All the battles

I have had so many conversations with people who are fighting invisible battles lately. A cute little cousin of mine, just a kid, lost his life to his battle yesterday. As surely as cancer threatens our child's life, a less visible mental illness took his, and that is a double tragedy as his loved ones must mourn not only the loss of all he could have been in the future, but all he could have been during his time on earth, as well, and must do so while feeling awkward undercurrents coming from those who do not understand that while their child and sibling fought to live, then in the end, chose to die, the tragedy is the same as if he had fought physical injury or a terminal physical disease. They must struggle with very few people understanding what the true enemy is. There will be those who will blame him for choosing to die, instead of blaming a disease that made that choice seem, to him, like the only one available to him. 

I hear from those fighting invisible illnesses, illnesses of the mind instead of the body, caring for loved ones who fight daily battles against their own minds, that they feel guilty even voicing their struggles to me as I raise a toddler diagnosed with cancer. I always immediately correct them. "Don't you see?" I say. "That is part of the unfair burden you carry. If I fall apart, people blame cancer. If you fall apart, people blame the person you love instead of the illness they have. Nobody judges me for staying with my child who has cancer, like they would you, if they knew how your spouse's or child's mental illness makes you miserable, isolated, afraid for their safety or even your own. I have support available all around me simply for the asking, from practically everybody. You hide your pain because it will only be acknowledged and understood by those who have experienced it. There are no hugs, casseroles, or offers of babysitting, there is only secrecy out of respect for your struggling loved one. This is why you should never say I have it worse than you, because nobody (well, almost nobody) blames me or my child, or judges our family, suggesting we are somehow responsible for the cancer. Cancer is our only enemy, and it is okay to hate cancer without exception. Nobody gets my son's personality or worth confused with the cancer he carries in his body."

If a wife stays with her husband through cancer, people call her an amazing, strong woman. If she stays with a depressed, manic, bipolar, addicted husband, people call her battered. As she very often is. She carries bruises, visible and invisible, and cannot ask anyone for help because help only means one thing to those around her: leaving the situation. She cannot explain to people, without sounding as though she is justifying her own abuse, that she blames the illness, not the person who carries it. That she still loves the person behind it, in spite of the things the illness makes him do. 

And the sad truth is, she probably, usually, should leave, if the illness proves stronger than the treatments for it. She can't love away the mental illness any more than we can love away Daniel's cancer. She can only remove herself and her children so they are not destroyed by the disease as well, because unlike cancer, which is limited to it's victim's own body, mental illness metastasizes to the whole family. And this is where nobody, nobody who cares for someone with mental illness has any right to minimize their own pain in relation to mine. Because I get to give of myself without worrying about enabling. I get to accept my child's whole personality unconditionally without the confusion of separating what is him from what is his disease. (Mostly. I fear for his future mental health after three and a half years of chemo breaching his blood/brain barrier, but that's a bridge we can't cross until we come to it.) I get to feel the love and support radiating from my village, instead of fearing losing my village the moment I admit how bad it is. The worse it gets for me, the more support I have. The worse it gets for them, the less support they have. 

We owe it to those around us struggling with invisible illness to show them the utmost respect. Their worth as humans is not lessened by the disease they carry. Their disease kills just as cancer does. We are all just humans struggling to live amid elements trying to kill us, and sometimes we lose the battle. 

Love to all the fighters fighting all the battles. So much love.

Therapy hack

Hello, dear ones!

It's a hot August day, so I'm hiding in the basement while big is at the neighbors and little is asleep. We played at the splash park for four hours this morning with friends they had not seen for awhile. They were both pretty unable to handle life afterward. 

I called the school district this morning and unenrolled Daniel from preschool. He will be going to school for many, many years. He needs one more year of being little, not to mention every day he mingles with other kids is a potential virus brought home. I'm pretty proud of our seven month hospital-free streak. I also don't expect it to last once winter arrives, and with it, flu season. 

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about why we humans are interested in the things that interest us, why we follow things we do. We value experiences, and while we would never elect to experience some things, we still seek to feel them. Maybe feeling things proves to us our own humanity. 

