Sidney’s Homecoming

From Home with Love …

We are home.

All of us.  Together.  Home on our hill.

Sidney and I crept up the driveway on a Saturday evening, two weeks ago.  No one knew we were coming home early.  They were all busy preparing for Rachel’s 13th birthday party, which was the same day.

The evening was full of surprises.  The family got a son and brother home.   The coming-home son got his own surprise — an almost finished room in the basement.  One by one, as aunts and grandmas arrived, each walked into the living room, not expecting to see the one they were missing.

It was a good evening.

 

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Another Day, Another Transfusion

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Sidney has finished his chemo treatments for pineoblastoma.  He is in the recovery phase.  All that chemo beat up his bone marrow, and he needed blood and platelet transfusions to build his body back up.  We are hopeful that he will not need any more blood.  Today, he got a platelet transfusion.  Platelets often look like orange juice.

Sidney’s 18th birthday is March 13th, and we are hoping to be back home celebrating by then.

Friends soothe a sore heart

(from Memphis with love . . .)

 

Being away from home is hard.  Cancer, sickness, endless hours in the hospital are hard.

But the darkness cannot encompass us with good friends who shine light and joy.

Sidney particularly bonded with Marco.  Marco finished treatments and went back home to Canada.  Before he left, Sidney and I took Marco and his mama to a Sonic.  Apparently, there are wild rumors in Canada about the awesome milkshakes of Sonics in America.  I don’t think our Canadian friends were disappointed.

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Sidney cozied up to this cutie today.  Sweet Camille has turned a corner and is clearly feeling better.  She was interested in Sidney Nintendo, so he showed her Animal Crossing, but she seemed to spend almost as much time . . .

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doing this — sweeping her eyes up to look at Sidney.  It was precious.

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Camille — a bright, happy moment in our day.

Redemption

ticktock

sounds like the End

or Redemption,

maybe they are the same thing

ticktock

I am the mouse running . . . nowhere

marking the calendar, scheduling bloodwork, MRIs, lumbar punctures, chemo,

crossing off these days

longing for The Day.

 

I have my Son here whom I cherish,

Together, we make a doctrine of our present, amputated life

with music and new friends.

We make happy in the moment

but sorrow nudges our periphery,

stretching to a hazy horizon,

a destination where I hope to find

the Father, another Son, a red-haired Daughter, a brown-eyed Daughter.

 

So far away

yet close

sorrow and hope entwined.

You are my bones, breath and blood.  I spill You from my pen

onto my little notebook

while I sit in waiting rooms.

I talk to You in the shower, driving to the store, taking out trash.

All my Words, spoken and written to You, for You, about You.

Perhaps I try to speak You into being

here with me.

 

Your Absence is as real to me

as the person standing beside me in this borrowed kitchen

while I stir the cabbage.

 

Perhaps I hear Your Absence louder

than Your Presence  —

I hope not.

I hope my ears hear

and my eyes see You

clear and subtle

when You share Your heart,

tell me Your story,

show me Your beetle,

play Your song.

 

ticktock

Did you know Time is elastic?

It stretched long these last months,

each moment anorexic without

You

and You

and You

and You.

I want to snap Time back to

our Together in a wooded Eden on the hill.

ticktock

Instead, I wait

ticktock

I wait for our Restored Home on the horizon

while I use my heart, hands and words to redeem now.

A son to his father

POSTED BY: Sidney the Third, in respsonse to A father to his son

 

As long as I have lived, there have always been three,

The great old father, his son, and then me.

And now that the father has moved along

we are apart,

You there, me here,

both a bit confused, both searching

 

I have learned from you what you learned from him,

My two greatest examples to follow – to become a greater man

To care for others over oneself,

To serve, rather than be served,

 

I have watched and learned practical skills –

Beware that innocent-looking capacitor,  or

Don’t bend the pipe too much, it will break

And make sure you weight your hay bales with children

So they don’t roll

 

You are a Protector – teaching, but sheltering

To make sure I did not fall too hard, too far,

Always ready to lift, to help,

To share the burden

To lift what I could not

 

You have prepared me for all that you could,

Yet we feel lost – who could have prepared for this?

What skills could you teach?

What weight could you lift?

 

I know the words you long to speak,

“It’s OK, son.  Don’t worry.  I’ve got this one.”

But you cannot.

 

I have the shovel, and you cannot reach it,

But its OK, Dad.  Don’t worry.  I’ve got this one.

Your part in this battle is done.

 

I can wield the shovel because you showed me how,

You made me work,

Made my hands and arms strong.

 

I can lift this weight that you cannot,

And climb this mountain that you must go around.

But only because of you.

 

You have done your job.

 

I am ready.  I can do it.

 

I love you, Dad.