Tick Tock

There’s a tick tock of the clock, banging out the rhythm of time in this empty, echoing dining room. The cliché is not lost on me.

My husband’s shoes are crunching above me on our gravel roof. He is painting the siding of the house. It’s a project we have been meaning to get to for years.

And what better day than today.

I am sitting in front of this computer screen, typing. Mostly, my fingers are hovering over the keys, visibly shaking. I’d blame the coffee if anyone asked. But no one is asking. No one is here. No one to say, “Mommy, get me some milk! My ipad’s dead! Where’s the charger? Where’s the remote? Lucy stuck her feet in my face! Violet hit me again!”

Only the dog asleep on the couch, the crunch above, and the tick of the clock.

Oh, how I’ve waited for this.

Last year was supposed to be the year. Two kids in school full time. A whole 7-hour window to get things done. Every. Single. Day. Too good to be true. And then it was. Last year at this time, my Facebook memories tell me Violet and I were admitted to the Emergency room. We had left the security of the hospital too early after one of her chemotherapy rounds. Her nerve pain was excruciating, and she was unable to walk. I wrote a post to wish all of her friends well on their first day back to class. It was a tough post to write.

Lucy didn’t notice the significance of the day at the time. She had never been to school, and as far as she knew, it was just another day of exploring the Ronald McDonald House with Grandma.

This year, I could barely keep up with the two of them as they bounded out of the car at Peachland Elementary. Matt took the morning off so we could all go together. To experience this milestone as a family, since we had missed so many previous ones the year before.

I was a little numb, chatting with moms on the school grounds, feeling strangely “normal” in the bus loop with faces that feel like family. Strange how a whole town can feel like family, even if they don’t know it. How much I think of all of them. How much more they mean to us than they’ll ever know.

But after driving away – the girls way too excited to care less about our departure – Matt and I drove back up the hill in silence. After a few minutes he reached over to tip up my sunglasses from my eyes, exposing the streaks that were starting to fall down my cheeks. He laughed, a gentle chuckle. Obviously, I was crying. But obviously anyone would.

“Mommy, do you think I’m going to be the weird cancer kid at school? Everyone’s going to stare at me,” Violet said as she crawled into bed last night.

“Maybe for 5 minutes,” I said, “and then they’ll be over it. Think about all of your friends this summer. Was it weird with them?”

“No, but they’re my friends.”

Matt chimed in from the hall. “You think anyone’s gonna laugh at the kid that crushed cancer?”

It got a smile out of her. And me.

We did crush this past year, and it should feel like a badge of honour. And we should celebrate this day, because it’s a big one. Even more significant than our first return to the house months ago. Even more than ringing the “end of treatment” bell, I think (which I will share in another post). This milestone is big for everyone. Something we are all experiencing together with the whole community. A re-initiation into our lives. A homecoming of grand proportions.

My laundry list of “to-dos” that has built up over the past summer, the past year and a half, the past 10 years, has evaporated in my mind. Right now, I just need to ground myself. I’m sure I’m not the only one. I remember Violet’s first day of kindergarten when another mother was dropping off her son and suddenly burst into tears. “It’s my last baby in school!” she cried. “Now what the hell am I going to do with myself!?”

I have no shortage of things to do, and I can’t wait to do them. Like drop the kids off one morning and just drive until my car runs out of gas and the cops find me and drag me back kicking and screaming with an empty bottle of wine in my hand.

…Hahaha….ha………ha…….

Just kidding….?

I have books to write and a business to start up again and project after project after project. But right now, I have coffee. And quiet. And I will take a sweet, rich, glorious moment to savour it. And I hope all those other mothers (or fathers) do, too.