Bounce House, Cancer, and a Story

Little Brother watched over Sister's shoulder while Sister scrolled through YouTube Kids for her next selection. Big Brother researched his next Nerf purchase in the other room after we returned from a neighborhood gathering that was billed as a "safer option" than a No Kings Protest. Given that the shooter is still at large, Husband and I decided against protesting today. I am inspired by the pictures of family and friends who did get out there, in St. Paul and other spots all over the country.

While we walked to the get-together, I asked my older kids if they had heard Husband or me talk about the news today. My oldest said he'd read some about it, but Sister had not. In the most age-appropriate and factual way I could, I shared what I knew of the shootings that occurred here in the Cities earlier this morning. We spoke a little about the military parade Trump is throwing, and how much it is going to cost. Nine-year-old Sister said, "Why couldn't he use that money for feeding the homeless?"

At the gathering, my kids jumped in a bounce house and Sister had her face painted while I listened to a community organizer who had chatted with Representative Hortman just last night at the dinner the DFL party held. We ate tacos and Sister chugged Fanta. I beat Big Brother at beanbags, even though he would disagree with this. One person had come from a vigil, where the only thing that could speak in this moment of shock and sadness was a song. We talked about music and its power.

And then there was a piñata. I reminded Sister that she had to wait until all the little kids took some shots before she could try. The candy-filled cardboard soccer ball survived for at least 10 minutes and several attempts until some of the adults gave it a hit. One guy said he hurt himself swinging.

"I played air hockey with Sister the other day," I said, "and now my arm is sore." People laughed. It's true; if you don't play air hockey for more than two decades and then you play it non-stop for more than an hour with an insatiable nine-year-old, you hurt.

Someone asked, "Where did you find an air hockey table to play like that?"

Well. Now what. Do I lie? Do I make something up? Do I pretend I didn't hear her?

"Oh," I said. "We were at the hospital."

Ah yes. The hospital. The Child Life Zone, where there is in addition to an air hockey table a whole room full of musical instruments, a video game console, art supplies, a photo booth, and toys of all kinds. This is where Sister and I spent a few hours the other day as we waited between appointments. This is where we dropped Little Brother off on another day where he played while Husband and I went to Sister's oncology appointment.

No one asked anything more about the air hockey table or why we were at the hospital.

Sister bounced in the bounce house behind us and came out to draw. Then, "More Fanta?" she said. I shook my head.

Sister has metastatic thyroid carcinoma and her cancer is not responding to the first-line treatment. She started a new drug just yesterday, and this summer will be replete with labs, symptom monitoring, appointments, restricted diets, and stress, alongside all the normal summer activities that three kids enjoy. A handful of camps, music lessons, swimming, Nerf battles, sleepovers, and maybe more than one road trip will happen, so long as Sister tolerates the new drug well.

Everything about today, though, is disorienting. My child, jumping, bouncing, and slamming a Fanta has numerous lung metastases that continue to spread. There is one Democratic lawmaker dead and one seriously injured by a man who is still on the loose. A military parade in D.C. that will cost many millions of dollars, all to appease a birthday wish of a dictator wanna-be in the United States. All of this is disorienting. A Saturday in June, cold and cloudy, where people come from vigils to then attend a neighborhood protest party. And my daughter's cancer creeps on.

Disorienting.

There aren't many things that cheer me up lately. My kids, yes, are hilarious, and they're fun and frustrating. I like my work. But this is hard. All of it. Writing is one of the few things that has always gathered me up, collected my pieces, fit me together. It helps.

After a grueling week of appointments and hospital visits with my daughter, I was pleased to see one of my stories published in Dark Harbor Magazine. I wrote the story before my daughter's diagnosis, and I've hardly even gotten back to writing on a regular basis, much less doing the work of submitting stories. I am so happy this story found its way to Dark Harbor.

Please find “This Is How You Run From Monsters” in this month’s edition of Dark Harbor Magazine. Note that if you cannot read the whole story without subscribing, there is a free subscription option (as well as the paid options that support this new literary magazine).

May our days continue and may we get through them with as much ease as possible.