Five and a half years have passed, and Marcel is finished University.
Fifteen years ago, I married a truck driver who was a high school drop-out. Now I’m married to a teacher with two degrees. I guess you CAN teach an old dog new tricks!
(I wrote this on Sunday night, but wasn’t ready to post it until now.)
I didn’t see it coming.
The weekend was full of celebrating. Little Jack had been born. He was healthy and strong. The tumour that had worried all of us since it was discovered on a 20 week ultrasound was disappearing almost before our eyes. The mark that was left seemed little more than a birthmark – a little anti-climactic after the months of tears and angst and unanswered questions that baffled even the doctors.
I was rejoicing to hold my new nephew. Rejoicing to see my sister welcome her son. Rejoicing to see my little niece so in love with her little brother. Rejoicing to see the family all return home to their own house.
I didn’t see the sadness coming.
It snuck up on me. The first twinges came as I watched my sister nursing her son on her couch in her home. I thought it was tiredness from watching a two-year-old for a few days, staying up too late to welcome the out-of-town family who’d come to rejoice with us, and living through the emotional roller-coaster as fear turned to hope which turned to joy.
The twinges grew when I climbed into the bathtub hours later. “I think I’ll have a hot bath,” I’d said. “I’m feeling a little tired and achy.” I thought it would be refreshing. I didn’t know that my body was trying to tell me to escape to a quiet place where I could entertain the feelings that were creeping up in me.
The first tears surprised me. “What’s this?” I wondered. “I’m supposed to be happy. My sister has a new son and he’s HEALTHY. It’s better news than we even dared hope for.” But then melancholy waved its hand in front of my face to get my attention. “Remember me?” it whispered. “Your old companion? It may be seven and a half years, and I may not visit very often anymore, but I’m still with you.”
Then deep and abiding sadness, my old friend, wrapped its familiar arms around me and I nestled in, letting the tears flow. Trying to resist the sting of guilt over what seemed like utter selfishness, I whispered my truth to the bathroom tiles. “My sister got to bring her son home, and I didn’t. The answer to her prayer was ‘yes’. Why did I have to live with a ‘no’?”
I climbed out of the tub and did the only thing I know how to do when sadness creeps in and consumes me – I went to visit my son. At his grave I sat and wept. I wept for the lost years, for the empty arms, for the milk-filled breasts that didn’t get to nurture my son. I wept for the lost potential, for the “what ifs”, for the “what age would he be now?”
As I wept, I recognized – and almost welcomed – the comfortable warmth of tears on my cheeks. These were not bitter tears – nor were they tears of jealousy. These tears were the healing reminders of what had grown to become a comfortable sadness. Adding to the mix this time were tears of joy for the little boy I’ll get the privilege of watching as he grows up – a little boy who bears the family genetics of both my husband and myself.
“Matthew, I miss you. I wish you could be here to meet your cousin.”
As I whispered my son’s name, I knew that I was rich beyond measure for the complicated sadness that had filled the hole his death left behind.
The lovely Abby fell asleep in the car on the way home from the hospital this morning, so instead of disturbing her sleep (since she’s had a fairly disruptive couple of days and needs some rest), I’m perched on a lawn chair near the car and trying to hold the laptop in just the right position to connect to the wireless internet.
It’s a lovely day today, in more ways than one. We’ve had too many cold, windy, dreary days lately, so this morning the warm sun is a welcome delight. And the sunshine mirrors our mood around here. It feels like just the right kind of “day after”.
I sat and held Jack for a long time this morning, and as I gazed into his peaceful sleeping face, I had to choke back tears. When you’ve longed for something so badly and you almost didn’t dare to hope for it, the blessing at the end of the darkness can almost overwhelm you. This family has known too many stories that didn’t end well, so we knew better than to casually assume “it wouldn’t happen to us”.
There are still many unknowns about Jack’s future, but I heard the doctor say this morning that “things have gone so much better than we might have expected” and those are words enough for me to hang onto this optimism.
Almost as good as seeking Jack look so beautifully normal is the sight of my sister looking like someone at peace.
Peace and hope are two of my favourite words today.
I have a new nephew named Jack. He’s beautiful. He has a full head of dark hair (not quite as dark as his sister’s, but still fairly dark.) In almost every way, he is so blessedly, beautifully normal. He cries like a newborn, nurses like a pro, makes little squeaking noises when he sleeps, wiggles and squirms – does all the things a newborn is supposed to do.
There is still no real news about the tumour (or whatever its technical name is) on his back, but the size of it is much smaller than I expected from having seen it on the ultrasound. And it doesn’t seem to be alarming the doctors too much, because for the most part, he is being treated like a healthy newborn, spending much of today in his mommy’s room, being passed from arm to loving arm of his mom, dad, sister, grandma, auntie, uncle, cousins, and friend.
Tomorrow some time, J-L will probably get a chance to post over at Jack’s blog, and you can hear about it from the proud daddy’s perspective, but as the proud auntie, let me just say that I feel so incredibly blessed today.
As I drove home from the hospital, I listened to Sara Groves sing “hope has a way of turning its face to you just when you least expect it”, and I wept, because after weeks of not knowing what today would bring, this feels alot like hope.
We’re getting a little impatient, but we’re finding ways to fill the time.
I’d almost forgotten what it’s like to have a 2 year old around the house. Just how many questions can one small person ask in a day? (I’m having flashbacks to my firstborn.) And did it REALLY take an hour to wash a few pots and pans back then? How did I ever get anything done?
Stay tuned for the arrival of Abby’s little brother…
And since you’re all good people, why don’t you pop on over to that blog I just linked, say a little prayer for the safe and happy arrival of little Jack, and then send him a welcoming postcard.