So I was doing five things at once, running late as usual, while I drove down El Camino on my way to work this morning. Aila had just woken up as I was preparing to leave, and I was scrambling to give her hugs, make sure that she had clothes for the day, and going over plans with my father (i.e., please, please take her outside into the sun). In the first two miles of the drive, I'd already sent a text to a student and called a research family. I called Brian in the final three miles, and I was speaking to him as I pulled into the parking lot at work and looked for a space. I saw one of my bosses walking across the parking lot, and I waved. I was easily ten minutes late to see my client, but I was relieved when I saw her at the parking pay station, as that meant she was not yet in the waiting room counting the minutes that I was tardy. So talking to Brian about extended family dynamics, making eye contact with my client, thinking about Aila, and drinking diet Mountain Dew, I pulled into the closest empty space, sandwiched between a Mercedes and another nondescript car. 5 mph, maybe 6, and I heard a thud. My client at the pay machine and a few others looked in my direction. "Brian, I just hit a car," I said. "It's fine, no one is hurt," replied my loving partner.
I think I was hurt? I felt like crying, loudly and painfully. In that moment, I felt the agony of her cancer, the absence of my mother, my exhaustion, the relentlessnes of it all. But as usual, there was no time to perseverate, to grieve, or to even really think. I was late, and my client was beating me into the building. Brian recommended that I write a note, which I did, tucking it under the windshield of the victim car. I felt embarrassed and silly the rest of the day, seeing five clients and attending multiple meetings. I realized that I feel like the universe has some bar for how best to grieve the loss of normal and cope with sadness--cancer, bad parking, a mother's death....and of course, I felt that I fall short. It was a similar feeling to the one that occurs when people tell me how "strong" we are. Strong, are you kidding? Have you seen my stress-induced acne? Eczema on the back of my scalp? My insane sleep schedule because I am afraid to sleep when she is sleeping (someone needs to watch her, after all)?
She's had a good two post-steroid weeks. We have been able to remember who our sweet girl is in her soul. She has smiled more than she has cried, and she and Zander have been playing almost like they did before she got sick. It has been amazing to watch. We are savoring it, as next Tuesday I whisk her away to UCSF for a chemotherapy infusion. And she begins her next dexamethasone "pulse." Get ready Cosgroverstreets, hellfire Aila will return.
When you (hopefully) choose to read your mother's ramblings later in your childhood, Aila, I hope that you understand that leukemia and its chemotherapy treatment are to blame for all this agony. I somehow want you to know what you endured, even if your three-year-old brain doesn't remember. Because it is astonishing how much you have endured! You, my sweet baby, are astonishing! We pray to the universe every moment that your leukemia has lost its legs and does not reemerge. But if it does, of course, we will live and fight with you. And if it doesn't, we will almost certainly weep during every recital, every school play, and every soccer game (even if it's a tattoo competition, that's fine too.) Forgive us though, as this horror will be brandished on our souls until the end of time, even if you remember nothing.
You are strong, Aila!
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