Can we pretend we're normal?

Nope.

 

And for context...A dream came true about a week ago.  Our dear friends, Heather and Tom, said that they were headed out the Bay Area.  Heather is a mother of two, a fellow (and far superlative) endurance athlete, and a leuekemia survivor.  I was on a running team with her in Boulder, Colorado, over a decade ago, when she met her husband, Tom.  Aila and their son, Reino, were born within days of one another in 2013.  And they just in March welcomed a beautiful baby girl.  

 

Heather suggested, quite reasonably, that we all rent a Santa Cruz beach house together for a long weekend.  Sure, I said, without thinking a second thought.  Pre-leukemia, I probably flew 15-20 times a year.  Heck, Aila and I alone took about ten plane rides together before she was six months old.  Pre-leukemia, Brian and I dragged the kids nearly every weekend for a 3-4-hour hike, driving up long and winding mountain roads to various trailheads.  It seems funny to think about now, considering how many times she has thrown up with chemo, but Aila always got carsick when we headed down, after our hikes.  We tried everything to quell her nausea, but nothing really worked.  None of us has been on a plane since my mother's death last May.  And none of us has been up those hills, amidst those vast trails, since my 39th birthday (8/2) last year.  We drove up to Huddart Park that day, intending on doing a long hike into the redwoods.  All three kids were sick, and Aila never got better.  Brian and I still remember her asking to climb into the stroller to lay down and sleep, something she never really did.  Worst birthday ever, I often say.  I'm afraid of forty, but it simply cannot top year thirty-nine.

 

Four days after Heather first emailed, this is the note that I wrote to her:  

 

So this has been a really interesting experience for Brian and me (cc'ing him here) in realizing how much her cancer has changed our lives.  Maybe temporarily, maybe permanently, not sure yet.  I kind of want nothing more in the world to see you.  And I also kind of want nothing more than to feel like Brian and I used to feel...wild and free, dragging the kids anywhere and anywhere and just feeling proud that we did so.

So here has been our process:

First, you email and suggest that this could be a possibility.  Elation for me.  Excitement.  We can make anything happen.

Second, you send out places for consideration.  We are so appreciative of your time and effort.  We both look at them, and they are all great.  Pre-leukemia, we would not have given a second thought.  Push go, we'd say.  But then we look at the toilet seat in one photo, and think about how no one has washed it probably ever.  And the grout in another kitchen, where (normal) grime is visible.  Germs, new bacteria!  And we think about her immunity.  And the countless middle-of-the-night trips to the ER.  And we grimace, feeling fear.  We'd be so far from UCSF, her hospital.  What ER would we go to?  Would we risk it and drive over the hill and up the Peninsula to UCSF?

Third, I see one that's awesome.  No apparent grime, no germs.  But they don't like kids, and it's not available anyway it seems.

Fourth, we have a sleepless night (last night) with Declan (normal, nothing wrong, just some tooth pain or something else within the realm of normal development), and we plod through Monday bleary-eyed and taxed.  Amidst sleep deprivation, suddenly aware (again) of the toll that this has taken on us as a family.  Aila hasn't slept anywhere but the hospital or our house since her diagnosis.  As her parents, we feel fear.  And it's not the normal kind of fear, like before a long race.  The kind that is best conquered head-on.  This is a different kind, with much credibility and based on history.  The kind that is sending you a message...be careful, it whispers.

Fifth, we discuss again.  What can our family handle?  We judge ourselves midstream--good god, this is just a weekend away, man up, Cosgroverstreets.  But then we circle back and remember our journey over the past year.  And we cut ourselves some slack.  

So long, rambling email aside, our conclusion is that we think that we can handle one night and two days away from home.  We also think that it will be easiest for us if we keep our family in a hotel nearby for that night.  It will be so incredibly fitting and perfect that we can do this with you and your family.  I have tingles even thinking about it.  What does this mean for the plan?  Well, I know that you have been looking at spots that will suit 8. I feel incredibly guilty asking you to do this, but it may make sense for you to look for places for just your family.  Clearly would be cheaper.  We would then join you all day Saturday, stay Saturday night, and also spend all day Sunday.  I desperately hope that this is okay.

I hope (and imagine) that you have empathy for this realization on our part.  I hope you know how much we wish we could have continued to be that adventurous family that we were, right up until the minute before she was diagnosed.  We will certainly get back to that spontaneity and throw-caution-to-the-wind attitude that drew Brian and I together, where we flourished.  But much to our dismay, cancer continues right now, and we are more like the staid and stoic parents--maybe librarians or meter readers for the electric company--who plan out every last moment with agonizing detail.

With love, Vic

 

 

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