Waves of Chaos

My parents were both born and raised in Southern California, and after moving to Washington in 1985, we spent most summers going back for a week to stay at my grandparents’ house in Newport Beach. Every day, we would make the short walk to the oceanfront, set up our towels, snacks, and drinks, and settle in for a day basking in the California sun. I was simultaneously mesmerized and terrified by the waves. Growing up along the Puget Sound, we did not see waves that big. I would pad down along the sand, my steps slowing as I got closer to the water’s edge. I wanted to feel the salt water against my skin but wasn’t quite brave enough to jump into the powerful waves. Even though I always felt like I was standing at a safe enough distance, inevitably a large wave would come crashing in—bigger than I expected. My heels would get sucked down into the sand, causing me to lose my balance and pulling me under. Once that happened, I was at the mercy of the waves, being tossed to and fro under the water until my mom or dad grabbed me by the arm and pulled me to shore. While I was never in any real danger, these moments always felt completely chaotic. All sense of control—gone. If I could think of any metaphor to describe our summer, this is the one that comes to mind.

We live on a farm, and over the weekend of July 4th, we were finishing up hay season in our fields. My oldest stepson was teaching me how to rake the hay, and as I hopped off the tractor, my left shoelaces got stuck, and I landed on my right leg, which was slightly twisted. I felt a pop, and then my leg gave out. The pain was immediate and intense. I knew something bad had happened, but I also knew I couldn’t stay lying down in the middle of a hayfield. Somehow, I stood back up, pain searing through my right knee, and I hobbled to the quad I had driven down from the house.

Long story short, after a couple of doctor visits and an MRI, it was determined I had severed my ACL—which is apparently one ligament in the body that cannot heal on its own. While some people choose not to get surgery, opting out puts one at higher risk for arthritis and means dealing with an unstable knee for the rest of their life. I decided to get surgery to reconstruct my ACL, which meant a couple weeks of being on pain meds, and no driving for at least a month post-op. The timing of surgery, however, coincided with Caden’s next round of chemotherapy.

Everything happening all at once.

Total chaos. Loss of control. At the mercy of the waves.

To be honest, I haven’t spent as much time praying and talking to God over the last several weeks. I’m battle-weary. It’s been almost three years since Caden first got sick, and while I’m thankful for where he is currently at, I would give anything to finally close the chapter on cancer treatment for him. I’m tired of living a life full of unknowns. I’m tired of watching him wince every time he has to get poked for labs. I’m tired of keeping track of his daily medications—and he is equally tired of taking them. I don’t know what normal looks like, but it sure sounds nice.

Injuring my knee this summer was obviously not in my plans. Not only was it a blow physically, but it has also been an intense mental struggle dealing with the loss of much of my independence. I’m used to being the caregiver. I don’t like having to rely on others to bring me items I need. I get frustrated often that routines that used to be so simple and take no time at all now require a significant amount of time, planning, and patience. Recognizing that my healing and recovery from this surgery will not be a quick process, but will look more like a marathon, is something I am daily having to wrap my head around.

Similar to when Caden was in the hospital and we got in the habit of celebrating every victory—no matter how small—I have been trying to focus on positive changes to encourage myself that progress is happening, even though it often doesn’t feel like it.

Caden completed this most recent round of IV and oral chemo, and he also received another infusion of Jacob’s T cells. His last biopsy was in May, and we anticipate the next one will happen in September. We are standing in the hope that he is still in remission. Once we have those results, his doctors will hopefully be able to give us a timeline for how many more rounds of chemo he will need. He continues to have a great attitude and shine his light brightly in the world. This week, he will go back to school as an 8th grader, and seeing him live and love fearlessly in spite of every trial he’s faced makes my heart burst with pride, and inspires me to to keep going.

I have been reminded through this journey that much like when I was a child getting tossed in the waves and my mom or dad would rescue me from getting too battered and bruised, I am still surrounded by a large support network. My husband, my parents, my kids, and numerous extended family and friends have encouraged me and helped me in my time of need, keeping me from getting too churned up in the chaos that is life at the moment.