When September Ends

October finally hit. At eight months, Jordan’s position had shifted off the vein that was causing unthinkable and constant pain to the right side of my body. The swelling and bruising began to wane. If the remaining six weeks were like this, I could happily carry him to term. After months of throbbing legs and continuous discomfort, I felt relief. In that first week of October, when a physical sense of comfort came and the excitement of completing our family with a beautiful baby boy became my focus, a thought crept into my mind – something suddenly feels too good to be true.

October - a season of change. Crisp leaves are now crunching on the ground marking the turn of another season and the passage of time. The fall is typically a season that has marked significant changes in our lives - an engagement, marriage, purchasing our home, and the birth of all three of our children; we have had a busy decade. While the air cools, our hearts have been warmed by a growing family and hope for many happy memories to come. This fall I have found myself transported back a year ago when my mantra was “Life will be so much easier when he’s out.” Acknowledging that this mantra was far from the truth was a difficult reality for me to accept. As these sentiments continued to echo in my mind for months after his birth, I grieved the notion that his life was going to be free from the worry and pain that had dominated my pregnancy.


This year has challenged me to reconsider how I choose to devote my attention and energy. Finding more profound joy in the everyday moments that we often take for granted is at the forefront of my mind. Life is fragile and precious, and the moments that are sweet should be treasured.

Flash-forward to the present, and I cannot believe that Jordan is almost one year old. With shining blue eyes like his father, he is captivating and charming. He single-handedly has pulled the paper roll off doctors’ tables on several occasions and knows how to make nurses laugh. Already, he likes to play chase around our living room floor, even though he lackadaisically moves and selectively chooses when he wants to sit up. As the third child with two older sisters who regularly pretend to play mom, why would any small child feel compelled to move independently?

I am filled with a quiet trepidation with this calendar change. Jordan, no longer a baby, may now face more complications, more treatments, and more unknowns. At the same time, his personality is growing. Jordan has been snuggling more than ever before and makes his opinions about toys, his sisters, guests and our dogs known to the world. First words are budding, and laughter is at an all-time high. Unaware of any challenges that he may face, he looks at the world with fresh eyes as he seeks smiles from the people he loves. Hoping to see the world through his lens, I know that maintaining his health seems daunting to me but is his version of normal. Understanding more about his body than the average little boy, he will always know a world where he is reliant on enzymes to digest and absorb fat and salt. He will always have lung treatments and need to be cautious during flu season, and yet, he will have a deeper appreciation for each breath and each opportunity he is fortunate enough to experience. In spite of Jordan’s disease, I can breathe a sigh of relief. While I am still struggling with accepting his genetic fate, I am hopeful that he will have a unique outlook on the value of each day that will allow him to have a beautiful life.

Super Jordan

Still, my greatest fear is an ache that any mother feels - that my child will struggle or suffer. My husband reminds me that we all will suffer at some point, but we have loved ones who will help us through that pain. Placing myself in moments when extreme allergic reactions or seasonal sicknesses have tightened my lungs, I realize that I have only felt a temporary, minor discomfort when compared to a CF person’s struggle to breathe each day. I cannot even begin to imagine this struggle. I don’t want him to feel that pain, and I know that witnessing that pain will always weigh heavily on my heart. Just as a runner feels when nearing the end of a long race, this emotional fatigue can be overcome and a hurdle can be tackled.

Very early in our journey with CF, my brother reminded me that when a time comes to worry or feel anxiety, he will be the first person to embrace those feelings if necessary, but until then, we should choose joy. As I consider the values and strengths countless distance runners like my brother embrace, I am encouraged by their stamina and beliefs that a single human can accomplish great feats through discipline, training, and willpower. “Pain is temporary, but glory is forever” is a quote famously quipped by the distance runner, Steve Prefontaine, who served as my brother’s hero when we were in high school. While I can appreciate a person like Prefontaine with mental toughness and physical prowess beyond measure, I’d like to argue that Prefontaine only had his mantra half right. Pain IS temporary, but love - love is forever.