The other day we were driving by Big’s soon-to-be elementary school—which happens to be two stories—and he asked me if there was an elevator. I quickly responded, “No, just stairs.” He corrected me (of course), first saying that there was probably a cool ladder instead, then by asking, “Well, what about people who can’t walk up the stairs?” I told him he was right, there was most definitely an elevator for people who aren’t able to walk up stairs.
This only piqued his interest. He started asking me how people in wheelchairs get into cars. He was so sincerely interested and concerned. As we talked about it, he kept saying, “Cool!”
It got me thinking that while I’ve been pretty wrapped up in feeling sorry for myself and my family lately due to my dad’s disabilities and setbacks since being diagnosed with brain cancer 6 years ago (he’s often in a wheelchair or using a walker), my kids are learning wonderful lessons in empathy—and life—spending time with their grandpa.
It’s true, I absolutely hate that Big thinks watching my dad walk a few yards unaided is cause for celebration. But I absolutely love that he cheers for him and feels pride watching his grandpa succeed.
I absolutely hate that Big locates things around my parents’ town in relationship to where the hospital is. But I absolutely love that he begged to visit his grandpa last time he was in there, even though it was a bit scary.
I absolutely hate that every time Big sees a fire truck, he thinks someone has fallen and needs help. But I absolutely love that he knows there are such things as real-life heroes, and that it’s ok to ask for help.
I absolutely hate that Big assumes his grandpa will be asleep whenever we call or go over to see him. But I absolutely love that he still insists on calling and considers it a Friday adventure to go spend time with Nana and Grandpa (then asks to go back on Saturday too!).
I absolutely hate that when Big sees pictures of himself as a baby with my dad he shouts, “There’s Grandpa before he got his brain ouchie!” (Especially because it wasn’t…but it was before a number of other setbacks that have impacted his strength and appearance.) But I absolutely love that he’s had years to bond, giggle and feel truly adored, in spite of my dad’s declining health.
I absolutely hate that even Little is beginning to get frustrated by being called the wrong name time and time again (then again, that may be because I do it too). But I absolutely love that the boys continue to remind their grandpa that he got it wrong—because they haven’t given up hope that he’ll remember next time.
I absolutely hate that Big’s growing vocabulary includes words like cancer and heart attack. But I absolutely love that when it comes to my friend’s son with leukemia, rather than being squeamish, Big sports a shirt with his picture and tells people his friend is sick, but he’s fighting to get better.
No doubt my kids will be awkwardly uncomfortable and say the wrong thing around someone who’s different at some point along the way. But for the most part, Big doesn’t seem to care if someone has purple hair—or no hair at all for that matter. It’s not to say that he doesn’t notice, he just doesn’t think it’s a reason to fear or judge people.
There’s so much that I hate about my dad’s situation. I hate that my kids won’t learn how to serve a tennis ball, soak up sun while mowing the lawn, run a 10k, do a flip on a trampoline (or off a high dive) or make a mean batch of chocolate chip cookies from the master. But I can’t help but love the lessons they are learning from their grandpa. And I hope they always remember how he shaped their outlook on life in so many wonderful ways. I know I will.
Amy:
My heart aches for the difficult journey you and your family are going through and so glad that your two wonderful boys are finding ways to help you through it. Bless their hearts. On another note, I’m real surprised that there’s no elevator there, especially when one of their long time 5th grad teacher (long since retired) was wheelchair bound.
Hugs,
L
Thanks, Linda. There probably IS an elevator there, I have no idea…it was just a thoughtless response from me.
thanks for sharing this amy. big and little learn that empathy from watching you and matt. such a hard and important lesson.
Well, we certainly try, but somehow Big seems to have gotten a bit more than us. Thanks, Aim.
Amy:
Thinking back to when your dad was first diagnosed and what the prognosis was then, I love that he is still alive and kicking, bonding with your kids and teaching them some amazing lessons. I have been around a lot of medical miracles lately- and I am glad to see you dad is one of them.
As your boys (and soon to be daughter) grow up, they will be so lucky to have had your father in their lives and such good people for the lessons he has taught them.
Yes, Melissa, it is a miracle beyond belief…so much so that the doctors don’t even know what to do with him. He’s among an extremely small group of people around the world to have been diagnosed with a stage 4 GBM and lived beyond a year. Every day I am grateful that he’s had the chance to know my kids and visa versa.
Keep sharing those inspiring stories and here’s to the health of your family and friends!
This is a beautifully written post, Amy. I just love it. It honors both the reality of the real world and the innocence and purity of childhood… 😉
Thanks so much, Jodie.
amy – this is so beautiful and brought tears to my eyes thinking of your little ones’ big lessons. they remind us so often of what is truly important in life and i think you for sharing so we can all learn from them. your family is in my thoughts!
leslie
Thanks so much, Leslie!
Tears…pass the tissue please…
Mine’s all gone, been using too much lately. Hope you’re doing well!
Amy, such a wonderful post and totally hits home for me. Crying as I read this. You all are so fortunate to be able to see your parents every week. I wish that Rowan and Ryder could see my Mom and create more memories. It’s true that these youngins have such innocence, it’s refreshing. Rowan always says that Gigi will go to the hospital and come back all better, I sooo wish that were true. Thinking about you all so very much and know that if you ever need someone to talk to, I am here, I understand what you are going through 🙁
Thanks so much, Annie. I’m sure it’s so hard for you to be as far away from your mom as you are. I think of you all the time and know that we share a bond that both of us wish we didn’t have to. Thanks for the words of support and know that I’m always here for you too!
Amy, what a beautiful post….like many others, it has brought tears to my eyes also. Robyn, Mike, & Tim were older than your boys, but they experienced my father in a wheelchair for 6 yrs after suffering a massive stroke. The last year of his life, he lived with us, and they not only experienced it, but they were old enough to help with many of the things he needed. It’s never easy, but I think you said it so beautifully…..I’m sure they will remember, and you all will treasure these times….even though they’re not exactly as you had imagined they would be.
Sending you and your family much love.
Pam
Thanks so much for your kind words and loving thoughts!
Your dad is so strong. And your boys are helping him grow stronger each day. Thank you for thinking of us through your post. And thank you Big and Little for remembering Cooper and wearing his shirt to support him. Big is so thoughtful to think about elevators at the school. What goes on in the kids minds are amazing.
We think of Cooper all the time and cheer him on from afar. Sending lots of love to the whole family (and wishes for a higher ANC count!).