Yesterday, a year later.

Yesterday, last year, my Piper relapsed. She did it stealthily and quickly and not for lack of fight. Pipers first relapse was devastating...although I dare say a large portion of the past three years were devastating though I never allowed myself to think of it as so. Much like Pipers initial diagnosis and her second relapse, this first one came out of no where and knocked us to our knees both literally and figuratively.

My knees still hurting for the falling.

I remember so many things so vividly. I remember driving on the loop on the way to the ER for her fever and feeling absolutely frantic...trying to call my mom, wishing Chad didn't have to go to class, trying to sort out just why this trip (of hundreds) was rattling me so. I remember Piper perking up as soon as she was given Tylenol and I remember sharing a popsicle and watching Sesame Street. I remember asking about blood work...over and over and over again. I remember my mom meeting me there. I remember Chad meeting me there. I remember calling my friend and asking her to get Linley from school and keeping her for "just a little while" that would turn into 72 hours. I remember Chad stepping into the bathroom and taking the call from Dr. George and feeling my entire body go cold, then numb, then the sound of rushing. I remember hearing of "suspicious cells" and "don't worry quite yet" and "come tonight or first thing in the morning". I remember beginning to shake and seeing Piper who was watching me and reminding myself to get it together already. I remember the drive into Atlanta, again one we had driven hundreds of times before. I remember sitting next to Chad and thinking how different the sunniness of this drive was different to the raininess of the drive to Atlanta after her first diagnosis. I remember getting settled into our room and the parade of nurses who streamed in with tears in their eyes for my little girl they loved. I remember so many little details and I wish they were never mine to have.

Despite me remembering this date, I am terrible at anniversaries or birthdays or anything that I should know. Even so, this date and week is deep within me. The day before Pipers relapse, a dear little boy died. The day after, a dear little girl died. These were two of my closest and sweetest families that we had walked with. I was surrounded by sadness and tears and I was overwhelmed and I was beyond blessed when that little girls
Mommy came into Pipers room, late at night, after saying her final goodbyes to her own little girl. And she spoke to me of Hope. Of fighting...and trusting God.

I often mentally thank this mommy for refocusing me. For reminding me how much my God loved both me and Piper, that her future was not in my hands and I would be better equipped to love her if I trusted God. I'm
Thankful for that, for remembering that.

Mainly right now at 12:28 in the morning, I am remembering being given the choice to take Piper home or to attempt to fight. Again. And I am so glad we fought. I am so glad to have had the moments and laughter and bonding with my girl. Even the moments that sucked the joy right off of my face were beautiful for they were the result of a warm and sweet and spunky and utterly desired and missed little girl.

One year and one day later and I can clearly remember so much.

2nd grade, here comes Linley!

This morning was the first day of 2nd grade for my sweet Linley Coe. She woke excited and confidently walked into her classroom and kissed me goodbye. When I picked her little self up at 2:30, she chatted my ear off about all the fun things have was going to learn, the great friends she had and how much she loved her shoes.

I am so blessed to be this girls mommy.

I was reminded this evening after dinner with new friends how blessed I am to be able to place Linley in the school she is in. That they love her has been apparent since she first walked through the door this time last year. Through the crazy upheaval of the past year and the effort they put into supporting us as we learn to raise Linley once again, as an "only".

She is loved by her mommy and daddy and school. And Jesus, which is so obvious and important to us.

Still rolling.

I feel like I should continue to let all know that we are indeed, still surviving.

Mainly because a good number of y'all who read this handy blog may not actually know me and see me and hang with me in real life to know that this is so. Thus, the random emails I sometimes get from people who are checking up on me. And thanks for that you sweet strangers/friends.

We are still rolling.

Life has hit a very busy season and I am welcoming it a little bit. We celebrated Pipers should be/would be 3rd birthday, we moved (yet again) and we celebrated our 8th anniversary. My favorite 7 year old is rocking at Mohawk and I have a new pair of blue shoes that may be worth a picture or two...they make me smile a bit.

Summer has been good to us.

And we are still upright. I'm coming off of a very hard two weeks for both obvious issues and other, more personal issues...there have been many tears and frustrations rolling about in my personal space. I'm trying, often fruitlessly, to keep on keeping on but moments when they add up can just plain knock me out.

Apparently, this is normal.

Or something.

