Break's over

I know it’s been some time -- 6 1/2 months to be exact -- since I’ve posted regularly to Chatterlines. Back in June, my youngest son, David, began a second round of cancer treatment for rhabdomyosarcoma, and July 1, I started a new job. Shouldering new editorial responsibilities, helping David manage his medical care, plus being a sounding board as my parents got ready to move from their four-bedroom home to a two-bedroom retirement cottage, crowded creative writing ideas right out of my mind.

But now I have a handle on my job, David is back at college and my parents are settling into their new place. Another tidal wave of change and upheaval has washed through -- for the moment. I can get back to the business of writing.

If you’ve read earlier posts, you know that I’ve wrestled with a way to orient Chatterlines. Should it simply be an online journal, with reflections on the quirky things that happen every day? Should the posts relate to a central theme? I’d like Chatterlines to be a blog about something, as I’ve said before, but about what?

As I think about those things, I can't ignore the fact that cancer has been the driving force in our lives the last 22 months. It's the proverbial elephant in the room. It's the thing that occupies my mind most of the time, and it's probably the thing I should write about.

While I would never choose the path cancer has set down for us -- nor could I ever find a way to justify the physical and psychic suffering David's endured -- this journey nonetheless has been filled with gifts. It's been rich with lessons in compassion, the kindness of strangers, the love of friends, the devotion of family, the resiliency of the human spirit and the tenacity of hope. It's been a privilege to watch each person in our life respond when serious illness knocked at our door. There have been many surprises and very few disappointments.

Since May 2008, I have kept loved ones updated about David's progress through an online CarePage. The entries are filled with the day-to-day, week-to-week drama of surgeries, scans, chemo infusions, side effects, blood counts and hospital admissions, as well as victories, large and small. Some people say it's been helpful to read about what it's like for a family to go through a crisis like this. They've encouraged me to write more.

At this point, I'd like to step back and look at the bigger picture. Where have we been? What does an experience like this teach us about ourselves, and about others? When you are forced to confront something very hard, what is it that makes you stand up and fight and see the thing through, instead of cowering in a corner with a blanket pulled over your head? What becomes important, and what no longer matters? How do you relate to time -- that great shapeshifter -- as it flexes its muscle, sometimes shrinking, sometimes expanding?  

I invite you to join me on this journey, wherever it leads. I can't promise it will be riveting, but I promise it will be truthful.

Five years ago I attended the wedding of a close friend who married her high school sweetheart after her first husband died of brain cancer. At the reception, I happily downed several martinis. A member of our church, who I'd known for years, came up to me as I stood in line at the bar and said, "I never imagined you as the kind of girl who would drink martinis."

Well, guess what? I never imagined myself as the kind of mother who would nurse her child through cancer. Life is full of surprises.

© 2010 by Lorin D. Buck