I haven't written for awhile,.... kinda been lying around recuperating from my 2nd surgery following a double mastectomy.... but feeling much perkier now! I wanted to share a story that affected me and my youngest daughter a few years ago. Most of the time, I think we believe our children learn from us, as parents,.... but many times, parents can learn so much from our children.
During my experience with breast cancer, my daughters have learned quite a bit. They have not only learned what a woman goes through physically with surgery, but what a woman goes through emotionally as well. Although this came as an unexpected and emotional speed bump in my life- as a family, we have realized there is so much potential for analyzing life in general and to be so thankful for what we still have.
When you are diagnosed with cancer, you have to stop and think- "What is more important? Breasts? Or Breath?" When I was faced with this decision earlier this year in February, I felt very confident about my decision. Scared to death, but confident. And everyday, when I look at myself in the mirror, then look around at my life, and at my children and husband,... I know that I chose breath. Cancer no longer owns me. I faced cancer head on, hauled my foot back and kicked it hard in the butt! And now, I own breath! This concept is something I know I have taught my two daughters,... something they will always remember.
The following post explains how my youngest daughter once taught me. Looking back now, perhaps this is the reason I was able to look cancer in the eye and conquer it so completely,....
October 31, 2008
Three Year Old Vs. The Ant Hills
I heard her screaming. From somewhere in the backyard, her long, shrill cries blasted my ears like the siren of a distant fire engine interrupting a calm day. I ran. I didn't know where I was going, but I ran in the direction I believed her cries were coming from. Her screams clearly told me something was wrong. Images of broken teeth hanging from a bloody mouth filled my mind. She was a tough three year old, but the sheer panic and pain projecting from her lungs, told me it was much more than just a casual fall, a scraped knee or even the possibility that her 7 year old sister may have clunked her in the head with a baseball bat.
In sheer panic, I raced to find the screams. As I pushed through the screen door, I heard it slam behind me as if in slow motion. I caught sight of my three year old as she turned the corner and came barreling into the garage. With her little legs pumping, she was half running, half stomping towards me. Wildly waving her hands around, she resembled someone mimicking a strange ancestral dance of some sort. Running to her, my confusion was clear on my face. As she got closer, her frantic screams penetrated my fragile eardrums. Once I got a good look at her, I knew at once what was wrong.
A normal warm day in Texas, I had dressed her in shorts, a t-shirt, socks and sneakers. As she squirmed in pain, I could see that her small legs, from her shoes to up past her knees, were swarming with medium sized fire ants. They were everywhere! Screaming myself now, I began stripping her down. Within seconds, in the shelter of the garage, my three year old stood before me in only her underwear.
Ants were inside her shoes. They had made it inside her socks. Small, pink mounds were already visible against her tanned, toddler skin. They were between her toes. There were ants up her thighs. Off came her underwear! Managing to penetrate into her underclothing, the ants had attacked her small, delicate bum where bumps were already looking like a furious, festering diaper rash. A few stubborn ants still clung tightly to her skin, their teeth digging in as their bodies gyrated back and forth in anger. With forceful pinches, I plucked them off her, flicking them away as quickly as I could.
Picking up my baby, I cradled her into the kitchen where I sat her up on the kitchen counter. Closely, I began my inspection. By this time, my daughter had stopped screaming. She was merely moaning now, humming her painful tune over and over again, like a vacant, tedious dial tone. Cooing and comforting her, I moved swiftly and resourcefully, as a mother soon learns to do. Swabbing a cool washcloth over her swollen, heated legs, I pulled her close and hugged her. With smooth, loving fingers, I wiped her dirty, tear streaked face and tried to console her.
The end result? My 3 year old had about 30 fire ant bites dotting each small, chubby leg. There were possibly 60 bites in all. Like I said, she's a tough, little girl. And although I hated that this had happened to her, I was just glad she was tough. After cleaning her up, I applied cream with lots of hugging and kissing in between, and she was fine. She was my little trouper. However, this incident did leave her with a fresh, new fear of playing on the grass.
