Jordan's Journey

I scold her for a deed that is endearing. In truth, she comes by it honestly. When I was a boy, and my mother would come home from work, I would bombard her with requests and selfish enthusiasm. She would often respond, “Larry, I just walked through the door.” Now, when I find myself rebuffing Jordan for her lack of timing, I think my mom must receive a signal and smugly smile. Jordan takes my misguided action to an entirely new level. Every night when I get home, she attacks me with observations, mid-sentence exclamations and requests for far-off objectives. Tonight was the piece de resistance. Tonight, I hadn’t even stepped out of my car when I heard her beckoning call.

– Dad, are you going to setup my computer?

The girl doesn’t do well without her digital. Her computer finally died a few weeks ago. I found her a loaner laptop, but she accidentally dropped it and put it out of service. I couldn’t get mad at her, even though she yelled at me and told me to yell. “GO AHEAD DAD AND YELL AT ME,” she shrieked. “I broke the computer. Go ahead. Yell!” If it was a strategy, it was brilliant. I didn’t yell. But I also didn’t rush to replace it. Meanwhile, she cribbed time on each of our computers, conveniently satisfying her addiction to Disney, Nickelodeon and PBS Kids online.

I had an old Mac cube in storage. Over the weekend I gussied it up and got it ready for the girl, but I refused to let her use it until her room was clean. This, in itself, was an ordeal. Yesterday, the feat was accomplished, and within minutes I was getting calls on my mobile (I was in Denver).

– Dad, can you install my computer when you get home?

I got home too late to mess with the electronics. This morning she left me another message; coquettish, determined and precisely unsubtle.

– Dad, if you are feeling like it when you get home, can you please setup my computer? That’s my only question. Love … your daughter … Jordan.

That’s how she signs off on her voicemails: as though it’s a letter and perhaps I don’t know who it is on my phone.

So it was, when I stepped out of my car to see her standing in the open doorway, draped in her pajamas, smiling and rattling on as though we had been chatting for an hour. She just went at me, with a coy line of reasoning that couldn’t be dismissed; not a care about the fact that I had been driving for an hour and finishing a long day. It was hard to be cross with her. There was just something so lovable about it. I heard my mother saying, “someday, I hope you have children just like you.” And I do. And in some ways, I don’t. Jordan’s tenacity reaches far beyond any strength I could attempt, and it always bowls me over. And I thank every spirit that guides me. As much as she drives me mad, I relish every part of what makes her tick.

Since an early age, Luc has been adept at making his sister laugh.

She is laughing in her hysterical way: multiple staccato gulps of air in quick succession. I have to pull the phone away from my ear a bit.

– Dad, there are cats on the roof.

More bursts of laughter.

– Isn’t that silly?

It makes my day, this random observation shared with me in an equally random phone call. I haven’t seen her all week. I’ve been on the road. I won’t be seeing her anytime soon, either. She is in the parking lot of the Ronald Macdonald House near Children’s Hospital, where she is preparing to board a bus headed for Apple Valley for RMHC’s annual winter camp. Her brother is joining her.

Sending Luc along was a chore. He didn’t want to go. Though he loves camp, he is uncomfortable with the Ronald Macdonald camps. He is uncomfortable with anything that explicitly addresses cancer. But we insisted. The camp is a great place for siblings. Three years ago, Luc befriended a young boy his age whose sister was also battling a brain tumor. They became fast friends. Two years ago, that boy’s sister lost her battle with the disease. Jordan openly wept when she received the news, but Luc was silent. This year, his friend is returning to camp. Both families thought it would be good for the boys to reconnect.

I hope the experience is good for Luc and that he has fun. He keeps much to himself. While it is a sign of his maturity, it is also cause for concern. I hope he realizes that he is not alone, that life is about living, and that no matter how dark the days may or may not grow, he is never to blame. It is my wish that some day soon he can survey the whole journey and see the beauty on the fringes. I know that, just as it shapes Jordan’s life, it shall endow Luc with an indelible point of view.

Jordan received a very good report at her checkup with the oncologist today. She was just delighted to see him. She is very fond of Dr. Finlay. He was accompanied by doctors from Moscow who were visiting and intrigued by Jordan’s case. She didn’t mind. She’s also fond of a larger audience.

One minor update — she is now able to take her oral chemotherapy pills on her own. This is a big deal for her. As you might know from earlier posts, for a long time we had to break the pills apart and mix them in with apple sauce. She hated the taste. But a few days ago she decided to try swallowing the pills whole. She was successful and now she actually gets excited when it’s medicine time. Unfortunately, her infectious enthusiasm has also resulted in a bizarre catch phrase. When I got home last night, the first words out of her mouth were, “Dad, I just love taking my pills.” It just sounds wrong.