Tuesday, December 11, 2012

MRI day

Five years ago tonight, Steve and I were at Baylor Frisco, huddled in a dark room, staring at an image of his brain.

It was our first glimpse at what we would learn in January 2008 was a grade IV glioblastoma in his brain stem.  

The next few hours and days were a whirlwind of activity. Phone calls, emails, appointments. Incredible outpouring of love and assistance from family and friends. Much of it documented in this space. 

Five years seems like a lifetime in some ways. For Katie, it almost is. The majority of her life has been with her Daddy ill or without him here altogether. Her only memories of our old "normal" are from stories and photos. 

Five years is almost half of Cooper's life. He remembers "normal," but in bits and pieces, not with the full narrative that I carry in my heart.

Five years later, I still have moments when I think, "I can't believe this is our life now." 

Those moments are more frequent when the dishwasher is broken and when two children have two activities at the same time in separate locations and when Santa needs help making decisions and when out-of-our-control changes deeply affect a child.

Those moments make me daydream ever so briefly about life before five years ago.

Of course, there's no point in living in the past. So I break reverie and focus on the next few steps in whatever tasks lie ahead and acknowledge our family's overflowing blessings.

"Joy runs deeper than despair."
(Corrie Ten Boom)

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