I’ve prayed for, and learned to love, the children of mothers I’ve never met. I’ve followed some heartwarming and some heartbreaking stories. I’ve cheered for their triumphs and I’ve cried over their trials.
But I never wanted to have THAT blog.
I wanted to have that amazing blog filled with spectacular pictures of beautiful children exploring, playing, and enjoying frequent and fabulous educational and FUN field trips and life experiences.
I wanted to post oodles of incredible ideas and eventually become a trusted and sought after source of fun inspiration for homeschool moms, and really any moms, looking for some fantabulous things to do with their children.
I wanted to write, and process through some of the things I’ve been learning- things that have challenged, stretched, and moved me on this mothering journey. I think we all know that this thing called motherhood, and perhaps particularly Christian motherhood, is anything but easy. I wanted to write to encourage mothers, because I meet mothers almost every day who need to be encouraged. I know what it is to be a mother who needs to be encouraged.
I want to be an encourager.
And then my son, Ian, needed an MRI…
The next thing I knew, I had THAT blog. The one with the drama. The one with the heartbreaking tale.
My stats started climbing rapidly as word spread through the blogosphere and twitterverse. New readers came, and old regulars started checking in more often, daily, even refreshing multiple times a day on surgery day and diagnosis day, checking for updates, offering prayers and sweet words of love and support for our son, for me, and for our family during those early darkest of days.
I started to notice “childhood cancer”, “brain tumor”, and “posterior fossa syndrome” as regular search terms bringing people to my blog.
I clearly remember the first time I saw Posterior Fossa Syndrome listed. The quiet gasp, the catching of the breath as it hit me- someone else, probably another parent, was looking for information on the mysterious syndrome that had wreaked havoc on the body of our son. Somebody else’ child had emerged from brain surgery, looking good, only to deteriorate before their eyes. My heart ached for them…
I could see the drained look of fatigue on the tear-streaked face. I could feel the headache, the tension in the neck, back, and shoulders, the confusion, the rapid breathing and the increased heart rate. Physically, it’s like living in a state of extended panic attack. It takes a long time to subside, as the days go by while you try to process all that has happened- the concerning visit to the doctor, the MRI, the being called into the private office, meeting the neurosurgeon, signing consent forms, the waiting, the diagnosis- Medulloblastoma- a central nervous system CANCER, and then watching the change, the heartbreaking change, as your child, who seemed OK the day after surgery (obviously tired and in pain, but talking and OK), lose the ability to speak, to swallow, to voluntarily move his body in the way he has naturally moved for years, lose the ability to swallow, nearly losing the ability to breath on his own…
Another parent was going through that, was turning to the internet in a desperate search for answers, for some information, for some perspective, for some idea of what to expect, for some way of understanding what they were going through, for somebody to tell them it was going to be ok.
And they found my blog.
I never wanted to have THAT blog.
But Ian’s cancer journey, and his intense struggle with Posterior Fossa Syndrome and the massive amounts of rehab therapy that go with it, are part of our life, part of my life. And so, I have that blog.
But, I refuse to let cancer take over.
Cancer WILL NOT take over our lives. Yes, there are and will be times when it really seems like it does, but we are still living the rest of life. We are still learning, and exploring, and experiencing life and the world around us day after day after fresh and blessed day.
Cancer will not take over this blog. I will still post about projects and field trips, and I will still wax poetic about all things mothering.
Cancer will not take over, but I will post about cancer from time to time (especially in September, Childhood Cancer Awareness Month). I will occasionally post about progress, and Ian’s supplement regimen, and the ever-growing list of resources we’ve found helpful.
We’re a few weeks over a year into this crazy new life of ours, and things are finally easing up. Ian is closing in on the end of his chemotherapy regimen, and he has fewer therapy appointments each week, and is making preparations to start his senior homeschool year. It’s not exactly back-to-normal around here, but I guess you could say it’s our new normal.
And, well, thanks for reading.