Finding the lighter side

Six years into a brain tumour diagnosis.  I never would have thought I could find humour in this space but lately I have.  Maybe it’s due to my commitment to personal growth and evolving as a human being, or just maybe I have actually finally lost my mind.  I have to say without doubt that it’s the former, but I feel like there have been many standing by ready to catch me if/when I did fall off the tracks.  Of course, I love and thank those people for being there in a capacity they thought necessary and perhaps it was.  Funny thing is that this knowing made me more insular and less likely to share for fear of losing even more control of my already out of control life.  I should probably say that the brain tumour diagnosis isn’t actually mine.  My beautiful, sweet, clever, energetic, funny, and loving boy was diagnosed when he was just Five and ¾ years old.  The ¾ is important to say as that’s a whole 8 months extra that we had of sweet innocence and ignorance before our world as it was got picked up and literally thrown off the edge of a great abyss.  It’s been a long six years.  Sometimes it feels like this past six years has incapsulated my whole life actually.  Like nothing existed or was actually real before diagnosis.  Just some kind of illusion that never actually existed.  But one thing I’m sure of is that the person I am now is a person that I love, respect and honour.  I don’t even know who I was before this experience, but the person I am now is someone I really like.  I’d definitely hang out with me now.  Maybe it does take pressure to bring out someone’s or something’s true nature.  I definitely wouldn’t have chosen this experience for myself, my child or family and friends, but I can see the depth and connection that it has unveiled in our own personalities, relationships, experiences, and perceptions of the world, that perhaps otherwise may not exist.  Things look and feel different now and that definitely has impacts on how I connect with others and also how I want or don’t want to connect with others.  Some things just don’t make sense or really matter anymore.   They are just noise filling up a space that I need to cut through to get to the real stuff.

Gosh the real stuff.  Being able to reflect and sometimes laugh at our very real and sometimes heart-breaking experiences.  Six years in I’ve really only just started to be able to see the humour in some experiences.  It doesn’t take away from the seriousness of what’s happening, but it definitely blows a hole in any feelings of hopelessness, desperation, panic, fear, loss of control and stress.  It’s like loosening the top off the pressure cooker and that’s a beautiful thing.  It’s such a relief for me and creates a whole different experience for my beautiful boy, Lachlan, where he doesn’t have to hold on so tight and actually creates more space for joy and healing in an environment which can certainly be void of the lighter side.

Yesterday I was staring intently into Lach’s eyes, holding his hand tightly and assuring him that he’s got this.  He’s got this because 20 minutes ago he was using a filthy public toilet on the side of Flemington road, post chemo poo emergency in the middle of a global pandemic.  Yep, with a giggle escaping from his lips he barely even noticed the nurse clamping down and slicing the tip of his finger for a finger prick blood test.  The absurdity of the past couple of hours was just too great and it felt really good to be able to reflect on that with a shared level of humour.  Replace any fear of anticipation of the pain or discomfort to come with something that felt so much lighter for both of us.  Not always possible or appropriate in many of the experiences we have faced together, but gosh it’s lovely to find it when we can and not only avoid another layer of trauma to be peeled off at a later time, but maybe to help release and lighten what’s already there. 

I have to say that I don’t know why they call it a finger prick.  It’s kind of more of a pinch and slice, but I concede that a pinch and slice sounds far less appealing.