Running to the edge of the driveway, she'd suddenly stop. I was quickly summoned to fetch her ball, each and every time it rolled off her sanctuary of pavement and drifted into the realm of dark and evil anthills. Every small pain or itch she experienced after this, was screamed out in sheer terror. She believed every small twitch or scratch was a new surprise attack of ants, and she would jerk and cry out in her sleep as if reliving her horror, over and over. Anyone who came to our house was suddenly bombarded with her traumatic tale. They'd listen patiently, their laughter clearly in cheek as her story laborously played out complete with animated gestures and dramatic charades. It was very obvious the whole experience had deeply affected her.
So for a while, my 3 year old daughter became my inside buddy. As I cleaned, cooked, and kept the house in order, she would watch TV or play quietly in her room. She would try on her older sister's outfits (and a natural born shoe lover) she would wear every shoe in the house by days end.
Meanwhile, during this time, my husband and I were trying to get our home business back up and running. We had recently relocated to a different state and our finances were not what they had fortunately been, before the move. With every passing day, we found ourselves stressed. Vividly, we watched our small savings dwindle into nothingness. Daily, I was plagued with headaches, and I'd wake myself in the middle of the night with the continuous clenching of my teeth. As we both became more and more engrossed in our stress, we soon found that our fuses were much too short. Tempers flared and patience was meager.
Adding more to our plate, my ailing father suddenly passed away. After the funeral, the only thing I could feel was "beat up" and "broken." Upon returning home, once again, my husband and I turned our attention to the daunting lack of business and our bleak money situation.
The first weeks following my father's death, found me simply lying awake at night. Racing thoughts bounced and bounded through my head, recalling my many images of childhood. Silently and secretly, I grieved and missed my father terribly. I'd catch myself sobbing four or fives times during the day and soon I stopped applying mascara or make-up at all. After all, I just cried it off anyway. I hardly left the house, and the only time I ventured outside was to aimlessly wander down the driveway to miserably collect more bills. Finally succumbing to the need off having food in the house, I dragged myself into the car and miraculously accomplished the overwhelming task of grocery shopping.
Only after hearing that my older sister, after 20 years of marriage and with four children - was divorcing her husband, did I feel like falling to my knees and giving up. As I trudged across the lawn, returning from a short visit to my husband's backyard studio, I suddenly stopped in my tracks, feeling exhausted and ready to give up. As if attacked by my own personal fire ant hill, I felt the painful sting of stress mixed with the merciless throbbing of my tremendous trials. My faith trampled, my emotions screaming, I overflowed with sorrow and endless dread.
Raising my eyes skyward, I clenched my fists in frustration and cried out angrily. "Please dear Heavenly Father," I shouted in a challenging voice and searched the clouds for a sign - any sign. Frantically, I peered into the heavens, hoping for a miracle.
"Dad?" I begged softly, my voice breaking with emotion; my shoulders sagging, "I miss you so much." Hot tears slid dejected down my cheeks, and I sniffed. "If you can." I pleaded. "Please send some help. We're going to lose our new house," I told him, as if he didn't already know everything as he watched me from his heavenly perch on high. Suddenly, I felt something tugging at my shirt.
"Mama?" A squeaky voice suddenly brought me back to the present. I was still standing in my sunny backyard, halfway to the house on my way back from my husband's studio. With tears running down my face, I looked down to see my three year old daughter. At first, it didn't hit me, but then I realized. Shocked, I stared down at her. My daughter was actually standing on the grass! It had been weeks since she'd left pavement and set foot on the lawn. As understanding slowly sank in, I smiled.
My three year old was standing on the grass in her tall, yellow rain boots. Looking up at me, a victorious smile began to spread across her precious, little face. Tugging at my shirt again, she made an announcement. "I'm ready to play outside now," She informed me, her voice confident with pride. "The ants can't get me if I wear my boots."
Wiping my eyes, I inhaled a shaky breath and nodded. My three year old had found a way to conquer her ant hills. It had taken about three weeks, but in the end she had come out the winner. Exhaling slowly, I looked up at the sky again and promised myself that I would keep trying.
My husband's business has still not "taken off" to its full potential. We still worry about what we will do and how we will pay the bills, but each day, I get up and wait for opportunity to knock. And when it doesn't, I smile and somehow make it through the day. I still miss my dad and know I will have days when I simply break down and cry. But when I'm done with the tears, I wipe my eyes and turn to find my little example.
