breast cancer, life, Uncategorized

It all began two years ago

 

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It just hit me…today is a cancerversary.

Two years ago today, I saw my OBGYN during my lunch break of PD week. It was a Tuesday. My appointment was at 11:30.

It was that Tuesday when I found out the lump in my left breast, the lump I’d ignored and worried about, was concerning and my doctor scheduled a mammogram and ultrasound for me. I sat in my car, numb, and sobbed for nearly an hour. I distinctly remember saying over and over “Please don’t let me have breast cancer. Please don’t let me become another statistic. Please don’t let me have breast cancer. Please let me live to see my children grow up. Please don’t let this be cancer. I’ll do anything.” Then, I called A and cried some more. Then, I took a deep breath, drove my car back to work, wiped my eyes, fixed my make up, put a fake smile on my face, and walked into my school for the afternoon in service session. I apologized for being a few minutes late, the new teacher no one knew.

I don’t remember a single thing from the rest of that afternoon or evening.

We all know how this turns out…pleas were not answered. I became a statistic…the 1 in 227 who develop breast cancer in their 30s.

I hate this roller coaster. I hate cancer. I hate it for making me believe I will not see my children become adults. I hate it for convincing me I will not grow old with A. I hate it for whispering to my scumbag brain that everything I put in my mouth is going to make the cancer come back. I hate it for making me believe I can do no right, that I am a pawn who can and will be sacrificed at any moment. I hate it for causing me to cringe when I look in the mirror. I hate it for making me belittle myself every single morning when I step on the scale and see my weight has creeped back up, and don’t you know weight gain makes cancer come back, especially to your bones (Yes, someone actually said this to me.)?

I hate you, cancer. I hate what you took from me, from my husband, from our children, from my parents, from my nephew, from my cousins, from my aunts, from my in-laws. You took me, the me I once was, from them, and more, you might just take me away from them.

I hate you for what you’ve done, for the fears and the tears.

Two years ago today, cancer changed who I am, fundamentally and forever.

And, cancer, I hate you for it. Loathe you. Despise you.

Screw you.

breast cancer, life, teaching, Uncategorized

Passion and Profession

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I love my job. I make a difference with what I do, I give back to my community with what I do, and I do what I’m meant to do. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt I’m meant to be a teacher and teach at the school where I’m employed. Teaching is my passion, even when it sucks because the paperwork piled up, stacks of essays grew, students complained, and I’m out of coffee.

Four years ago today, I sat in my car, preparing for an interview for my first out-of-the-classroom job -an instructional facilitator position where I would work with teachers and students across the district. It was a fabulous opportunity.  I was excited.

I interviewed, they hired me, and I spent two years in that position. I liked what I did. I was good at what I did. I made some amazing friends doing what I did. I met awesome teachers doing what I did, but oh, how much I missed being a teacher. I modeled lessons sometimes, and on those days, it struck me how much I missed teaching day in and day out.

Deciding to go back into the classroom was easy. It’s a choice I do not regret, just like I do not regret working as a facilitator. It took leaving the classroom for me to realize the classroom was where I was meant to be. I always thought I’d teach for awhile and move into administration later, but I know now, four years to the day when I walked out of a classroom, I’m meant to stay in the classroom. I can do other things. I don’t want to do other things. I want to continue giving, facilitating, leading students. It’s my calling, my passion, and I’m very good at what I do.

I’m glad I walked out of the classroom four years ago because those experiences led me right back into it. I’m better for those experiences, those learning opportunities.

The 2017-2018 school year begins next week for me, and I’m ready for it, eager. I have no lesson plans done yet. My classroom is a wreck from the construction at my campus this summer. I’m in no way prepared for the school year, but I will be. It’ll be frustrating and time consuming, but that’s okay.

I’m ready to go back, to do things a little differently, to work hard, to be better. I hate giving up my long days with S and AJ, but truthfully, they’re ready to go back, too.

I want to go into this year celebrating the possibilities. Every new school year is a blank slate, a new chapter (cliches abound!), and I’m ready to start writing. I want to forget that August holds some rough anniversaries, some terrible memories. I want to remind myself Augusts are full of new beginnings, and the best thing I can do for myself is to celebrate the new school year, to look forward to it, to be eager for it because that’s one more way I can say to cancer, “Hey, screw you.”

