Everything is finally green. The ditches are full of long grass, the maple leaves are as big as your head, the daisies smile in the fields, the peony by the fence threatens to bloom, the enormous oak in the backyard (magically home to a mama raccoon and her three wild kits) has finally gotten real leaves instead of just buds.
I stared at buds onthe unknown variety of trees outside our RMH window for months, speculating what it would look like when the green inevitably broke forth, waiting desperately for a sign spring was coming. But before I could witness that, we went home. And what a lucky, fortuitous, blessed, joyful thing that’s been.
It’s very much like being home for real, for normal life. But of course, it isn’t really. But it’s similar enough that we can all breathe deeper, we can bundle up our gear and head to the beach. We can see our small circle of people. We can hug, and laugh, and cry, and relax, and eat meals and sleep in our beds and remember what it’s like to be regular. (Not normal because that word doesn’t suit my kids or me haha).
Mercer himself is a ray of sunshine. His hair is a bit thin but it’s long enough to be shaggy and adorably disheveled. We did two successful daytrips to Vancouver for day 31 and 41 of this treatment block called “Interim Maintenance 1”. We’re now currently on a built-in break until day 57 when he begins the next block– Blina 2. For those who recall, Blina is the backpack with a pump in it to give him a continuous blinatumomab immunotherapy infusion: easy on the body and low in side effects but requires us to be in Vancouver for 28 solid days. When we return to Vancouver in the first week of June, we’ll be there for at least 10 weeks. Then we’ll wait to hear what comes next.
Mercer has had such an easy go with this block of treatment. His numbers have been fairly good– no need for blood transfusions or fears about low platelets and bruising. The warmer weather means more time outdoors and less worry about cold and flu which is a relief. His energy is practically the same as his brothers. He sleeps a bit more than his bros, but other than that, he’s basically operating at regular capacity. Unreal. Being at home for almost 5 weeks with such few side effects means it almost feels surreal and impossible that Mercer is in active leukemia treatment. It feels familiar now, easy to forget, like habituation — when something becomes so familiar you don’t feel it, your nervous system so used to a stimulus that the response diminishes and disappears.
I’d be lying if I said I’m looking forward to going back. But I do feel ready. The boys have played with their toys, enjoyed the yard, seen friends and family, beach days, park visits, picnics, the farm, small gatherings… what a blessing to take a big pause and feel loved up before we go tackle the next bit. I’ve watered the garden, had leisurely morning coffee in my robe without the threat of socializing with other families (turns out this is the nicest thing for me haha). I’ve done a puzzle, reconnected with my friends and my beloved Nespresso machine. I’ve wrapped my head around what is behind us and what is ahead. Organized and purged my house, prepped to return, contemplated all the logistical choices and maneuvers that lie ahead.
I’m grateful to be going back to an easier block. Grateful that it’s not anything new to us. Grateful RMH has a guaranteed room for us. Grateful to be needing less things when we return (checking out to come home was an ORDEAL and I don’t want a repeat lol). Grateful for kids who are flexible and like the city. Grateful for Mercer’s unbelievably good response to treatment and almost complete lack of side effects. Grateful we’re a team and we’re strong together and we’re loved and cared for and prayed for by the very best people in the world.
But I’d be telling another lie if I said I’m not down-to-the-bone tired. It’s long enough into this journey that the weariness has set in. The familiarity means I’m not in crisis mode, the boys aren’t heightened or panicked. And that’s crucial and important and good! But it also means your adrenaline wears off and you get tired, fatigued, and have to switch to endurance mode. Now it begins to feel like slogging. Med refills, calling pharmacies (it took TWELVE phone calls to solve the last medication issue), continual paperwork and admin to move home for 5 weeks, making meals and making plans (but not too many plans) and making decisions and figuring out homeschooling and getting out but not pushing too hard, and giving myself grace and cutting myself slack, but not dropping the ball on everything… it’s mentally draining. Staying hopeful and future-focused but allowing myself to talk about how really freaking hard this is. To zoom out and remember it is not always gonna be this way, but zoom back in when it starts to feel panicky thinking too far ahead with too many ‘what ifs’.
I always want to balance writing about the facts and the feelings. The realities of a child in cancer treatment with the complex emotions of the mom leading the family through this. It’s not solely my story to tell so sometimes I feel like I have nothing to say that isn’t just the ramblings of another harried mother. But I also remind myself this is as much a notebook about this moment in time for our family. Not just M and not just me. This is us, our life. Me and my boys. I’m glad I am able to document some of this and even more grateful to have people who love and care for us cheering us on and following with great tenderness of heart. Thanks for following the sporadic nature of these updates — for caring enough to read even when these paragraphs are filled with mixed metaphors and maybe not enough intelligent points.
I usually need to sit with things for a while before I can see the analogies or find the words that make the most sense. And launching into cancer care in the dead of winter makes the seasons changing the perfect allegorical framework. Coming home I was amazed to see how everything had changed since I left. And it got me thinking, ruminating.
Every winter I yearn for spring and for lengthening evenings and weather warm enough to stay at the beach all day. And every spring I’m amazed how long it takes to actually accomplish that. It seems that May is when that usually happens. The first taste of 20 degree weather. The sunlight staying in the sky until almost 9pm. The impossible greenness everywhere. Everything is lush and blooming and verdant. The sound of birds all hours, lawnmowers too. The shimmering of the sun on the water. The promise of all the goodness and bounty and glory of summer. It feels hopeful and expectant. I close my eyes in the evening sun, my eyelids bright, and I could cry out of the goodness of it all.
We are long enough now into this journey, down this road, that I look over my shoulder and I can’t see the beginning. I have faint glimmers of who we all were back then. And I can’t yet see around the curve in the road ahead. We know the next mile markers are coming, the distance between us and the “end” of this shrinking.
It felt impossibly slow in the beginning. I remember vividly calculating that we were 10% done our time in Vancouver. August-ish (the end-ish of the 6-9 months we were told we’d be staying in Vancouver for) felt an impossibly long way away when it was December and the fog crept in every morning and the IV pumps were dinging incessantly. It was cold, dark, and we were indoors, separated from the brothers. But now? Now we’re practicing being at home. Now we’re together. Not many hours in the hospital rooms. It’s warm, it’s sunny, it’s green everywhere. This stretch of road feels kinda glorious, a rich canopy of green above us, the sound of birds and bugs around us, the glow of golden hour sun shining on our faces. We always knew we are gonna make it. But sometimes when the sun is shining, it’s easier to really believe it.
Mother’s Day is a complicated holiday for many, myself included, but the best thing I did for myself when I was a brand new single mama was to book professional photos. This is my fourth year doing it. We had five days that we were able to be home in April, and my phenomenal photographer fit us in at my favourite childhood beach and I got the photos back early May and smiled the biggest smile I could fit on my face. I want to share a couple with you all, thank you for coming along on this ride. We love you.
Mighty Mercer 
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