Ever since I can remember I've loved the Christmas season. From the many family traditions, social gatherings, decor, music and finding that perfect, thoughtful gift for everyone on my list. The 2021 holidays were vastly different than those that came before as this time of year marked the beginning of Benjamin's fight against cancer.
Just two days before last Christmas David tested positive for COVID and would spend the next ten days in isolation in our basement. On Christmas Day David stood masked at the top of our basement stairs while Benjamin and Ella opened their gifts in the furthest part of our kitchen so that he could watch them. That was the day our oven broke for good and in addition to the brave, happy face I was doing my best to put on for our sweet babes I had to improvise meals using the fridge and microwave. Thankfully my mother-in-law dropped off a full, warm, traditional Christmas dinner and some kind-hearted friends and family members thoughtfully pitched in, bringing freshly home-cooked meals or sending take-out to our front porch in the days that followed.
David's isolation period included my mother-in-law, a high-risk senior, coming into our COVID-infected house and caring for Ella while Benjamin and I made countless drives up and down Hospital Row at all hours as the doctors worked tirelessly to provide him with a diagnosis. Appointments, a biopsy surgery, the first mention of the possibility of Benjamin's symptoms being a form of cancer and many subsequent conversations that confirmed this, all conducted in isolation due to being close contacts of a COVID-positive person. All of these drives, all of these appointments, the surgery and the many conversations detailing my worst fears as a mother, all done without my partner, all requiring me to appear happy, strong, upbeat and finding ways to make it all feel like an exciting adventure for Benjamin, to protect him from how I was really feeling. I've never been more scared, more depleted, more exhausted, felt more isolated or more broke-hearted in my whole life.
This holiday season, nearly one year since his diagnosis, just shy of one year since beginning the fight of his life, for his life, I'm feeling bombarded by things that are triggering. Things that bring me back to those early days and weeks of when our world was completely turned upside down.
This weekend we decorated our Christmas tree as a family. As we unboxed the ornaments a vivid memory from last Christmas hit me like a tonne of bricks: It was after David's isolation period had come to an end and before we received the results of Benjamin's biopsy. It was late, the kids were long asleep and my parents had come from Ottawa to celebrate a belated Christmas Day. I was sitting on the couch in the living room beside my mum, the only light source was the warm white from the Christmas tree, and I completely broke down. I remember sobbing to her that I couldn't bring myself to think about putting away the ornaments because so many of them were Benjamin's and what if he wasn't here to celebrate with us next Christmas? I remember David being upset with me for articulating the worst case scenario, for putting that thought out loud into the universe. Upsetting him more than he already was gutted me. That time of extreme unknown was more difficult than I could ever put into words and as hard as I tried to focus on the upside, for everyone else as well as for myself, it was, and still can be, so, so hard not to slip down into the darkness.
The other week I was driving Benjamin to the hospital when he spiked a fever and again just a few days ago I was headed along the same route to meet friends at a downtown hotel which happened to be off of University Avenue, just south of Hospital Row. Both times, seeing the holiday decorations on the buildings along that street had me feeling like I couldn't breathe. My eyes immediately welled up and I was flooded with a vision of waiting for over twelve hours to see the first doctors in Emerg and how Benjamin never complained. I thought about how oblivious he was in that Ophthalmology exam room, the first time I met with an oncologist, the first time the word 'cancer' was spoken as a possibility of the root cause of Benjamin's symptoms. I thought about how before surgery when his sedation meds took effect and he tried so hard but could barely call out, "Mama", as he was being wheeled down the hallway by strangers, without me to hold his hand. I thought about how difficult it was watching him wake up from biopsy surgery - angry, confused, starving due to the preparatory fasting he had to do, in pain, not understanding where he was. I remember worrying about him thrashing his way out of the wheelchair as I wheeled him to the car post-op. I remember praying he'd fall asleep in the backseat of the car on our many late night drives home so that I'd have the chance to bawl my eyes out before having to pull it together to carry him into the house, up the stairs and tuck him into bed because the last thing he needed was to see or feel the kind of fear and heartache I was feeling. I remembered being tucked into our bed with him after surgery, holding him close as we watched Back to the Outback for the millionth time and the tears quietly streaming down my face as he sang along to Maddie's Lullaby. To this day the lyrics to that song break my heart when I think of what they could mean.
How could something like Christmas decorations, something that's supposed to brighten spirits this time of year, have the complete opposite effect? The pain and the trauma is real and it's caught me by surprise which I think has made this all the more difficult. I never know when it's going to hit or what is going to bring it on.
The things that I've found that have been helping are:
Planning holiday celebrations for us to enjoy as a family, ones that feel smaller and safer as we're still contending with a compromised immune system as a result of Benjamin's treatment.
Making time to be together in a way that's not rushed or interrupted so that we can be truly be present with one another.
Seeing things through the lens of our beautiful babes which so often means with wonder, excitement, innocence and pure joy.
Focusing on the 'What do we know right now?', something my therapist suggested that I find really helpful when I start spiralling.
Boxing, My aunt clearly knew something I didn't and thought it might help me to "punch something". I told her I felt more sad than angry but when she generously gifted me with some 1:1 sessions at her gym I quickly realized she was right. While I'm clumsy, uncoordinated and nowhere near the fitness level I'd like to be, these sessions have been a godsend. I even did a session post-chemo one day and brought Benjamin along. While I boxed, my aunt got Benjamin on the bag and into the ring!
In my heart of hearts I really do believe it's the most wonderful time of the year and I feel so lucky to have two littles who feel the same and who amplify the joy of the season. I'm hopeful that in time, when Benjamin beats this, that the triggers along with the trauma, the pain, the sadness and the heartache that follow, will begin to fade. That's the optimist in me. The realist in me knows the road ahead is long still, never-ending in fact, and that in order to be as positive as possible, I need to focus on the short-term, our immediate next steps and not all of the what-ifs. That means being aware of tough upcoming anniversaries and big treatment milestones and giving myself time and space to experience the feelings that will come. It means re-framing my thoughts to focus on how much Benjamin has overcome and achieved this past year, how his test results have been encouraging, how he's grown into the strong, brave, positive, empathetic and sweet boy that he is, how he's been an inspiration to so many, how he's so willing to share his story and participate in paving the way for those whose fight will follow.