red balloons

Growing up in the 80s and 90s, I had the privilege of having one of those combo television/VCR units in my bedroom when I was in high school. I vividly remember watching Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock save the passengers on the bus in the movie Speed at least once each day. It was 100% my favorite movie. 

So it shouldn’t be too much of a stretch that I also really loved the 1998 movie, Hope Floats- it had Sandra, it had an amazing soundtrack, and it had a cute little girl with big glasses named Bernice. The storyline was dramatic and funny and- in the end- hopeful. What’s not to love?

One particular line by Sandra Bullock’s character in the movie has run through my head as I have gone through my own “dramatic” seasons in life: “…beginnings are scary, endings are usually sad, but it’s the middle that counts the most. Try to remember that when you find yourself at a new beginning. Just give hope a chance to float up. And it will, too…” 

I mean- “Just give hope a chance to float up.” Does anything fit better into my outlook of searching for red balloons- literally floating items- to represent hope? I am an optimistic person by nature. Following Todd’s death, after I worked through my initial season of grief, I partnered with another widow and we launched a non-profit called Two Small Coins, and our main purpose is to deliver hope to others that are walking the widowhood path. I believe that hope itself is so incredibly important and my life has revolved around that for several years now. 

Which is why it has been difficult in this new season of hard- I have been STRUGGLING with finding hope. It has been really hard to try and find any type of red balloons. Every day is heavy. Every day has new challenges that as a parent I am powerless to help with. 

It has been three months since we received the devastating diagnosis of acute myeloid leukemia for my baby, Mason. The first week was intense, spent strictly in the pediatric intensive care unit, watching on high alert as his heart rate and blood pressure were monitored 24/7, and anxiously waiting for his lab results daily to see if the leukemia blasts present in his blood were responding to the new medications. 

We were transferred to the AFLAC brain and blood disorder unit, where we were told to make ourselves at home as we would be here for a while. Mason was able to sneak home for nine days at the end of July, but otherwise has been inpatient receiving treatments. It has been an overwhelming few months of daily meetings with hematologists and oncologists and social workers and psychologists and new information overload on a daily (and sometimes hourly) basis. 

It has been an emotional time, adjusting to another new chapter in life that no one asked for. As a mama, it was difficult to sit back and watch as Mason faced day after day of high fevers, nausea, rashes, bloody noses, chills and weight loss. It was harder still to explain what side effects he might face as we move further into treatment and as he processed that his summer vacation was going to look very different than what he was expecting. 

As we started into the second round of chemotherapy treatments, I was praying that this round would finally clear the leukemia blasts from Mason’s blood so that he could start to feel a little stronger and so that we could finally break out of the cycle of fevers that had not gone away for a solid six weeks. Thankfully, he did respond well, and he started feeling a little better. His appetite came back, and we started to focus on putting on some more weight. During the first six weeks that we were here, he had lost a total of 30 pounds and my athletic, muscular child was down to skin and bones. 

And then, one afternoon, I came across the following poem from one of my favorites:

bare bones. (by ullie-kaye)
hope is not always soft and lovely.
she is not always cascading rivers
and sunlit skies, dancing. hope knows
there is work to be done. there are
roads to be traveled. turns to be made.
she is bare bones and deep waters. 
she is weary and weak. she is barely
a glimmer. she shakes when she speaks.
this is where hope lives. smothered in 
sweat. full of war. and on the verge 
of crumbling into the sea.
yet there she is, quietly breathing. 

I cannot even say how much I needed to read this. 

As much as I love for things to be soft and “lovely” (https://redballoons.blog/2023/01/29/words/), and as much as I have always believed that hope is there to lighten the heaviness that life throws at you, in this particular season, there is nothing soft and lovely. There are no cascading rivers, sunlit skies or dancing. 

What we do have is work to be done. We have a long road to travel to get through treatments. We have bare bones. We have weariness and weakness. Our voices are shaky at times and there are moments on an almost daily basis where trembles of fear sneak in. We are covered in sweat and full of war against this disease. And we are on the verge of crumbling on a daily basis. 

This place does not look anything like the soft and lovely reality I would prefer to stay in forever. It is comforting to know that even in this harsh, terrifying reality that we have been living in for the past three months, hope is here with us. It’s here in tiny glimmers- smiles as he beats me at every video game I attempt to play with him; the determination in his eyes when the physical therapist introduces a new exercise to build back some of his muscle; jokes that he shares with nurses or anyone who comes to visit with him; seeing his eyes light up when asked about the therapy dog that comes to visit. It’s here in the comfort of soft blankets from home that help him fall asleep easier. It’s here in the moments where we are able to eat meals prepared for us by the community that surrounds us and holds us up. And sometimes, it’s here in those scary moments where the only option left is to count our breathing (in-2-3-4, out-2-3-4) to try and control the pain and fear.

Friends, I hope and pray that everyone would get to live in that soft, lovely reality that exists- somewhere. I also know that more often than not, we live in these places where we have no other choice but to quietly breathe as we fight a war against whatever circumstances we face. So take heart, along with me, that even in these terrifying places, hope doesn’t need more than a place to quietly breathe along with you, waiting for tiny moments to appear in glimmers, as you fight your battle and travel your road, take your turns and fight not to crumble into the sea.