“Our
Anthem”
Thanksgiving
2019
Dear
Sophia,
Earlier
this year, you discovered a song by Rachel Platten called “Fight Song” that has
become your anthem. You know all of the
lyrics and sing them at the top of your lungs, sometimes accompanied by your
interpretive dancing/running/spinning, other times paired with the made-up hand
motions you created with your daddy. The
first few times you had listened to the song, you had asked me what the singer
was fighting about – but I explained it was more of what she was fighting for
– her strength and perseverance in times of hardship, her way of finding
herself and pushing through. That song
has been recognized over the years as one of hope amid challenge, used as theme
songs for TV competitions, campaigns for cancer, championships, and even
elections. This year, more than ever (and
not because you sing the song to me over and over), I have a reason to repeat
the words like a mantra to myself.
Sophia, in
short, this year has been tough. As you
have been insistent on inserting your independence, you’ve discovered things
are not as simple as they used to be. It
has been more challenging to be you within our timeframes and
expectations. You have seen that your
parents are not perfect – we argue with ourselves and each other, we are not
always patient, and we hurt too. You
hugged me when I cried after I miscarried (without knowing the reason), and you
wiped away my tears on Lily and Lucas’s birthdays. Being four has meant more – more to
comprehend, more depth and width of emotions, more energy and compassion – and
you are constantly learning to adapt.
This
summer I completed my master’s degree, but not without sacrifice. I had doubled up on courses in the last few
semesters and had to travel to school as well.
I lost out on large chunks of time with you and often (barely) functioned
on just a handful of hours’ sleep. Every
time I had an errant thought about not being able to do it or that I was
actually crazy enough to think I could, I would take a breath and reframe and
restart – and seeing the proud look on your face the first time I put on my cap
and gown told me it had all been worthwhile.
At the
same time, unbeknownst to you, I was going through another cycle of IVF. Daddy would administer my shots after your
bedtime, but a couple of times you snuck downstairs and caught us, asking what
the needles were for. We would tell you
it was medicine. While we had a
successful egg retrieval in the first round, they unfortunately yielded no
embryos we could use, so we made the complicated decision to go through the
process all over again. And that process
led to your baby brother. As a result, we
have felt incredibly blessed, and your aunt Sarah pointed out that he is like
our double rainbow baby, following my miscarriage last fall. He has felt very much like a miracle, kicking
around in my belly to let me know he’s there, even while I am writing this.
Yet this
is life, right? And life has a way of
reminding us that not everything is constant.
At 15 weeks pregnant, I found a lump, and by 18 weeks I had,
unbelievably, been diagnosed with breast cancer. We haven’t said the “c” word to you but will
be explaining in a few short weeks about my illness and subsequent surgery, and
what will happen next with managing the baby and treatments.
Somehow, I
know that this life change that our little family is going through is the most
significant to date. The dichotomy of
growing a life within a body that is fighting itself is nearly
indescribable. At times I feel I am
unable to grasp the magnitude of what’s ahead, instead focusing only on the
next step, for fear of drowning in the sobering reality of it all. Other times, I feel like I was dealt this hand
like a testimony of my truth. So if
there is any wisdom that I can impart on you from my experience this year, it
would be:
Have
conviction. Believe in yourself and rely on your inner strength. There were plenty of times I could have quit,
while juggling being a wife and mother with graduate school and implementations
at work and fertility treatments. I
cannot even tell you how often I have been told that I was “taking on too much”
or “trying to do it all” – but when you go after the things that matter, you
will understand it won’t be an easy road to get there, and that sometimes
sacrifice is worth it. If there is a
single message I want to give you as your mother, it is that you can do
anything you set your mind to.
Keep moving.
In the worst of times, it is hard to move in any direction, much less
forward. Those daily, mundane tasks we
feel plagued by can seem so limiting.
Yet it is in those small things we find joy, and sometimes we just need
to rediscover those little moments to keep us going.
Know
your limits. Once you have set your priorities, then you
will know it’s okay to say no. After I
was diagnosed, it took me falling ill with a cold to tell me that my body
needed rest. I am usually planning our
next outing or adventure, but realized I need to focus on getting well now so
that I can do those things with you and your brother in the future. Again, a sacrifice of sorts, but one with a
clear objective.
Trust
in others. I have learned that you can rely on
others. I’m grateful for the team of
doctors and specialists working together to develop my plan of care. In addition, we have always been blessed with
a solid family unit and support system, everyone from our church community to
our friends and colleagues. It is not a
burden to call on others for help, something I know that is hard to understand
at your age when you are trying to establish that you can handle things on your
own. However, one day you will need the
help, so simply be thankful it is there and will be offered.
Sophia, I
know that these tidbits of advice will only start to piece together as you grow
older, but I also recognize how much you already understand. So I want to remind you that I will always
fight hard for you (and your soon-to-be little brother), and that you and your
father have consistently given me strength that I did not realize I had. And even though I cannot promise that we will
not face difficult days ahead, I can promise that my love for you is steadfast. Happy Thanksgiving, my dear, sweet girl, and
don’t forget to count your blessings – they are always there, even if we are
blinded from seeing them.
Love,
Mommy
