It wasn't long ago that Dustin asked if I thought it was time to relinquish the use of "ph" in place of "f" in our blog posts or titles. I said maybe it wasn't necessary anymore, but here I am, keeping it alive, unintentionally.
We've arrived in Atlanta. We're settled into the Ronald McDonald House and we've been pivoting as the need arises. Just days before we left, my dad (Pepop) came down with a cold. We couldn't take him with us because the risk to Phin and us was too great. A cold is not much to think about when it comes to any of us, but for Pepop, who is still regularly treated for his own cancer, it can take longer for it to resolve. For Phin, it could be catastrophic. For us in our life right now, it would mean Phin would have no caretaker to stay with him. We had to bid Pepop farewell and walk the path alone until he's better.
Phin and I went ahead, arriving in time for me to teach an evening class and for us to check out the Ronald McDonald House and the many sources of relief it has to offer. There is almost no way to describe what they've created here--this haven surrounded by woods--something I never stopped to think much about as I rounded up my change to be donated as we drove through a McDonald's for a Coke (my guilty pleasure because, let's face it, no one's Coke holds a candle to the one from the fountains at McDonald's) or to pacify the pleas from our kids. When I used cash, I'd stick some into the slots in the restaurant itself, again, never thinking much about it. "If you have enough to give, you give" has always been my motto. Now that we are the recipients of the immense care this facility offers, I cannot urge you enough to round up, shove some money in those slots; what we are experiencing is nothing short of the greatest peace of mind after a long day or many at the hospital. The only ache I feel is that Phin cannot get such reprieve from the hospital. There is always food--breakfast items, leftover dinners, hot meals at night. There are warm beds and laundry facilities; there are playrooms for the kids. There is solace. What I didn't expect was that there are also fireflies.
On Friday, we got news that our beloved Aunt Bev--Dustin's Mom's sister--had died quite suddenly and unexpectedly. It was impossible to stop the tears. Aunt Bev welcomed people into her life with her whole heart and devotion. She was kind and generous and it is impossible to think of a world existing without her. We carry this sorrow, unable to push the 'pause' button on life and all its whim throws at us, into our journey, shouldering it as we go.
Phin is starting to feel the effects of the Busulfan he's taken. This is a chemo with strength we haven't experienced with his prior chemos before. It is designed to kill his stems cells, clear out the old to make room for the new. It, like all the others, has side effects, and one of those is nausea. When I left Phin Saturday, he became nauseous and has remained that way ever since. He's a tiny guy, not much more than 44-46 pounds on a good day. When we started this relapse journey he was only 47-48. It's hard to see him this way--alternating between resting and vomiting, knowing how little he already weighs and worrying about how much more he can lose and maintain the strength he needs to fight through what's coming. It's hard to know that this might be the easiest part of the even harder side effects that are yet to come.
Back at the Ronald McDonald House, I worried. I'm still worrying, really. I carried that worry and all the others that lie ahead as I went down to the car to bring up a care basket our dear friend Stephanie had dropped off for us. Worried about his strength, his body, his side effects, the ones yet to come, mourning Aunt Bev, knowing only one of us can go to her memorial, and neither of us can be with our girls to comfort them. As I carried the basket back to the elevator, looking into the woodsy abyss before me, I asked the universe, God, any force that has influence, to help my sweet boy, to heal him forever here with us, to hear us, and suddenly, there was a blink of light in the darkness. I stopped in my tracks, blinked a few times myself, took a few more steps and there it was again, and again, and again. Fireflies.
Fireflies are going extinct. As a child, we'd see them all over, catch them in jars and watch their magic, then release them back into the night. As an adult, I've often wanted to share this magic with my children, but never seemed to find many around, causing me to research and discover they're dying off. Fireflies are symbols of hope--a light in the dark abyss when it seems there is none. I needed those blinks of hope at just that moment and I stood out there a long time just watching them blink golden in the dark, as if I were collecting them again in a jar in my heart to light the darkness when it comes, to remind me that even in the abyss of despair, there is hope, no matter how exhausting it may be.
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