When we started this journey, I wrote to sort out my feelings. I still do. I decided to not edit or judge my feelings, but to simply record them, and if anyone wanted to feel them with me, they could. There was no reason, in the absence of my own judgement of them, to withhold them from the public. If anyone else wanted to judge them, I decided I was okay with that, and that quite possibly it might even cut through the noise and reveal my true friends. The ones who could also feel feelings, acknowledge them, and move on.

To my surprise, the more honest I was about my feelings, the more my true friends cared. The ugly feelings did not drive anyone away. Being vulnerable did not invite attack. Being real drew out the realness in my realest friends. 

Inevitably, when I start a post in a bad, sad, angry mood, I end it in a much more grateful one. Giving feelings a voice calms them, and seeing them in black and white minimizes their power and reveals their pettiness, and what I am left with is facts aside from emotion- how fortunate we are, how beautiful life is regardless of the hard stuff. Sometimes the most angry ones don't even get finished or shared because halfway through, I realize I don't feel that way after all.  

I write for me. But I edit my grammar, try to rein in my tendency to overuse commas and run-on sentences, polish my style and edit for succinctness for you. Because although my first responsibility is to myself, to hack my own therapy so I can be a functioning mother, spouse, and member of society, I want to give my experiences to you in the hope that the lessons I learn the hard way can be absorbed second-hand. The feelings I work through can illuminate the shared paths of our human experience. The tears turning into crazed laughter can do more than merely entertain, they can allow us to meet each other wherever we are to let you know you are not alone either. Well. And also, we are all living on a spinning rock in the middle of vast empty space, hurtling toward death and a time in which we will no longer have a voice. Adding another honest, vulnerable voice to the global noise, a quiet voice saying, "this is what it was actually like, this life I lived, and nothing came of it as far as great cultural contributions, but every second was experienced and savored, and I knew and was known by people who were good and kind and we created a little pocket of love in the middle of all the hate and violence", that's all I can ask. 

There are two things I hope people say at my funeral. I hope they say I loved unconditionally, vulnerably, and completely, and I hope they say I was unafraid of asking hard questions. I mean, you all are welcome to say I was Mensa-smart, smoking hot, and incredibly talented as well...it is my funeral, after all. Go ahead and lay it on thick, it's your last chance. But since I have no plans on it happening until my husband and I simultaneously die of heart attacks while clutching each other in a roller coaster explosion sometime after our hundredth birthdays, no need to write flattering eulogies just yet. 

In the same vein, I have been thinking about the things I have felt in the last year that I did not feel, or at least felt less, before childhood cancer became our battleground. It doesn't have to be cancer that brings things like this on. But I wonder if I would have thought so much about certain parts of life if it hadn't. Certain things push my buttons now that didn't used to. Certain things make me cry. Certain things give me the sort of joy one cannot hold for long without feeling physical pain. 

For example...

Realizing that in any other time in history, we would be mourning our kid. Just sit with that one for awhile. Think about how very different your day would have been without a person you love, who made you crazy, got on your nerves, then gave you a kiss and let you know you are their whole world as they are yours. And now think back to a day, any day in your shared past after which they would have simply not been a part of your daily life. The stories are everywhere, in footnotes of family trees. So many families lost kids to cancer before the 60's. Fifty years. This is how close we are from a time in which there was no treatment. Fifty years is nothing in the scope of human existence. The tiniest blink in the big picture of time is the only reason Daniel is more right now than a memory of a pale, tiny two year old. He is real, warm, solid. His voice fills the walls of this house, his clothes and toys clutter it, he gets owies and spills orange juice, hits his brother and has fits of giggles over silly surprises because of fifty years of applied research. 

I used to want to push Daniel toward being extraordinary. I wanted him to be gifted. Now, I don't care about gifted. I'll be completely happy with alive. And given the 90% likelihood that he will live with at least one long term side effect of having had over three years of chemotherapy assault on his tiny body and brain, I will always feel this way. I can only hope the rest of the world will remember this as he runs the gauntlet that is puberty, teenagery, young adulthood. I hear so many stories of young survivors being bullied, sometimes to the point of being victims of murder or suicide, because of the physical and mental effects of having fought an adult-sized cancer battle as a child. Right now is my window of opportunity to prepare him, with daily support, security, touch, and joy, for a world that may or may not accept him when he is no longer the adorable, tow headed, pug-nosed imp he is now. When he no longer dissolves into his infectious giggles over things like bubbles, the words "banana", "jelly bean" or "goofball", when silly faces no longer instantly put him in a good mood. When he has grown out of the shiny childhood sparkle he carries now and has begun to withdraw, to figure out who he is and to demand privacy, the world will no longer be his oyster. I fear adulthood for him, when he has to learn, as we all did, he is no longer universally adored by all who meet him. No wonder adolescence is so hard. No wonder it is even harder for kids who had to learn about life's cruelty at a young age. 

