The promise of change.

Seasons are a marker of time. They are a sign of change, growth, of giving way to new life, and a comfort in knowing that as one season ends another one simply begins. As our summer came to an end so did the warm days, the long bright nights and the fully blossomed trees, giving way to cooler temperatures, different colours and a promise that things were going to be different. I was hoping that as the leaves of summer began to change, crisp and fall away, so would the isolation and restrictions of chemotherapy. You see, this new season was promising more than cool cosy nights with Autumn coloured leaves. For us, it was signalling the beginning of the end of Maisie's treatment. We started the month of October counting down in single figures the weeks we had left to endure this way of life, hoping with all of our might that we would reach that final day.

So with this being our focus and me having the good old saying of "when life gives you lemons, make lemonade" ringing in my head, I was determined to embrace the season. I knew that Maisie still wouldn't be able to experience all the joys of Autumn the way I hoped, but it didn't mean she had to miss out entirely.

 

We spent lots and lots of our days going out for walks, especially in the forest, where Maisie could be mesmerised by all the tall tress and the changing colours. I collected leaves and acorns as we went and washed them at home so that she could play with them. Sure it wasn't the same as throwing fistfuls of leaves in the air, but it was our way of showing Maisie the world and keeping her safe at the same time.

I also wasn't going to let cancer ruin my plan to start the tradition of pumpkin picking with Maisie. So I timed our visit to the local market for a quiet period in the day where few to no people were about and I was armed with a packet of Dettol wipes, (Maisie was still very much at the stage where everything she touched went to her mouth so I couldn't take the risk.) I cleared a little spot on the table, set her in and then I scrubbed any pumpkin that was within her reach, (I of course bought them and took them home after). She was so curious and inquisitive and the smile on her little face made my day.

 

 

As Halloween approached the memories of the previous year lay heavy on me. I had taken Maisie to my hometown for the parade and firework display and she stayed nestled against my chest in her baby carrier, sleeping throughout the entire thing. I remember thinking it was the longest period of time that she was content and settled and I felt so connected to her. I would have loved to have taken her again but with the restrictions and limitations of chemotherapy it just wasn't possible and I felt myself caught in emotions. I wanted to keep her safe and to protect her, but I also wanted to celebrate with her, completely fearful that it could be her last Halloween. Then, almost like they knew, The Cancer Fund for Children invited us to stay at Daisy Lodge over the Halloween weekend. I felt relieved that Maisie would be able to celebrate with us, join in with other children, dress up and be in a place, other than home, where its safe to do so. The invitation came at the perfect time and I am so grateful and thankful for the charity and for everything they do for families like ours.

Although treatment was almost finished I rarely let myself think about it because I knew we still had to get through these weeks. My body and mind continued to run on adrenaline and auto pilot and I was mostly thinking of ways to make the best of our current situation and not dwell on how it should be. But sometimes my guard slipped. I remember specifically one day we took Maisie to the park. It was a cold but dry day and we went there thinking it would be pretty empty at this time of year and we could get out for a walk with no emotional pulls. When we got there though, the park was buzzing with excited children and the air was filled with the sound of laughter and screams. I tried to ignore it but I couldn't. I wanted to, (needed to), leave as quickly as possible so we went to turn around and head back to the car. And just as we did, the heavens opened. It poured with rain so heavy that we had no choice but to take shelter below the closest tree, which of course was directly opposite the play area. As we stood there, watching the children run about with smiles on their faces and joy in their hearts of being able to continue to play in the rain and splash in the puddles, listening to the rain drops bouncing off the ground in front of us, feeling the drips of rain that were falling through the gaps of the tree onto our faces, and smelling the strengthening fragrance of damp grass, I began to cry. My guard had slipped. My adrenaline was wearing off. I was being reacquainted with the realness and rawness of the emotions I try so hard to suppress in order to survive one day to the next and I couldn't stop it. This scene was us once again being spectators of life, a reminder of what we were missing out on, a life that Maisie was being denied. We were always on the outside looking in, we were always on the side lines and never involved in the game. It felt like everyone's life was moving forward with a great ease while we were stuck and having to fight for each and every day we had. I was exhausted and loosing my ability to keep it together, but then I looked at Maisie.

This was her watching the very same thing I was, and just look at her reaction. Happy, smiling and waving to everyone....as always. I have so much to learn from her. As we waited for the rain to stop her smile began to rub off on me and I reminded myself to look at the bigger picture...Maisie was happy and we were almost there. My guard needed to go back up, now was not the time to let it fall, we were so close.

 

 

Wendy