The Rear View

As the school year comes to a close, our family has had time to reflect on the year we worked through and locate the bright side of it all.

Our family endured two medication changes, a biopsy, a concussion, 64 doctor views on the biopsy, months of steroids, marks like a cheetah for months, a mysterious eye funk, new scars inside and out, a mangled foot, an ambulance ride in a different state, and too many “I’m not sure” or “I do not knows” responses.

We close the year by putting those in the rear view.  We choose to move forward and not look back.  Though the moments and challenges brought us down at times, the bright side keeps us moving forward.

Our successes included Superintendent’s List, a communion, a character award, new friendships, a new instrument, a new sport, a new club, a gala, a golf outing, and the publication of a book.  We choose to celebrate the moments that made us proud and joyful.  We choose to recall the challenges to remind us to grow and endure.

The Rear View is a perfect lens to see shortcomings, learn from failures, and reflect on success.

The rain comes and goes, but the rainbows make it all worth it.

Reflect.  Reset.  Leave it in the Rear View.


Reflections in the cloudy bay water this weekend made me reflect on the journey I’ve traveled so far.  My reflections are sometimes cloudy, too, but I think that is because I try not to focus on them.  Instead I try to focus more clearly on the now, the positive, and the hope.

On my lap, joyous and exuberant sat a girl who sometimes sits on my lap the same way tired and in pain.  When she is feeling great, the world can not help but join in on her contagious and positive spirit.  She truly shines brighter than the sun.  

When she sits on my lap, crying or sleeping due to pain in her legs, it is just the opposite.  During those trying times, it is typically just the two of us as it was this weekend.  Those lonely moments happen far less than they did years ago.  Looking back, those nights were so frequent that they sadly became the norm.  I think back to those days now and how they all began.

Like it was yesterday, I recall Friday November 18, 2011.  My mom was off and watching my kids for the day.  When I left that morning, my two children were happy and healthy, though Kels did feel a little warm to me.  She had received her flu vaccine and nine month immunizations one week prior, so I did not think much of it.  I left my mom happily singing with the kids on my family room rug.  Neither one even noticed me leave.

I walked in the door after work to my mother in tears, Kelsey lethargic and red with warmth.  My mother could barely speak.  We locked eyes, both filled with pain, fear, and a stream of tears.  I remember the words she spoke, the few she could get out, “Something is wrong.”  I recall standing still and feeling frozen, fighting my own intuition because I just wanted everything to be right.

That night, my pediatrician assured me that Kelsey was just teething. “Advil will do the trick,” she said with a smile.  I did not believe a word of it, but I attempted to sell the teething story to my mom.  She did not believe it either.  I wanted it to be true.  However, when your child wakes with a 102.9 degree average temperature and red hot patches of skin on her body, you know in your heart that is not the case.

My mom’s words echoed in my mind almost every second of the day for the next week, “Something is wrong.”  I was a naive mom, and I was in denial.  I hoped that Advil would do the trick.  I just wanted everything to be right.  So a second visit to my pediatrician again suppressed my mommy instincts and assured me that it was just teething.  “Advil will do the trick,” she said and I embraced the thought.

But I knew that it wouldn’t.  What I did not know was how to say that I just knew that it was not just teething.  After all, I do not have any medical training.  I also did not have any idea what was actually starting to happen inside of my nine-month-old daughter’s body.  Instead, I just remember crying to the doctor that night.  It was the first time I cried about my daughter in front of a doctor.  My heart just knew what I did not have the courage to say.  That night, I knew that it was not just a feeling.  I had to find the strength to say it.

“Something is wrong,” I pleaded.  Somehow, I mumbled those three words through my tears, only to hear, “Advil will do the trick,” again.  That was the first of many times I lied to myself.  Instead of fighting for my child and advocating for what I knew was the truth, I fought back tears, attempted a smile, and gave my daughter more Advil.  I did not have a medical degree.  Yet, I still heard my mother’s words, “Something is wrong” and I knew that something was.  I just had to decide what to do about it.

Reflections can be altered through a lack or burst of light.  A cloudy day can turn sunny and picturesque in a moment’s notice.   I wish I could alter those November reflections so quickly.  Thinking about them helps me to see how far I have come, how much I have changed, and how much stronger I am because of them.   

I much prefer the reflections of the cloudy bay water and the smile I saw reflecting back at me.