I am starting to admit I perhaps have a few not so great side effects myself from this last year. I realized this again the other day when Bobby called me from the store to ask if Huggies diapers were okay, since they were cheaper. I told him they were not. He asked why, and after a bit of hedging, I finally admitted the only thing I had against them was the way they smell when poopy. That was the diaper brand the hospital provided when inpatient, and the smell instantly puts me back there. I told him to buy the Huggies. I would deal. I am trying to deal. There are so many triggers in daily life that just flatten me. Parents who don't appreciate what they have. Parents who guilt their children or punish them without truly investigating the emotions or factors that lead to the behavior they find unacceptable. The fear that I slip into the same thing without realizing it. Any time I hear a truck start up back out of the lawn care business next door, that small panic attack if I am not exactly sure where my babies are at, lest one has somehow escaped the house and is standing behind the truck. Stories of relapses and siblings getting the same disease. I'm not sure which is more debilitating, the guilty fear that I'm stealing the joy from their childhoods by not spending every waking moment practicing perfect patience and modeling the best choices possible, or the dark fear that I'm going to make a mistake that kills one of them. I didn't think this way, or at least I felt it much less, before this last year. I was much more confident in myself and in trusting God, fate and statistics to help us avoid things we couldn't handle. And ironically, it isn't even our own experiences with a cancer that, by comparison with others, is actually quite treatable that has shaken me so deeply, it is having gotten to know so many others with less hope. It is seeing all the ways we are the same, instead of all the ways we are different, that has me realizing just how few promises we have and how we are all only the tiniest mistake, whether in parental judgement or cell replication, from having our lives changed completely and permanently. 

Do I sound like a case study for clinical depression or an anxiety disorder? I feel like I might. I also feel like if we were all completely honest and vulnerable, we would all admit to this to some degree. But when it interferes with daily life, it is time to seek real help, not just pound it all out on the keyboard and post it in the therapy blog for the world to judge. I know this, and I'm not there yet. I don't think I am, anyway. It's up to my nearest and dearest to inform me of the things I'm not seeing or admitting if my life does become too affected by my "stuff". 

The life of a caregiver/parent is one of being angry for your child's sake their life isn't better while also being weak with gratitude it isn't worse. It is one of simultaneously planning a long, happy life for your child and preparing to lose them. It is one of getting bogged down in little everyday stuff in which they push your buttons, get on your last nerve, and make you crazy, while also memorizing every second of your day, in case someday you have to return to the last time you felt normal. It's okay to grieve what you've lost while being thankful for what you have.

I had an unexpected conversation the other day with a woman who, in the blink of an eye, lost her daughter, who was Daniel's age, to senseless violence by the hand of someone she loved and trusted. I saw my own thought processes in her as she sought to sooth my horror at her experience by immediately listing the ways in which it could have been worse. 

Why do we all do this? It is consistent across the wide range of parents we have met who are struggling to make sense of the bizarre world of childhood suffering. "Yes, but mine was gone in an instant and never saw it coming, and if I had had other kids I would have lost them, too", says the mother who lost her child to a car accident, or in the above case, rage and violence. "So much better than watching her fade for months, knowing it was coming". 

"Yes", replies the mother who held her baby through chemotherapy and fading hope, "but I had the luxury of time to do nothing except focus on mine, to try to make every dream come true, to show him nothing but patience and love and hold him as I never would have otherwise, to right every wrong between us and try to move forward without being held back by parenting regrets." 

They both cling hard to "at least they weren't old enough to comprehend it", while the parent of an older child says, "it must be so hard to see a child suffer like the toddlers do when they don't understand why." 

