Celebrations

Violet and I are about to be discharged from our second round of immunotherapy. We have been admitted for the past 5 days while she has undergone treatment – 12-hour infusions daily. Overall, she has done tremendously well. The pain medications have done their job, minimizing the nerve pain the infusions cause and keeping her relatively comfortable. Despite extreme mood swings as side effects, and a few tears from Mom and daughter over the anger and anxiety, we have both made it out of another one without any visible scars.

We aren’t the only ones being discharged today. Another friend in the ward – a sweet little 3-year-old that we have connections to in the Okanagan – has also reached the end of her admission. She and Violet have the same diagnoses, the same treatment protocols, a few months apart. They are finishing their second stem cell transplant, the one Violet finished in late February. Like Violet, it was gruelling for her, but their challenges ended up being much more frightening, and the length and scope of their stay more intense. It’s hard to imagine this, knowing the fear and pain we went through for ours. But like Violet, she is a true fighter, and they both have come out of this with miraculous, incredible strength and perseverance.

Today is a celebration. Rylie and Violet played on her bed this morning while the doctors and nurses buzzed around them, finalizing the details for their release. Rylie sported balloons on her wheelchair – gifts from the army of people behind her in her battle. They sat on the blanket that Violet’s community made for her in the early stages of her treatment, setting their Hatchimals down on pictures of animals friends had drawn and messages of love printed on the fabric.

Her Mom and I stood by and wept subtle tears. Tears of relief, but also evidence of deep scars that will take a long time to heal.

On the weekend, Chris Stapleton was in Vancouver performing at the arena. Apparently it was a great show, and although I am not a particular fan per se, I appreciate the effect his concert had on everyone that posted on Facebook. I had many connections, unrelated to one another, at that show. All of them put up pictures of happy faces, beers in hand and arms around one another, blissfully savoring the night.

My heart swelled in seeing these in a way I can’t really explain. I would have thought there would be some jealousy. Afterall, concerts have always been my thing, and I’ve been dying to spend quality time with many of those spectacular people for months. But they were celebrating. Savouring life. Enjoying each other. With no other reason than that they chose to.

It made me think about why we celebrate. Why we need excuses to enjoy moments and each other. Because we don’t, really. We should do it all the time, whenever we can. And maybe some people do more than others. But for some – for people like me – there are too many excuses in life not to. To treat moments like drudgery in some way until the fleeting times we give ourselves to enjoy.

For months, cancer has been an excuse to anticipate future celebration. And yet, it has also been an excuse to celebrate tiny moments in every day that aren’t drudgery – real toil and strife, like agonizing pain or terrifying procedures and prognoses. Whatever isn’t awful is amazing.

But we are in transition now, and I am starting to feel it. Treatments are easier – each immunotherapy admission is expected to be slightly better than the last. We get to go home between admissions and return to somewhat of a “life”. Details about our day to day resemble what they used to look like, and more like those around us. It isn’t the same, but it isn’t so different, anymore. We don’t “live” in a hospital full time. We don’t even live at Ronald McDonald House, or somewhere other than our home. We visit, now. We are visiting our “hospital life” instead of the other way around.

So celebrating has less excuse than it used to. The momentum is different. When this started, we were inundated with assistance and gifts and messages and support. But it’s been a year, almost (only two weeks away!), and things have inevitably changed. A treatment protocol this long unavoidably means adaptation, making “normal” a situation that was once unimaginable, and letting go of the drama to make room for acceptance.

We are still in a place of “need”, which is tough. I can’t work, but I’m trying to put the foundation together to start when I can. My husband has had to take steps back from his steady income job out of town to transition to his business at home – something still unstable but building, and allowing him to be home to help more with Lucy and the house. My parents continue to juggle full-time caregiving while we are away. Violet and I now have to travel, and the costs and details that come along with that. And we have “come home”, which means that there isn’t that dramatic moment looming in the future where we will “celebrate our return”.

It's a somewhat anti-climactic time where the dust is settling but we still can’t see things clearly. There is less contrast to cause moments of overwhelming epiphanies, but there are reminders that we are still struggling.

So it’s more on me to keep the focus on the wisdom we have been given.

Life is worth celebrating. It’s short and fleeting, but it isn’t just amazing because of that. It’s wide and expansive, too, and still worth savouring despite that scope.

Even our little friend has the possibility of not being discharged officially today, taking away that apex-feeling they’ve been anticipating today that they have officially overcome this mountain. Even though they have. One more day is really a minor detail.

But we look for those moments. We save our celebratory spirit for those rare occasions that really mean something. But I don’t want to have to validate those moments anymore. I just want to live them as much as possible.

I could use a good concert. My 40th is in two weeks, and no doubt that will be a party. But as for celebrations in general, I think today is as good of an excuse as any.