So, 2017-2018, let’s get going. I’m ready for you.

 

 

breast cancer, Uncategorized

Reconstruction Reflection

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I’ve sat down to write this post several times since late last night. Then, I allow myself to be distracted. Cancerversaries approach. Surgery anniversaries approach.

One year ago today, at this time, I was into my first hour of my DIEP reconstruction, of having myself put back together using other parts of me…a little bit like Frankenstein’s Monster but with my own skin and blood and fat.

Sometimes I feel a little bit like a monster, scars and stitches, tough skin and thin skin, discolorations and spots.

Last year, I REALLY did not want to do the DIEP reconstruction. I just wanted to be done with the intensity of cancer. A friend texted me the night before the surgery and reminded me all I had to do was show up. So, I showed up. I had the DIEP reconstruction. I came home with drains, incisions, stitches, and glue. I did not come home happy to be done because cancer is never really done. At this point last year, I still had three Herceptin treatments and an oophorectomy in front of me, at the very least.

It’s been a long time since I felt normal, truly, deeply normal. That’s partially why I began getting tattoos. If I can’t be who I was before cancer, I can be the person I want to be with cancer. I saw my dermatologist last Friday afternoon for my yearly skin check. He commented on my “musical” inspired tattoos. I didn’t correct him because all of my tattoos do have a music note-esque look to them. I’m already planning my next one…a Harry Potter one, probably on my left shoulder or left ribcage. I don’t have very much feeling on my left ribcage from the DIEP, so that’s appealing.

The DIEP began to put me back together, and looking back on it, I don’t regret it. I regret the fact I had to have it. I don’t regret the scars. I regret what mandated the scars. I do miss the things breast cancer stole…my breasts, my ovaries, my happy. Sometimes, I really do miss pre-cancer, hypochondriac me.

I accept what I’ve endured. I accept I may not live to see my children grow up, to grow old with A. I also rage against that which necessitates acceptance.

Reconstruction, to rebuild. I’m still rebuilding.

Maybe I’ll always be under construction.

breast cancer, family, kids, life, Uncategorized

It’s a Mystery

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I’ve always liked that line from Shakespeare in Love, “I don’t know…it’s a mystery.”

Henslowe: Mr. Fennyman, allow me to explain about the theatre business. The natural condition is one of insurmountable obstacles on the road to imminent disaster.
Fennyman: So what do we do?
Henslowe: Nothing. Strangely enough, it all turns out well.
Fennyman: How?
Henslowe: I don’t know. It’s a mystery.

Henslowe could be describing life instead of “the theater business,” as he puts it.

That line, “I don’t know…it’s a mystery,” is one of A’s favorites as well. He believes things work out the way they’re supposed to, and in my moments of fear and frustration, he plays Henslowe to my Fennyman.

This morning was one of those his Henslowe to my Fennyman moments.

I leave with S and AJ tomorrow on our road trip vacation. I panicked this morning over it. Until this morning, it’s been months since I had a true, full on, panic attack, but this morning? Bam! Tears falling, teeth chattering, breath speeding. I felt like I had so much to do. I didn’t know where to start. I’m nervous about being on the road alone with the kids. I’m worried they’re going to be bored and hate the trip I’ve planned. It all just crept up on me. Out of nowhere.

I’m grateful A knows what to do, what to say. Never once did he say, “Calm down!” Instead, it was, “Take a deep breath. Now another one.” Never once did he say, “Stop it! You’re fine!” Instead, it was, “You’ve planned this trip out as much as you can. Would you like for me to go through and put in some other places to for you to stop along the way?” Never once did he say, “If you feel like you’ve got too much to do, just start somewhere.” Instead, it was, “You go to the store with S for snacks to keep in the car. I will take AJ and have your car cleaned. You and S go to the bookstore and get something for you to read on the beach or at stops and something for the kids to read in the car. I will look at what you’ve organized and double check everything is here.”

Fennyman: So what do we do?
Henslowe: Nothing. Strangely enough, it all turns out well.
Fennyman: How?
Henslowe: I don’t know. It’s a mystery.

By 8:00 pm tonight, suitcases were packed, snacks were sorted, don’t-be-bored bag for the kids was stuffed, and all was loaded into the back of my car. We leave in 10 hours. I wish A could come with us, but I know he’s looking forward to starting his new job…and having time alone to decompress with the world conquerer computer game he plays and whatever show he’s binge-watching on Netflix.

