This Crazy, Ironic Timing

The MotherHood: Vulnerable Stories from Powerful Mothers

This Crazy Ironic Timing

Written by Aubrey Nielson Tuttle

Cancer. I heard the word but wasn't sure if it could possibly be true. This was my two-year-old. This was my healthy, happy, rosy-cheeked daughter. These people could not possibly mean what they were saying to me.

By the end of day, I had succumbed to the facts. The bitter hard truth, that my little baby’s body housed a mass of cells ready to destroy her, suffocating her kidney and infiltrating every healthy system with its poison. I succumbed to the mind-numbing reality that in two short days she would undergo a life-saving, yet life-threatening surgery, a nephrectomy, and then weeks of chemotherapy. When we finally arrived home after such a time, I cried heavily and heartbrokenly into my husband's shoulder and then lay down on my bed. As usual, the baby growing inside me began a nightly exercise routine before calming down and allowing my body, if not my mind, some rest. My fourth little one. Another girl. Due any day.

I remembered myself just a few days before, walking as quickly as my bulk allowed, uphill, pushing a stroller. By the eighth month of every pregnancy, I always gained a rush of energy and vigor. Perfect timing for getting babies to come out of hibernation. I walked miles, dragging my other children along, come rain or shine. But after that morning, things changed. I walked with great care. I sat with careful, cautious movements. I lay perfectly still at night because this sweet baby could not, absolutely could not, come - yet. After all, there was the surgery and then the long night in Pediatric Intensive Care to be present for. There were the hours of pain I wished I could take upon myself rather than see my small, innocent child suffer. There were still doctors to talk to and things to learn about cancer and tumors and medicine. I needed to be there.

My toddler needed me. Needed me. Needed me.

Waddling along the hospital corridors I came to the room where we would wait. We would wait to see our baby taken in the arms of a stranger to an operating room to have a very large tumor taken out. The incision would cut across her entire tummy. The surgery would take several hours, yet there, in that small, hot room we would laugh and tease our daughter into smiles, wash her with soft, white, sterilizing sponge cloths, outfit her in a purple hospital gown, and watch as the pre-anesthesia medication, with amnesia-effect, took its toll.

When the time came, we walked to the end of a corridor where big double doors warned that only certain people with certain specialties could enter. There, I handed over my very precious, oh so precious, cargo and watched as the anesthesiologist with the kind eyes and soft voice carried her away.

Carried her away. Away. Away.

I was pregnant after all, so I did not feel guilty as shortly after I ate an enormous everything-in-it-salad and went to the complimentary basket of cookies and took some Oreos. What else do you do while you wait? What do you talk about while you wait? Who do you talk to? The strangers sitting across from you? Do you ask them why they are there? Who they are waiting for or how they are suffering? You do. And you laugh and you pray and you wait.

Wait and pray. Pray. Pray.

At last, my husband and I entered the sterile room full of machines, and a solitary white crib holding one small child in its metal embrace. Waiting seemed to be the theme of our existence, but then she awoke. Her sweet brown eyes searched for mine and upon that transcendental connection, she saw me, and I saw her. She asked where her purple jammies were, and then sheer exhaustion took its toll, and as all the important things had been said, she closed her eyes.

And I cried. I cried because this little person was still my baby. The one whose favorite color was purple. The one who loved me more than anyone else in her whole world. I cried because I knew the tumor was gone. The heavy, dark feeling that had followed me for months was gone. The dread had lifted. I didn't cry because tubes were running through my daughter's nose and across her arms and along her chest. I didn't cry because my baby looked swollen and smelt of surgery. I cried because, after all this, my daughter would be staying with me. She didn't leave, but that big, stupid tumor had.

Three days passed. Days I thought would go on forever. Days filled with too many viewings of Frozen, too many nights on a hospital bed, and too many Hi-Chews. I learned that if I, or my husband, or my mother didn't know what was going on, nobody did. I learned that some nurses are amazing and some are not. I learned that people - people, are absolutely amazing. I knew that through those days I was being cradled by thousands of hearts. I was being lifted by hundreds of shoulders. I was being sheltered by millions of prayers. I learned that love is boundless, unending, and very powerful.

I learned that children are the toughest little creatures on the planet. After a major surgery, and amidst pain and sweat and tears, my tough toddler walked the corridors of the hospital stomping on the little sea creatures painted on the floor. Each trip was a victory. Each little walk was a triumph. She was making it! She was walking and talking and eating and playing! We were doing it!

And then we were off to the nearest hospital to have a baby. It was in the middle of the night, of course, as I had yet to figure out how to do it any other way. We drove through hilled streets lit by softly glowing street lamps. I saw cozy, beautiful homes by moonlight, and let the tender summer breeze ruffle my hair and fill my senses. I had not had a breath of fresh air for four days. It tasted so nice. A bustle of activity welcomed us as we arrived at the hospital and the labor officially began.

I had done it. A beautiful, perfect baby girl was placed skin-to-skin on my chest. I spoke and the little one stopped her howling, lifted her head, and looked right into my eyes. It was then that I knew. I knew that this timing, this crazy, ironic timing of birthing a baby while my other baby lay in a hospital bed a mile away, was perfect. I would need this new, precious bundle to make it through. I would need the business of a baby to keep me going, to keep me lifted, to bring new happiness to all our lives. This baby would be our joy and gladness.

Waiting. Waiting again. To hear how my toddler was doing. To hear if she would be able to go home. I endured the nurses' hourly checkups and stomach pushing and pill-popping. I was so thoroughly and completely sick of being in a hospital. The call finally came and I packed all my belongings at least three hours too soon.

Finally outside sitting in a wheelchair, cradling my baby in my arms, I rested in the sunshine, eyes closed, soaking in the healing warmth. I felt touched by the Master’s hand through the sunshine and the breeze in my hair and the smell of fresh-cut grass, and flowers, and summer. Then there was my husband, with my little cancer patient, and a car full of presents and blankets, balloons, and flowers. I introduced the sweet baby to her big sister and everyone was happy.

We were all happy. We were happy. Happy.

It seems a strange thing that there can still be such joy in times of such sorrow, but all it takes is a little perspective and suddenly the small blessings are the only ones that matter. Some might say that the prayer of a man who had not prayed in years, and who confessed that he didn't even know how to pray would be a small thing, but to me and my family, it meant a miracle. It meant love. What’s more, we knew that it wasn't one prayer spoken, but hundreds and perhaps even thousands. Those prayers, from all the loved ones and all the perfect strangers, had buoyed us up without ceasing. My little daughter had successfully endured an intense surgery and was going home.

She was going home. Going home. Home.

Aubrey Tuttle is an old-fashioned woman, wife, and happy mom of five. She loves writing (usually in poetic form) reading, and creating. She is constantly looking for ways to get educated about anything and everything and loves to share and ponder the ways in which her life experiences have affected and changed her. Recently, a new mantra has made place in her life…have courage. And that’s why she’s here!

You can connect with her on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/aubrey.n.tuttle