24. If The Harvest Is Small

I’m sitting on the front steps, listening to the (incredibly loud) yammer of three boys playing soccer on the bleached out grass. Arguments over who’s playing for Barcelona and who’s playing for Argentina and whether or not that last goal counted float across the neighborhood.

Summer feels worn-in now. The shine has worn off, the sparkle has dulled a little. The sun sets a bit earlier each night instead of later. The mosquitos are out in full force and more plans and fun times on the calendar lay behind us than before us. The Halloween pajamas are out in stores which is a sure sign of the insanity of how short summer is. Everywhere is back to school lists and the newest must have lunch kits and reminders that I need to get rain gear and boots and shoes because the kids have each grown over a centimetre and no one’s worn a coat in like six months!

The first time I wrote the blog post, it felt true but it felt sad. Unpalatable. I worried I sounded ungrateful, or short sighted, or God forbid — grumpy(!!) I’ve struggled to identify and articulate how I feel. It’s tempting to feel like I’ve done a fat lot of nothing this summer. My brain quickly identifies the things we haven’t managed and forgets the items checked off our list. I draw little pictures on our calendar for the plans we have; the boys are the right age to anticipate and count down and look ahead and it’s fun to have silly little drawings of all our adventures. Trips to the library, lake days, visits with grandparents, birthdays, a trip to children’s hospital, and most importantly and most excitedly — Camp Good Times!

It feels impossible to put into words what our trip was like. It also feels like a separate world, entrance only allowed to a select few: the luckiest and unluckiest, somehow. It feels a bit like breaking a magic spell to speak too much about it.

We applied four months ago, and have been anticipating it even longer. We were going at the same time as the boys’ bestie from RMH. It was drawn on our calendar and highlighted and circled and dreamed about for ages. I was slightly daunted by the time it was time to pack up, take the ferry alone with three kids, and drive to a backwoods camp. But we set off and looked forward to catching up with old friends, making new friends, and doing something resembling “normal” for kids in the summer.

It is difficult and reductive to try to sum it up in a few measly paragraphs. It was everything and nothing I expected. It was a full-tilt, full-speed, very adaptable summer camp filled with heart. There was the instant camaraderie, new sports and experiences, and magic that you’d expect. And there was the huge sigh of relief for me talking to parents who just get it.

In a quiet moment I got alone, I sat at the edge of the private lake, reading a book and watching the squirrels, and I realized how quiet it was. No traffic. No hospital helicopter. No tv. No medical beeping. I couldn’t remember the last time I was that deep in the woods, that off the grid, that quiet and sequestered.

It was healing.

It was exhausting.

Racing after three wild kids with big, wild energy and big, wild emotions. Managing the heat and the overstimulation and the newness of experience. Realizing that we all suffer from big imagination and unmet expectations and probably different levels of burnout. I’m so unbelievably grateful for the incredible experience we got to have. The boys felt like rock stars as everyone cheered them during the variety show; they loved the chanting and silly songs; they did crafts and made inside jokes and hung out with their best buddy. It felt like a regular summer thing for regular summer kids. What a true delight!

And also, the toll of childhood cancer is different than what I expected. The anxiety pops up in unexpected places. I find myself bewildered in places I expected to find solace. I feel like our life appears regular, and I feel like it should be regular, but time and time again…. I realize it just isn’t.

Yes, we’re closer to end of treatment.

Yes, he has hair and very few side effects.

Yes, we are painfully aware of how miraculous it is he’s alive.

But life and trauma don’t move on a predictable timeline. One landslide and the entire terrain is different. The landscape unrecognizable. That’s how it feels now. Like the land in front of me doesn’t match the map I was given a very long time ago at the beginning of this journey. Where do we go now? There wasn’t a river here before… how do I cross? What next? And how?

Those questions remain unanswered as I slather us with sunscreen, as we wear our Camp Good Times sweaters and tell everyone about the archery and new silly songs, as we anticipate what school will be like, as we remember we’re back to Vancouver in a few days for another lumbar puncture, accompanied by another round of steroids.

One thing I really, really missed when we were in Vancouver was sitting in my mum’s garden while the boys play. A lifelong gardener, she’s always got something blooming and I’ve enjoyed many, many bouquets over the years. This year, for a number of reasons there are less blooms. Less bouquets. The harvest isn’t as big. Not every year is a bumper crop. Not every season is overflowing or abundant. It’s so tempting for me to sit in disappointment but as I posted a simple picture of a sweet bouquet on instagram, I realized even if the harvest is small, every bouquet is worth admiring.

