Facebook shared a memory with me yesterday. It seems that one year ago, exactly 365 days (well, now…366) I announced to the world, “Guess what y’all? 2020 sucks.”  I have a way with words, I know. But in that moment, and for a lot of moments before and after, it really, really did.

And now – amazingly, thankfully, what-the-heck-happened-to-the-last-year-ingly – an anniversary is upon us. A time for reflection. A time when memories are unpacked and held and then gently set aside again. A time when my brain would rather run the thoughts and emotions and images and words in eddies and swirls than appreciate the dark hours before dawn as a time to sleep…so I sit here before the soft light of our Christmas tree, two dogs dutifully snuggled alongside my feet, my family quiet in their beds - and honor this time.

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One year ago, we shared the news, on a broad and public scale, that Jake had been diagnosed with cancer. We didn’t yet know how serious things were, or were to become, but we knew that the news was not good. And so, we decided to share our story. Well, to be fair, I decided. Jake consented. 😉 The pandemic had already taught us a new way of life – of buckling down and turning inward and closing ranks – and while so much of that needed to continue, we also knew instinctively that we would need more. That our own energy and reserves wouldn’t be enough for this one. That we needed to be vulnerable and open and honest. Not just so that we could make sense of each new and crazy moment as they rocketed over and past and through us, but to find buoyancy when the weight we carried threatened to pull us under. And in that sea of uncertainty, sharing our story was one of the best things we ever did.

Because what came back to us – over and over and over again – was love. So. Much. Love. From those we expected, of course – and we were so very grateful for them – but also from so many unexpected corners – places and people we might never have guessed - and we were humbled. We learned that love and hope, for all they are unseen, are visceral. An actual, honest force. And that, my friends, was a powerful life lesson.

Last month we sat down with an oncology coordinator, and she took us through the timeline of treatment events. Sort of a “let’s relive the trauma so you have some idea what happened to you now that the danger is past, and it is behind you” sort of event. It was odd. And a bit unsettling. But also illuminating.

Because it’s only been a year. In some ways it feels like a lifetime. In others, the blink of an eye. But it’s only been a year.

The details for most of those events were cataloged in these entries. But seeing them all together. At one time. It was odd. And a bit unsettling. But also illuminating.

No wonder we are tired!

I had the same experience last night as we culled through photos for our annual holiday card.

My Google photos collection for 2021 is a frightful place! At least for the first few months. We scrolled through hundreds of images of a stoma in various stages of healing, surgical sites and bandages and drains and drainage. More than a couple photos of a masked Jake back in a hospital bed for another procedure – fluids forced in, or something pulled out – eventually a chemo port installed. Over time he begins mostly wearing real clothes in the photos – we even kick in a couple of snowy soccer games and celebratory vaccination memories – and then we transition the images to the chemo clinic. Aggressive chemo. With the intention to search and destroy. Intention to heal. You’d better believe it! Infusions and pills. Lots of each. Over several months. And while this continues in the background, the photos are interspersed with nuggets or normalcy – life apparently goes on – Easter, more soccer, (socially distanced, outdoor) prom, Mother’s Day - until at the end of May…a celebration. The end of chemo. A homemade sign. A bedpan hat. An ice cream cake (because the cold stuff doesn’t hurt any longer). Close. This. Chapter.

The second half of the photo collection shows a family hell bent and determined to reclaim life. Maz returns to school for a summer internship – on campus. Brae visits a couple of Colorado colleges and starts a summer internship as well. I paint my office and teach a couple of online trainings. Jake picks up the “honey do” list and re-landscapes our back yard. And we leave the house. We go to a concert at Red Rocks. Take long walks with the dogs on the Poudre Trail. Travel up the coast of California from LA to San Fransisco. By fall time, the photos almost look – dare I say, “Normal?” We move a college student back to campus (for in person schooling!) and a senior starts high school (for in person schooling!). There are soccer games, and home improvements, and a search for graduation party venues, and yes, more landscaping. A powder puff cheerleader and homecoming and senior photos. We are about to be empty nesters! And then on September 21st a reminder. A chemo port removed. A weird photo of Jake sniffing it. A moment of reflection and gratitude. And then we are off again. Soccer and a trip to Colorado Springs for Family Weekend. Ghost tours and baby hippos and a beautiful, if ideologically misguided, stay. More soccer and fall leaves and pumpkins and college applications. Meow Wolf. Thanksgiving. Family and friends.

And here, in this moment, as the sun fully rises this Saturday morning - it feels as though life is back. But for all that I say that easily now…make no mistake, it was hard earned. This year has been tough – a net positive for sure – but tough. Our family is tired – collectively and individually. It’s been a big one. But I honestly believe we are stronger. We know now what we are capable of. And always, it comes back to that net positive. The point to which I will always return. Always.

Jake’s latest scans were good. The one rogue lymph node is much smaller after chemo. The blood work is exactly what it should be. The stoma is healed and being an ostomate turned out not to be such a big deal. We are all fully vaccinated and healthy, and Jake’s brain fog has returned to pre-chemo levels. Mostly. We have every reason to believe he is on the road to a full recovery. To be fair, I’m a lot greyer – a lot – but those too have been hard earned. I’ll take ‘em.

As so we wish to you all a very happy and healthy holiday season.  May you be surrounded by loved ones.  May you be blessed beyond belief.  And may you always be mindful of those blessings.

Peace and light to all!