On July 11th, I turned thirty. Yup, the big 3-0. Of my close group of friends I'm the last one to hit this big milestone. It kind of snuck up on me. Since our lives became so chaotic with diagnoses, treatments, grief, birth and relapse, birthdays seem to slip down the totem poll of priorities. Plus, Lochlan's first birthday is coming up and that seems way more interesting than my 30th.
But, being that I have amazing friends whom I've known since elementary and middle school, they took me out and we had a blast! We went bowling - an activity where the worse you are, the more fun you have as it is increasingly evident that you are never going to become a professional bowler, or even manage to get a score past the double digits. We laughed 'til we cried, and stayed out way past my bedtime, and never once questioned each other about where we were "headed" in life.
Birthdays seem to give you a realization that you are actually older than you were the day before - even if you don't feel like it. I realized that in just 30 years I have experienced things that many people don't see until they are 60 or 70, if at all, in their life. Sure, I have a lot of friends my age who have gotten married, bought a house and had a couple kids. That's pretty par for the course. But it's this damn cancer thing that's pushed me beyond the typical and forced me to face the reality of life and how short it is before most people my age even think about death as a tangible possibility.
While I'm very sure that the world is going to be stuck with me for quite some time yet (let's face it - I'm too stubborn to let cancer have it's way), loosing a child is something that I'm sure has shaved a few years off the endpoint of my life. The basic stress that it puts on someone mentally just can't be measured. (Well, I'm sure some neuroscientist out there has some theory...) But I think even more than that, it is alienating. Not to everyone, and not completely, but you become an enigma in most circumstances that leaves you wanting for the "normal" encounters that you used to have with the rest of the world. (Enter the AWESOME world of Camp Sunshine! where I'm pretty sure we all wish we could live full time as a commune of like minded "crazies.") Life's little "problems" become petty, and tolerance for ignorance, stupidity, and bullshit becomes pretty much nil. You suddenly become "enlightened" to the fact that the phrase "life sucks, and then you die" is pretty much spot on, and you might as well do things that mater and leave the rest alone.
So.... At the ripe old age of 30, I have done some things I had always wanted to, some that I never wanted to, and some that I never dreamed I'd do. I've faced challenges while laughing, cried tears while escaping, and managed to get out of bed every day. And while life is far from perfect, and - let's face it - often far from fair, if I'm going to be kicking around for another 30+ years, I better do some things that are pretty amazing while I'm here.
This past weekend we attended bereavement week at Camp Sunshine on Sebago Lake in Maine. This was our first time attending camp there, and I wasn't sure what to expect. It was hard to go - I wasn't sure if it was going to be all sadness and talking about feelings and sitting in conversations about death and dying and suffering. Nothing is farther from the truth!
When we arrived, we were greeted by smiling faces, giant bears, and tons of energy. I wasn't sure what to make of it. I must have looked stunned and terrified at the same time. We went in to register and they gave us our info - we were the only family this weekend that had never been to camp before. Immediately I felt alone - and scared. Everyone would know each other, and we would be alone. that was my fear. We got checked in, found our room, got a ton of help moving all our stuff in (we had water, snacks, tons of pillows, sheets and towels - that's how it works - it's kind of like camping; you bring everything with you). Once we got settled, we headed up to dinner. The first night we had assigned seating and were put with a family that we didn't know (there were two families there that we knew locally - not from treatment, but from after). A wonderfully sweet volunteer sat with us. She told us about herself and about camp. It was good to have someone to start the conversation. After, there was a brief orientation, and some singing, we were off to try and settle in for the night - still not sure what the next day would bring.
Friday was a new day for me. I was ready to try and make the best of everything and meet some more people. We had a short orientation, and the kids went off to their day camp activities. Then the adults had activities - games; crazy, silly, goofy games. We were broken up - no spouses together - and set into groups of strangers. But here was the funny part - these strangers didn't think I was crazy; they didn't think I was shy; they didn't look at me with fear in their eyes. We were all in the same boat - we had all watched as our children suffered and then died horrible deaths - we were all the same - there, we were all normal; no longer "different."
And that's when it happened - I truly, completely relaxed. I didn't have to hide anything; I couldn't shock them with my stories, and they wouldn't run and hide in fear of it happening to them, because it already had. A weight lifted off my shoulders. I could be free and open - I could be me.
Each day we had a parent group session, where we all shared our stories, an talked about our fears, concerns, questions, and sadness. But it wasn't all sad - it was support. We got to hear what others were doing, how others were doing, and that we weren't crazy. And we made so many new friends - friends that we will never ask us if we are "over it," or if we think she's in a "better place." Friends that get it and that will always get it.
We will definitely be going back.
oh yah... karaoke!
