Ten Years of Changes

Ten years ago, there were no iPhones and no electric cars. A cheap flat screen TV cost around $3000.  iPods had only been out for a year, and most people didn't have one yet. The US was still recovering from 9/11, and flags and patriotism still flew high.  Not only did we not have an African-American president, but most people ten years ago would have never guessed it could happen within a decade. And our family only knew of childhood cancer as something bad that happened to other kids.   We just couldn't imagine how much our world view would change in just a few short words.  "Well, I am 99.9% sure he has leukemia." 

October 31, 2012 will mark the ten year anniversary of Josh's leukemia diagnosis.  It's not a statistical big deal (five years off treatment a few years ago was the big one) but it seems like a big deal to me.  Maybe because I like nice round numbers?  Maybe because ten years is so long that it gets to have its own name? I don't know why exactly.

I can remember that day so clearly still, like it's actually on a video I am watching.  The smells and sounds and shock.  I'm not the same person I was on October 30, 2002, and it seems odd to be able to pinpoint the hour, the minute, the second that it happened.  That it's been ten years? Unbelievable. 

Our lives have changed in the normal way: We live at a different address.  There are two more children at our house.  There have been job changes, deaths, births, new friends, and new experiences.  But the change from people who didn't "know" cancer to people who know more than we ever wanted to?   It's the anniversary of that change this week. 

After successful treatment, hard work at school, and lots of counseling, Josh seems to be solidly on the other side of cancer. He is changed too, both in ways that break my heart a little and ways that I think will serve him well in life.  He is just a little less trusting, just a little more anxious than he was before that day.  He has some residual emotional and physical effects of treatment still.  But he's here, and he's strong, and he is healthy.  He has broad shoulders, and he'll be taller than me very soon, and he runs across that soccer field on legs that he couldn't even bear to stand on ten years ago this week.  He reads above grade level and takes high school math in seventh grade and basically laughs in the face of the vials and vials of poison that were injected directly into his spinal fluid.  He became a survivor, and he knows as well as we do that he was one of the lucky ones.  

Ten years ago this Wednesday, we entered into a dark time for our family, but it was a dark time with a million rays of sunshine to cut through the darkness.  We learned about the beauty of a "hospital family" and the even deeper beauty of an actual family and strong network of friends to carry us through.  Josh, taking the rest of us along for the ride, got to have amazing experiences (thanks to Make a Wish and Miles from Molly and Relay for Life and Child Life and so many individuals that I could never name them all.)  I could write a book filled with the little things that people did for him, for us, that changed me forever, for the better.

For many years, we  had Josh sleep with us on Halloween night, a warm and tangible reminder that he was with us.  It's been a few years since we did that, but please don't tell him that on Wednesday night, I'll sneak into his room and shed some tears of gratitude that I get to watch him breathe and feel so very thankful that he's too big to fit in my bed. 

Hallelujah!

It isn't often that all the laundry is done at our house.  (And it irritates me beyond belief that it is actually never done since at any given time, someone is wearing something that needs to be washed.)  But every once in a while, I get all the baskets empty and all the clean laundry put away.  (And by every once in a while, I mean once a year, maybe two years.)  But Sunday, I did it.  John had the boys out all day, and Abby went to church and then played all day with the neighborhood girls.  I cleaned and scrubbed and washed and folded and put away until the house was clean and all the laundry was done. 

It is so rare that this occurs, that even the most self-centered of us (the seventh grader) noticed.  I was feeling pretty proud of my domestic skills until  it was time to get ready for the morning; James, choosing his clothes for Monday, came down the stairs:

James: Mom, I need socks! (He NEVER knows where a pair of socks is. Ever.) 
Me: I washed and matched them all...you have tons of pairs.
James: But I can't find them. I looked in the laundry room and my closet and your room....
Me: Honey, they're in your sock drawer.
James: I have a sock drawer!? (Brat.)
Me: Funny. 
James: (smirking as he heads upstairs)

Soon, I heard a loud voice from upstairs and went to investigate.  I found James singing Hallelujah, loudly, while he sat and just gazed at his full sock drawer. Double brat.  I guess I should probably match socks a little more often??

