Clouds, May 2010

Clouds, May 2010

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

stay tuned

I've been sick for a few days now with flu-like symptoms, and I was unable to go to work yesterday. This morning I originally sat in front of the computer to send another out-of-office email as I am still not feeling well.

I attempted to log-on to corporate webmail, and the page kept getting stuck trying to load. I was frustrated and opened a new tab while I waited for it to be un-hung up. I opened facebook, and at the top of my newsfeed I see a blog post from an aquaintance. Our parents are friends, but outside of facebook-land I don't personally know her very well.

In recent months I feel like I've gotten to know her, as she has been documenting a horrific experience.  A short while after she got engaged, she was diagnosed with a very rare form of cancer. Seven months (or so) later, after completing various cycles of the most aggressive treatments available (and somehow having the strength to get married in between), she recently posted that she would have a follow up scan.

This morning the blogpost at the top of my fb newsfeed reads, "The Final Installment." I knew the news before I read the rest...

Her family has the biggest miracle of all to celebrate this holiday season as she finally received the news her scan was clear.

I read the blog entry like a tragic novel with a twist to a fairytale ending. As if I grew to know the characters over these months, and could share in their joy. I felt so relieved for her that she could write, "The End".

Suddenly I started crying and I could not stop. Again, I do not know her very well and although I have known her since childhood I did not grow up spending time with her. Was I just feeling empathetic as a fellow mom in her mid 30's? Was it the flu? Was I relieved for my parents dear friends?

As I stared at her blog entry on my screen, I started thinking of my own blog. I can't scroll when I'm on a new entry page, but without looking back I am pretty certain my last post was of Hayden getting a haircut and tolerating it really well. Just like a big boy. Only followed by wanting to take a shower. Just like a young guy.

And then it hit me out of nowhere and I sobbed. Although I am not comparing my son's genetic disorder to life-threatening cancer, and I am certainly not comparing his challenged life to someone whose life could have ended... still, as the person who gave him life, I feel sad that it's indefinitely compromised.

Lord willing he will be toilet trained one day. Lord willing there will at least be effective enough treatments for FXS that all of their lives can actually be comparable to that of a typical person. And if there's truly a miracle, there will be a cure.

But until then, the fact is I'll have a lot to write about.

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