This is when the world changes.

So happy to be back to normal

My first diagnosis seems ages ago. We were far from both our families, but D's family was at least two thousand miles closer. In those hurried days after the words were first spoken, his mother arrived to support and help us. When they told me I might be infertile. She cried and I did not. Now I get why she cried. I get that grief.

While she was visiting, D's dad took care of his sister, E. Charming Princess. E. Charming Princess has called herself E. Charming Princess since she was a little kid. E. has down syndrome and autism. She doesn't use a lot of words to communicate. When her mom was north, E. told her dad something like, "Nurse Miss Miller Mom. Eleanor Amanda. Hospital. Take care of her." Her words halting as she used her limited vocabulary to describe an unusual and painful situation.

A year later, D and I had moved back to Oregon. I needed health insurance, and his dad graciously let me work at his clinic. One infusion day, no one could pick up E except D and I. So E came to the infusion room. She watched, in fascination, as "nurse barbie" took my weight, blood pressure, and temperature. She held my hand and said, "brave," as the nurse cleaned the port on my chest. She watched as the nurse inserted the giant needle just above my heart. All of it, E took in. She seemed unconcerned, but interested.

Amanda tries to figure out what E says...

That night, cuddled in her bed, her father tucked her in, and he asked her,"E, what'd you do today?" E paused. Her hands stilled from her writing. Her head turned toward him, and she looked up from her work. "Eleanor Amanda. Shot. Heart. Medicine." E's eyes filled with tears. "Eleanor Amanda is getting medicine, E. She's getting medicine to get better.”

People underestimate E all of the time. They think because she doesn't use words to communicate fluidly that she is somehow less than others. She is incapable of employment, success, etc. She will be a child forever. These perceptions are incorrect. E sees everything. She knows everything. She needs support, but she gets it.

My cancer was hard on everyone. Everyone was at a loss for words. The treatments from the outside made me a ghost of myself. No one ever talked about it as eloquently as E. The port sat right above my heart. The chemo dripped into my arteries and veins. These are scary things. I think E is really the only one who processed how scary it was at the time.

E and D at horseback riding.

This week was D's first week back supporting E. It was a week of sharky grins, bubbling laughter, and spontaneous words. She asked me, "schedule" in words instead of sign for the first time in years. Her joy at having her brother home feeds me. It's a window opening as the door of our other plan shuts for now.

Right now, I'm looking for windows everywhere. E was the first window I found. New windows are opening all around us.  The world is filled with endless possibilities. All D and I have to do is breathe and pick which windows to fly out of.