Thou seest the trees that bend before the storm,
Save their last twigs, while those that will not yield
Perish with root and branch." ("Antigone," 807 - 810)
Since Arden was first diagnosed, my husband and I had to learn to rethink our expectations for our family and our future. Variability, the possibility of change at any given moment, became our mode of living. We could only go day to day; plans had to be malleable, just in case she was too tired, developed a fever (which meant a trip to the hospital), had a clog in her central line (hospital trip,) or became dehydrated (yep, back to the hospital.)
We would do whatever it took to give her a shot at a long, happy life with excellent quality of life. That wasn't meant to be. Her death was the storm of the century for us, the beginning of a whirlwind that literally uprooted us.
Now, even though we can make plans for playdates, trips to the zoo, or going out to dinner with friends (sometimes still having to reschedule at the last minute if one of us -- typically one of the little ones-- gets sick, of course), I'm still trying to remember to be bendable instead of breakable. I've been broken, splintered into millions of little pieces, and in righting myself, I've tried to make the bonds holding me together stronger by allowing for greater flexibility. This means I must be ready for just about anything. Life is flux; we know all too well how drastically it can change at any moment. We try to remember not to take any of our loved ones or our blessings for granted.
Since Arden's death, I've been trying to absorb bad news as well as I can without letting it consume me.
There has, unfortunately, been much misfortune in our lives lately, in our country and around the world. Political battles, a disastrous oil spill of epic proportions and heightened tensions and violence between already volatile nations fill me with fear, sadness, and anger.
I've attended too many funerals for dear family members in recent months, one just yesterday for my sweet Great-Aunt Jay. I've learned of many losses, challenges and setbacks among my friends and in the childhood Cancer community. I need to feel the emotions, respond appropriately, and not lose myself in the grief. I need to be malleable, able to remold myself in order to face the next gale-force wind that threatens to topple me.
In the midst of such a tumultuous week, we had a personal scare with Zoey. An x-ray that her pediatrician recommended we get when she turned 6 months in order to check for hip dysplasia (which runs in the family) revealed an abnormality. I had to wait a week to find out whether she'd need to be put into a spica cast, which would go from her chest down to her knees, keeping her legs fixed in place with her knees out to the sides. It was possible she'd be immobilized for at least six weeks, just as she was beginning to navigate herself across the room with log rolls and some soldier crawling. Thankfully, today the Orthopedic specialist examined her and said that the degree to which she's "off" is very small. She won't need the cast after all; we'll just rescan her in six months to make sure the slightly shallow left hip heals on its own.
I had mentally prepared myself to be flexible, upbeat, to remember that it could be so very much worse. This is, at least, a fixable problem.
But we're breathing a huge sigh of relief.
Zoey gets her freedom. She will crawl this summer. She will be uninhibited at the beach, able to flex her toes in the sand and sit at the surf, feeling the waves tickle her shins, knees, and lovely rolls and rolls of thighs. She will cruise around the house, toppling toys and terrorizing G-man's perfectly organized trains and tracks in the fall. At least, that's the plan.
We get to stand down in our household, at least for a while. Maybe we'll even shake our own hips to a celebratory beat.
Until the next wind blows...
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