This, Too.

Ten minutes to two o’clock pm and the staff begins to gather outside our fish-bowl room. I can hear them calling to members of the team, orienting them as they arrive, discussing who will present what information and how. I can feel their anxiety. It is blending with my own – resonating tension that I haven’t felt yet. There is bad news. I knew there would be.

 “We’re ready for you,” the Social Worker steps through the curtains. She is the one to lead us in. Not a good sign.

Matt takes my hand and we follow them down another ambivalent hallway – drab and unembellished, not like the MRI or CT or PET scan rooms, which are covered with murals and funny animals. These hallways are for the grown-ups, who aren’t supposed to need the comfort of decorations. We are supposed to handle things with our own imagination, and you know how that goes.

We sit around the boardroom table. I hear them asking each other how the room works – does the wall open up? Can they get more chairs? It’s obvious that they don’t normally meet in a room of this size, with this amount of team members. Violet’s a complicated case.

We settle in and they push the tissue box toward me. Matt automatically resents the gesture. We won’t need it, he’s thinking. He’s trying to think, anyway. There must be good news…

They go around the table introducing themselves. Oncology Fellows and Nurses. ICU Residents and RNs. Social Workers. They all have papers in front of them.

“Tell us if you need to take a break through this. It will be a lot of information.”

The Oncology Fellow, the one who has informed us of updates through the process, is chairing the meeting. She is the most glacial of the bunch. Pragmatic. Get to the point. In a way, I’m grateful she will be the one explaining things. I need facts. I can’t get clouded by emotions now. 

But my pulse is in my throat anyway.

“So it’s what we expected, and we talked about it a bit. Neuroblastoma. The type of cancer we mentioned that begins in the nerve cells. Usually, we find this commonly in infants and toddlers, and often beginning in their adrenal gland. Violet is a bit different. Because she is older, and the tumor has spread to other areas including her liver, spine, lymphnodes, she is considered high risk. And the bone marrow sample showed us it is also in her bones.”

I take a breath and let the tears swell, to cool the fire in my head.

“We know this isn’t good news. Because she is high risk, we are going to attack this aggressively, which means several treatments of different kinds over a long period of time. We are going to do it in stages, beginning with chemotherapy. Once we are able to kill some of the cells, we can look at surgery, then radiation and stem cell replacement. And finally, immunotherapy. There may be other avenues for studies we can consider, in case we need a Plan B.”

We sit for over an hour, listening to details, digesting the prognosis. I know Matt is stuck on their words, “it’s in her bones. It’s not good news.”

For the beginning of the meeting, I let myself sink into the fear. I have to. I don’t want to be in denial. I need to face this, make space for this, not allow anything to sneak up on me. I breathe it in to my heart.

But as they continue to speak, and I begin to ask questions, the panic subsides, and I am back in a place of control. Control over my perspective. Now we have a plan. Now we will take action. Now my baby can start a road to recovery. They can help get her out of that room. Out into the fresh air. Out of this prison.

“You’ll see that kids start regaining their energy and attitude, playing with other kids, and then with you out in the park. When she starts feeling better you can take her out in the city. She can enjoy things normally again.”

And that, right there, is all I need. Something to sink my teeth into. A promise of something better.

The meeting concludes and they give us time to process and recuperate before returning to Violet. Her Child Life friend Natasha – the women who has been by her side through this journey so far with the specific job of soothing her, giving her games, explaining the scary details, being her friend – has been absorbed in a game of Life with her while we were gone. Violet won. She always does.

We won’t explain things to her now. It’s too much, and I can see on her face she doesn’t want to know why we look sad. She doesn’t need to know.

Somethings don’t matter. It doesn’t matter that this is a tough thing to beat. Or that there is a good chance or recurrence. Or that the odds are stacked against us. Because what are odds anyway? A guess. A number. A concept, not a reality. No one ever has a clue, really, what tomorrow will bring.

On Friday we were trying to plan our weekend. We needed family time – I did, with my mom and Lucy and my brother and sister-in-law. I needed some escape. We wanted to go to the Lost Lagoon in Stanley Park and feed the chickadees – our favorite family activity. But it was supposed to rain. Pour, actually for days. 95% showers right through to Tuesday.

But I snuck out and we drove down anyway, and low and behold – blue sky. And without the proper seed to attract our feathered friends, we were doubtful we would see them, but went anyway. And within minutes, I had them landing on my hand, disgusted by our lack of black oil sunflower seed, but affable anyway, staying long enough to look me in the eye, cock their heads, and let me know everything is alright.

The chickadees even followed us to the Sylvia hotel, watching us from the window as we sipped wine and took deep breaths of togetherness.

Same went for Lucy’s outdoor birthday party. No rain. Tumbling, fluffy clouds. Manifestation of that unlikely 5%.

Because, you see, the glass is always something full. What does the rest of the empty glass matter? The liquid level is always going down. There’s only so much to drink, only so much time, for all of us. Life isn’t infinite, but love is. Why look at the sand in the bottom of the hour glass? Why compare one to another? Why focus on fear?

Tara Brach, a Buddhist and a fundamental theorist and spiritualist in my own approach to life, speaks often of radical acceptance. It is an opening up to life – all of it – and making space for what is. Not pushing against or pushing away from anything. Just allowing things to be as they are, to feel how we feel, to let life be as it is – as it should be.

We can’t begin to know how things will fit together. The intricate landscape of this life is intertwined with so many details, down to the tiniest atom, each individual cell having an energy of its own. A mission and a message. I try not to be too arrogant and assume that my basic human brain can possibly comprehend the miraculous coordination of incalculable moving parts that make up this world and this life experience. I try to remember that there are so many things at play so much greater than myself. That I am a part of something I can’t begin to fully understand, but that this understanding does, in fact, unfold piece by piece in ways I can digest and fit into my own matrix of meaning.

I can take Tara Brach’s advice and say to myself, “This, too.” 

This, too, will be another part of an ongoing story. This, too, will be something we face and figure out together. This, too, will bring us more understanding of what things are really about.

And this, too, is something we can handle. Because, as Glennon Doyle writes, “we can do hard things.”

We just do them. Because what else can you do? What other choice is there? And where there is a choice, love is the answer.

We have answers now. The journey begins with a first step. On Friday, we start chemo. This, too.