We rounded the corner to the final level of the parking structure; and rather than gassing into a hurried space hardly available from the last vehicle, we leisurely chose any old one. Each bay stood completely open. It was a sort of vacancy that I welcomed with peace. 

We sat parked for a minute. Stehrling with his chin propped atop his right arm resting near the window, and Ruk behind me. We go as a unit now — just the three of us.

I stepped my left foot out, and the humidity immediately pressed its way into our cabin. I let my leg out there — testing the waters — while I informed Stehrling of what to expect at clinic that day.

Behind the starting block of lane three I would jump and wiggle around, slapping each limb over and over to “warm up” my body. Almost suddenly the water settled from the race before me, and the surface flattened to glass. All of that energy was suddenly perfectly still. The air was dense and fogged up the bay of windows that showed a frigid fall evening. My goggles were sealed to my eye sockets after habitually pressing and scrunching my nose to be sure. Several deep breaths in and out, now my arms are the only thing swinging. To my left and right the swimmers use their starting block to lean and stretch. I can see them in my peripherals as I approach my own mark. It’s so coarse I can not inch my foot without lifting it. I peer toward the ref, and tuck my chin. She is dressed in all white, like a vintage nurse. Lowering my hands forward over the lip of the starting block beneath my feet. The speaker covers her mouth and she speaks three words with the most pure and calm demeanor - a low-high-low sing song vibrato - “take your mark…” 

FIRST & LAST, 

Yellow forever. 

The first days of chemo were busy as we scurried around the perimeter of his hospital bed. Some here, some there. Perplexed by this new pace, this new start. It was a bit like trying to eat soup with a toothbrush. 

Dunking and slurping. Angsty and messy.

The water slurs over my forehead as I breath right. Calculating each long stroke and the shortest deep breath. I can still play out the rhythm in my mind if I let it.

I suppose we could have parked parallel, vertical, backwards, over three lines — very few travel up there anyhow. It’s a wonder why not, the grand cerulean air (even when concealed by dense atmospheric clouds) is a freeing sensation above the concrete vault below. It seems to hold more than just ramps of transportation, you can feel the concrete saturated with ballast expressions of both hope and fear. I lowered the hatch, and meandered to the elevator with Ruk in the stroller and a boy so brimming with anticipation — the joyful kind.

I can feel it too — the joy that felt too brave to bear and the hope that felt too hard to hold on to — in the interwoven tempo of our walk. A tabor cadence. 

We play a bedtime game with our boys called, “High Low Buffalo” —  simply sharing the best, most triumphant of moments, honoring the perplexity of trials, and something original. Somewhere in the middle of this year, our routine moved to a new place where Rudy joined in, and what a delight. With energy nearly brimming over the edges of their bunk beds, I can tell when each boy has found their High Low Buffalo for that day: a little like toad hunt I suppose. Eyes glimmer in stillness as if to render it captive until they release it back into the wild. It’s bizarre how tender and careful a young boy can be once he finds a toad, so careful not to squish it as he inspects its every centimeter.

Somewhere along the way, Stehrl found a habit of saying “spending the weekend with you guys” as his answer to the “High” part of our game even on a Wednesday. At first I tried to correct it, but inside I knew it was truly how he felt even if it wasn’t the weekend. 

Back in the pool, the lap counter plunged up and down — our signal to pick up the pace not to fall behind. Each flip turn counted me closer to the end. 

In August we made a Countdown Calendar  for Stehrling to color in each day as we approached his “Final Spinal” (the last dose of intrathecal chemotherapy via lumbar puncture), and then his port removal, the first day of school, and one more momentous day: his *FINAL* dose of oral chemotherapy pills.

Every single box has been counted and colored - we have finished one leg of the race!!

We walked back toward our van after his clinic appointment on Monday — Stehrling galloped! His arms were carrying a couple of goodies from the toy closet and one thing in particular worth noting: a bell. When an oncology patient completes his/her chemotherapy protocol they get to “Ring the Bell” as a way of honoring their trials and triumph. A living High Low Buffalo if you will. The ringing sound of being one step closer to Survivorship. 

Stehrling will officially ring the bell in clinic when Lucas can come (and we can document with pictures), but for now, we have a cheerful bell sounding off throughout our house reminding me. 

I’m still trying to understand what our family just went through for these two years. We walked out of this by the grace of God. I have caught myself just in a slur of daydreams trying to comprehend this blip of time. It’s time to exhale. Time to heal. 

Psalm 66:5 

Come and see what our God has done; what awesome miracles he performs for people!