Over the past few months, our family has learned some of life’s harshest lessons:
The real meaning of the word “terrified.”
Ten-year olds aren’t promised tomorrow.
There’s no age requirement for suffering.
Yep, all of those pretty much suck.
When we first heard Adelia’s diagnosis the good in life dimmed, our world shrank. I saw everything through a dull lens and used the word “dread” a lot and there was no inappropriate place for crying.
That was for the rest of us, but not for Adelia.
She ain’t got no time for that.
While her health declines, her capacity for happiness does not.
She cackles like a hen at random private jokes, likes nothing better than putting her brother in a headlock, hopefully till he loses consciousness, and knows when her mom’s back is turned so she can wheel off with a cookie.
While we’re focused on her dying, Adelia’s living.
She’s forced me to reevaluate. Can joy ride shotgun with sorrow? Can we find anything to celebrate during these sad days?
Well, since you asked here are a few things to consider:
We can still make silly videos and laugh our asses off.
We can still just plain laugh our asses off.
Homemade chocolate cake still restores the soul.
Singing Old MacDonald Had a Farm is never wrong.
We can watch Sofia the First on a 72-hour loop and not lose our minds.
My daughter still needs me to tell her how to make green beans.
My daughter can still get pissed off when I tell her how to make green beans.
Online oyster shucking parties are a thing. Go ahead, Google it.
Teenagers still know everything.
Little boys still think fart noises are hilarious.
Grown up boys still think fart noises are hilarious.
Candy before dinner is still awesome.
Hospice nurses can become our BFF’s.
My chest can still puff with pride over the accomplishments of my five other grandchildren. Talking to them, spending time with them, still soothes every ill.
Dogs still love unconditionally.
We can still count the stars from a hospital bed.
To feel Adelia’s heartbeat under the palm of my hand is still an extraordinary thing.
My family is still the well of love I draw from that’s never run dry.
Watching my husband hold his grandchildren makes my world right.
A forty-pound, tiny slip of a girl can take a fifteen round beat-down in the fight of her life and still get up swinging.
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