I was mad.
I was mad that someone so precious would have to endure something so awful. I was mad that this is what my Cannon would have to face. I was mad at the fact that no one had mentioned this earlier. I was mad that after all the praying the results showed this. I was mad that I couldn’t change this. I was mad that I had been so hopeful.
I was mad.
I know very well the stages of grief. I knew that I was angry. I was so angry I didn’t know how I could speak to God. I couldn’t speak to Him. I had trusted Him, depended on Him, needed Him. So instead of focusing on being mad I pretended.
I pretended that it was all a big misunderstanding. That maybe we would go to the specialist in KC and somehow Cannon would be healed. His fusion would be unfused. After all I believed and still believe in miracles. So maybe, I could hope again for a miracle. I could believe that there could be a miracle that the surgeon would not need to do surgery; Cannon’s body would fix itself.
I was in denial.
It was easier not to talk about it. Not to tell people. I am not one who shares my personal life easily and my kindergarten world had become my escape. My kids didn’t know and wouldn’t know about this. When I was there in front of them, I pretended that everything was perfect, that my life was not crumbling apart, that I was not so devastated that I couldn’t be left alone. But in truth I felt as though my life was crumbling, I was devastated, I was scared to be alone. And in the quiet I would cry so hard. On the drive to work or to pick up the boys I sobbed.
I pleaded.
I begged that this could be taken away from Cannon. I would endure this pain, this treatment, this reality. I needed to take this away from him. He did not deserve this. I begged that the situation could be different.
I remember so clearly that night that I called my mom and I told her that I needed a day, I needed a day to cry until I couldn’t cry anymore and then I could move on. I gave myself permission to be crushed with the overwhelming sense that this was our new life. So I sobbed to her on the phone that night. I couldn’t say anything or do anything but cry. I couldn’t make sense of any of it. I wanted to change it and yet here it was.
A week flew by and I knew others knew. Or at least they knew something was wrong. I again didn’t have the words. It was easier to not admit that something was wrong. If I didn’t admit it, then it wasn’t real. If I didn’t put it into words, then it wasn’t real. If I didn't admit it then it wasn’t something that I would constantly have to face. I wouldn’t have to listen to others share words of sorrow, the comforting hugs, the sad looks, the thoughts of pity. However, I had to. I waited. I waited until I really could not wait any longer. Things were being said and pondering thoughts were causing erroneous things to be said, so I had to admit it. I had to reach out and ask for prayers, prayers, to cover our sweet Cannon. Because again, in this moment I did not have the words to give.
***Thank you, thank you for your prayers, thank you for being strong and lifting us up as we were weak, we couldn’t think, we couldn’t have gone on to pick up the pieces without all of the prayers and thoughts. Thank you, thank you for the words of kindness, sorrow and comfort. Thank you for your hugs and pats on the back. Thank you for holding our hands and your kind looks, full of strength and wisdom. Many of you have experienced grief and have had grief greater than this yet you took on our sorrow and made it your own. I sincerely thank you with all of my heart!***