One of the things I told A this morning, in the throes of running tears and chattering teeth, was that I’m afraid this is the last vacation I’ll ever take the kids on because of cancer. Thank you, scumbag brain, for that gloriously horrible thought. 

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Found on quickmeme…no infringement intended

 Instead of getting angry, A said, “First of all, no. You don’t get to fixate on something like that. Tell your brain to STFU. Second of all, let’s say, because you like to play what if, let’s say it is. What an amazing amount of memories you all are going to make driving and being silly, singing songs, and watching the scenery pass by, as you all carriage or trolley ride through New Orleans, play on the beach in Destin, and hike in the Smoky Mountains. You think those aren’t memories of a lifetime? Tell me that some of your best memories aren’t of the road trips you went on as a kid with your grandparents, and I’ll call you a liar. I know the stories. I’ve heard them from you. Your grandfather dying of lung cancer and your grandmother dying of melanoma didn’t do anything to those memories.”

Found on GIPHY, and since A is from NYC, a Yankee hitting a homerun seems apropos.

I’m still nervous, but A is right. Things work out. It’s a mystery. We’ll get up in 10 hours, and we’ll begin the first leg of our trip. It’s going to be fun, an adventure.

I hope.

 

breast cancer, family, kids, life, Uncategorized

Time

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We know the saying, no one is promised tomorrow, and for those who survive a life threatening event, we know, deeply, truly know, the certainty of that saying. No one is promised tomorrow.

Knowing doesn’t stop planning and hoping, though.

When I was diagnosed, A and I made a promise to each other once we knew I would need the full cancer cocktail of chemo and surgery with the possibility of radiation and a full year of targeted therapy. We promised ourselves a vacation with our children once treatment and surgeries were done. We promised we would take them to the beach and let the sand, the water, the experience heal us…heal me. So, we planned it for mid-July, this July. Of course, the best laid plans have a tendency to blow up, and ours are no exception.

A starts a new job next week, the week of our vacation. He loves where he worked and the job he did, but his commute took an hour to an hour and a half, each way; his new job is less than thirty minutes from our house. His new job is one he’s excited for, and it is a great opportunity for him. He’s so passionate about his field and the impact it has. He’s excited to begin his new job even though his first day is the second day of our vacation. We knew, when he accepted the offer, it meant our vacation might be postponed. That’s fine. That’s life. But A, being A, wants us, me and the kids, to go. So, we’re going. Me, S, and AJ. It also means we can spend a little more time on our road trip to the beach.

My grandparents, my mother’s parents, owned an RV, and every summer, until my grandfather was too sick from lung cancer, he and my grandmother took me, my sister, and our two cousins on a road trip. I saw a lot of the southern and midwestern states thanks to them. Some of my most cherished memories of my grandfather, my Papa, come from those road trips -eating pie at 2 in the morning with him at a truck stop in Oklahoma while everyone else in the RV slept; staying at a campground in Missouri with a fishing pond and catching our dinner; pulling my first loose tooth after coming home from a long, looping trip.

We don’t own an RV. I’m not setting out to go wherever the open road leads, but I am going to take my children on a road trip and take them to see parts of the country they’ve never seen. I’ve added a stop in New Orleans for us. I’ve never been there, they’ve never been there, we have the time, so why not stop and sightsee, eat beignets, and ride the streetcars? From there, we head to Destin for a few days of beaching, snorkeling, and lazing. Then, there’s coming home.

One of my most favorite places is the Great Smoky Mountains. I think I’m going to take a Papa sized detour coming home and take S and AJ to spend a day or two in Gaitlinburg so they can see the majesty of the mountains.

When I was diagnosed, one of my biggest fears was that S and AJ would remember me only as sick, that cancer would taint and wreck their lives, and yes, my children have dealt with stuff kids shouldn’t deal with -worrying their mother is going to die -but it hasn’t wrecked them. We don’t allow my cancer to shadow over them, and ultimately, that’s why we’re taking this road trip, why A insisted I go with the kids. It’s a chance to make deep, lasting memories, to be free from the shadow of cancer, to rest.

To have the time to heal, even if it’s only a little bit.