The parents whose kids are disabled say "at least we still have them". The parents who do not still have them say "at least they are no longer suffering". It is as though we cannot ask anyone to drown, even for a moment, in our sorrow. We see them start to flounder, gasping in shock at how cold and deep our pool is, and we immediately reach for them to pull them out because we do not know how they will react and we do not want to think less of them if they do not react well. 

The ones who rarely see horrible things often take the offered hand and climb out quickly, shaking off the clinging droplets of horror with "you are right. You are brave. You are such a positive person. I could never be you. And yes, it could always be worse, so glad you can see it that way". The ones who carry the deep scars of horrible things in their past grasp the offered hand, but stay in the pool for a few moments looking up with no attempt at words. They recover with immediate compassion and the real questions that have nothing to do with the morbid curiosity and attraction to what I call emotional porn- the compulsion to watch other people's lives fall apart in a mix of horror, revulsion, and fascination- that tragedy inevitably ignites in less scarred people. Less "how did it happen? Whose fault was it?" And more "what was her name? What was it like to be his mother? How are you/your other kids/your spouse doing right now? Do you feel understood and supported by those around you? Do you have people you can lean on without reservation? Would you like to drink wine and talk about life sometime?"

And mostly, the person will say they are fine. Which is okay because that is where they are at, unable to find the strength to even open the lid on all the ways they are not, in fact, fine, and everyone has the right to force that lid up on their own terms, or to procrastinate doing it indefinitely. So they crack jokes. The best kind of jokes, dry and dark, wry and shocking, that irreverently jab right into tragedy's gut. They smile because looking happy makes them feel normal and if the outside is happy, sometimes the happy penetrates a good several inches into their skin as well, and lets them forget their bones are still tired and sad.

It isn't as if we humans make these things up on the spot to ease the horror for others. We have them ready because they are the things we cling to, as well. We are positive people. I once listened to a Ted Talk* on the science of happiness, which made the point that we all have our baselines we generally return to. Neither winning the lottery nor becoming paraplegic has a major impact on long term happiness, surprisingly. We are who we are aside from external influences, although those influences do reveal more sharply our inclinations. 

When bad things happen, the best of us is revealed. And the worst of us. And sometimes, when life gets really hard, we decide we just don't have the energy to present ourselves any way besides exactly as we are, and we make the surprising discovery that all the parts we hid because we feared they would render us unloveable are the parts people relate to the most.  But why does it have to be this way? Why do we have to experience tragedy to finally be real? Why can't we all stop making New Years resolutions to be happier, healthier, or to lead more enviable lives, and instead resolve to just be vulnerable instead? 

And on that note, two days later, I have to go make the choice now whether I am going to clean my house or engage with my children. A clean house means I look like I have my life together. Or I could go outside with two tiny boy humans, referee the sand throwing and be their mom, the success of which will never be measured so it feels like a waste of time and energy while the house sits and detracts from my image as well. It's not hard to see why we women feel like we can't be moms until the house is clean. Sometimes I long for our rambling camper life. Since we had no house, the choice was usually obvious. 

* https://www.ted.com/talks/dan_gilbert_asks_why_are_we_happy?language=en

Growing roots on square one

Hi and welcome back! 

Life is still good. We went in for another lumbar puncture this morning. I was more nervous about this one for some undefined reason, but it went fine. Daniel still takes Curious George to the doctor for chemo, then gets his own chemo as an afterthought. Sometimes he wears his own scrubs, surgical cap, proudly carries his own stethoscope around his neck. Sometimes his mom can't find his doctor getup in the chaos that is chemo mornings, trying to get two little boys up and out the door without really waking him, lest he ask to eat something, down the road and to the hospital an hour away (in good traffic) by our appointment time, usually between 7:30 and 8:30 am. I got smart this time and put him to bed completely dressed for the next morning so it would be as simple as scooping him up from his little bed and transferring him to the car in the morning. Wrinkled clothes and bed head are fine on chemo day. 

