the waiting room and waited for seven hours for your big surgery, I had to trust that you would be ok.  And you were.  You came back to me without that tumor and with a shiny new titanium bone in your leg.  I have never been so happy to kiss your face.  And although that new bone leg has caused you a lot of pain and hard work, when it’s all said and done, those scars will tell stories of adversity that will be hard for anyone to top.    

You taught me how to speak up for you and now I watch you speak up for yourself.  You taught me how to be patient, even though I thought that’s something I already knew, I found out that I really didn’t.  You have taught me that really the only thing that matters is that I have you, Kate, and Daddy, and everything else will work itself out.  By watching you, my eyes have been opened to how the world views people who are sick or different because you have only wanted to be seen as capable.  We may have made a game out of people staring in public at your crutches, brace, and bald head (like that one weird guy at Graceland who kept asking if you had a football injury), but it really made me think more about how people feel and how their mothers feel.  Sometimes I feel like I need to elbow people out of the way in a crowd but I look back at you and realize that you have it together, way more than me.  Either way, I’ll always be happy to elbow them.  

You have also taught me about YouTube and I’ve watched so many videos that I feel like I know the people who make them.  Because of you, I know about the sneaker industry, collabs, and Supreme drops, and of course dogs. I have learned about cars too, or at least you’ve tried to teach me so thanks for being patient when the only thing I really know is what color they are.  You have named every cool car on the interstate in our countless trips downtown and can tell their make and model from miles away, and even in the dark by the shape of their tail lights.  I also learned that you like watching people as much as I do.  This is a true gift that will provide you entertainment for the rest of your life.  We’ve spent hours on those benches outside St. Jude watching the tourists take pictures and watching people mill around in and out of the hospital.  Your impersonations are pretty impressive too.  

In spite of all the hard things this year, you are still the same you.  You have always had the ability to notice every detail in your surroundings, like when you were three and noticed a fish was missing from your preschool.  When you recall things to people that they didn’t think you heard, I love seeing the look on their faces. Sometimes people underestimate how smart and wise you are, but there’s nothing wrong with the element of surprise because it teaches people to be more considerate.  Your memory is better than anyone I have ever met.  There are lots of things I would like for you to forget, but I know that those things will eventually help you be stronger and more compassionate. You are stubborn which really just means that you never give up.  You are sensitive and thoughtful, making sure no one gets left out and I’m pretty sure you’ll always take care of your mama.  You have managed to steal the hearts of countless nurses with your honesty, wit, and charm, and the way you flash that mischievous smile that’s hidden sometimes under your serious face.  You are loyal to the things and people you love - your family, your friends, the Mississippi State bulldogs, and of course, your dogs.   You can pretty much talk me into anything, which is how I ended up chasing this little girl dog around the house.     

It may not feel like you got to see and do much, which is entirely true, but you have accomplished more this year than most people accomplish in a lifetime.  Your perseverance has inspired hundreds of people to be strong and courageous like you.   You have learned how to speak up and tell people what you think, ask the right questions, and make choices even when your choices are limited.  You are honest and straightforward and so funny, which people figure out when they stick around long enough and listen close enough.  You have taught us all to be more understanding of others who have it worse than we do and that smile of yours has opened up the hearts of more people than you will ever know.  You said the other day that people don't know how lucky they are.  This is so true, but I told you that I know how lucky I am and that has made me look at life differently for the last seven years.  I hope that you will too.  

Twelve was not what we expected and much harder than I wanted it to be for you.  I had hoped that you would be wading through the waters of the awkward preteen years in seventh grade instead of sitting at the kitchen table with your schoolbooks or in a hospital, but I sure have loved having you close to me.  That’s the part I would never want to give back.  

Thirteen, my boy, it will be different.  You have already done hard things and you are wise beyond what most thirteen year olds know.  That will help you in all the weirdness of the teenage years.  You are so capable of anything you want to do and you carry with you something so very special because of what you have endured.  I wish for you lots of things this year, but mostly I wish for you to be just a regular thirteen year old boy. I wish for you to get dirty, make mistakes so you can learn from them, and be goofy with your friends.  I wish for you to travel, go fishing, go to school, and ride bikes.  I wish for you to worry about how your hair looks and your math tests.  I wish for you to dream big.  

I love you more than you could ever imagine.  

You will always be my hero.  

Happy Birthday!

Mom

January 2017

January 2018

nine is so fine!

Dear my Martha Kate,

Today you are nine.   And let me tell you, you make nine look fine!  On this very day nine years ago, I looked over at you and instantly fell in love for the third time in my life.  (The first two times were your daddy, then your brother.  I love you just as much if you're wondering).   You were tiny and pink and crying like you had a point to get across.  I think it was that you were cold and wanted your mama because as soon as I held you you stopped and looked straight at me.  I still love to scoop you up and hold you.  I'm so glad God made you little so I can curl you right up in my lap.  It is still one of your favorite places.

You have grown so much this year!  Your big front teeth have grown in and you've lost a couple more too.  Your hair is longer and it makes you look a little older but it sure is pretty.  When the sun shines on it, it looks like a new copper penny.  Your brother once told you that your hair was the color of a chicken nugget!  (He was only three - we'll forgive him).