Worth Posting

I just uploaded a bunch of pictures from my phone and found this one.  It made me laugh (because I'm mean like that), and I thought it was worth posting, even though I can't remember the specific incident that prompted the note to be written. 

There are three things I love about this note. 1) That he found the exact balance between true apology and guilt inducing overstatment that would make both laugh and forgive him. He has skills, this one.  2) That he wrote it on some wrinkly scrap of paper he found. 3) That he signed it "Your son" as though there might be another James leaving me a note on my pillow.

He's a funny boy. 

Snapshots

So that I can avoid being ridiculously whiny about how busy we are, I'll just say that tonight was an unusual night.  None of the kids had anything: no dance, no appointments, no soccer practice, no games.  It was the polar opposite of last night, which was worthy of some serious whining. 

I did go to the gym and John's team did have practice, but the kids were able to just relax and hang out.  They were so happy to play with friends and play soccer on their own schedule and watch a little TV, and it was a nice change of pace (to a lovely, slow pace) for a gorgeous fall afternoon.  They even loved dinner and gobbled up so much that the adults left the table a little hungry!

Everyone was peaceful, with the exception of a 15 minute bout of arguing while doing chores, and just before bed, I realized they had all voluntarily gone upstairs to their rooms.  I went up to check on everyone, and in each room, I found an accurate snapshot of each kid right this minute in time.

I could see Josh from the top of the stairs.  Door open, mildly inappropriate music playing from his "surround sound" (also known as two speakers he found at a garage sale with Aunt Lori), long, broad-shouldered body sprawled out on his stomach, math book out and pencil scratching too quickly to be really checking his work.  He looked up at me, and said, as only a seventh grader can, "What?" I answered that I was just checking on them, and he graced me with a very white, very straight toothed smile.  I decided to give him a break and not mention that he clearly was NOT WEARING THE RETAINER THAT IS HOLDING THE 5,000 DOLLAR TEETH IN PLACE.  Ahem.

Next, I could see James's door was wide open, but he was nowhere in sight.  I had to go all the way in his room before  could see him at the foot of his bed, happily whispering to himself about his many Lego creations.  Every once in a while, he would let out one of those exclusively boy "Pyu, pyu" noises that a grown up could never recreate (or spell.)  It took him forever to notice me, in spite of the lack of any other noise in the room, thanks to his laser focus on all things Lego.  When he did look up, he smiled and said "Hi, Mom."  I asked him to sit on my lap, and he happily obliged.  Once snuggled up to me, he talked for a solid four minutes about school. Then, he simply stopped.  Stopped talking, stopped snuggling.  Got down off my lap and went back to his beloved Legos. 

Dismissed, I finally faced the one closed door.  The closed door that was slightly vibrating from the volume of the Justin Bieber song playing on the other side.  I opened it to find my daughter happily dancing and spinning, arms waving above her head.  A picture of innnocence except..... a perfectly normal outfit had been "matured" by tying up one side of the shirt to reveal some belly, rolling up the top of the skirt to shorten it, and adding a side pony with fake red hair clipped in for good measure.  Honestly.  As soon as she realized I was there, she began a millisecond transformation back to a seven year old.  Shirt untied, skirt pulled down.  With a guilty smile, she said "What? I was dancing!"  I told her the outfit looked better after the transformation and agreed to her request to play Memory without any further discussion of the "dancing" scene.  I'll save the battles for when she wants to wear that ensemble outside the house. 

Overly mature outfits aside, I loved to see all three of them happy and quiet and at peace.  (And in case you were wondering, Josh did finish his homework shortly after I saw him and came downstairs to hang out with just me.  We do that most nights, chatting and watching TV, and it is one of my favorite parts of the day.)