teeny tiny miracles

 

We really believe that everybody gets one big miracle in life  - one unexpected windfall from the great unknown. We already used ours on a sarcoma. Six years ago, we prayed and cried and pleaded for just one more Christmas, one more birthday, graduation, road trip. We got several.

A sarcoma. Sounds like a pesky mosquito bite compared to glioblastoma. But the sarcoma didn't take him then, it didn't destroy our family - we got our miracle.

I suppose we got a few big ones: The fact that in a sea of nearly 8 billion people on Earth, we managed to find the other halves of our soul.

Noah.

Kaia.

Nika.

The neighborhood we moved into.

The families and friends we both inherited from the other.

That's a lot of miracles for just one family, and I supposed our ration of big favors from the universe was bound to run out.

But the little ones keep coming:

1) When I was six, my mom was in the final stages of her cancer treatment and my dad and uncle took me to San Diego to see her. They asked if there was anything special she wanted, any food she was craving. She said, "Hostess Cupcakes. The kind with the little swirls on top. J knows what I mean." I took my orders very seriously, but after an hour and a half of scouring the city, my dad and uncle dragged me back to the hospital empty handed. 

As an adult, of course I can see that she likely just sent me out to keep me busy. As a child, I knew I'd failed her, and it's a weird guilt I still carry today. So when Rico asked Nika for a very specific caramel corn when he was in the hospital, I got nervous. The shop is only open a few days a week, I was unable to get there and Neeks was bent on getting it herself. We'd tried at east three times, but never made it. It happened to be open yesterday after a doctor appointment and she was able to buy Rico's caramel corn, and he was able to eat it - tiny miracle 1.

2) Poor, sweet 22-year old Hunter showed up with our hospice bed four hours early. He arrived with a smile, eager to help. He clearly had no idea what it feels like to cradle your dying spouse in the bed you share, knowing that once you move him it will be for the last time. I half walked, half crawled to the front door, sobbing hysterically, having just uncurled myself from the big-spoon position. All Hunter could say was, "Um, is this a bad time?"

It was Hunter. 

It was a bad time. 

But none of this is your fault, it just is. And no sooner had Hunter loaded all of the pieces of this monstrosity that will carry Rico home, than someone else walked in the door. It was Rachel - Rachel who I truly believe knows everyone and everything and keeps saving my ass just because she's an incredible human. She gave me a hug and said, "Steven and Asher and Anna and Kyle are coming to help." And they did. These five people hustled to our house early on a Friday morning and began moving things. They walked in to my mess of my house with my mess of an unshowered self and started lifting and moving and holding up Rico -  and they didn't even make any wisecracks about the fact that I sleep with a hammer by my nightstand because burglars are a thing and I don't want a gun in the house - though it would have been well within their rights. They worked until Rico's new bed was pushed up as close to mine as it can possibly be. I can't spoon him all night, but I still sleep with our ankles tangled up like we always have. Rachel, Kyle, Anna, Steven and Asher - tiny miracle 2.

3) Rico has not slept for almost three days. The tumor just doesn't allow it, there is fear and worry, but also his brain just isn't doing its job.  He saw me crying last night. He started crying too and said, "I'm sorry baby. I know there are things I used to do to make you feel better so you wouldn't cry, but they scooped that part of my brain out and I can't remember what it was. I can't remember how to help, so I will just hold you on my shoulder. 

The shoulder is exactly what he always did to make the tears stop. There is no better place to be, so now I visit it as often as I can.

But today there was a little sleep. Not much, but a nap - enough rest that when he woke, we were able to visit Santorini, Greece and eat Greek pizza with soooo many olives we couldn't count them all. We waded in the turquoise of the Mediterranean, which was so much prettier than we imagined.  Santorini - tiny miracle 3.

There are have been so many more teeny tiny miracles - friends who showed up with fried chicken and fixed our TV remotes; others who've offered to play some live music - his favorite; the five of us knowing when when of us is abut to break and gathering strength from somewhere to prop each other up; a little rainbow friendship bracelet we found in our mailbox; art camp for Neeks and the beautiful family that picked her up and brought her home each day; cheesey mashed potatoes and smoked meatloaf delivered on a day we had nothing left to give; Saija - magical Saija who showed up for an impromptu sleepover with Twizzlers, Ben & Jerry's and an original song she wrote; friends who have offered to sit close by and love him when we need to sleep or stretch or ugly cry in the closet. The tiny miracles are all over the place, and we can still see them through the tears.