I’ve begun to realize even in my attempts to have a slow, mellow summer, I’ve still pinned my hopes on this summer redeeming last summer. Some of my social media memories pop up and Mercer was in the absolute worst portion of treatment this time last year and my stomach turns when I see the photos and read my words. In some ways I’m instantly transported back there and in other ways I can’t remember that girl I was. Can’t remember what we survived.

This summer was the dream that kept us going last summer. Every time someone on social media posted photos from a regular day at the lake last summer, my heart cracked a little more. I so desperately wanted to be packing my cooler and schlepping our gear across the baking hot parking lot to the beach. I wanted to be concerned with popsicles and iced tea and not neutrophils and blood counts.

And here we are. Taking jaunts to the lake when we feel like it. Throwing footballs and catching frisbees and eating popsicles like they are their own section in the food pyramid. We’re not concerned with blood counts. We’re not avoiding the pool. WOW. We made it! I can’t forget to celebrate that. Sometimes I have to force myself to marvel at it and not let it pass by without notice.

Once again, I am forced to remember two things can be true… even with all my gratitude, it doesn’t feel like the dreamy perfect hot dog and Gatorade summer of my imagination. The burn out has set in. Emotionally, I’m like the bleached, sharp grass in every field. Sparse, ragged, poky, parched. I can’t summon the energy or inertia or hustle to go “accomplish” this summer. This summer has ended up being one to endure, one to hold onto loosely. One that is revealing itself slowly to be more complex and nuanced and difficult than I expected. One to marvel at and weep over simultaneously.

This summer has held both public and private hard things for my families. Things that have throw me for a loop and that shift the mood and lower my capacity to “accomplish” the itemized list of things I deemed important to create a perfect summer, however unattainable and frankly ridiculous that goal was.

Specifically, two very hard things happened and if you are highly sensitive, you may want to jump to the last paragraph.

Our friend from RMH died from cancer.

And my grandpa died from cancer.

A 90 year old man and a 3 year old boy, both in hospice at the same time. The stark contrast and the deep unfairness. The disconnect in my brain as I walk out of a regular appointment with my child who’s almost done treatment to find the news that another child’s life is over. Then I have to go watch my kids ride scooters? Why is the sun still shining? Suddenly the sounds of the birds are oddly noticeable, jarring. How can things just keep on going… it’s like going up the stairs, thinking there is more step, and there isn’t. And that feeling in your stomach as your foot falls forever through the air. It’s that. Perpetually.

I feel this by-proxy survivor’s guilt for my child being so physically well. I feel this strange unworthiness for even feeling sad as I am not very close with that family. How dare I feel scared and triggered and sad? But I do. And I sit with it quietly and I wait and wait and the wrongfulness of it never settles. It remains there. Under the surface, as I pack the beach toys into the trunk. As I make another lunch. As I hide the news from my children. As the sun sinks behind the mountains and I marvel at how gorgeous and terrible life is.

Much like I can forget to focus on how the spot we stand in used to be the end goal… I realize I’ve got this pattern —I wait so long for the freedom of summer. For the sun to set after 7pm. For the smell of hot pavement and the sound of the water at the slash pad. For ice cream in the downstairs deep freeze. For water blaster fights. For popsicles for dinner. And then, as summer rolls on, I feel the instant panic anticipating its end. I feel this internal pressure to make this summer memorable. That I’ve only got 18 summers with my kids (I guess only 12 left?!?) so we should be holidaying and crafting and brushing up on school learning and doing festivals and parades and themed parties and grilling at the beach and blah blah blah oh my gosh.

I can’t maximize this summer. (Summermaxxing?) I can’t do a ‘90s summer’. I can’t force myself into holiday mode or vacation mode or school-prep mode. I simply must just take every day as it comes, in whichever surprising way it shows up. It’s humbling and actually slightly annoying. And yet, I am helpless to change it. Deep down, I think I should still be able to think myself out of it hahah. I want to make an itemized list and just get an A+ on “summer”. But of course, it’s never that easy.

I am reminded again in so many ways that all things are made beautiful but it’s not always in my timing. The redemption cannot be scheduled and it may not even be seen earthside. I will have to sit and make friends with the discomfort and the anxiety and the dog-tiredness and the grief. And remember I’ve still got the faith and the love and the passion and the bravery there with me too. All I can do is admire the bouquet, however small it may seem. Maybe these flowers are more cherished because so few of them seemed to bloom this summer.