The timing is usually such that his sedation wears off just as the hospital cafeteria is closing between breakfast and lunch, and leaving the hospital for home by the most direct route, we do not pass any restaurants until a Wendy's halfway home. Although chemo day is often junk food day (don't judge, you try feeding vegetables to a hungry but doesn't want to eat, exhausted, nauseated threenager who has had nothing but propofol sedation and chemo in his system in the last ten hours) by that time we are stressed out by the 80mph/5mph bumper-to-bumper traffic that is midday I-25 and just want to get home, not to mention the 50-50 chance Daniel will throw up whatever he has just eaten, which is more problematic if he eats it in the car. By the time we get home, the parents are exhausted as well, but if we haven't gone out of our way to pick up some carry-out, we make some less than appetizing, baby friendly thing here like scrambled eggs and ground beef (thank goodness for the 1lb bags of grass fed ground freezer beef my mom gave us- we eat far above our grocery budget thanks to her beef and chickens).  

For about a month now, Daniel has had a facial tic, sort of an exaggerated blinking he does with his entire face. We have a referral to a pediatric ophthalmologist to try to figure out if it is neurological or prompted by vision changes, either of which can be caused by the IV chemo he gets every month. Or it could just be that preschool age children often develop tics. He also frequently complains of pain in his right eye. Again, could be normal, could be chemo. It would be naive of us to think he could be systematically poisoned for almost a year and a half now with no long term side effects. It still makes me angry, though. His childhood was supposed to be easy and happy. I was supposed to be able to give him that. It could be so much worse, but it really could be better too, if cancer had left us to screw our kids up on our own terms. 

Speaking of parental screw ups, I made one I am not admitting to Daniel's docs, only to the Internet just now. He takes an antibiotic, sulfamethoxazole-trimethoprim (Septra) two consecutive days every week, twice a day. We were getting it in a suspension in grape flavored syrup. It gave him instant nausea, so I always tried to give it to him at a magical time of day when he had just eaten but wasn't full, and never around the time he took any other meds. Well. I can barely manage a complicated med schedule on a normal day, but add two days of meds at an odd time and I could never remember to give him all four doses. Sometimes, because the liquid couldn't go in his weekly pill organizer cups I didn't remember to give even a single dose. I figured, his counts are always high. Pneumocystis Pneumonia is a concern with low counts. If we miss half his doses, it's not ideal, but it is better than missing his oral chemo. This has been going on since he entered maintenance. Well. Since before then as well, but the Septra negligence has been extra bad since starting maintenance. 

Last month, I gathered by inference on an Internet leukemia board that Septra suppresses white blood cells. The same blood counts that have been too high ever since entering Maintenance. I had no idea. Nobody in a year and a half of treatment mentioned to me that in addition to being a protective antibiotic when white blood cells are suppressed, it helps suppress them. I freaked out a little. I also called and asked his docs if we could try swallowing it in its giant, powdery pill form, in case it was the grape syrup upsetting his stomach every time instead of the actual antibiotic. I religiously gave him every dose for a month. He seemed to do better with the pills. He didn't like them, but he got them choked down and never threw one up. And sure e-freakin-nough, if his ANC count wasn't right at the bottom end of ideal this time. Son of a crispy biscuit. 

Turns out my breastfeeding him at night wasn't what was sabotaging him after all. The methotrexate and 6mp are doing their job. It wasn't the milk, and all those nights of crying as I made him wait longer than the recommended minimum of two hours, trying to give the 6mp all the time it needed to work in his body before I added breastmilk with it's oxidase enzymes stopping the action of the 6mp, that was all just wasted time we could have been nursing and sleeping. It was me not giving him all his meds that was the culprit. So I felt like a pretty stellar medical parent-caregiver. 

