Optimism: Blind vs. Intentional

In my 39 years on this earth, I’ve had a lot go wrong; I’ve also had so much go right. Both contribute to my perspective and how I see and experience the world. I’ve experienced enough to justifiably go one of two ways for my perspective on life experiences — pessimistic or optimistic. I make the conscious choice of optimism in the face of adversity and trial because I’ve tried on both light and dark and know which one is worth committing to. Through my various storms, I’ve believed the worry, doubt, fear, anxiety and the lies that I am not enough to overcome. The truth is I’m not enough. God is and with Him, I am. With the Light of Lord illuminating my path, there’s no shadow that’s not cast out. His light permeates all shadow and that truth feeds my perspective and guides my feet daily.

This doesn’t mean I don’t see the shadows and ignore them. I still see them, feel the cold from them, and get tempted to hide in them instead of facing the world. I choose the light and I choose optimism. There are two types of optimism worth differentiating:

Blind optimism is thinking the world is all rainbows, unicorns, and no one means you harm; so you float through your day not truly seeing the world around you except for what you want to see and living in denial.

Intentional optimism is knowing a rainbow isn’t likely to happen today, and if it does, it’s going to take some rain to make it happen. It also means recognizing that not EVERYONE means you harm, but still acknowledging it’s possible that some might. The world can be a pile of mess, but it’s worth noticing nonetheless to either avoid stepping in it or know what you stepped in to productively clean it up.

I cycle through mom fails on the daily. We all do; it’s reality when you have kids. The Law of Probability backs me up on this. However, God blessed us with a super cool gift of being able to wake up, giving grace, and trying again. Ironically, no matter how cool it is, the most difficult step is remembering that truth and finding the motivation to wake up and try again. For those experiencing the latter, I challenge you to have intentional optimism. Yep! It’s hard. Yep! It’s exhausting. Yep! It takes so. much. effort. The payoff is absolutely worth it all.

My kids are awesome at coaching me through optimism. School days might start with a complaint of waking up too early, but by the time I make my rounds of morning wake-up calls and fill my coffee (again), they’re dressed and talking about the plan for the day. I appreciate this so much. They’re not stuck on waking up early. Instead, they get over it and focus on the potential of the day. This energy and intentional optimism is exhausting, but that’s why I wear a shirt advertising that I survive on caffeine and God’s grace.

Willow always meets new kids assuming they are going to love her ideas, play her games, and jump right into her fabricated reality that promises fictitious adventures. That girl relentlessly exudes intentional optimism. It doesn’t always work out to find random playmates that appreciate Willow World, but it doesn’t stop her from walking right up to a new kid at Caden’s baseball game, handing him or her a rather stylish Barbie dressed in a hand-made Willow original outfit, and telling them they’re off on an adventure and it’s time to walk through the magic portal. Sometimes, the kid looks confused and dismisses the offer but she picks up the Barbie to find the next adventure buddy under the bleachers. Her intentional optimism is brilliant. So is Willow World!

It’s so easy to look at a devastating life event with pessimism and feed into that negative narrative pathway because it’s a dramatic slope with no resistance. Intentional optimism is choosing to keep moving forward in spite of resistance.

I would rather intentionally choose optimism and risk being proven wrong than choose pessimism by default and be proven right.

The genesis of this Momtra started before the words were breathed into me on the other side of the darkest shadow of my life. The end of January 2021, Gunner started getting a very low-grade fever. I didn’t think much of it as even teething would cause my kids to run the same degree of temperature. Then, he started limping and the two symptoms would come and go over the next couple of weeks. I noticed him getting more tired and finally made an appointment with the pediatrician on February 12th. After the exam, it was assumed all was due to a virus that can be known to settle in his joints and cause limping. A few days later, I called the doctor back asking for more investigation because my mommy senses were tingling and something didn’t feel right. Bloodwork showed slightly low red blood cell count and anemia could explain why he’s been more tired and a result of him eating poorly lately. He had slight bruising over his left eye and it looked much like any other kid bruise that resulted from tussling too hard with a big brother or territorial sister.

