When Jude was a toddler, he would do certain things, that as a mom, I felt were just “off”. One of these examples was when we were at my parents with the extended family. Jude’s cousins, ages ranging from 7-years-older than him to his own age, were playing together. Jude, however, was by himself, sitting on the top of the billiards table and lining up the cue balls in numerical order with the numbers facing the same direction. Every ball perfectly aligned and flushed against the cushions of the table. Then he would count in order. Forwards and backwards. By 2s. By the odd numbers. I repeatedly asked him if he wanted to play with his cousins. The answer was the same. No. This moment was a stark contrast between my firstborn and his cousins. Contrast, not a bad thing. Just different. Thus began my pursuit to better understand the brain of my kiddo. We eventually would get him tested for autism. And that had to be one of the worst experiences in my life. Jude was 4 and we were in a room with a lot of toys on the floor in “areas.” A lady sat behind a large wooden desk. As Jude’s mom, I wasn’t sure of the expectations for me. Do I help him? Do I guide him? Do I re-direct him? Do I let him be? Meanwhile, Jude was melting down because he saw a Dora the Explorer lunchbox in the break room we passed on the way to the office and he wanted to look at it. Now. Right now. Can he look at it? He kept going to the door, trying to escape to go look at that damn lunchbox. Jude could not focus on any task at hand because he was so distracted. Do I ask to just let him go see the lunchbox? I know Jude is a whizz with his numbers and letters. But he isn’t able to complete the various tasks given to him. And oh my gosh this room is stuffy. It’s hot. Is there a fan I can turn on? I cannot read the lady giving the directives to Jude of what I’m supposed to do. Do I help him accomplish a task? And it seemed like all was going wrong. I left that assessment feeling so dejected. I had no idea what I was doing but following my intuition that Jude needed more support than I knew how to give him at this point. I was just trying to do what I felt was the next right thing for Jude and for us as parents. From his autism diagnosis we took many detours along the way: Behavior Analysis Center for Autism (BACA) schooling, food therapy, other therapists to help him, another round of autism testing (you know, in case he grows out of it), ADHD diagnosis, the debate of medication, medication, a 504 plan for school, re-newing the 504 plan, another counselor and other things. And so far, every effort, every fight, to help my kid has been worth it. I am so proud of the young man he is becoming. He is kind and funny and smart. Don’t get me wrong, he still has his glorious moments. The ADHD brain loves an argument or is quick to blow-up and then recalibrate. But we make our way. And in four quick years, he is off to college. That’s like a blink. Again, its that parenting phrase, “the days are long and the years are short.” It is the slowest fastest journey. Ever. And it doesn’t get any easier, it just evolves. 

I think that parenting phrase can also apply to my cancer journey. It has almost been a full year since my cancer diagnosis. Holy shit. That is crazy to think. A friend asked me which treatment was worse. And each stage has been hard, but a different kind of hard. Radiation. Eww. And ouch. Chemotherapy. Barf. But that would hurt my throat. One surgery done. Babs and I are not besties. All the un-fun things and all with lasting side effects. A couple days last week, I was just in a funk. It is common understanding that trials or hard times are a guarantee and people are quick to comment, “yes, that is true.” Some people will find those encouragers who tell you to handle hard better. While yes, I believe that is accurate, my question is what happens when you get tired of handling hard times? What happens when you still are in your trial and it seems like other peoples dreams are happening for them and you just want to get rid of your shit bag? (Asking for a friend, obviously). I can tell you all the cute phrases, “comparison is the thief of joy” or “envy is the root of all evil” or “God is going to use your hurt” or “it could be worse.” I am not sure of any “right” answer to move forward. But you just do that: keep. moving. forward. You let your angry days happen and rage-sing in your car. You let your sadness tip those tears over and spill down your cheeks. And you just keep moving forward. Much like parenting, this cancer journey has seemed so long but then it’s almost been a full year and I can hardly believe how quick that went. Now we wait to find out what is next. Reattchment is going to happen. When? I am not sure. So we wait. 

And I apologize if I am a broken record on things. Or the moving forward aspect because I really don’t know what else to do. 
Liz