Devastated

Still ... it's been almost two months since Meg was diagnosed with cancer (http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/meghanwalker). God! My baby was diagnosed with cancer. How the f*ck can that be? Don't we have enough shit to deal with? Haven't we had our share?

I know others in the world have it much worse. Some women ache because they don't have kids. Others ache because there children were taken from them. But, it hurts ... so much ... so deep. I cry so hard that I fear I may throw up. My whole body and my entire soul are shredded, every bit in excruciating pain.

It all has to go somewhere; so, in addition to crying, I'm writing and hoping that some of the sorrow will lessen, somehow. Please, God.

Our lives are now revolving around Meg and her treatments. Before all of this, our lives seemed restrictive. Trying to plan anything with the boys was nearly impossible. As a family, we would seldom go any where. Now, that time seems filled with freedom. Planning anything now seems impossible. We can only hope and pray that our lives will change for the better when treatments are over.

But, what if? What if the treatments don't work? What if we are going down a road where we lose our only daughter? Our only (mostly) typical child? I can't go there, but it is so difficult to ignore the elephant in our tiny house. Her condition is serious. Her cancer is stage III. I've seen some survival-rate numbers, but I can't ask about them. I can't write them down. I can't acknowledge them. I can't lose my baby, but I might. How is that possible?!?!

Tank, Part II

As a baby, Meg was a spitter, a world-class, projectile spitter. Oh, my word, that girl could spit up. We grew to love the hiccups (I wanted to write "hiccoughs," the proper term, but Blogger does not like the spelling) because only that would signal that she was done spitting up. What does this have to do with Tank? Well, as gross as it sounds Tank was our Hoover. He would and could eat anything. Meg would spit up, and Tank would clean up the floor (thank goodness for laminate floors), the furniture, and Meg herself. Any time, day or night, that tongue of his would do its job. It made our lives much easier. And, yes, we employed his services during Jake and Finn's infancy as well.


Before we had chosen Tank, Brian and I had visited the Marymoor off-leash dogpark a couple of times; we wanted to be around dogs and figure out the breed that would work for us. Once we brought home Tank, we couldn't wait to take him. For his safety and the safety of the other dogs, we had to wait. By October, Tank was finally ready for his first trip; he was fixed and had all of his shots. We bundled up Meghan, loaded up Tank, and off we went. Tank LOVED the dogpark. He could run free and meet other dogs and people. Unfortunately, he wasn't trained yet and would jump on almost anybody. Almost. One of the sweetest qualities about Tanker was his attitude towards children. He would run up to them and beg to be petted, but he would never jump on them. He was always gentle, almost reverent, of the youngest child.


His favorite part, though, was the river and mud, especially the mud. After running and playing, he was tired and a bit hot so he found the deepest patch of mud and lowered his light golden body into the stinky, cool mud. Choruses of "no-o-o-o!" could be heard throughout the part. They continued when he though it would only be proper to roll in the mud and thoroughly cover himself. Only a dog.


The strange thing was that the mud only stuck to his fur momentarily. He has always had a knack for looking clean even after drenching himself in filth.


Tank didn't want to leave the park. The only way we could get him to the car was by playing a little game. Brian would go ahead of us to the side of the path back to the car, squat down and call Tank, while I would encourage him with "Go to Papa!" Then I would go ahead on the other side of the path and Brian would yell "Go to Mama!" We zig-zagged him all the way back to the parking lot. We originally tried staying on the path, but that didn't work. Too smart for that.

Tank is the little guy with his butt facing the camera.

When Meg was one month old, we decided to take her and Tank to Sunset, a Mount Rainier viewing point on the north side of the mountain, a three-hour drive. It was a glorious day in October, and I am slightly embarrassed to say that I only agreed because of Brian's prodding. He's much more adventurous than I am. My memory of the time has faded. I don't remember much more than it being a lovely day. We hiked and played and took pictures.

I mentioned before that Tank could blend into our flooring. Here's a sweet photo of him doing just that in our hallway on Halloween, 1999. He's about 4-1/2 months old.

Next, a cross-country trip ...

Two milestones

Last Friday, Finn had his appointment with the nutritionist. He is no longer being tracked on the preemie baby graph. He has moved to the typical baby graph. She also decided that he is ready for solids. Feeding him rice cereal is hilarious. With his excessive drooling, he ends up with more on him than I make. More of a learning experience than actual nutrition.

Tomorrow is a most important day. 10 years ago on March 16th at 8:28 p.m., Meghan Jessica entered the world at Overlake Hospital in Bellevue, Washington. She was 3.5 weeks early and weighed 5 lbs, 3oz. Born with attitude and hunger, we called her a suckerfish since she would eat or suck on a finger for hours. Meggy is enchanting and innocent, loving and troubled. She loves deeply and fears pain. She is the definition of someone who marches to their own drum, but still she wants to be accepted.

I remember the time that she decided she wanted to know more about Jesus. We had just turned onto Novelty Hill Road from Snoqualmie Valley. I explained everything to her. She wanted to pray, but not yet. Hours later at bedtime was her chosen time, and we did it together. Meg always does better no pressure and time to think.

She would rather play than talk, growl than cry, draw than copy. At times our home resembles Krakatoa erupting when we clash -- too often, I know. But, those other times ... Meg and I cuddle. She still calls me Mama or Mommy. We call her Baby; even her beloved Gima calls her baby. She doesn't flinch at the name but always responds. If someone adds an article, she will adamantly reply that she is not a baby. And, she's right; she isn't. But, she is my baby and always will be.