Tomorrow is the one-year anniversary of Aria's leukemia
diagnosis. It's been three months since I last wrote. It's time to write something down.
A year ago today, I was debating whether to take Aria to her fifth
doctor in a week (and to her second emergency room in a day), because no
one but us seemed to see that she was dying.
She was. I knew it. Someone with a stethoscope needed to get that, too.
So, Kevin stayed with
Lyric while I took Aria to another ER on the cusp of a blizzard. Finally someone -- the second doctor, not the first -- actually, truly *saw* at her. And he knew.
Finally.
Within hours, she was hooked up to a dozen monitors in a pediatric ICU. I was staring at her thin gray body, and pushing the word "cancer" from my
throat over and over.
Fast forward (not so much) to today, and I'm camped
with Aria in our living room until her immune system returns from Spring Break (hopefully in better shape than your average post-Cancun college student).
Twelve months of cancer,
capped off with two months of polar vortices and cabin fever, and we're both ready
for something new. She's on the sofa pretending to read a Last Airbender book, and I'm on my laptop pretending to be confident about what comes next for us.
Truthfully,
I haven't written in a three months because I was busy burning out. But now must be the time for something new. At my house, we do major changes in sync with the seasons. Every. single. season.
Jump in my WayBack Machine, will you?
Summer 2012. I'd just laid off many people I deeply liked and had to
reassess the future of a company that employed both me and my husband.
Fall 2012: Kevin and I began working on how to start our own business. Scary but exciting.
Winter 2013: We put that endeavor on hold as I examined a potential partnership in my company. Also, scary
but exciting.
Spring 2013: Aria is diagnosed with cancer, and I focus on getting us through something very scary. Not exciting.
Summer
2013: Our financial future is increasingly unstable. Our jobs provide more flexibility than others might. Employers don’t recruit parents who have their own room at the chemo clinic. Kevin had to look for a stable corporate job in Supply Chain instead of one in Film Production, where he had the potential to be passionate and excellent. This makes us both even madder at the world.
Fall 2013:
Kevin gets a sudden but serious job offer back in California. I force myself
to start preparing for new homes, schools and hospitals while breathing a small sigh
of relief that his search is over with minimal effort. The job falls through as
suddenly as it emerged.
Winter 2014: The holidays were a blur. For a few months, I was quietly Pissed Off at the World (the title of my unsent annual Christmas letter). I get a "parenting coach" because my first grader and I
have failed to achieve "goodness of fit." Kevin and I are
stressed beyond what a bottle of Malbec alleviates. And, oh, my preschooler still has
cancer. The realization sets in that I’d labored for a few months over a brilliant business plan for
a dream business that I can't start without selling both of my children – and one of them
is clearly not under warranty any longer.
Spring 2014: I hoped to make it the year of improved health, careers, and calm. Sure, it could've been way worse, but really, obviously, people, 2013 was not our year. It took me three months
just to recover and write about it.
Now Aria’s immune system is on a downswing. The career
situation is perilous but active. I’ve started meditating. Lyric's talking about Airbender birthday cakes.
I'm
climbing out of the abyss for a while. I'm hosting a wine-tasting fundraiser
for children's cancer research. Without the medical research that relentlessly worked on my child's
specific cancer, I wouldn't be caring about my career options or parenting
skills today. I would be grieving. It'd feel good to help at least one other parent have the luxury of worrying about daily life bullshit instead of grieving over a child.
In the
process of planning this fundraiser, I also hope to reconnect with all the
people I've missed since stuff got wacky a couple of years ago.
Thanks to everyone who has expressed excitement about the event or making a
donation. Your interest and support makes me feel less distant from real life.
We had a terrific turnout at Aria's cancer research fundraiser at House Red...just the boost my serotonin needed.
