Alright alright, while I would indeed say we had the Easter from hell, I guess it could always get worse and it's all relative. Maybe my idea of hell is different than yours. So maybe after reading this you might think this title might be a touch rash, a touch extreme, if you will. But regardless, it caught your attention didn't it? I think next blogpost title will be something like, "Learning to live without my arms," and then when your eyes pop out of your head and you're sitting down to find out how on earth I lost my arms, I'll be like, "Just kidding, I still have my arms." And then you'll think my joke is so funny that you'll just be like, Ooooh that Meradith! Now that I'm here I'm gonna have to just read this! She tells such good jokes! Or maybe you'll be mad at me because people really do have to learn to live without their arms sometimes and you'll think I'm trivializing something that would be a serious trial of life. Which I'm not, by the way.
Except I'm not joking... back to how I was saying it really was the Easter weekend from Hell. And that's with a capital H. As in, the actual place where Satan himself resides. Also, like I said, I recognize that it could have been worse, if for example my arms got chopped off or something... but now you're making me run in circles here and repeat myself, so just knock it off and let me tell you about it.
Ahem.
As many of you know, my dad was recently diagnosed with multiple myeloma; a cancer of the blood. This bomb of information hit our family around new years this year, a little over three months ago. He's been undergoing chemotherapy, which has been as difficult if not more difficult than the fact that he has cancer. It's been terrifying and startling and pretty much every negative emotion that exists. One of the most challenging parts is the unknown, the waiting and testing and uncertainty of it all. I suppose that's where faith comes in. You just trust in the plan and trust that no matter what happens, everything is going to be alright.
But it sucks. And I just want to go to my parents house and have it be normal. I want my dad to bring in my suitcase and make fun of me for packing a whole suitcase for a little weekend. And then I want to go on a rant about how men don't know what it's like packing for yourself and three kids in tow. And then I want him to tell me to, "Shut up Bernie, just shut up!" And start to try to wrestle me. He still tells me, "Shut up Bernie just shut up," (one of our most often referenced Andy Griffith quote) but there's a missing umph behind it that I've grown accustomed to. I'm waiting for the umph to return.
My mother has been an ever present and loyal angel at his side doing anything and everything in her power to ease his burdens. She's been spared the burden of harboring any resentment of any kind, which honestly might not seem like that big of a deal... but when you see this happening to someone close to you and the wear and tear it causes on the infirm as well as their caretakers... it's really something. She doesn't feel that way though. And I marvel at her in all reality. I'll be sitting in one of their living room recliners off their kitchen and she's making him lunch talking to me, but mostly to herself, about all the ingredients that he likes and what he doesn't like. She'll say something like, "He really loves it when I add a little garlic..."And it's quite a tender scene. They're as entertaining as they have always been, for example there may or may not have been a threat that if hard-boiled eggs were served for breakfast one more time, they would be thrown at the poor innocent servant, and then a consequent threatening of being cut off of all acts of kindness and a reminder that she easily could become Kathy Bates from Misery. But above all, there is an added measure of tenderness and love between them that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy while I'm there.
Back to Easter weekend. I was up in Idaho last month but Jason wasn't able to come with me. I'm closest in proximity to them of all their children (they're still in Idaho Falls) so I've felt a responsibility to do what I can to help them and to just be present when I can. So we planned to go up and spend Easter weekend with them. The chemotherapy takes a real toll on your immune system, so we've always been really careful with only visiting them when everyone is seemingly as virus/bacteria free as possible. That can be a task in and of itself with three tiny children, one of which who goes to preschool and probably wipes her hands all over every possible surface and then licks her hands sometime throughout the duration of class. Lucy hasn't been known to do this in particular or anything, but kids are gross. Just sayin'.
If you read my last post, you know my babies went through a round of the stomach flu the couple weeks prior to Easter. Each baby girl dropped like a fly as soon as her sister would recover. And I thought I might have to be admitted to a loony bin. So it was up in the air whether we would even go up or not. But by Wednesday/Thursdayish everyone was completely mended and bouncing off the walls as usual. And I was healthy as a horse. Now, this is significant because if there is a stomach bug lurking in my home somewhere, it sees me and it's like a lioness spotting a sick little water buffalo, the real wimpy kind. The attack normally happens immediately. I fall first and always fall the hardest. So when I still felt good after cleaning up vomit all week, I thought, This is amazing. I'm in the clear! It's not touching me this time! That coconut oil I've been using is a miracle cure-all! Just like the windex on My Big Fat Greek Wedding!