She is sitting on a booster chair at the kitchen table with glue, construction paper and safety scissors. She looks at me, and her love and happiness lights up the whole house. She has taught me a lesson. When my daughter was faced with adversity, she took her time in figuring out a way to overcome it.
As I watch her, daily stumbling along after her older sister, I know she has faced her inner demons and won. Dressed humbly in shorts, a t-shirt and her yellow, knee high rain boots, she marches triumphantly across the back lawn. She is a conqueror in her own might. No longer a prisoner of pavement, she is now protected by her ever-faithful, yellow boots. With her own great power, she stomps forward, facing and treading over her enemy.
As she turns to look at me, she smiles and waves. Holding my head up high, I smile and wave back. I find I am not only smiling at my little three year old, but at her prevailing stamina. I also smile at the strength she has unknowingly taught me. It is perhaps the most valuable gift anyone has ever given me.
In sheer panic, I raced to find the screams. As I pushed through the screen door, I heard it slam behind me as if in slow motion. I caught sight of my three year old as she turned the corner and came barreling into the garage. With her little legs pumping, she was half running, half stomping towards me. Wildly waving her hands around, she resembled someone mimicking a strange ancestral dance of some sort. Running to her, my confusion was clear on my face. As she got closer, her frantic screams penetrated my fragile eardrums. Once I got a good look at her, I knew at once what was wrong.
A normal warm day in Texas, I had dressed her in shorts, a t-shirt, socks and sneakers. As she squirmed in pain, I could see that her small legs, from her shoes to up past her knees, were swarming with medium sized fire ants. They were everywhere! Screaming myself now, I began stripping her down. Within seconds, in the shelter of the garage, my three year old stood before me in only her underwear.
Ants were inside her shoes. They had made it inside her socks. Small, pink mounds were already visible against her tanned, toddler skin. They were between her toes. There were ants up her thighs. Off came her underwear! Managing to penetrate into her underclothing, the ants had attacked her small, delicate bum where bumps were already looking like a furious, festering diaper rash. A few stubborn ants still clung tightly to her skin, their teeth digging in as their bodies gyrated back and forth in anger. With forceful pinches, I plucked them off her, flicking them away as quickly as I could.
Picking up my baby, I cradled her into the kitchen where I sat her up on the kitchen counter. Closely, I began my inspection. By this time, my daughter had stopped screaming. She was merely moaning now, humming her painful tune over and over again, like a vacant, tedious dial tone. Cooing and comforting her, I moved swiftly and resourcefully, as a mother soon learns to do. Swabbing a cool washcloth over her swollen, heated legs, I pulled her close and hugged her. With smooth, loving fingers, I wiped her dirty, tear streaked face and tried to console her.
The end result? My 3 year old had about 30 fire ant bites dotting each small, chubby leg. There were possibly 60 bites in all. Like I said, she's a tough, little girl. And although I hated that this had happened to her, I was just glad she was tough. After cleaning her up, I applied cream with lots of hugging and kissing in between, and she was fine. She was my little trouper. However, this incident did leave her with a fresh, new fear of playing on the grass.
Running to the edge of the driveway, she'd suddenly stop. I was quickly summoned to fetch her ball, each and every time it rolled off her sanctuary of pavement and drifted into the realm of dark and evil anthills. Every small pain or itch she experienced after this, was screamed out in sheer terror. She believed every small twitch or scratch was a new surprise attack of ants, and she would jerk and cry out in her sleep as if reliving her horror, over and over. Anyone who came to our house was suddenly bombarded with her traumatic tale. They'd listen patiently, their laughter clearly in cheek as her story laborously played out complete with animated gestures and dramatic charades. It was very obvious the whole experience had deeply affected her.
So for a while, my 3 year old daughter became my inside buddy. As I cleaned, cooked, and kept the house in order, she would watch TV or play quietly in her room. She would try on her older sister's outfits (and a natural born shoe lover) she would wear every shoe in the house by days end.
Meanwhile, during this time, my husband and I were trying to get our home business back up and running. We had recently relocated to a different state and our finances were not what they had fortunately been, before the move. With every passing day, we found ourselves stressed. Vividly, we watched our small savings dwindle into nothingness. Daily, I was plagued with headaches, and I'd wake myself in the middle of the night with the continuous clenching of my teeth. As we both became more and more engrossed in our stress, we soon found that our fuses were much too short. Tempers flared and patience was meager.