So please don't write me off as a sad mother hiding away from life...I have ideas and plans and hopes that I will attempt to keep updated in my good moments. Just bear with me.

Planning to plant.

After the rigors of almost two years of chemotherapy for Piper, and prior to the subsequent eight months of chemo, radiation and transplant, was a beautiful time in our little family.

Even after Pipers first relapse, she was happy and seemingly healthy. We, of course, were in utter shock that the cancer we were certain had gone away had in fact, only hidden and was rearing its horrifically ugly head.

We had our wits about us and we knew this time to focus on details, to pour out affection and time and to hope. Big hopes that we never would have breathed without clinging to.

We now know the end of the story.

It's not okay with me.

It's in Gods infinite sovereignty but while I trust this, and while I hope for the eternity that awaits us all, I hurt.

Three months feels like both too many moments without Piper and yet, also as near as though these three special pictures had only been taken yesterday. This is how time apparently will be working for me as I grieve and hurt and miss this sweet face.

I have received more than a few emails and phone calls from friends who wondered how we were planning to celebrate Pipers birthday this Saturday.

I wasn't sure what I was capable of but I don't ever want to be too overwhelmed in my grieving to smile.

I plan to plant something. To put in the ground something that will grow and that will allow me to smile when I look at it. And to remember how much my girl loved wandering the flower aisles at Lowes and getting her hands dirty while planting pretty things. Even while at the hospital, she loved to visit the flower gardens and water the plants and pick a flower for me and to be outside. This is my plan and I would be blessed if anyone joined me.


Put something in the ground. Water it and pray when you see if and smile.

And if you are so inclined to do this for Pipers (should be) birthday, please share this with me...

Help me know that she is remembered and that she is loved.

Calendar days

Each month, the anniversary of Pipers death comes rambling at our home. Slowly. Lumbering. Leaving me wondering how am I ever going to truly live this life I am left with without measuring each calendar turn.

This month I feel especially weak. Pipers death will have been three months on the 3rd of July. Four very short days later we will have to figure out just how one celebrates the birth of a child who no longer lives. How do I honor her and remember her and miss her without losing myself in the grief that wells up in me and threatens to consume me.

Twenty times a day I fight it.

I hear it will be someday be less painful. That the gaping and fresh wound that is living beyond your child will subside to a dull ache. Even this frightens me, all I am left with of Piper is memories. Reminders of how she smelt and felt and lived and gave and loved me. Even my grief, as physical and aching as it is, is a balm. It allows me to know that she was indeed real. Piper was my child that I chose to fight for...with every fiber of my battered mothers body. I'd do it again in a minute but this is no longer an option so I chose to keep my grief and tears close.

I keep them quietly next to every smile and joke and plan that I deal out in a days length. Mostly I let them escape slow and silent but there are moments like the one I am in where they stream out of me and bring prayers even I cannot comprehend.

I miss Piper. Fervently and fruitlessly.

If I live to be an old lady I will constantly turn the calendar each moth and await the date that took my girl. And once a year I will celebrate her birth with a firm frustration that things went sadly awry from my plan. My only prayer is that I won't miss out on the many other days that are filled with hope and joy and happy occasions.

That is the goal. Today the goal is getting out of bed. Linley wants to go to the pool. Chad is at work. The house is a disaster. And I am crying on the couch and feeling overwhelmed with this sadness that has been thrust upon me.

Mostly I am overwhelmed with the knowledge that I must keep living and missing and turning the calendar.

Pass the Pringles and wine, please.

Proof we are still kicking around.

And doing some cooking today.

And truly, not often doing the two at the same time at 1:00 in the afternoon though I needed it later on for sure.

Because I calmly responded to Linleys epic meltdown tonight outside the movie theatre with an early bedtime and no tv for a week and the amazing ability to turn a deaf ear to her yelling.

I also drank two lovely glasses of wine quite quickly when returning home.

I still struggle with boundaries for Linley. I never did before Piper and her life, but now I find there is an incredibly fine line between "picking my battles" and addressing heart issues with a consistent hand. There has to be a special patience to mothering that allows you to put aside your own frustrations or expectations (of every flipping thing) and address issues that are gray. Sometimes I just show grace and can see in Linleys eyes that she is hurt and confused and angry and needs me to hold her tightly. Other times I see that she has her mommies temper and that needs to be corralled and refocused...