You are full of adventure and spirit.  You love to go places and see new things and I'm going to have to remind myself of this the older you get and the more I want to keep you right here with me.  This year we went to New York City.  It was a real adventure and we still talk about it.  You loved the Statue of Liberty and climbing on all of the statues in Central Park.  I loved watching the wonder of it all through your eyes.  You loved everything but the time we got caught walking in a thunderstorm and got soaked. You were just plain mad about that!  We had a great time shopping and you and I saw our first Broadway play.  We also ate a lot of sweets.  Your favorite were the macaroons, just like they have in Paris, you said.  I think you loved the hotel as much as anything else.  I like hotels too, so I get it.

You are so much fun to watch, Kate.  Sometimes, I just sit and watch you play or stop at the window
when your outside and watch you swing.  You are always singing, or talking, or imagining while you play.  I love your little world so much.  When you are outside, you are carefree and happy, like that's exactly where you belong.  After you were born, you cried unless we took you outside.  You were trying to tell us that's where you were happiest.  I was thankful you were born in May because at least the weather was nice for sitting outside on the swing.  You love the water as much as swinging.  At the first sign of warm weather, you start talking about swimming pools and oceans and swimsuits.  Sometimes when we go to buy plants at Lowes, you get a little distracted at the water fountains.  I let you play there as long as I can because they are kind of fascinating.  When you were a baby, you used to climb up on the counter and turn the water on to play in it.  We didn't think you could reach the
faucet, but we were wrong.  In the spring, when the flowers start blooming, you get so excited, just like I do.  We passed a field of yellow wildflowers the other day and you said, "Oh, I could stay there all day picking those!"  One of your favorite places to go is the garden at church where there is a brick with Nana's name on it.  You like to pick and blow all the dandelions all the way down the hill to it.  She would love that so much.

You have always been busy, and you sure keep me busy, but I love it.  Just like Olivia's mom says in the book we read - "You really wear me out, but I love you anyway." You have so many good ideas that sometimes it's hard for you to get them all done.  You spend a lot of time cutting paper and making things - really cool things like houses for small critters and cards and pictures.  I spend a lot of time picking sequins and paper out of the carpet, but it makes me think of you when I'm doing it.  You can even make purses from my hosta leaves by sewing them together with monkey grass.  You also love to read and you've gotten really good at writing this year too!  I have always said you use your right brain and that's amazing.  It's hard for some people to sing and dance and to be on stage and think of cool things to make and draw, but not for you.  It all comes so easily for you because you're brain is not thinking of all the rules and the boundaries in life.  Your brain doesn't see limits, it only sees possibility.

I love that you like to try lots of different things like playing soccer, and running, Girl Scouts, being
in plays, and singing at church.  You always do your very best and that makes me so proud.  This was your first year to run track and you did really well!  I didn't know your little legs could move so fast and you came back to the finish line smiling.  You're pretty much always smiling.  It's kind of contagious.  We joke that you are a cross between Olaf the happy snowman and Buddy the elf.  You make the most of everything and can make even the most ordinary things pretty fun - like trying on shoes.  We spent an hour in Target the other day trying on all the heels and using the aisle as a runway.  I just sat and watched you and soaked it up.  You've taught me to sit and watch and soak up more things in life and I am thankful for that.  Besides, it's too hard to hurry you up so I may as well wait until you are ready.  You've also taught me to say yes more especially when I know it's saying yes to something messy.  It's always worth my yes when I see how much fun you have or what you have made.  I even say yes to lipstick sometimes but we made a deal that it's only for inside the house.  After all, you're only nine!

You also know how to get right to the point and size up a situation with pure honesty.  I get a little nervous at what you might say sometimes but whatever it is will be the absolute truth.  You have a wonderful ability to avoid drama and walk away from things that make you uncomfortable. You are not afraid to call somebody out on something either.  You like for people to do the right thing and for people to be treated fairly.  This makes you a good friend and will also help you make wise choices as you grow up.

You are a great helper.  You are really good at looking for ways to help me at home.  You are also really good at noticing when other people need help.  I watched you at your soccer game help a girl from the other team get up when she fell down and I watched you give up your turn to throw the ball in so your friend could have a turn, and give away your gatorade to your friend's little sister because she was crying.  I was more proud of that than the goals your scored.  I always say that I want you and Bailey to be happy and kind and to love God and love people.  You are doing really well at all of those things.

Sometimes things in our lives make us have to be patient and sacrifice and wait your turn.  I am proud of you for how patient you have been when life is not always easy.  God made you strong and tough but sweet and loving.  Oh so loving.  He has given you exactly what you need to be who you are.  I am not the only one who sees it.  Other people see it too.  They see how resilient you are and how full of joy you are and they wonder how you could be so happy.  I tell them it's because you are so loved and because God made you that way.

I used to sing a song at church when I was little called "I am a promise."  You are a promise - a great big bundle of potentiality with a capital "P" and I'm so glad you are mine.  You are my very best girl and I love you very much, my Martha Kate!

You are nine and you are fine!

I love you!

Mommy