On the morning of Wednesday, February 24th, Gunner woke up shuffling out of his bedroom barely able to lift his feet without screaming in pain. I wrapped my arms around him to carry him downstairs and even the pressure of my arms caused him to cry out. Lying him on the couch, he put his head down whimpering with his eyes closed. It’s like all of his symptoms were no longer isolated and became a list of clearly definable changes — intermittent fevers, limping, bruised eyelid, lethargic, loss of appetite and subsequent weight loss. Caden and Willow just left for school so I did my best to gently buckle him in his car seat and left for the Emergency Room at the children’s hospital in Peoria. They ran tests, asked questions, tossed around scary hypotheses such as a stroke and thankfully ruled them all out. After a full day of this, it was determined he’d be admitted to run more tests as they thought a bone infection was likely causing the fever and limping and a hemangioma behind his eye responsible for the bruising and yellowing eyelid. They couldn’t fit in the necessary imaging on Thursday so the plan was to do an MRI of his head on Friday at 3:00 to diagnose the hemangioma. At 2:50, the residents came in to go over the plan — head to MRI of his skull and then likely get started on antibiotics for the bone infection. At 3:00, transport arrived and the nurse said he’s going to have an ultrasound to look at his belly. When I asked why, she said if they see what they need on that imaging, he won’t need the MRI. Why would an ultrasound of his belly determine the necessity of an MRI of his skull? With a quick passing response, she said I’ll have to ask the doctor. Ultrasound had the same response to my question. He was then taken to MRI as it was deemed necessary and I asked the nurse checking him in why he was sent to ultrasound and then MRI. Same response — You’ll have to ask the doctors. He wheeled away to MRI and soon after, the General Pediatrician attending physician and his three residents drug their chairs solemnly into the private waiting room. There was verbal swirl that didn’t resonate and then I heard: It’s a type of cancer called neuroblastoma. He’ll be transferred to the Oncology team from here on out.

The next two weeks were a tidal wave of images, blood tests, coffee, central line placement, meeting people on the care team, coffee, learning the routines, asking questions, education on becoming Gunner’s momcologist, learning the best position to sleep in a chair, weighing options of clinic trials, entertaining a confused little boy, and helping him control his fear when new people came in to poke, prod, listen and squeeze around the clock. He didn’t ask for this. I wanted to take it from him.

My three year old little boy was diagnosed with stage 4 high risk neuroblastoma with solid tumors starting at the top of his little blonde head all the way to his pudgy toddler ankles and wrists and infiltrated 100% of his bone marrow. I laid in the hospital bed next to him and ran my fingers through the fine hair that would soon fall out as treatment started March 1.

I took my new momcologist responsibilities very seriously. I had a system, a calendar, a designated spot for all his meds, a cleaning regiment, and complete fear of exposure to anyone or anything. This all came closely behind COVID so protocol and restrictions were still in place and I followed all of it to the letter. I turned down visits with friends or family. I kept him away from public places. I monitored like a mama hawk to restrict him from playing too hard, running too fast, eating anything unhealthy, and all other things I’m sure any mom would do with all of the unknown of this new cancer world.

After five cycles of chemo treatment, they did scans to determine the effectiveness of his treatment. In Gunner’s case, it determined the lack of effectiveness; his disease remained unchanged. He was part of the 20% of kids who don’t respond to standard chemo. The doctors redirected the course of action and started him on a regimen of chemo-immunotherapy.

Along that same timeline, I realized the disservice I was providing Gunner with the degree of restrictions imposed. That’s not to say I questioned caution or took full disregard, but I started making decisions the intentionally optimistic way to maximize the quality of life instead of focusing on the longevity of it.

How can you do that? Because I don’t want to look back wishing I would’ve made more of those days. I’m not blindly following optimistic hopefulness, but intentionally choosing optimism, because that’s what Gunner deserves. I’m not blind to the risk of being intentionally optimistic, but it’s a greater risk to:

A.) Blindly go about daily living thinking everyone is going to be fine and everything will work out.

B.) Pessimistically give in to the worry, fear and stress of what could be.

Both of these options remove me from the present and dismiss the opportunity to watch God do God things. Blind in the sun or blind in a shadow still leaves you blind to the path and I choose to obediently walk with my steps illuminated with intentionality.

Whether it’s kids, relationships, healing, self-improvement, a career – I choose to be optimistic about the potential in each. I do encourage this but with the black box label warning to be aware of the risks and determine if you are willing to accept what comes. It’s much like praying for miraculous healing. Gunner can make a full recovery and receive miraculous healing after almost four years of facing this fight full of praises and glory, but also defeat in relapse, developing genetic mutations, failed treatments and countless side effects. He might also receive eternal healing and salvation where I’ll spend eternity by his side. I know that Gunner’s healing will come in God’s way and in God’s time. What Gunner’s healing looks like isn’t up to me or his doctors, and its timing is out of our control.

I’d rather choose to embrace the present believing in miraculous healing and be wrong than to exist in the present focused on fear and be right.

This is a daily/hourly choice to choose intentional optimism and submit to God’s will. I don’t always follow my own advice, either. Intentional optimism and proactively giving benefit of the doubt has burnt me in a big way recently. The reason I take time to write and reflect is because I have to check my own attitude and examine my own mindset to come back where I find peace beyond all understanding. Stress and struggles even beyond hospital walls makes me swagger between the light and dark on my path with an inflated sinner’s ego thinking I’m the one who has to fix or change the situation. I had to look back and remember how I’ve gotten this far and recalibrate to continue staying on course. Like I said at the beginning of this chapter — I’ve had a lot go right and a lot go wrong. I choose intentional optimism and the illumination it brings. The choice of focusing on the light will penetrate whatever shadow is in front of me.