I didn’t have any answers then, probably because I was too tired to make sense of it, but I’ve continued processing it for the last nine days, and looking back I’m very tender about some of the revelations that have filled my heart.
The whole Relay was purposely symbolic, starting at sundown. During the opening comments they compared the start time to when someone is newly diagnosed with cancer. They said, it is a time when the sun sets and darkness comes. I’ll attest that driving to Primary Children’s Hospital for the first time last fall certainly felt like a dark time in my life- and one where I didn’t know if we’d make it through the night. But the journey continued, and through the very dark hours we kept walking. Lots of family and many friends attended us on our way, and took over at the ideal minutes- just like in Jace’s fight. As if by cue, the right people have come into his life and taken their turns strengthening him and helping him on his way.
At 10 PM there was a silent lap in honor of the people who have died from cancer. The track was full, and the night sky was flashing lightening. Thunder boomed all around us, and my senses were fully aware of the electricity in the air. Just as soon as we finished the silent lap, the rain started pouring. Many members of our team were still there and hovered under our little canopy. At one point I looked at the people in the corners holding the thing down. I knew it was dangerous for those cornerstone people to be holding the metal frame of the canopy, but I also knew there was no way I was going to talk anyone into going to the car. It reminded me of receiving help during this whole trial. It is so difficult to just allow it to happen! Maybe the most humbling experience of the night was when I looked into the eyes of the people still there and told them they should go. It was pouring rain! It was late!...but consistently as I scanned their eyes they firmly resounded, “We aren’t going anywhere.”
(Hayden, Kyle, Kyler, & sleeping Jace)
So, our team walked all night. We walked, and we talked, and we honored Jace with every lap. Not because we had to, but because it was our privilege to represent something greater than simply walking a few laps. We walked because we knew it was our way of saying CANCER WON’T BEAT US. It WON’T break our family, and it WON’T silence the courage we see every time we look at our 7 year old, spunky, determined Jace.
(Matt taking Jace home at midnight)
(Dylan, Dayton, & Jace @ the 4th of July parade)
(Jace & Hayden fishing with Dad)
(Finally riding horses again: Jace and Hayden with Red)
On a side note, Jace's CBC this week was fine. His numbers rose enough to eliminate concern, and Jace enjoyed a perfect, normal, 4th of July weekend. His hair is so cute. It is coming in quickly now, and I’ve been calling him a furry little monkey. The color is slightly different than it ever has been, being a little more blonde with a little more body. Although I think I’ll have a hard time cutting his hair (ever again!), I did trim his sideburns and the hair on his neck. His silky smooth legs of days past have been replaced by thick blonde hair, and his dark eyelashes and eyebrows have brought back the Jace we used to see. We do not have to return to the doctor until July 22nd, and then we will be traveling to Primary Children’s Hospital. After that we will have to start figuring out how to deal with chemo and school! We are both planning on returning to our former life of school, so wish us luck with the whole- ‘getting Jace out of bed before 10 AM’ thing.
Last night as I sat under the stars with my favorite people and watched fireworks explode above our heads, I reflected on the events of the last ten months. Watching Jace run around the yard with his cousins has a whole new meaning this year. I’m so grateful for every minute I have with the people I love, and I never want to become callus to that again. Thank you all for your influence in our lives. Ten months of chemo down. Two years and two months to go. We can do it.:)
