Waiting

This weekend of the Feast of Our Lady's Assumption into Heaven is one of expectant waiting for test results and I am struggling with that.

On Saturday, we had our second play date since Thomas started chemotherapy. We are keeping in communication with the oncology team and trying to learn how to be prudent but also start meeting the needs of all our children after five months of virtually no social contact outside our family.

Thomas called me excitedly to take a photo of his "play date." He had brought together Doctor Monkey, the giraffe he was given at the oncology clinic, and a mouse, who were all going to play trains with him. In five months, Thomas has virtually only left the house to go get cancer treatments . . . where he loves talking to all the adults! It hurts my heart that he thinks getting together with his stuffed animals is an exciting "play date," but I am also relieved he is so young and resilient.

A friend delivered us a liturgical celebration kit for the Feast of the Assumption. My brain is currently full to bursting with medication schedules, dates of treatments, Plans A, B, and C, and finding local babysitters to help us, so I am not doing any liturgical acknowledgement at all these days. I didn't even think about Mass for the feast day until an announcement reminder showed up in my email in box the night before! Therefore, I was so very grateful that my friend delivered roses and lilies (the flowers found in Our Lady's empty tomb), a beautiful photo of the Assumption to be a table centerpiece, a white heart cake, and two other liturgically themed desserts! My friend was able to be mother to my children in this manner while I cannot.

Today at Mass, Thomas slept in Margaret's lap. One good fruit of this difficult diagnosis is watching the other children develop new levels of compassion and service. One of our children today approached me and said, "You're hiring these mother's helpers: what about me? May I be your mother's helper? I can help Thomas when he is throwing up and sick this week." 

I wanted to stay in bed feeling blue and crying all of Sunday, but instead I walked a couple of miles (cried), helped cook the celebratory Sunday brunch, and went to Mass (cried) . . . and then I crawled into bed with the bedroom door locked (cried), listening to Thomas joyfully playing a Nerf gun battle with his brothers in the hallway. Tom lives in the moment and he knows the doctors took a picture of his lump but then he let go of it, and he certainly is not worrying over the weekend about the results.

Thomas joyfully swimming Sunday evening

Have no anxiety at all, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, make your requests known to God. Then the peace of God that surpasses all understanding will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus. (Philippians 4:6-7)

We have faithfully followed every step of the doctor's treatment plan so far. We have faithfully prayed and blessed Thomas's belly with numerous holy relics and St. Philomena's oil nightly. We have availed ourselves of the Sacraments. I am hoping God will be glorified by a radically good response to the chemotherapy as evidenced by the scan results tomorrow. However, I realize that God may choose to be glorified by allowing Thomas to suffer longer while our family attempts our best to be practicing Christians who stand with Jesus near the Cross.

A quote gifted to me this weekend by a friend:

Hear and let it penetrate into your heart, my dear little son:

Let nothing discourage you, nothing depress you.

Let nothing alter your heart or your countenance.

Also do not fear any illness or vexation, anxiety or pain.

Am I not here who am your mother? Are you not under my shadow and protection?

Am I not your fountain of life?  Are you not in the folds of my mantle, in the crossing of my arms?

Is there anything else you need?

--Words of Our Lady of Guadalupe to St. Juan Diego on December 12, 1531

Postscript: Today I came across this excellent, accessible 7-minute video explaining what is neuroblastoma, so I share it here.