It’s time, precious time together.

breast cancer, life, Uncategorized

Me

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I walk every night now. I walk at least 30 minutes, a fast-pace. I walk in our neighborhood and take in the beauty of nature, like the photo above. It’s the lake my neighborhood backs up to, and my reward, after I’ve walked, is to sit right there at the lake’s edge, to watch the water, to listen to the ducks.

The self-care challenge I’m doing encourages taking a walk once a week.

I feel guilty now if I don’t do it every night.

When I saw Dr. O last week, she switched me to Arimidex and warned me of all the side effects, the joint pain and the bone loss. I saw her nurse practitioner first, and I brought up my oophorectomy. I asked if I needed to switch from tamoxifen. Her nurse practitioner balked a little at switching me. Tamoxifen decreases bone loss. Arimidex increases bone loss. She talked about balancing quality of life with staving off a reoccurrence. Arimidex is better at reducing reoccurrence, though, and that’s my sticking point. There’s no quality of life for me to manage if the cancer reoccurs. The NP grabbed Dr. O, who agreed with me -it’s time for Arimidex. I have to go back in September for a bone density test and blood work.

Whatever. I just want the best shot of surviving.

So, I’ve been on it for a week. My ankle joints hurt some, but truthfully, they’ve hurt for over a year. I’ve severely sprained both of them at least once in the last three years. I’d be shocked if they didn’t hurt. It tends to happen at night when I lay down and when I first wake up in the morning.

The one point Dr. O stressed was walking. She told me the more walking I do as exercise, the better it is for me and my bones. I walk or swim every day now.

I’m working on me, my emotional self and my physical self.

Truthfully? This is the best I’ve felt, physically, in a long time.

Emotionally, the self care challenge helps. I ran across the quote on Pinterest and snort laughed because I need to see it every day:

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Found on Pinterest. No infringement intended.

That’s my daily reminder to myself. I have to give myself pep talks. Cancer sucks, sometimes things suck, but you have a beautiful family, amazing friends, a job you freaking love, and for today, no cancer. Don’t fixate on what-if. Listen to A and don’t let worry steal your joy. You got this.

Maybe it’s lame, but, for now, it works. Walking and just taking time for me works.

For today, that’s good enough.

breast cancer, life, Uncategorized

Travesty

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The Senate released its version of the AHCA this morning.

Everyone in the US should be horrified. It does the same despicable things as the House version.

Tax cuts for the wealthy on the backs of of every other American.

On the backs of cancer patients.

On the backs of the disabled.

On the backs of the poor.

On the backs of the elderly.

On the backs of the chronically ill.

On the backs of children.

On the backs of those who need protection.

I have employer provided health insurance. I have had insurance my entire life. I went from my mom’s plan to my plan. For seventeen years, I’ve paid for my health insurance, for fifteen years the only times I needed it were pregnancies, but when I developed breast cancer, I knew my insurance could not drop me, could not refuse to cover treatments and surgeries, and it could not enforce an arbitrary financial cap or limit as insurance companies did prior to the ACA. Fun fact: My insurance had a million dollar lifetime cap prior to the ACA.

Chemo: $2000+ per round. I had eight rounds.

Herceptin: $400 per round. I had 11 single rounds.

Bilateral mastectomy with auxiliary lymph nodes dissection: $75k+

28 sessions of radiation: $111k

Reconstruction: 80k+

Tamoxifen: $8 a month for 16 months

Arimidex: $12 a month, just started, God willing, I will be on for 120 months

Now, some basic math.

Chemo-estimated total cost: $16k

Herceptin: $4400

Bilat Mx: $75k

Rads: $111k

Recon: $80k

Tamoxifen-estimated total cost: $128

Arimidex: (estimated for 10 years) $1440

Estimated total for treatment for Stage 2 ER+/HER2+ IDC BC: $208k+

Thanks to the ACA and my employer provided health insurance, I paid a little under 10k out of pocket…that was my maximum. I didn’t see a bill for anything above because I hit my out of pocket max from port surgeries, biopsies, MRIs, ultrasounds, mammograms, and pathologies. However, NONE of that takes into account the money I spent out of pocket on specialist copays, ovary removal day surgery, X-rays, scans, or the little things I’ve forgotten.

Republicans, the Senate, and the House, through these bills, make it clear they believe those who develop life threatening medical conditions are not deserving of consumer protections from the health care industry. EVERYONE, except, I guess the uber wealthy, was one medical emergency or medical catastrophe away from being financially wrecked prior to the ACA. What moral, ethical, or logical reason is there for us to return to that kind of system?

