The winter of my discontent

It's snowing softly now, what native Nebraskans call a light dusting. For someone who grew up in sunny Southern California, it's definitely snow. It'll all be gone by the afternoon, and then we'll be back to the gray, cold winter. My lawn is brown, the trees a vague reminder of their springtime glory. The wind is ever-present, whether it's 30 fahrenheit, or 50.

This winter has been much more difficult than any I've faced, mostly because I've had to do so much waiting. Waiting for chemo to finish, waiting to start my business, waiting for a warm sunny day when I can take my daughters out for a walk to the park, waiting to feel normal again. I don't think the latter is going to happen that fast. I have some permanent reminders of my journey, and I know that I've changed in immutable ways that will only manifest over time.

My daughter drew a picture the other day, basically just several vertical lines in different colors. One line was for Mommy, one for Emily, one for Auntie, and one for Uncle Rod. The final line was horizontal, and when asked, she said that was me "resting." It made me sad to think that I've been sick for so long that she's become accustomed to me being in bed, or resting most of the time. But from her eyes, her three year old perspective, it has been forever. I can't wait until she has no memory of me being sick, no memory of me being more an observer than a father.

When I awoke this morning, the first thing I did was wake her up and give her a big hug and kiss.

love,

Cj