A Spring of Joy

My thoughts lately have been jumbled and confusing. Writing is an effort more than a release. I can’t put two sentences together in a legible fashion. I forget words, easy words. I will repeat myself unceasingly. The medical term for it is “cognitive dysfunction”. The jargon is “chemo brain”. I’ve written about it before, and this is my reminder that it’s real, very real and very hard. The hardest part? The people who laugh it off and tell me that must be a nice excuse to have, because they forget things, too.

Every morning Audrey goes to her chest of drawers and points determinedly, picking out her clothes for the day. This includes her shoes which she must wear at all times. Once dressed, she will run to whomever is in sight and pose for them immediately, often with Micah, who she lovingly calls “Boy”. Asher is also “Boy”. (Yes, we stay in a state of confusion.)

Add to this the fact that at some point in the morning Audrey heads into her brothers’ war zone room. She opens their drawers and picks out the clothing they will wear each day even if it’s just jeans and a sweatshirt. And they listen. She’s not even two.

When my hubby and I were dating and throughout our early marriage, there was a Steven Curtis Chapman song that we used to encourage each other. I wouldn’t necessarily call it “our song”, because, well, Bri and I aren’t “our song” kind of people. It was a promise that we made to each other through music. We would be there to shield each other whenever life caved in on us. Little did we know how often we would be held to that promise.

To fuel your imaginations, picture this walking down the aisle.

I swear! I think something happens at our breakfast table to transform my children into comedians. Maybe I’m feeding them something they shouldn’t be eating. After a round table discussion about being a family and loving each other and how much we love each other and how there are no enemies in our home, I cleverly piped up with how the only enemy in our home was our sin and how we battle against it. Asher’s boisterous response?

Hands raised in victory: Yeah! It’s like we have guns in our tummy to kill it! (I just shake my head. What else can I do?)

The fatigue of radiation is beginning to wear. It’s not so much fatigue from the treatments, although I hear that is not far down the road. It’s the every day, every morning, same old yucky thing. It’s easy for me to get into the mindset that there is nothing to look forward to, because the darkness of radiation clouds each day. Add extra doctors appointments, Procrit shots, and labwork, and each week I’m at the Cancer Center 8-10 times. Trust me, it gets old. I think the hardest part about each day is saying goodbye to my sweet ones at home. Thursday I left before they did. I arrived home for an hour break between appointments, and when I walked in the door, the silence was deafening. So I leaned against the door, sat down on the floor and cried.