Rise

Phoenix

A mythological bird that cyclically regenerates or is otherwise born again. Associated with fire and the sun, a phoenix obtains new life by arising from the ashes of it’s predecessor. 

Knocked down, get back up. Consistency, breathe in and out. Support the sadness, feel the future, embrace the anxiety.

 

“I’ll always take care of you mama,” Tommy says as he stares down at me from the side of my bed. His face is encapsulated in the warm glow of early morning air creating, if possible, a heightened level of innocence and angelic emphasis surrounding his cherub cheeks. I’m not sure how long he has been staring at me but I can tell this thought isn’t new to his psyche.

 

I spent today staring at my children. Blonde streaks framing their faces, freckles placed sporadically where the sun hits most often. Innocent, worried, trying to comprehend their role in this rollercoaster we’ve been assigned to. It’s hard not to have answers. Or not to have the “right answers” we all want to hear. That’s the hardest lesson. Be still. Feel your feelings. They are all ok. They are all correct. Even the half breaths that you work into full breaths. Even the tears for REALLY WANTING TO BE AT THE BEACH AND NOTTTTT STUCK IN A HOSPITAL BED. 

 

I received my (fingers, toes, arms, legs, ears whatever else you got hanging around crossed) last AC chemotherapy treatment. This treatment is supposedly the knock down, drag you out bad mother trucker and lemme tell you it knocked my ass on it’s ass. I lost an entire 48 hours in and out of consciousness. Which if you haven’t experienced this feeling it is wild ride. WHAT TIME IS IT?? I yell as I wake up sweating and shaking in the middle of the night. Where are the kids? Where are my PANTS? 

 

I came home looking all sorts of green, barely able to hold up a glass and unable to walk to the bathroom unassisted. No one said it but the way they left me alone and side eye glanced told me all i needed to hear. 

 

It’s a big accomplishment. Or at least that’s what I try to tell myself. I get pissed off when I don’t FEEEEEL all ACCOMPLISHED. It’s hard to hold a sense of fulfillment with a larger picture looming ahead. But if you don’t take time to celebrate achievements, how will you truly appreciate triumph?

 

I have 12 weeks of an additional chemo staring at me from around the bend. 12 consistent weeks of Chemo, a month off to recover and then Victoria Secret’s better hide their women and children because these boots (and boobs) are made for walking.