Adding more to our plate, my ailing father suddenly passed away. After the funeral, the only thing I could feel was "beat up" and "broken." Upon returning home, once again, my husband and I turned our attention to the daunting lack of business and our bleak money situation.
The first weeks following my father's death, found me simply lying awake at night. Racing thoughts bounced and bounded through my head, recalling my many images of childhood. Silently and secretly, I grieved and missed my father terribly. I'd catch myself sobbing four or fives times during the day and soon I stopped applying mascara or make-up at all. After all, I just cried it off anyway. I hardly left the house, and the only time I ventured outside was to aimlessly wander down the driveway to miserably collect more bills. Finally succumbing to the need off having food in the house, I dragged myself into the car and miraculously accomplished the overwhelming task of grocery shopping.
Only after hearing that my older sister, after 20 years of marriage and with four children - was divorcing her husband, did I feel like falling to my knees and giving up. As I trudged across the lawn, returning from a short visit to my husband's backyard studio, I suddenly stopped in my tracks, feeling exhausted and ready to give up. As if attacked by my own personal fire ant hill, I felt the painful sting of stress mixed with the merciless throbbing of my tremendous trials. My faith trampled, my emotions screaming, I overflowed with sorrow and endless dread.
Raising my eyes skyward, I clenched my fists in frustration and cried out angrily. "Please dear Heavenly Father," I shouted in a challenging voice and searched the clouds for a sign - any sign. Frantically, I peered into the heavens, hoping for a miracle.
"Dad?" I begged softly, my voice breaking with emotion; my shoulders sagging, "I miss you so much." Hot tears slid dejected down my cheeks, and I sniffed. "If you can." I pleaded. "Please send some help. We're going to lose our new house," I told him, as if he didn't already know everything as he watched me from his heavenly perch on high. Suddenly, I felt something tugging at my shirt.
"Mama?" A squeaky voice suddenly brought me back to the present. I was still standing in my sunny backyard, halfway to the house on my way back from my husband's studio. With tears running down my face, I looked down to see my three year old daughter. At first, it didn't hit me, but then I realized. Shocked, I stared down at her. My daughter was actually standing on the grass! It had been weeks since she'd left pavement and set foot on the lawn. As understanding slowly sank in, I smiled.
My three year old was standing on the grass in her tall, yellow rain boots. Looking up at me, a victorious smile began to spread across her precious, little face. Tugging at my shirt again, she made an announcement. "I'm ready to play outside now," She informed me, her voice confident with pride. "The ants can't get me if I wear my boots."
Wiping my eyes, I inhaled a shaky breath and nodded. My three year old had found a way to conquer her ant hills. It had taken about three weeks, but in the end she had come out the winner. Exhaling slowly, I looked up at the sky again and promised myself that I would keep trying.
My husband's business has still not "taken off" to its full potential. We still worry about what we will do and how we will pay the bills, but each day, I get up and wait for opportunity to knock. And when it doesn't, I smile and somehow make it through the day. I still miss my dad and know I will have days when I simply break down and cry. But when I'm done with the tears, I wipe my eyes and turn to find my little example.
She is sitting on a booster chair at the kitchen table with glue, construction paper and safety scissors. She looks at me, and her love and happiness lights up the whole house. She has taught me a lesson. When my daughter was faced with adversity, she took her time in figuring out a way to overcome it.
As I watch her, daily stumbling along after her older sister, I know she has faced her inner demons and won. Dressed humbly in shorts, a t-shirt and her yellow, knee high rain boots, she marches triumphantly across the back lawn. She is a conqueror in her own might. No longer a prisoner of pavement, she is now protected by her ever-faithful, yellow boots. With her own great power, she stomps forward, facing and treading over her enemy.
As she turns to look at me, she smiles and waves. Holding my head up high, I smile and wave back. I find I am not only smiling at my little three year old, but at her prevailing stamina. I also smile at the strength she has unknowingly taught me. It is perhaps the most valuable gift anyone has ever given me.
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