But this is never, ever easy.

Sometimes it is funny though. Like tonight while she screamed and thrashed about in the backseat of my Camry and I just stuffed Pringles steadily in my mouth to keep from laughing. Really, if you can't laugh while parenting...what can you do.

The girl is amazingly loved.

This much is true and as I reminded her in the quiet moments after the storm of her mood, I love her dearly. Nothing will change that for her...just like nothing will change that for me and the God whose love enables me to mother with grace, joy, wine, laughter, Pringles and the sweet ability to walk in and kiss her cheek long after this epic fit has passed and she rests silently.

Comparison

"comparison is the thief of joy"

(Theodore Roosevelt)

Sometimes I get a quote or a phrase stuck in my head and I mull it over and over and over and wonder why that is.

And other times I get a quote stuck in my head and I just know that there is something there that God has for me.

And sometimes I just make things up in my head but that is neither here nor there and of no benefit to you.

But when I have a quote like the one above from Teddy Roosevelt, I find it resonating in me as a truth. My life in this moment has me living it and it's been a very vivid reminder to me. When I compare what I have with what I no longer have or what I long to have...I am unable to appreciate what I currently AM able to hold.

Perhaps it's just a good reminder to me that God is probably not going to be blessing me much if I keep checking out what my neighbor has going on.

Of course this is so simple for me to spout off as a chastisement as I am not by nature a fancy woman. Cars and homes and jewelry are not where my heart finds joy. Never has been and at the rate I am growing up, probably never will be. But when I sit in a room filled with women who have swollen bellies and I smell the sweetness of a chubby, healthy baby or when I hear the stories of what 2 and 3 year old kiddos are getting into...

I loose it.

Sometimes I loose my composure.

Sometimes I loose my patience.

Sometimes I have even lost my lunch.

But mainly I loose sight of my joy.

My family has always been my treasure. My joy. My life. As you know, I lost part of my treasure...my joy and my life and sadly this half is what I focus on more than the half that I kissed good night a few hours ago. My comparing what I had and what I want is stealing the joyous part out of raising Linley...and that is not fair.

This past Friday night, me, my sister Hannah, my best friend Miriam and her two girls and my own Linley went to Stone Mountain for the southern extravagance called the Laser Show. While there we had a great time, lots of food and laughing and running around and good conversations...anyone watching us would have thought we were normal moms and girls just living life. Behind us was another family. This family had a young girl in a wheelchair...she was totally dependent on her mother, who cared for her with a smile. But as a mom of a child who was medically fragile and who looked unlike other, healthier children, I am certain she noticed us. Us carefree mommies and healthy beautiful little girls...she saw us. And chances are she wondered what it would be like if her own little girl were able to run and play like our girls. And chances are she compared and questioned the fairness and if she were a normal woman she would fight to keep her joy. But if she were an excellent woman she would love on her sweet girl and focus on the warmth of her little body and the smiles that she will bring to a mom and know that her sweet girl is her very own joy...comparisons be damned.

She couldn't tell by watching me that my daughter was dead...and that I would have given anything to be allowed to continue to care for my medically fragile but ever so spunky Piper...just another day. Another moment. Anything, truly.

If we compare, we lose joy.

When Piper was alive, I rarely compared. I chose with a fierceness to love her and know that she was my own joy that wouldn't be taken. I chose to plan to happily catch her up to that which I desired for her to achieve. I felt this same tenaciousness when Chad and I began to desire to expand our family...I wasn't going to be bowled over by other fertile women, I was going to love on Linley and subsequently on Linley and Piper together while I waited, patiently. But these days, after watching my family become so much more achingly different that I ever desired, I am fighting to maintain my joy.

I am fighting to maintain the part of me that is faithful enough to know that Gods plan is truly better.

Not easier. Better.

And when I hold Linleys hand to walk through a parking lot, I chose joy. When I kiss her goodnight, I chose joy. When I congratulate a new mother, I chose joy...

I may not have all that my heart desires but I have more than some...and she will be the sole joy of my heart until God sees fit to bless us with more and until I am reunited with Piper in eternity...though this is a constant battle of ups and downs and faithful and angry questions. This is not a superficial thought but rather a deliberate decision to not allow my heartache or unfulfilled desires to steal away from the things I have been blessed with...a decision and a choice.