Jordan's Journey

Absorbed

In her head it’s pleasant. She barrels through life, absorbed in the fancies of her mind. The rest of us are spectators. There’s a charm to it. Sometimes it makes you mad, positively batty. But then you watch her, floating in the whispers of her whims, and it’s all you can do but sigh and chuckle and relish.

Sometimes I think she has multiple personalities. She’s fodder for a potential after school special (how I loved those when I was 13). She actually walked up to me today and told me that she wasn’t Jordan. She was Jordansina. I nodded, looked wary, and attempted a smile.

– How are you, Jordan’s daddy? (she actually called me that)

– I’m ok … Jordansina. Where is Jordan?

– Oh, she’s cleaning her room. She’s been very bad. I told her to do her chores.

– What are your chores?

– I don’t have any. I’m a princess.

And with this, she wheeled around and sauntered off, twisting her hips to the side with each step and a flexed hand in the air.

Every once in awhile, we ask her to clean up after herself. She left an exercise mat in the living room. We asked her to roll it up and put it away. She tried wooing us with a coy smile — as Jordansina. We insisted. Without skipping a beat she turned on her heels and stomped off, hips again swinging wildly.

– Don’t ask me to do that!

We stared at one another. Then Jeanette added:

– This is how it always is.

She’s a stir fry of emotion at times, but she’s doing well, otherwise.

Jordan Stylin

She goes in for MRI today. I won’t be able to be there with her, but she told me not to worry. We’re all hoping for more good news.

 

Jordan decked out for her birthday celebration

When I arrived, she stood in the center of the living room, fully dressed and ready to go. She had been waiting for me. Birthday dinners out are a sacred tradition in our house. The celebrant can select any restaurant they fancy. Jordan’s first choice was sushi, but … a girl on chemo can’t take too many chances, so we talked her out of it. Second choice: El Chollo.

I should describe the birthday girl who greeted me. Pink, floral print dress with plenty of poof and a large silk flower at the waist line. A pink under shirt. Light pink tights capped by black felt shoes with magenta satin trim. A sporty purple reticule draped across her shoulder nearly matched her purple cats eye glasses frames. She looked like a fashion designer who was on a pink exploration while in town from New York for only a day.

She had a lovely birthday. We ate. We sang. We toasted her health and the 10 years of joy she’s brought to the world.

It’s hard to believe. A decade. She’s bigger than life and has been from the day she first thrilled the air with the electricity of her hearty cry. I still remember that day, and the way her perfect face stared back at me in the white light of the delivery room. My little girl will be ten on Wednesday. Her decennial achievement is all the more special because of what she has achieved in that time.

She’s healthy. Her doctors are pleased with her progress. They waxed metaphorical on her last visit, looking over her MRI scans from May and comparing them to scans from two years ago. Progress is being made. And the best proof is the girl herself, who stumbles gracefully into adolescence; who taxes charmingly into self-reliance; and who reminds us every day that life is ripe and bellicose and uplifting and deflating all at once, and all in all. Through it all the scent of existence lingers and promises rewards with every trial.

On Wednesday, she’ll sit at the head of the table as we feast on El Chollo. She plans to eat her fill of green corn tamales, and I plan to lift my glass to her and celebrate everything about her — her tempestuousness, her blushing wit, her beauty, her intellect, and most of all, her resilience.