Moving On

{I started writing this post a few days ago, so forgive my Thursday reference...}

It's No Nap Thursday, and I'm wondering how I missed the memo.  Samuel is refusing to sleep and that means my house looks a lot like a bomb exploded inside it.  Is my kid the only one that seems to get MORE energetic when he's tired?

Thankfully, his developmental therapist just stopped by.  I'm using the reprieve to drink a glass of ice tea and unwind.  It's funny how blogging has become a way to relax, when it's original purpose was something quite the contrary.  Wasn't it only yesterday that I was blogging about oxygen saturations, surgeries, and doctor's rounds?  Life changes fast.

And with all of the new experiences coming our way, why is it so easy to hold onto the past?

 In August of 1995, after nearly a year of treatment, I finished my last round of chemotherapy.  The nurses showered me with handfuls of confetti as I sat on the hospital bed for the last time.  It was a special moment for me, but no doubt an extraordinary one for my parents.  They had put life on hold, had been actively involved in my treatment, and had certainly faced countless sleepless nights filled with worry.

Nevertheless, after that last dose of chemo they never looked back.  I'm not saying it was all roses and rainbows from that point on, but they didn't spend their time dwelling on what had happened.  By not verbally revisiting my sickness often, I was able to move on with life like any other child would.  When my parents mentioned my treatment, it was only to empower me - if I had beat cancer, I could do just about anything.  One time, I heard my dad enthusiastically telling a stranger, "Did you see my daughter climb that rock wall?  She had cancer only a year ago!"  He never told me that climbing the wall might be impossible - that my reflexes were diminished because of my treatment, that I might not be strong or coordinated enough to balance on each stone and pull myself up.

My parents didn't make excuses for me.

This last December, I had several opportunities to speak with researchers about how having cancer has affected me.  St. Judes is always doing research about how childhood cancer impacts the lives of their patients - not just physically, but mentally and socially.  They seemed genuinely surprised when I said it was an experience that has, for the most part, impacted my life in a positive way.  One researcher told me that only a handful of patients over the last ten years has said something similar.

Now I'm certain I owe so much more to my parent's attitude than I could ever know.

And that made me think about Samuel.  Unlike my cancer treatment, he does face ongoing issues from his early birth.  He has therapy nearly every day of the week.  He takes medicine that other children don't.  He doesn't eat like most children do at his age.  There are distinct differences between what my parents went through and what we've been through with Samuel - BUT maybe all my explanations -

"Yes, he's 2, but he was born four months early."
"No, we can't come over.  He has bad lungs and can't be around anyone with a cold."
"Yes, he's small, but he had a lot of medical issues when he was a baby."
"No, we can't stay for dinner, he only eats well at home."

 are, one day, going to cause more harm than good.

There is no doubt that Samuel's early birth has changed me completely.  I will never be the same person I was before - for better or for worse - and that's OK.  But I want to be sure that when he hears me speak about this experience, I portray it in a way that is positive, encouraging, God-glorifying, and real.  I want him to know just how strong and determined he is to have made it so far.

We will no longer make excuses and he won't hear us dwell on the past.  We will guide, love, and encourage the best we can because he has a world of opportunities ahead.