Signs

“Oh, this is the next thing we’re doing together.”

I just read those words that were written and spoken by Kate Tellers in her piece But Also Bring Cheese. And I immediately had an Aha! moment, Eleanor. Maybe all of this can just the next thing we’re doing together. It’s cancer, hospitals, treatments, waiting, worrying - it’s all just the next thing and eventually there will be another thing. And we’ll do that together too.

Yesterday, the thing was cleaning your port access and replacing the needle. I wasn’t here in time to be with you, but Kathy was. I have been so nervous about this weekly procedure because you hate needles and last weekend your discomfort with smells and things that were uncomfortable was hard to watch. During the port flush, you squeezed my hand, grimaced, yelled and kicked your legs. It was temporary, I reminded you (and you started to say it too); but knowing that the port change involves a needle through your skin has made me anxious knowing that it would likely be painful and I would have to watch you in pain.

When I arrived around 4 PM, I was greeted by your doctor and nurses who said that you handled the port change like a champ. I walked into your room and you were being spunky with the nurse and Kathy: “You all said it was going to a pinch and it was only a click!” Soon after, the nurse needed to flush your port and there was no squeezing my hand, grimacing, yelling or kicking your legs - you simply held a bottle of essential oil under your nose, took deep breaths and closed your eyes until it was over. This was a complete change from the last time I saw you.

Today, you told me that it was weird that you were here and you had what you had. I said that, yes, because you’re the only person in your class with leukemia; but I also told you that of the people who have this, what you have is very common. “The doctors know exactly what it is and they have a plan to make it better.” I noticed a few strands of hair hanging from your head today, and you commented about how it felt like you could feel hairs on your neck. Tomorow dad is bringing his clippers and I’ve talked with the nurses about how they can make cutting and/or shaving hair fun - the nurses say that cutting your hair ahead of time will be less traumatic for you than experiencing your hair coming out in clumps. We talked about your hair a little today and you said, “And, it will come back.” You’re right - it’s another thing that is only temporary.

Before I sat down to write this today, we were able to go outside - downstairs to the healing garden on the third floor. It’s an enclosed outside area with gardens, seating, and witches hats hanging from trees. We sat in the sun together and water in the distance glistened. You noticed a woman walking her cute little dog; when I asked you what you’d name it, you said “Snowball.” I watched the woman walk and in my head I noticed I said, “Does she even know we are up here and my daughter has cancer?” I felt myself starting to feel envy for her - on a sunny, fall Saturday she was walking her dog, carefree, and I was on the third floor of Children’s Hospital in our situation.

In the sunlight, I thought I started to notice you looking smaller and your voice softer; my mind immediately started to worry and think too far ahead in the future, of bad things that could happen. We noticed and talked about the bees in the flowers, and when we stood up to move to a different spot you called out, “Look! A grasshopper!” I saw it too, right on the ground in front of us - big and still - and I started to cry.

I love grasshoppers. I’ve noticed that grasshoppers (in real life or in mentions) show up when I’m looking for signs that something is right for me or meant to be. Yes, I am a magical thinker and I’m also logical - but I so enjoy a good nod from the universe (even if I’m just interpreting it that way). Last week as I moved through my second weekend of the hospital and noticed the signs for your 4th floor - cancer and hematology unit - I could still feel shock that we were here. Fear overwhelmed me and I said in a whisper as I walked, “Please show me a grasshopper if she’s going to be okay.”

When you held it today in your hands and it didn’t seem to want to leave us, I thought about how far you’ve already come and how much you’ve already done and I didn’t let Mr. Grasshopper (as you named it) just be a coincidence - I let it be a sign that you are going to be okay. I could do that because today I’ve realized that you are strong, you are brave and you are conquring the challenges that have been dropped on you in way that I didn’t expect. I am amazed by you and I am realizing that I will continue to be as we move through.

Through all of the things to come, all of the next things we will just do together, I may be able to move away from looking for signs because it’s you who is actually showing me that you can do this and you can make it through. Maybe you’re the sign the universe is giving me every day, showing me that it is all, eventually, going to be okay.