Random thought for the day. I realized that all of our lives are ruled by time. How much time it takes us to get here or there, how much time it takes to do this or that. Sarah's new favorite question is, "How long does it have to take?" because she is Miss Bossy Boots and wants everything done yesterday. We are all ruled by it, and yet we take it so much for granted. When it comes to something we want, we all have a child's impatience. How long does it have to take? But when it comes to something we don't want, we take forever. I'll do it tomorrow/later/never.
When you're a cancer mom, time becomes even more important, because it's crucial to your child's very existence. How long has it been since she had this or that medication? How long since her last bowel movement? How long since she had anything to eat? When did she have this or that procedure? And we remember it all off hand, rattle it off the cuff like our phone numbers or social security numbers because it's even more crucial that we remember. Time is literally precious because each moment with our babies is a gift and not at all guaranteed. Time is not guaranteed to any of us, but when your baby has spent his/her entire life on borrowed time, you realize just how precious it really is. Each birthday holds more meaning not only because it means you made it another year, but because you never know if it could be the last one you celebrate together. You buy the crap they don't need and you really can't afford, because you don't want to regret it later.
I cannot count how many times a day Sarah and I kiss and hug each other. Not five minutes goes by in the day without my telling her that I love her. Because I want to make sure she knows. I rain down so much affection on this child that she hates when I get short with her. "Are you still mad, Momma?" and how can I be mad after that? Life really is too short. I know it's trite to say that we need to savor every moment, but if I could freeze her exactly as she is now, I would. Children shed skin like snakes, and these kids, these warriors change even more than that depending on their treatment. Through her scrapbooks I can see Sarah's cheeks puff in and out from steroids, I can watch her hair grow and fall out and grow again. I never realize how bald she was until I see the pictures later. The baby I brought home from the hospital is gone. That tiny baby is a ghost of a memory, and I will never get her back. But I loved her so well that I don't really need to get her back.
When you spend your entire life fighting to survive, time is all you have. No wonder my baby doesn't want to waste a single minute now that she finally gets a little taste of what it is to live.