My own struggle lately is with the breastfeeding. Well. Not so much the act as the frequency with which it is demanded. It has taken a while to get here, but I am over it. My hormones are telling me it is time to get these two off me, probably because it has decided it is time to make another baby. My brain, of course, slaps my body into the middle of next week for even suggesting such a thing. But as Daniel's knowledge and observations about the world around him increase, so does his need to anchor himself to the most comforting, stable constant in his life- me and my body. Not to mention Alex has been cutting his first molars for what seems like forever, turning him into a little barnacle, attached to his mommy and in constant need of nursing. I do not feel like I can take away the comfort of breastfeeding from either of them right now. Nor am I willing to take away the immune support and gut-healing properties from Daniel, who does not struggle right now with treatment related digestive maladies as do many of his little treatment buddies, and as I am afraid he would if 40% of his diet were not breastmilk. I also can't shake the timing of Daniel's diagnosis. Was it coincidence that his cancer took over his body within a month of my milk drying up during pregnancy? Through this journey, I have met multiple mothers who say the same thing- a month after weaning, bam. Cancer. Yes, it was inevitable. But perhaps breastfeeding somehow kept it in check until they were older and more able to fight. Because leukemia seems to be a genetic disease with environmental triggers, Alex has a greater than average chance of getting it as well. I can't shake the fear that if this timing hypothesis has some truth to it, I would do well to let both Alex and Daniel nurse until they decide on their own to stop. But I want to stop. Right now, every time they ask to nurse I have to take a moment to mentally prepare myself. It feels vampiric. I feel a violated by it. Everyone says, if it isn't working for you, stop. Yeah. Not so simple in practice. Come to think of it, everything about parenting could probably be summed up in those five words: not so simple in practice. And not just parenting. Life.

In the meantime, it is hot. The dog days are here. We are estivating. (New word I learned yesterday and really needed to find a way to use it. Estivate: when a species goes dormant during the hot, dry portions of the year. As opposed to hibernate, a very different metabolic process in which a species goes dormant during the coldest months.) Every winter, as the cold settles into my bones and I pile layers of sweaters and blankets on me to preserve what tiny bit of warmth they still possess, I think the heat can't possibly be so bad. Then mid-June until early September rolls around and we realize we have no desire to venture outside during the day. Daniel's drugs make him sensitive to both sun and heat, causing him to quickly become flushed and covered in rash. Commercial sunblocks make the rash worse, so I ordered a bunch of fancy natural oils, butters and zinc powder online and make our own sun lotion, which we pair with wide brimmed hats and long sleeves whenever he heads outside. It's still no fun. I will hate myself for saying this when the winter sky is hanging low, winter wind is howling, winter cold is impossible to chase out of our house without spending more on our heating bill than we are willing to, but can we have a little less heat, please?

We spent last weekend in Summit County to celebrate Bobby having been gone working in Kansas for a month, and this month's budget being met with a little to spare. We spent two days biking, swimming, splashing in mountain streams in the shade under tall pine trees, and it was wonderful. We wondered if we should move back up there. Of course, summer is only three months long there, but quite honestly that is about all of summer we can use here, before the heat chases us back inside. At least there, every day is useable. And we could find work more easily there through the winter. I don't know that it's a serious consideration because housing is as tight there as it is here, but as this transition period in our lives stretches to an unpredicted length of time, our imaginings get more and more creative. We have made some amazing friends here, but as far as place goes we are as at home here as we have been anywhere else, which is to say, not hating it but not particularly attached to it either. Home is the part of our lives we take with us- each other, kids, dog, quilts, kitchen table, recliners and couches that are comforting and familiar no matter what walls surround them. Although I will say it usually takes me the better part of a year in a new home before I stop actively mourning all I left behind in the old one, be it friends, favorite haunts, trails my feet have memorized, or comfort foods in out of the way restaurants. 

In a way, I wonder if Loveland still is, to me, what happened here. We didn't move here for an easier life, and it didn't disappoint. I spent six months alone in a small, unfamiliar house while B worked 100+ hours a week, and as hard as I tried to find the places other moms hung out, when I did they seemed not terribly eager to be friends. I can't blame them. One is never too eager to make a new best friend of a woman about to have her life turned upside down by a new baby. You can't ask the hugely pregnant one to meet for drinks, or really anything else really, especially if she has nobody to leave the toddler with. And all the rules change when the baby is born. A formerly down-for-a-good-time mom becomes an uptight, tearful, lactating, sleep deprived hostage to every whim of a floppy, eight pound human. I did finally find a group of smart, drama-averse moms on a Meetup group, went to exactly one play date, planned on going back, then the baby was born and cancer happened and by the time I went back, I felt like even more of a pariah. But they hugged and welcomed and didn't seem too weirded out by the many factors that made us weird and pathetic, and most of my friendships here have stemmed from that group. 

Life is still hard here, as it is anywhere. It is easier as far as loneliness, baby, and cancer are concerned. But we no longer have a steady paycheck, and that is stressful. We keep circling around in our reasoning and our planning when thinking about our future. Our problem is, we are at such a pivotal place right now, a seminal moment, and we are terrified to rush into any direction from here that might preclude other directions. 

