And we are happy. We are happy that Nick is still alive. We are happy that he is cancer free. We are. So happy. So f*%#ing happy to be "celebrating" a holiday we should never have to "celebrate."
We are intelligent people. In good, strong moments, we understand that we are the "lucky" ones. We know, there are many, many parents who are not hosting survivor parties but rather grieving the loss of their precious babies. We are grateful to hold Nick, full of life, cancer free Nick, in our arms every day. We are very, very grateful.
But Mike and I both had anxiety and anger attacks today...separately. It was good when we came together for a moment and said "you, too?" Because sometimes when you're supposed to be something, and you're pretending to be that thing...But your heart is feeling differently, it feels lonely. It feels like you're doing something wrong.
March 9th, 2011 is a day I want to curse. I want to blow up. I want to scream at and shoot at and stab in the heart. I don't want to celebrate it. It was the worst day of my life. I remember hearing that my 8 year old son had brain cancer. I remember calling Mike, my parents, my other kids...hearing their horror and their voices crack as they cried. I remember how sick my tiny boy looked in that hospital bed. I remember explaining to him what a tumor was while carefully leaving the word "cancer" out. I remember willing every nerve in my body to turn to steel, so I could smile at Nick and tell him "I'm so happy they finally found out what's wrong with you, so we can fix it." I had no idea if he could be fixed, but he was going to see strength in my eyes and hear power in my words. I remember getting him the stuffed panda he wanted from the gift shop and how he hugged it and slept with it. I remember crawling into his narrow bed with my enormous pregnant body, so I could hold him while he slept.
I remember every moment of March 9th, 2011, and every March 9th takes me right back there. It's not the same as a "real" birthday when you remember the happy delivery room scene. New life. Hope. So much joy. We call today a "birthday" for Nick, but it's not the same...at all.
Instead of skipping through the grocery store as I bought party supplies, I felt anxious and confused and like I wasn't capable even a little bit of hosting a party today. Once I got to the car and started driving, all the "wrong" emotions flooded my heart. At the moment I was supposed to be heading home to celebrate Nick's life, I was spilling tears over the brokenness his cancer caused.
I'm mad. I'm mad that innocent children get cancer. I'm mad that mine did. I'm mad that Nick's cancer took his athleticism and his energy. I'm mad that his grades are slipping, probably from his radiation treatments. I'm mad that he can't grow. I'm mad that I have to stick him with needles full of growth hormone every single day to try to help him grow. I'm mad that his cancer broke relationships with people I cared about. I'm mad that his treatments cost so much financially. I'm mad that his siblings worried and cried and lost opportunities in their lives. I'm mad that three years later our lives are still unstable. I'm mad that even as we rebuild, it feels like building on quicksand. I'm mad that we spend every day looking over our shoulders, worried that the cancer will come chasing Nick again.
Is that wrong? Should I take Prozac? Push the "wrong" feelings away into some vault in my heart? Do other people's lives really look the same in real life as they do on Facebook? Do other people only feel "right" feelings? Or is it normal to have mad and sad living alongside grateful and hopeful inside yourself? Right or wrong, today, it all lives in me. Smiles in me, cries in me, laughs in me, and rages in me.
No cancer mom looks back on the day her child was diagnosed with joy. No memory of that news and that day in her life is anything other than traumatic and terrifying. But Nick is watching me. Just as he was in that emergency room 3 years ago. Every March 9th, I have a choice. Show Nick the tears or show Nick the strength.
Nick saw no tears today. He saw smiles and people who loved him and treats and presents. He heard how very glad we are that he is in our lives. He heard how proud we are of his courage and grace. He is our amazing gift, and he will always deserve the best version of me I can show him.
Why do I still feel like crying?
