Ten Years Ago and Healing

I saw somewhere online this week that if you can tell your story without crying, you have healed. My feelings are mixed about this thought. I’ll try to explain.

Ten years ago today, we carried our six-year-old Jace into Primary Children’s Hospital, not knowing if he would live through the night...  And even though I think we feel ‘mostly’ healed from our Leatham family experience with Leukemia and years of chemotherapy, I still cry when I try to tell that story:

The story of a ten-year-old boy carrying his bald brother on his back..

The story of baseball saving both their lives..

The story of our family being loved and supported by so many people.

And the story about Jace, where he grows to be 16—and he’s healthy and strong and funny and smart and talented and tall and athletic and So. Dang. Cute.

After ten years, the tears have finally turned to grateful.

Once in awhile, cancer memories honestly knock me off my feet... but for the most part my tears come when I remember the goodness of people: family and friends who loved us through a really tough time.

Thank you for continuing to ask about Jace. He’s doing great. 

Love you all.

Reminder - Spring 2018

So, Jace’s body scared us this week. We have not known real cancer fear for a while, but as Jace found three mysterious lumps in his armpits (lymph nodes) and fought off two, bad, bloody nose episodes in two days, fear took over and camped in our throats. Apparently, I didn’t mask my fear very well either, because there was something about my voice on the phone with Hayd that told him his momma needed him. After we spoke, and without me asking him to, he got into his car and drove 2.5 hours to us. Cancer survivors and their families don’t like finding random lumps. And Jace wasn’t the only one to freak out.

By the time we got an emergency CBC, Matt and I (and Hayd) were beyond stressed too. It is interesting how fear makes a person irrational because our rational brains all knew he was fine. Two doctors and two blood tests in as many days confirmed he is fine. So, Jace is fine! He probably has an infection causing the lumps, and he is taking an antibiotic now to get rid of the scare.

But after the fear calmed a bit, I wouldn’t describe myself as fine. I’m a wreck. I think I am having a delayed emotional reaction because I’m just so grateful that Jace is fine that I can’t stop crying. It’s weird, right? I didn’t realize 'relief tears' are a thing. You might not believe this, especially if you've been following our journey, but I haven't actually 'cancer cried' in a while.:)

My favorite moment of the week was when Hayd appeared in the doorway (on his unscheduled visit home). We had just received the first set of blood results, and we all knew Jace was probably okay. But Hayd came in quickly, hugged me first, and then walked straight to his brother to hug him. After a little longer hug than usual, Hayd pushed Jace away and lovingly cussed at him. “You little sh#%,” he said under his breath, and they both quietly hid their very real tears. I noticed they stayed quite near one another until Hayd left early the next morning to make it back to classes and practice.

I learned through this instant and consuming terror, that my fear of cancer has not really gone away. I have just buried it cautiously hoping we never have to deal with it again. My hypersensitive reaction to a few lumps tells me I need to get a grip! My new goal is to find a way to guard against that kind of consuming fear and be better prepared to deal. Annnd... although I hate that I was so scared, I definitely spent a little longer on my kiddos that night. I memorized their faces again. I kissed both their foreheads before I went to bed, and I was very sure to tell them both how much I love them. Jace’s body gave us a scare and a gift this week because for a few too many minutes we remembered again, what really matters, and I suspect we will not soon forget this wake-up call.

Thanks for your continued support. Love you all.

Football 2016

 Watching my sons play football terrifies me. I love and hate it. It is beautifully agonizing, torturous joy. It ages me and worries me and makes me hold my head with both hands. It is ALL I can take when I see one of them on the ground. I hold my breath, close my eyes, and pray that when I look up, everyone will be on their feet.

But OH how I marvel at the courage and tenacity Hayden and Jace display while playing football! Where do they find the courage to handle the ball, lead their teams, and play in front of crowds yelling for their success and failure? As Hayden kicked a punt Friday against Pocatello, I whispered to Matt, “HOW is he so brave? I would cry if I had to do that in front of this crowd.”

Matt reminded me that this was nothing. He looked at me tenderly, like, “Have you forgotten what they have been through?”

For a second, the wave of emotion flooded over me in snapshots. Images settled in my mind of our bald Jace with his big brother carrying him on his back...Glimpses of Hayden sitting by Jace in the hospital, asking me about Jace’s numbers, saying, “Is it bad? Is he okay today?” ...Memories of tender, brother-filled love in our home, when both boys were fighting for their lives.