We know if we get 9-5 jobs, five days a week with weekends off, predictable schedules, predictable days, predictable incomes, in a year or two we will find ourselves in the midst of yet another existential crisis. It happens every single time we get a "real" job. Unpredictability is our jam. We fly by the seat of our pants, and it is often stressful to do so, but when we decide to plan our future we immediately feel like hostages to our own determined trajectory. So for six months now, we have talked, discussed, debated, weighed options and possibilities. 

Long past the point when normal people would have simply filled out an application to drive a garbage truck, deliver the mail, stock shelves at Home Depot, we are taking odd jobs here and there to pay the bills, trying to not touch our small savings account we have earmarked for future business startup, wishing there was some way to turn "odd jobbing" into a career. Which, there is. But when you are the boss, you are also responsible to keep the odd jobs coming in. Which means you are a marketing manager as well as odd jobber. 

There is no perfect scenario. We have to decide which imperfect scenario involving a lot of hard work and commitment we most want to invest our energy and time in. So here we are, stuck in analysis paralysis. Anywhere within an hour and a half of Children's Hospital with in-network local healthcare providers is an option for us. We can get more than enough rental income from this house to cover our mortgage, and could apply the extra money toward renting another house somewhere else, if somewhere else is where we want to build our future.

It is a weird, wonderful, terrifying, stressful feeling being at square one. We have always been on a trajectory before. For the first time in our lives, our forward momentum has stalled. The moment we take a first step, that step will necessarily be in a direction. Second, third, fourth steps build momentum. Very few people get the opportunity we have right now. Only a few get to decide, as adults, which direction they want to build future momentum. This is our moment to set into motion events that will compound in the future, opening some doors, closing others. Right now every possibility is ours. The moment we step off the plate, certain possibilities will become unavailable to us. So we raise a foot to step, and we hesitate. We want this to be it. We want whatever direction we step to be one that leads resolutely forward, not one that runs into a dead end and dumps us back on square one. Once we leave square one, we want to never return. And we want to never want to return. We want whichever direction we start off in to be the one that positively shapes our lives, defines our boys' childhoods, influences the adults they become, determines how we spend our sunset years. Right now, on square one, we stand with one foot up, ready to step, and we just can't do it because we just don't know if we are enamored enough with any direction to be ready to fight for it as we know we will need to once that foot hits the ground.

So there's that. Eventually our supporting leg will buckle and we'll stumble off square one without having actually chosen which direction to go. I'd like to think before that happens we will have broken out of our pause and made a decision. But for now, B has at least three weeks of odd jobs lined up here, more in Kansas if he needs them to fill some gaps, we're not going backwards any more than we are going forward, so we've moved some furniture onto square one and made ourselves comfortable. May as well do something while we are doing nothing.

As a quick little footnote, I've decided to "scrub" a lot of Daniel's online presence, at least that of him where he is obviously sick. I deleted his Facebook page because I feel like we no longer need it for updates that are too quick for this blog. I set it up so strangers would not need to be my personal Facebook friend to follow his progress, which would allow me to be less concerned with privacy and being too revealing on my own Facebook account, but now that we are in maintenance, it is a bigger concern to me to just let him be normal and little and to maintain his privacy boundaries for him until he is old enough to set his own parameters. Maybe one of these days I'll get around to editing the pics on this blog, either blurring, watermarking, or removing. 

Cancer is a big opportunity to use people's emotions to open their pocketbooks, unfortunately. I never want to see a pathetic looking bald kid being used on a strangers gofundme, only to recognize Daniel's face. It happens. Surprisingly often. He deserves to beat cancer, not be exploited as someone else's made up story for attention or money. I am trying to not post pics in which he can be easily recognized, and none in which he looks too sick. It has been a surprise to me how many people want to follow sick kids, and a little scary, to be honest. 

And on that note, we're off to bed. I started this post five days ago, we are now on day five of prednisone, which means Daniel has zero impulse control, a raging appetite, is a regular bully to his little brother, and is already starting to look puffy in his tummy and face. Good thing it's done for another month after tonight's dose.