It hits him hard every now and again. Not consistently like the beginning. Not predictably. Just when our guard is down it seems. This morning he was sitting in the chemo chair at the infusion clinic like he does every month wooing the nurses with his impish grin and penchant for modeling clay and popsicle sticks. We made a little video giving his tips for getting poked. He estimated he’s been poked 1003 times. He’s probably not far off.
He was fine.
We went to the beach before dinner… basking in that perfect late September sun.
He was fine.
But by bedtime, he wasn’t fine. And all of his nightly oral chemo and peripheral meds put him over. Like most nights, he swallowed 9 little pills covered in applesauce in one fell swoop like the pro he’s had to become. Then dragged himself up the stairs still managing to convince me to give him more time for his latest Lego creation.
But he was pale and clammy and couldn’t distract himself out of the furrow between his eyes. Before too long he crawled across the room to sit with me as I read Finley a story. I don’t feel good, he whispered. Soon he was in the fetal position in his bed, lips pursed, silent, just squeezing his eyes shut.
I feel the cancer mom brain whir into overdrive and have to will myself to stop it. Instead I squeeze my own eyes shut, rub his back and start praying over him. Finley comes up with an ailment of her own and I nurse that one too wishing it all could just be pretend.
Most days our cancer journey gets to be on auto-pilot. Every day for the last 2 years, 9 months and 6 days we have lived this up and down marathon. After a while you go a little numb. But not every day.
Some days I’m overwhelmed— appalled and distraught at what has happened in his little body and the antidote we use to fight it. Some days I’m angry again and sad and fearful. Some days I wish I was worried about corona…but the fact is, I don’t give a hoot about stupid corona; I’m still worried about something so much worse.
Some days seeing him hurting and then mustering up more strength and courage than I, feels so unfair I want to scream. I can’t believe this has been his childhood so far. I can’t believe his innocent little body has had to deal with this onslaught for so long that its quite literally all he remembers. Tears of pity and anger and sadness fall hot and fast.
And then a song that was on the radio this morning as we drove to chemo clinic fills my mind. And my heartbreak over what Forrest has had to endure is blanketed by this melody. I wish I knew the backstory because the song most definitely comes from a place of deep pain. But the chorus goes:
Hallelujah nevertheless
Was the song that pain couldn’t destroy.
Hallelujah nevertheless
You are my joy invincible. Joy invincible.
And as I let the song wash over me again, another Switchfoot song comes on:
When it feels like surgery
And it burns like third degree
And you wonder what is it worth?
When your insides breaking in
And you feel that ache again
And you wonder
What's giving birth?
If you could let the pain of the past go
Of your soul
None of this is in your control
If you could only let your guard down
You could learn to trust me somehow
I swear, that I won't let you go
If you could only let go your doubts
If you could just believe in me now
I swear, that I won't let you go
I won't let you go
And the angst abates. And the tears still. And that sweet, inexplicable peace washes over. Hallelujah nevertheless. There is no other way.