I would never, ever willingly go back to the years when cancer was THE topic of conversation in our world, but I also don’t want to forget: The lessons, the love, and the people who were really there for us. I don’t ever want to forget where and how and from whom our boys learned how to be strong.

This anniversary week of Jace’s diagnosis, I carefully watched both of my sons exit the football field after grueling games. The crowds energetically moved different directions, and quietly both of my warriors made their way to the sidelines without bravado. Both were slow to pick up their feet, and they could barely lift their arms. Both were exhausted. They had done everything they could do for their teams, and that was enough. They were so beautifully brave, and agonizingly strong, that the torture of watching Hayden and Jace play football turned into really emotional joy. I’m so proud of my sons.

Annnnd.... I am happy to report there is no Leukemia at our house today. Jace’s last check looked great. He is 13 years old, sassy, and tough. Woo Hoo! Oh yeah. That's right. I think a 'running man' dance is in order!? WOO HOO! ...Ah YEAH! uh-huh! We DID IT! ...that's right! ...uh-huh! ...AH YEAH!"

Love you all.

SIX YEARS from Diagnosis and Counting

People still sheepishly inquire about Jace’s health and then awkwardly apologize in the same breath. I recognize the risk in asking, because if Jace wasn’t doing well, it would be a difficult conversation. Let’s clear this up though. He is doing AMAZING. Please never hesitate to talk to us about our Ironman.  

Lately, I have had the annoying impression that I need to open Jace’s cancer blog again, although it is still quite difficult for me to look back on and read. Reliving the experience is uncomfortable and heart wrenching. Erring on the side of detachment and denial, I convince myself that I can lock our story away, pretend it didn’t happen, and put up a façade of infallible strength. I even detach myself from other cancer stories because, quite honestly, I don’t have the emotional energy to go through it one more time. Denial takes over when I have impressions to share. Faithful Jace blog followers continually encourage me to open the blog again, but I talk myself out of it by saying (sometimes outloud): “Really? Who cares?” 

 But then once in a while (like last night), Jace quietly asks…

“Hey Mom, did I almost die?”  

And I have to respond, “Yes, honey, almost.”

And then Jace pauses for a few seconds to let it sink in, and he asks even more reverently, “Why didn’t I?”

And I have to pause, because emotion floods my eyes, and I try to explain to him that I don’t know why some cancer patients return to Heavenly Father quicker than others. I try to explain to Jace how maybe he still has a purpose on this earth to fulfill. I try to explain that his courage through treatment encouraged others, and he didn’t go through his battle alone. A lot of people learned and grew with him, and a lot of people can still find strength in his story. I explain to him how he still has an army behind him who grew to love him through his battle, and who still silently watch him grow and achieve.

So, because it won’t leave me, and because Jace has a story, and because Hayden has a story too, and people still want to know… Surprise! Here’s a blog update.

Jace started 7th grade this year. It's pretty awesome for him to be in a school where he's never been the cancer kid. He loves baseball and football. He still takes care of his momma, and he sits close to me when we watch movies together. He loves to hunt with his dad and hang out with Hayden. He's brilliant, bossy, and beautiful... But of course I will always think so. He's an excellent student, and he's in 8th grade math. He loves his cousins and his baseball families. 

I can also finally talk about Jace without totally crying (Jenny Steiner, I know you don’t believe that by the way I cried a little Wednesday as Jace ran in another touchdown…haha). Mostly I cry grateful tears (@ least once a week) that our Ironman  is upright. It has taken  this long after his treatments for me to open up, but I want to share and be here if anyone needs me. I’m so grateful for the support we felt during Jace’s treatments, and then through Joan’s, and now through my dad’s.  Although it has taken six years to finally be ‘almost emotionally stable’ enough to be a resource…I’m here if you need me.:)

Oh, and thanks to the experiences of a great mother-in-law and an incredible dad, I now understand other kinds of cancers too…so yeah. I’m kind of an expert.;) Please comment, message me on FB, or find me on the sidelines at a game if you ever want to talk. 

Love you all.

Amy

Port Removal

Finished

Last Wednesday night I took off my cancer necklace.

It said:

What Cancer Cannot Do
It Cannot...
Invade the Soul
Suppress Memories
Kill Friendship
Destroy Peace
Conquer the Spirit
Shatter Hope
Cripple Love
Corrode Faith
Steal Eternal Life
Silence Courage

The necklace is worn and fading from frequent massage, but still legible. I tucked it away, feeling somewhat like I was losing a limb (having worn it faithfully for three years)... but I knew it was important that I take it off... not waiting to see what Jace's next blood work shows... not waiting for the CBC after that. Instead of hanging on to fear, I had to give all of my heart over to the very real possibility that Jace will never face cancer again.  At this point, exhausted and emotional, I'm not sure how my little family could survive otherwise. It's soooo time to be finished.

