Five years. What can I say five years out that hasn't already been said? Maybe nothing, I know I've already said a lot.
There may be nothing new, but maybe that's the story. Nothing is new, but all the same things are still true.
Since August I've been returning to 2016 and our journey with Drew through his cancer treatments as I work on the book. I've been putting the pieces of the story together from my personal journal, CaringBridge posts, and photo timelines. I've reached out to people who were a part of our story, when their part came up, to try and gather more details.
And as I go along, and read the all the emotion in the entries, posts, feedback, and in the faces in photos from that time--the same things are still true.
This was so incredibly sad. It was difficult to watch, to look at, to be a part of.
Drew suffered so much for anyone, let alone a two-year-old little boy. The bowel obstruction, the infections, the blown IVs filling his arm full of fluid, the mouth and bum sores, the hair and finger/toenail losses, the baths every 4 hours for 4 days--not to mention the constant companion of nausea and vomiting throughout his journey.
As I'm writing in detail about his physical treatment, I'm so broken for how much he endured. I hurt thinking about how often he hurt.
And in those moments, as I pause my writing to cry, I remind myself that he's done with all this. Even though I hurt for him now, he doesn't hurt anymore.
In fact, for a while I have felt in my heart that from his perspective now--he's okay with all he had to endure. Unlike me, who is tempted to think those long days and weeks were all for nothing since the treatments didn't work to cure his body--Drew knows that wasn't the point.
He would do each of those difficult days again for the good that came from them. In our lives, and in other's lives. I just know that in my heart.
But from my perspective as his mother, five years later, I'm thankful he's done. That January 19, 2017 was his last hard day. The last day he had to wake up with the suffocating weight of cancer on his chest. I'm relieved that there was an end to the treatment and complications. That for the last five years, my boy has been free.
I am thankful for my afternoons I spend with my Drew while I write. Sometimes opening myself up is hard because at some point I have to close the door again. Return to the real world. It's so hard to go back to a life without him. But I'm far enough away--five years--that I'd rather have the time with him, even if it's hard to put him away again, than not have the time at all.
As one of the grief books I have read says, when your loved one dies, your relationship with them does not end. The physical relationship, yes, but if you are open to it, if you are intentional about keeping them in your life just in new ways, your relationship with them will never end.
That's how I feel about Drew now. Our physical relationship has ended, but every day he is a part of my life. Whether it's actually talking about him in our house, working on Warrior Wagons work which we do in his memory, or when I'm writing his story. Even on days we don't do any of those things, he's a part of who we are today--in our attitude and character.
Even still, I look forward to the day with all my heart that I get to have that direct relationship with him again. When I can pick him up and hold him in my arms. Hear his voice and feel his touch. We are five years closer to that day.
It's not just Drew I've been spending time with while I write this year, but myself of five years ago. The me that tried so hard to keep it together. To care for Drew, be there for Molly, support Josh, and keep the faith and trust in God no matter what.
The tear-stained journal pages and heartfelt prayers reveal how deep and all-encompassing the daily struggle was. I am reliving days and weeks at a time, picking up the story where I left off the last time, and it's almost unbelievable what we went through. I must have been numb to it at the time. In some sort of state of denial so we could still function.
But looking back, five years later, I can see how all of it led to so much growth and maturity in my faith. How each difficult week that Drew went through, and subsequently I did too, taught me what it really means to be a believer. Not just when times are good, not just when we get the answer to our prayer we were hoping for. But believing anyway. Trusting that even though we don't understand, and it doesn't seem fair, that it will makes sense someday.
There are so many fears, hopes, and prayers that I recorded. Knowing how the story ends, it's easy to think that all was lost. But actually, I'm seeing almost every time I write how perfectly each prayer was answered. So many of the fears never actually materialized. God was with us, as he promised, every single day. In the good days and the awful ones.
It is clear that me, all by myself, was in way over my head. That there's no way a person could handle all that we did alone. God's power and strength is obvious, shining through the earthen jars that we are. And I'm convinced that's the point. The story I'm really telling through Drew's journey.
Today on Drew's Glory Day, I have a feeling that the me of five years ago would be satisfied. Satisfied that her struggles, the suffering of her son, all of it--wasn't in vain, ironically, since the treatments I'm writing about seemed to be.
A friend once told me that God doesn't waste hurt. He uses each one. As I sift through my hurts of 2016 and see the comforting, bright light of Jesus amongst it, I am even more convinced of the truth in that thought.
On that last day we had with Drew, not many words were said. He had stopped talking the night before, and there just weren't a lot of words to speak while Josh and I watched our son's life come to an end.
But the promises we made to him, have been kept. Cancer did not win five years ago, and we haven't spent a single day acting like it did. We haven't let this take Molly's childhood from us too. We have done our best to do what Drew taught us and live each day to the fullest, not taking any for granted.
And we remember our Drew, bring him with us, everywhere we go.
The me of today is satisfied with that, too. I know we still have a lifetime to go, but if the first five years is any indication, we are on the right track. We have set the tone, we've adopted the perspective, and we plan to keep it up as we keep moving forward.
We miss you, Drewy. We are so proud of your life. We are so thankful we had you, even if it was for such a short time. You'll always be my little boy, and I cannot wait until I get to see you again.
Happy Glory Day my sweet baby 💗