I posed that question to my senators. I’ve called Senators Cornyn’s and Cruz’s DC offices at least twice a week, if not more, since the House bill passed. I’m on a first name basis with one of Cruz’s DC staffers. I’ve faxed. I’ve emailed. I’ve cried on the phone with their staffers, asking them to explain to me why my life is worth less than someone who hasn’t become ill…yet.

Yet.

Do Republicans truly believe they will not develop illnesses or conditions?

I truly, 100% believed I would NEVER develop breast cancer. I knew the statistics, 1 in 8 women, but I TRULY believed I would NEVER be that one. My family has NO history of ANY female related cancers. Lung cancer? Yes. My grandfathers smoked like chimneys in a northern winter. Colon cancer? Yes. Get screenings, folks. Colonoscopies save lives. Melanoma? Yes, and a rare one at that -my grandmother died from metastasized OCULAR melanoma. Breast cancer? Nope…not until me.

I was arrogant. I was selfish. I was smug.

Karma decided to say hi to me at 37 years old.

If you truly believe I must have done something wrong to develop breast cancer, get off my blog. No one does anything wrong who develops cancer.

If you read this and decide to be smug like I once was, may the force be with you because the American Cancer Society says 1 in 2 Americans will develop cancer in their lifetime.

If you read this and support the GOP and the AHCA, I’d like for you to take a minute and read the letter I sent to Senator Cornyn, and I’d like for you to be sure you’re okay with your answer to my closing statement of my letter. No one will know your answer but yourself. Make sure you’re good with it. I’ve also included his canned reply.

 

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I think his reply answers my statement. To him and the GOP, breast cancer makes me less.

But, I am not less, and I will call his and Cruz’s offices…again and again.

I will continue sharing my story because I know there are thousands like me.

I’ve shared my story with Indivisible, with other senators, and with The New York Times.

Wisdom. Compassion. Courage.

The three moral qualities of humanity.

Where is yours?

 

 

breast cancer, family, kids, life, Uncategorized

In the quiet

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My mind is quieter tonight. I sit here, reclined in our bed while A sleeps, and though Dr. O was adamant about me getting more sleep, my mind works, processing today.

I remain no evidence of disease.

Another 20-week reprieve.

Monday night, one of my best friends texted me this reminder

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It struck me, the truth in her words, the truth in the privilege of the word “get.”

I’m alive.

What a privilege it is.

Summer appointments are hard because it was this time in 2015 when my gut began screaming at me that something was not right with the hard knot I could feel in my left breast. I ignored my gut until August when I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I wonder if I would have called Dr. B if I had not raised my left arm to towel dry my hair that fateful August evening and noticed, with horror, undeniable physical proof something was not right with my left breast. I called Dr. B the next morning. In that moment, my breast cancer roller coaster ride began.

Thanks to Dr. O, I get to be here, for now, and for now is enough. As one of my longtime mentors reminded me when I was first diagnosed, something each day has to be enough, even the smallest thing. That’s gratitude.

I know, come November, my mind is likely to do to me then what it’s done to me over the last three weeks, what I’ve allowed it to do to me. I understand I allow it. I’m not sure how to cope or overcome it. Maybe accepting it, my fear, is enough. I am scared breast cancer will be the end of my story. Appointments with my doctors might always bring up my fears. I have to accept that.

I felt silly at my appointment today. In one hand, I clutched a small, rough amethyst. In my other, I clutched a small chunk of clear quartz. It helped, though, having those in my hands. I rubbed my thumbs along side their edges, smooth and rough, something tangible to concentrate on, to use for stress and anxiety relief. My version of fidget cubes.

My bloodwork was completely, totally, boringly normal. No evidence of anything. No more anemia. No more borderline bad liver numbers. Just normal bloodwork for a 39 years old woman.

I have to go back in September for more bloodwork and scans. Dr. O switched me from tamoxifen to arimidex today. Bone density tests. Vitamin D levels. When I texted my friend with that update, she replied IMG_1823

 

 

 

Get to go.

Privilege.

Life.

I get to spend more time with A, S, and AJ, who buried his head in my neck and wrapped his arms around my shoulders when I told them I saw my cancer doctor for a check up and I’m no evidence of disease.