Well folks, it turns out the good Lord only held that bug at bay for a time so that I could take care of my children. And once those babies were well and the weekend arrived, the hounds were released. On our drive up to Idaho (after my mother reassured me that it would be fine and they were dying to see us and be around family), I started gettin' those bubble guts that make you furrow your brow about an hour away from my mom and dads house. Now, I was still under the impression that I was in the clear from the awful mess that had taken over my kiddies. And I happened to have consumed a large amount of cream cheese that day for lunch. And man oh man, I tell you what, I figured it was doin' a number on me cuz I haven't been eatin' too much cheese these days, and it'll git you after you been abstainin'. I'm not sure why my inner voice is morphing into having a southern accent but I think it has to do with Duck Dynasty, and for that you can thank my sister Vanessa. Okay. So, I called my mom and told her we were just gonna check into a hotel for the night until I figured out what was happening with my system. She insisted that it must just be the cream cheese and told us to come on up. Long story short, with the stomach cramping coming and going, we got to my parents at about 8:30 pm, chatted for a bit, and hit the sack around 10. The minute I got into bed I started in with the worst chills, and the rest is history folks. There I sat... looking almost exactly like this... same matching little adorable get-up, same cascading hair, same pouty lips.
I spent the next few days completely quarantined in their basement, sicker than sick. Not only physically sick, but honestly, the mental anguish of knowing I was there poisoning my parents house when my dad was already so weak and his body's defenses were down was nearly unbearable. I think I cried on and off for three days straight. I wanted so badly to ease the load they are carrying right now and instead here I came to be in bed the whole time while my kids run wild and trashed their house. Ugh. Okay I have to give credit, Jason kept a pretty good handle on things, including being the Easter Bunny all by his lonesome this year for the first time ever. But still, moms complain (I do at least) that they never get a break and then once they're forced to actually take a break, you can't just rest up and let yourself get better. There's too much that everyone else (your husband) isn't doing right when it comes to your babies. I bet it's even worse when you're trying to keep hold of the reigns and won't let go of being the alpha and try to micro manage from the sick bed. When you're calling your husbands name over and over to have him come in so you can ask him what your baby ate for lunch and what kind of conditioner he used in your 2 year old's hair because she has particularly ratty hair. I mean that would probably exacerbate your husband's feelings of frustrations and further try his patience, right? It might probably keep him from even being able to feel sorry for you because you're just so smug laying there in bed with your wee little barf-bowl, propped up on pillows, making orders and trying to rule the world. And then maybe you'll start crying every third time he comes in because he's not being as nurturing as he should be to you (even though he's doing everything you ask) and you can't believe you have the stomach flu over Easter weekend and your dad has cancer and how he certainly CANNOT catch this bug and how your mother is a full-time care-taker right now and how your husband has to make sure she isn't doing the brunt work of taking care of your three tiny children on top of taking care of your dad, even if she tries to tell him to relax. I hope you don't think I'm talking about me. Oh my gosh you think I'd admit this all if it were ME I was talking about? I just heard these kind of things can happen to women with strong personalities when they get sick.
I asked my dad and my husband to give me a priesthood blessing. And really, of all the sweet experiences that come through the gospel of Jesus Christ, having the two men I love most in this life place their hands upon my head and be able to administer to me the way the Savior of the world or his original apostles would if they were here is one of the very sweetest. My dad wore a surgical mask to even come down into the basement lair where I was hiding out... and I felt like a total leper, but I was so happy to feel that strength coming from him despite the weakness in his body. It felt good to depend on him; depend on his worthiness and his faith and just him being there. Because people need to be depended upon. The human spirit starts to canker without having to come through for anyone. He felt strong in every sense from underneath those familiar hands and my husband along with my dad gave me strength and comfort that day. It's hard to put into words how thankful I am for the priesthood of God on earth today. I remember going through a particularly nasty break-up at 18 or 19 years old and waking my dad up at 3:30 AM to ask him for a father's blessing of comfort.
So, Easter morning went a little like this: I stayed in bed oblivious to all happenings in the house, Jason stayed in bed oblivious as well, the girls shot upstairs at the crack of dawn, found their easter baskets and started ripping through them/ hoovering chocolate before anyone could stop them or participate in the holiday. They woke my mother up sometime in that process, but I'm not sure when. Here is the one single photo taken of the entire trip, and I have to give props to Jason for being the sport that he is and painting eggs with our girls. Good thing I dragged their Easter dresses up to Idaho with us. Sigh.
PS This little baby took her first little walk around the room just last night. She's not even a year old yet. My oh my how time does fly. PPS. I have to simplify my dance moves when I'm dancing with my little girls. Because I don't want them to feel bad about their dance moves. But believe you me, I'm a regular old crazy legs under normal circumstances. I can't go spinning around on my head until they're a bit older. The things we do for our children.
1 comment:
Oh Mer, I'm so sorry to hear about your Dad! We will keep him in our prayers!
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