I also removed my Iron Man Jace bracelet. I'm going to save it for basketball, football, and baseball games.  For some reason I felt a strong prompting that if I continued to wear those things, I wouldn't let go of the fear of it not really being over. Maybe I'll put them back on in a few years when I'm not so scared. Jace has had a bad cough this week, he looks pale, and it is obvious his little body is fighting something. It's ALL I can do to not worry about the possibility that as I type there's a cancer cell somewhere in his body trying to multiple and invade again. Is now a good time to ask for continued prayers on behalf of Jace? I worry that the prayers he's received are going to stop... and he needs them now more than ever.

Cancer CANNOT destroy peace...shatter hope... or corrode faith. I do have faith that 'what will be, will be,' so I have to put this trial in the hands of a very loving Heavenly Father. Some of you gave me good advice in the beginning of this journey to replace fear with faith.  Overwhelmingly, that's the lesson I've learned.  Maybe I've written this before (hard to remember), but sometimes when I look at Jace I feel guilty that because I had so many lessons to learn...maybe this was the reason he had to endure this awful process.  Others have told me they've felt this way too.  Our Ironman AND Hayden have taught us so many valuable things: mainly courage,  hope, and faith.

Now is the time to put these things to use.:)

This might be my last regularly scheduled post. I am going to close the blog and move on. I'll try to put an update on the blog and open it once in a while, but mostly I think we are finished for now.

Thank you so much for your continued prayers and faith. I'm so grateful for the experience of sharing this journey.

I really do love you all.:)
Amy

Letting Go

As I drove home last night, I found myself trying to remember out loud, a phrase I'd read or heard. I thought it went, "My Cup Runneth Over..." Hayden was with me and he asked, "Did you just say something, mom?" I know he thinks I'm a bit crazy, because I do talk to myself often... but this time I didn't realize I'd whispered it audibly.  I was just thinking of the verse from Psalm 23, which indicates abundance, Divine favor, and joy.  That was our celebration day. From morning until night, we were surrounded by people we love dearly, and who we know love us back. We were surrounded by abundant, Divine, JOY. 

The blood drive was a huge success. It was suppose to be a small day with a goal of 18 donations. We received 24. Friends and family filled the schedule sacrificing their time and comfort to perform an act of service that is, in my mind, 100% selfless. Although I snapped pics throughout the day, I hate to post them without permission of each person, so I'll just include my own. Luckily Jace was there holding my hand...:)

Joan and Brittney successfully supervised the creation of several blankets and thank you card kits. We will donate the blankets to our local "Shop with a Cop," and we will take the cards to Primary Children's Hospital in Salt Lake. Thanks to everyone who donated time, fleece, and/or card kit material. Also, Bethany and her dad brought their AWESOME photo booth for the entire crowd to enjoy. Thank you Wilsons, SO much. It was amazing to see how everything came together.

The best part of the night though was looking at the crowd right before we launched balloons. SO many people who have supported us throughout this journey were able to be with us last night. I wish now that I would have taken a picture of the crowd as I saw it when Jace stood on the chair in front of them to tell them thanks.  The first part of the video is a little hard to hear, but in essence he said he was grateful to have so many friends and family members who have supported him for the last three years.:) 

There had to be over a hundred people in the room...and as I scanned the faces in the crowd I felt such a strong love for everyone there. It was really amazing. Thank you, thank you for joining us if you were there. If you weren't, and you celebrated on your own...please email us a pic. We felt your love, and we missed you.

The pinnacle of the evening was absolutely the balloon launch.  "My Cup" really did run "Over" as I felt a truly deep abundance of love and joy. I only have a few pics (send me some if you have any?), so I'm at a loss for how to explain the beauty in seeing our gym-filled crowd receive balloons and proceed outside to help us "Let Go" of Jace's cancer. 

 10...9...8...7...6... 5... 4... 3... 2... 1!

Deep, powerful exhale.

And it was gone.:)

Love you all. 

-- Amy

P.S.  As the balloons whipped away in the wind, Jace lead his cousins on a chase across the field toward the glowing dots, screaming with excitement and joy, and yep, you guessed it... 
he was running.:)