Things Aren't Always As They Seem

I should have known better. There I sat, on a sunny day in May, watching the high school seniors climb the steps to the chancel area (in some churches, called an altar), to be presented to the congregation as we applauded. Each of these fresh-faced young adults looked out at us, awkward but happy in spite of themselves. Visions of UT, A&M, and various Ivy League institutions danced in their heads. Their lives before them, they had every reason to bask in our adulation. I looked over at Mackenzie, also a high school senior--at least age-wise-- hunched over a coloring book. Their future would not be her future.

The boy in the middle was the tallest, biggest one of all. One would think "football scholarship" when laying eyes on him. Ahhh, Andy. I had known Andy since birth. His parents, and Chris and I, took the same Lamaze class 19 years ago, and his mother, Sarah, and I immediately gravitated toward each other. She was a vice president of sales for a major corporation and I was in corporate communications for another. We understood each other; the anticipation of having our first children, our shared faith in God, and our desire to maintain careers despite the occasional critical input of others, helped create a bond between us.

We became fast friends and shared our parenting experiences over the years. Andy grew leaps and bounds while Mackenzie lagged cognitively. Her diagnosis of tuberous sclerosis complex came at age one, and while many people were there for us at first, Sarah stayed...to listen, counsel and give me the permission to believe in myself when I did not. She also understood the career thing, but we supported each other in later years when we both chose to step back a bit--me, from the corporate world to my own business; her, from a 24/7 executive position to the head of a Christian foundation.

We had lost touch in the years leading up to that day in May, not for any reason other than the craziness of everyday life. So, when I saw Andy take the stage, it all rushed back to me. As if hit broadside, memories and feelings I pushed down inside myself so many years ago
came rushing back: The joyful anticipation of my very first baby, the shared smiles between Sarah and I during our babies' early months, the confusion of watching Mackenzie's first seizure, the heartbreak of her diagnosis, the mixed blessings and richer life of parenting a special
needs child....then, sitting there, an older, uglier feeling I rarely experience anymore: green-eyed envy. An uncontrollable swelling of it as I watched Andy take those steps to the front of the church, to the chancel area, to his future. Mackenzie should be up there, my heart cried out. She should have those opportunities. She did nothing to deserve what life has given her. It sucks, TSC sucks, the whole thing sucks.

The feeling left as quickly as it came, buried by the more reasonable and charitable thoughts of how she is a happy person, how we are
fortunate to have other healthy children, how lucky I am to be married to a man who is dedicated to all of us and how much fun and joy we have in our home. But deep, deep down, I could still hear it: this sucks.

That was a month ago. Last night, I learned from Sarah that she has been diagnosed with ovarian cancer.

I'm not certain of how to complete this post. What is my point here? On this, the day after my learning of Sarah's devastating diagnosis, my heart is heavy and my mind wanders to those many years between laughing at the eccentric Lamaze teacher to Andy taking those steps at the church, to last night. Maybe I want to record the age-old adage to "count your blessings." Maybe I need to remember that no matter what I think of others' lives, I will never truly understand the big picture...what goes on behind closed doors or which of life's scars have yet to make their presence known. Perhaps it makes sense to consider that no one's life is, or will ever be, perfect. Maybe I need to consider in my hectic, overloaded mind--aided and abetted by the growth and distractions of technology--to enjoy every day, without wasting any of our hours on petty, useless things. Maybe it's all these thoughts wrapped into one.

Maybe. But on this day, one thing is for certain: I wish Andy all good things for his future, including a mother who will live to see her grandchildren. This I know, from the bottom of my heart.