It was the night after chemo, and my Bear had something creative due the next day that he needed a hand with. Ever since my treatment began last year, I have had a hard time keeping up with life and details and helping the children with their homework. I completely fell apart.
“I’m so done.” I cried to Brian. “How am I supposed to do this? All this? Feel this horrible and help my kiddos with all the million things that school requires? Help you with parenting? All I do is fail.”
Yes. I was overreacting (I’m good at that), ingesting the self-pity that often accompanies pain, and it tasted good to vent.
My Bear overheard and came running into the room. Diving onto the bed, he crashed into my arms.
“Oh, Mom!” he nestled into me, “You’re not a failure. You’re the last thing from a failure. You’re the Queen. You’re the Queen of Cancer. Who else has beaten it four times and is beating it again? AND you love us. You’re the best mom ever.”
I wept in the arms of my boy, even as tears blur the screen while I am writing this.
Chemo and cancer are so hard, y’all. I have been mostly flat on my back since treatment last week and the things I am able to do require careful planning and lots of help. I’ve missed work and sobbed in the arms of one of my co-workers when I showed up but had to leave. My parents have been up to help three times, once at the last minute when I was dizzy and curled up in pain. Brian has been single parenting most nights, remodeling our bathroom and just looks so tired. A friend had to drive me home from church after I had been there 20 minutes this past Sunday.
Instead of raging in anger at this as I sometimes do, I find myself discouraged and despairing and the tears flow easily. This is not the life I wanted and I struggle to see the beauty in this.
Tonight I sat reading our friend, Zach’s, blog and wept some more. He wrote, “…hope for my circumstances to change has become hope for his glory regardless of them.” I was undone. I ache for my circumstances to change, to get all the balls I’ve dropped back in the air and juggling seamlessly again, for cancer to disappear forever, for energy to reenter my body… but that’s not the ultimate goal. Even more I ache for Jesus. I want to see Him in this. But even as I long to see Him, the beauty is that He sees me in this. He loves me for who I am. His child.
And He uses beautiful boys with dimpled grins and strong arms to show me… my children don’t care what I do, they care about who I am. They don’t love me for how organized I keep my home or how creative I am with homework or lunches or Christmas decorating. They love me because I’m Mom… They see me for me. Just like their Father does (well, both Brian and their Father in Heaven).
I’m here. I’m with them.
And that’s enough.
And besides… apparently, I’m a queen.