Tsunami of Nice

Well, we are 4 doses into Tumor Battle 2012. TB12 kind of whomped any other feeble New Year’s Resolutions I might have conjured up – and really, how many times can everyone read “this year I will write in this blog more”? . TB12 trumps all.

Only 600 some odd doses to go…if it works…sigh…

So far we are managing through
1. bedazzling everything in sight (t-shirts, chemo “diary”, anything that sits still too long)
2. avoiding all of humanity whenever possible
3. wild Just Dance parties (which are not all that well attended in light of point #2)
4. very loud playing of Green Day in the minivan, which apparently has a Killer Sound System. Nice.
5. random acts of carbohydrates
6. extreme consumption of Christmas chocolate.

And this is just how I am coping as mom!

We’ve had moments of every make and model over the last several weeks. Honestly, spending the holiday with the Ghost of Chemo Future was kind of a bummer. There was almost some relief in STARTING the process for real, after all of the nauseating ups and downs of the last 6 weeks. Laughing, crying, yelling, terror, jollity, love, hate, safety dancing…I feel like we live in a Telenovella but in English.

Even so, I really was not prepared for the Tsunami of Nice.

Since December 5, our own personal Day that Will Live in Infamy (along with 7 years’ worth of similarly woeful days, a veritable Whitman’s Sampler of Medical Woe), we have been overwhelmed by the Tsunami of Nice. Thoughtful Cards. Meals for our family (that we can freeze for hospital days). Tchotchke for G that make her smile and giggle and delight. Notes of encouragement. Random acts of chocolate (there are Cadbury enablers out there, and you Know who You Are!). Prayers. A sparkle Mary (don’t ask, but it was very heartfelt and given in love). A phone call from a Grammy nominated musician who happens to be one of G’s favorites. Hugs. Non-hugs from people who know that hugs make me cry. Text messages. Carpools. Normal things that in this oh-so-not-normal moment become hugely important to us.

A Tsunami of Nice.

We are so grateful. It’s hard to express this (again, see point 2 above), I hesitate to talk to people because I never know exactly what moment is going to be the one to trigger my own tsunami of tears. Some days I can be a medical encyclopedia, coolly relating facts & findings and whatevers, the next day, heck, the next MINUTE I am sniffling when trying to say the word Oncology. It’s ridiculous and embarrassing and whatever. And really, I know a LOT of people don’t know what to say to us. We are living every parent’s worst nightmare, and there is nothing good to say. So I hide.

But because of this, this awkwardness of communication, this painful everything, we never really get to tell people just how grateful we are for the outpouring of kindness to our family and especially to G. We really do feel like a flood of goodness is helping us float along through this massive yikes.

So thank you all…

I have learned, too, that stress makes me stupid and very unfocused. So I have a lovely pile of good intentions here that rivals the pile of thank you notes I could and should write to everyone. I just forget…everything these days. This makes for a very interesting time at work, considering I am a history teacher…but anyway, please know we are so grateful.

In all of the horror of what we are fighting – and sometimes, the reality of what this is just threaten to swallow me –but in all of this horror, we are so honored and humbled to see how each individual act of kindness and love, even from people we don’t really know, comes together to create this massive Tsunami of Nice.

We just need to try and ride this wave through the next few months, and pray that it fuels G’s mighty chemo ninja skills so she may utterly prevail in TB12.

Thank you.