The most wonderful gift I had, the gift I finally learned to cherish above all else, was the gift of those perfectly ordinary days. Katrina Kenison
I collapsed into bed well after midnight but still couldn’t sleep, my mind spinning over how quickly the day had gone all bad.
Dan, Jimmy and I had driven to the pediatric oncology clinic in the early afternoon, expecting to hear another “all clear” on Jimmy’s quarterly MRI scans. He was a year past treatment, two past diagnosis. Since the removal of his original brain tumor, there’d been no sign of cancer anywhere on any of his scans. So sure that this blessing would continue, I had planned to leave clinic, return home to pick up Molly and take her to the Jonas Brothers that night. The concert was both a birthday present and a make-up outing for the way her 9th birthday two years earlier had been overshadowed by Jimmy’s diagnosis.
Instead, Dr. Nicholson had walked into the exam room, tight faced and worried. He was accompanied by Jimmy’s radiation oncologist whose eyes were red and puffy. I knew before either doctor said a word that Jimmy’s cancer had recurred.
I was the researcher, the plan maker in the family, the one who had 20 questions for every doctor we met with. Yet when Dan pulled Dr. Nicholson out of the room to get more information, all I could do was sit on the synthetic leather exam table, pull Jimmy close and weep.
I am hardwired for problem solving, yet my brain could find no way out of this maze. Every path led to the same devastating outcome. It didn’t matter that Jimmy was asymptomatic, otherwise healthy and thriving in school. Or that there were treatments left to try. That night, in bed in the dark, all I could think about was the end. I could see death bearing down on Jimmy like a fast-moving train. Part of me wondered whether I should try to get pregnant immediately; the other part kept trying to see around the black abyss that lay in front of me.
I awoke the next morning bleary-eyed but determined to find a way to give Jimmy the best possible chance of surviving his recurrence. A small ember of hope had rekindled deep inside me. Jimmy was still here, and I made myself a promise not to forget that.
In the coming days, I forced my attention back to the present. Clinical trials, second opinions, discovering ways to mitigate the side effects of harsh chemotherapy Jimmy would have to endure. I focused on the small pieces of the path I could control and tried to let go of the ones I couldn’t.
We got six more years with Jimmy. We watched him play goalie for his high school soccer team, bald and awkward but on the field. We cried when he graduated from high school and cheered when he was accepted to his dream college. We said yes as often as we could to both Jimmy and Molly – concerts, sporting events, travel, spending as much time together as we could.
Looking back, I marvel at how many milestone moments we were lucky enough to have – teaching Jimmy to drive, dropping him off at college, attending parents’ weekend, meeting up with Jimmy and his friends at football games. They were a gift we gave ourselves as much as Jimmy.
We worked to make those memories, to imprint them, hold on to them, thinking that they were the ones that mattered most. Afraid of becoming frozen by fear, I fixated on big plans and significance. Pipe dreams and bucket lists. Iceland, the Tour de France and the Rolling Stones. I searched for tangible ways to mark the fact that Jimmy was still here.
I’m grateful for everything we did together during those six years yet it’s not what comforts me most now, eleven years after Jimmy’s death. Instead, it’s the tiny moments of everyday life that twinkle most brightly in my memory. Jimmy sitting next to me at one of Molly’s softball games, sharing the latest Snapple facts he’d just learned. The two of us up late, unable to sleep during a hospital stay, exchanging secrets in the dark. Walking with our dog on a crisp fall day or making chocolate chip cookies together, me trying to keep Jimmy from sneaking bites of the batter. Dropping him off at his best friend Willie’s house for Super Mario Bros and milkshakes. Moments so crystal clear I can drop right back into them, even now. They are the places and spaces where Jimmy lives on. The gift of pausing to be present, the blessing of being lucky enough to be his mom.
