Why I post what I write

Feeling cursed, feeling lucky. When your kid has cancer, those feelings turn on a dime. 

One moment, I feel it all being ripped away. In lieu of watching my baby discover ladybugs and new friends at the park or sharing my sweet potato fries at Poor Phil’s, I watch her tug the IV lines and pick through breakfasts fixed with pill crusher. 

The next moment, I see a future scientist rising from the ashes. I can already see her blowing off the bullshit. “This is an interview with Dr. McCarthy, who famously recovered from childhood leukemia as easily as one might a bad case of the sniffles....” 

And the next? I remember she has a shortened life expectancy, a higher chance of a secondary cancer, and a lower chance of having kids of her own.  

And then, I say who cares! So long as she spends the first 70 years of that life happy to be alive.

Today, we’re having pills with a side of Ben & Jerry’s for breakfast. 

And so it goes.

roller coaster

 

noun

a small gravity railroad, having a train with open cars that moves along a high, sharply winding trestle built with steep inclines that produce sudden, speedy plunges.

Regardless of said amusement park ride, I've been hyperaware of the brief episodes of joy we've been privvy to ever since Cancer Life Day Two (ok, so I didn't quite feel in the gravy on Day One).

We live in the moment of history when children's leukemia is the most commonly cited form of curable cancer, right? We have thoughtful Bay Area friends whose care package hides a bottle of good scotch hidden under a superhero cape for Aria to wear to the Chemo Clinic (plus a theatre game for her big drama queen sister.)

Maybe I didn't have enough joy in the first 30 years of my life, but goddamn that makes me happy.

We live in the community where strangers give us gifts of food, time, money, and thoughtful words.

It's not always easy to find the view quite so spectacular. The bleak areas of UnfairWorld (where we all live...albeit some closer to the equator than others) are far-reaching. But while we often choose to distance ourselves from tragedy and misfortune, it's still the case that everyone has in some way been linked to some unspeakable hardship.

That's why I write. Hardship must be speakable. When none of us speaks of adversity, we deepen the morass for others suffering their own. We make their trials even more isolating. 

For me, this has been anything but isolating.

The mom of one of Aria's classmates arrived at my door at 8am last week. Still in my PJs and last night's mascara still smeared under my eyes, I realized our living room looked like ... like two little kids live here (and had an E party the night before). The Mom handed me flowers, a six pack of Two Brothers beer, and two pounds of homemade white bean chili. She didn't judge me. And she really made a difference to my week.

I want to make a difference.