Just Have to Wait

No words today.

Just memories by us and music by Stephen Curtis Chapman, a man who also knows the pain of losing a sweet, little girl.

Hug your babies and hold them tight.

So This Is Normal

I've spent much of the last week playing back the final moments of normalcy in our lives. Rewind. Play. Rewind. Play. Trust me, if I had a pause button I would've pressed it by now (and quite possibly would've lived in the memory of tucking Addie into her own bed for the rest of my life).

For me, normal ended at about 12:23 p.m. on March 20 when I called Scott to see how Addie's appointment went. Normal ended as he struggled to string three words together.

"Addie has leukemia."

Normal ended with a punch to the gut and a cry I've never heard come out of my mouth.

Normal ended with a little girl looking up at her mom and dad and saying, "So I have cancer?"

It came to a grinding halt as that little girl grew quiet and her mom and dad considered the road we had ahead.

I was ready for that road. 

Not this one.

I've written long and hard and late into the night, but I've chosen not to share much of that here. 

Today this is all I've got.

Quote: Dwight L. Moody

Because spending the day talking to my little girl sounds like what I need to do. And so totally normal. 

A Year Ago Today Part 2

This is the second in a collection seemingly mundane events that proved that, for a time, life was deliciously normal. Nothing earth-shattering. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just life. Normal life. You can read the first entry here.

March 12

A year ago today I hit No. 2 on speed dial as I walked toward my van after school.

It was 4 o'clock. The bus had dropped off Addie 15 minutes earlier and I liked to think she was waiting for my call. She probably wasn't. Too busy catching up on one of the shows she'd DVR'd or fiddling with the iPad.

"Hello?" she said.

"Hey, Ad. How was your day?"

"Fine."

This is where I envision her pressing pause on the remote and humoring me with the same conversation we'd have each and every day.

"What was your favorite part?"

"Ummm," she'd pause, taking a lick of the cream filling inside her Golden Oreo. "Probably math."

"Yeah, what did you do?"

"We played this review game."

Like clockwork, I'd find myself rounding the first curve south of Eagle and I knew our conversation would soon come to an end.

"OK, Ad. I'll be home in about 15 minutes. Love you."

"Love you too."

And that was pretty much it.

Five minutes of the exact same conversation day-in and day-out.

Five minutes of nothing.

And everything.

A Year Ago Today

This is the first in a collection seemingly mundane events that proved that, for a time, life was deliciously normal. Nothing earth-shattering. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just life. Normal life.

March 11

A year ago today I taught Sunday School. It was the 3-year-old class and three students showed up. Two of the three were named Addison. I remember this because I told them how easy it was going to be for me to remember their names because I had an Addison too.

I don't remember much about the lesson. OK, I don't remember anything about the lesson. I wasn't the regular teacher. Just a sub who filled in from time to time. I do remember we played with Play-Doh. At the last minute I shoved a bunch of it into my purse because I had a sneaking suspicion the two-page leaflet I was supposed to cover wasn't exactly going to take us a whole lot of time. So we rolled rocks and boulders and pancakes and snakes. Yes, snakes.

After Sunday School it was church. Isaac came out of his classroom. Then Addie. Scott and Tripp arrived a few minutes later. We grabbed a bulletin and a seat. Like always, one on the right side, one that provided easy access to an exit in the probable event that someone would need to go pottie or take a time out.

"Can I sit with my friends?" Addie asked.

You might think I spent a whole lot of time debating this question. I didn't. I just gave one of those looks that said, "you better behave, be quiet, or else (horrors) you're going to have to come back and sit with us."

A year ago today I watched as Addie settled in next to two of her friends. I watched as one friend's older sister (the one who had been put in "charge" of the trio) gave them a look that mirrored mine.  I watched them giggle and I watched them scribble notes and pictures back and forth. I watched the older sister try to keep her composure.

And now I really want to know:  what were they giggling about?

I remember wanting to ask that day, but I didn't. Nine years old. Almost 10. Time for a little independence. Privacy. This, I thought, is just a preview of what's to come.

What's to come?

As if we had any clue.

Every once in awhile I'll come across a sheet from a
Scribble Card for Little Lutherans note pad shoved deep
into the pockets of the diaper bag or hidden at the
bottom of one of Addie's drawers.