On How My Family Motivates Me to Fight Cancer

The picture of my granddaughters is my motivation, a symbol to direct me through acute pain and emergency surgeries. It’s a handhold on a vertical climb, a place to rest for a moment from straining and reaching along a sheer wall, a chance to catch my breath up the steep climb.

Two small wheels roll against the privacy curtain of my hospital room in the oncology unit. The hand that parts the curtain belongs to my middle son and the wheels to his baby stroller. He sneaks in his three-month-old baby girl to see grandma. A sunny person with a perpetual smile, she beams with joy. Her joy jumps into my battle-worn heart, soothing and healing it. Her brief visit on daddy’s lap kindles the fire I need to fight right now.

There’s a picture on my hospital tray table of the baby and her almost three-year-old sister that my kids give me. It captures a moment of uncontainable joy as the girls laugh at something funny their mom does to a get their attention. I hear it takes some cajoling to capture the moment. I fix my eyes on the picture whenever I wake up, before I’m wheeled out of the room, and throughout the day. This is my motivation, a symbol to direct me through acute pain and emergency surgeries. It’s a handhold on a vertical climb, a place to rest for a moment from straining and reaching along a sheer wall, a chance to catch my breath up the steep climb. It helps me persevere.

Another picture is in my mind’s eye from a day earlier in ICU. There’s an outdoor area just outside the room where families can meet and talk. My son and daughter-in-law bring their three-year-old daughter to that area, so I can see her out of the window. In my foggy mental state, I notice her straining eyes peering in, but I don’t think she sees me. I see her, my sweet young granddaughter with a heart as tender as a spring flower. The picture of her searching for me is snapped in my memory. I hope she seeks me out when she’s older. I hope she tells me about her day, confides in me when she has troubles, and shares her joys with me. I didn’t have a grandma watch me grow up, a grandma who participated in my daily life. I hope I get to experience that.

Later, she asks her mom how I’m doing and whether I’m feeling better. She notices the small things and remembers people well. She’s not even three but already has a heart full of love and compassion.

For these girls I will fight this battle. For them I will win.

It’s the small things my family does that keep me going when I get home. It’s the visits, gifts, food, and talks. My middle son often brings the girls over to see me during the long weeks of recovery. He is so kind, so attentive, so caring. When you’re raising three sons, you don’t think of them becoming fathers of girls. You’re too busy making food, doing laundry, attending games, making sure they’re wearing helmets, doing their homework, learning good manners, and so on. So, to witness my son lovingly attend to the needs of his little girls amazes me.

Seeing the girls eases my loss, but I can’t hold them because of the surgeries. I can’t really touch anyone right now. This season of retirement was supposed to be different with play dates, babysitting, and outings. For now, seeing them has to be enough. And it is good.

Until I realize that I haven’t held my baby granddaughter almost half of her life.

Thank you for reading this blog post! I’d love to hear how this story impacted you or someone you know and/or any stories you’d like to share. Click here to contact me. - Sheri