“I love you, Momma,” AJ whispered.

I kissed his forehead. I got to kiss his forehead.

I get to be with them.

Privilege.

Life.

As I fall asleep tonight, its with these thoughts. My mind processes. My heart grateful.

breast cancer, family, life, Uncategorized

Superlative

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I don’t make friends easily. I’m not gregarious or outgoing. If I’m at a house party with people I don’t know well, or don’t really want to know well, I’m likely to be off playing with their dog or cat. If they don’t have a pet, I’m likely sitting off somewhere reading the book stashed in my purse or downloaded to my phone.

I don’t trust others easily. I’m suspicious by nature. I tend to look for the worst, to believe the worst. I’m doubtful. It makes me difficult. I recognize this flaw in me. I know it’s a flaw.

We all have flaws.

Fortunately, I’m lucky enough to know people who were willing to break through my shell, my true and dearest friends. They are a small but mighty (and sometimes motley) group.

Tonight, three of us met for dinner. It’s been hard for us to find a time that works, but my friends know I see Dr. O tomorrow for a 20-week check up, and despite having other things to do, the two of them made time for me tonight. As Ash said tonight, “You’d do the same thing for either of us.” Then, she made it clear, I will not go to my appointment tomorrow alone. She will come with me. I didn’t ask. I didn’t have to ask.

These two are my sisters, not of blood, but of love and choice. We are a small, but mighty group.

And, I don’t know what I would do without them. I treasure their friendship.

I treasure them.

family, kids, life, Uncategorized

4,730,400

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Nine years ago, A and I welcomed an 8 lbs, 7 ozs, 19 inches long, blue eyed, brown haired little boy into our family.

AJ was about as planned as a baby could be planned. Summer baby so I wouldn’t miss school. Scheduled c-section since he was breech. Birth exactly 8 weeks before teachers returned for the new school year. Planned.

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Of course, we know, “the best laid-plans of mice and men often go awry,” and while everything went as planned on June 18, 2008, after that was proof the best-laid plans can, and do, blow up in your face.

Since S had GERD, we were on high alert with AJ, and as his sister, and his father, and his grandmother, and his great-grandfather, AJ had reflux. We knew how to handle it. What we didn’t know how to handle was a baby who spit up everything. Every. Thing. All. The. Time.

He was a few weeks old when our pediatrician suspected there was more to AJ’s reflux than just typical spitty baby. Pyloric stenosis, he told us was his suspicion. Off to the hospital we went for an ultrasound. The ultrasound showed AJ was thisclose to PS, but the muscle thickening was just under the measurement threshold. So, we watched and measured. We used towels for burp rags. He slept in his swing for 2 hour stretches. Our pediatrician refered us to a specialist.

A pediatric gastrointestinal specialist saw AJ, put him on a formula available by prescription only, and sent us back to our pediatrician. The specialist suspected a protein intolerance. If he was right, the Neocate would help.

It took a few weeks, but, by the time the new school year began, AJ was better. He gained weight. He began to sleep better, sleep longer. By October, I remember thinking, “so this is what it’s like to have a baby that doesn’t spit up out of his mouth and nose.”

Baby AJ blew up all our plans for an easy summer baby. We were fools. When A and I think back to AJ’s babyhood, we laugh because man, we were such fools.

And, man, did those first 525,600 minutes go fast.

We survived his babyhood, his toddlerhood, and now, we watch with pride and trepidation as AJ ventures through childhood. He’s stubborn with a smart mouth. He’s kind and carries the weight of the world on his shoulders sometimes. He’s shy and silly. He loves his family, his cats, his Pokémon cards, and his Minecraft games.

 

It’s been 4,730,400 minutes with AJ in our lives. Almost five million minutes.

9 years measured in first words, first steps, first sentences. First day of preschool, of kindergarten, of first grade and second. Three seasons of soccer. Hundreds of Pokémon cards. Countless games of Go Fish and Connect 4. Innumerable questions, bad jokes, and silly puns. Museums and musicals and aquariums and zoos and parks. Miles walked holding my hand, or his dad’s, or his sister’s. Laughter and tears. Anger and happiness. Exasperation. Gratitude.

Four million, seven hundred thirty thousand, four hundred minutes.

Nine years.

Happy birthday.

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