Caleb and Caden

Knowing how difficult funerals have been for me all of my life, it will come as a surprise to many that I willingly, gladly chose to go to one yesterday.  I knew it was going to be hard, I knew I would most likely cry, I knew the subject matter was going to really hit close to home.  You see, this was for a friend's son that we'd met while in Seattle.  I've mentioned her before on here, my friend Sarah.  It was two years ago when our kids came home from Elementary with information about a fundraiser for a little boy that had just been diagnosed with cancer.  He'd just celebrated his seventh birthday, just started school at White Bluffs Elementary and was slammed into the world of oncology.  On this slip of paper, I studied and memorized the face of the mother.  I knew somewhat how she felt.  I knew I was going to reach out to her.  I knew we were going to become friends in the most unlikely of circumstances.  I knew we were going to be a support system for one another.  I knew I would stalk her until I could introduce myself properly.  That day came as we were being served a hot meal by amazing volunteers while we were both temporary residents of the Ronald McDonald House Charities.  The moment I saw her face, I knew her, my soul reached out for hers.  I didn't feel nervous at all as I approached her, told her of my "stalking," and told her how we were from the same city, that our kids attended the same school (although Caleb only attended for about a week before diagnosis) and that I would be there for her.  From that day forward, we've been close, even if our texts have become more rants, vents, and raw, unfiltered truths.

Like Caden, Caleb was diagnosed with a very aggressive form of cancer.  We were told that Caden's symptoms sounded like pneumonia (to which I cried) only to be told that it was much, much worse.  The same can be said of Caleb, only his was a diagnosis of a better-prognosis cancer, then re-diagnosed as worse: Rhabdomyosarcoma.  The second-line-defense chemo that we tried, the hardest, most heinous six weeks of our very lives, was Caleb's cancer's first-line-defense.  41 weeks Caleb had to endure what we couldn't even think to endure past 6 weeks.  Not only that, he was also doing radiation at the same time.  This young boy of nine (at his passing) endured so much in the last two years and two months of his life.  In truth, his story makes us grateful for our own cancer story.  He passed away one week after Caden.

As I got ready for the service, wanting to wear a nice dress and curl my hair (I didn't wear makeup, though, knowing I was going to cry), Randy commented that he was surprised I wasn't already crying.  Having been to a funeral with me before we were even married (bless him for asking me to be his after a display as snot-faced and startling as that!), he knows first-hand how difficult it is for me to even consider funerals.  Being the amazing support he always is for me, he got into his suit, stuffed his pockets full of tissue packets, and held my hand through it all.  But I was strong.  I surprised Randy and myself by only shedding a few tears as a picture of Sue came up.  I love that woman-- she is more than a wonderful doctor, she is a dear friend that I will probably never see in person again.  The last time I saw her was as we were hugging goodbye after Side-by-side in August.  I was bawling my eyes out, hugged her deep, and told her personally, through gasping breaths, that I love her.  I didn't know it then, but that was the last time I would ever see her again.  I am grateful for her.  I love her.  I miss her.  It was difficult to see pictures of places and people I know so well, of a place that was our blessed hell on earth, but it was Sue that brought me to tears. 

After the service, I sought out Sarah for a hug.  Again, I was strong, holding her tight while she sobbed on my shoulder.  My soul reached out to hers once more, this woman that was my friend before she even knew.  It wasn't until after we left that the tears flowed, and I mean flowed.  Our boys, our beautiful sons are gone.  I hope they are friends in heaven, just as their grieving mothers are friends on earth.  I wonder if this is how returning from combat looks after you've lost someone you love and fought so hard for, and next to.  I imagine our souls look a bit battered, a bit haggard, a bit beaten, and fairly pitiful.  But, oh, did we fight hard.  We're fighting a different battle now.

So many circumstances lead me to believe with all my heart that we were lead to Richland.  Sarah, Caleb, their story, and the friendship that we'll have forever more is just one more blessing of living in this amazing town.  I am grateful for many things tonight.  So, so grateful.  I'm the luckiest girl in the world.

Stupid Cancer.