At least once I’ve written about the time when I was a child and became so upset that I didn’t have enough space to organize my newly acquired birthday presents that I began to cry. I remember my mom sitting on the side of my bed. The room was dark. Maybe a nightlight was on. My mom left the room, came back with an empty Cool Whip container. She said, “Let’s put all your worries in here. You can get them out later.” So I took my hand and placed my invisible worries inside. Mom put the lid on the container, tucked it away in the bottom drawer of my dresser, and then tucked me away in bed.

Somehow, it helped.

Perhaps this is the first time I’m sharing this part of the story on the blog, but I’ve written about it elsewhere before and told some of my friends, so I feel like I’m repeating myself. Anyway, we’re talking about it now because this afternoon (at breakfast) I found out where the whole Cool Whip container thing started.

Sometime before I was born, my mom attended nursing school at the Walter Reed Army Institute of Nursing in Baltimore, Maryland. My aunt Terri attended there with her. One of their classmates and friends was a lady named Pat. I’m told that when I was six or seven I met Pat and her husband when my family went to visit them. I’m not sure that I remember, but the story goes that Pat said we could stay with them, but I said, “Thank you very much, but I’d like to stay at a hotel where I can use the vending machines.”

Not much has changed.

Since Mom’s recently joined Facebook, she and Pat have reconnected, and when I got back from Austin yesterday, I noticed a hand-written letter to Mom from Pat on the kitchen table. It was mixed in with some other cards addressed to Mom as well as a small bouquet of flowers (in a smiley-face vase) from the cancer support house. This morning I also noticed a small glass box, which at first glance looked looked like a jewelry box about the size of the palm of your hand, beveled on all edges, beautiful, with a silver clasp. Mom said the box came from Pat, that it was called a “Matthew’s Box,” that I could read about in an article Pat sent with her letter.

Matthew, Pat’s son, was born in 1976, four years before I was even thought about. At age four he was diagnosed with neuroblastoma, a typically terminal form of cancer that cut off the blood supply to his spinal cord and put him in a wheelchair. For over a year, Matthew was treated with chemotherapy, which left him weak, nauseated, and prone to infections like pneumonia. Two months before he turned six, an x-ray showed a new malignancy on his spine. Hope gave way to reality. At home and at treatment, Matthew held onto a toy he got when he was a baby, a stuffed dog (outfitted in engineer’s overalls) named Dooby.

One day while listening to records, Matthew began to sob. Hearing him from another room, Pat went to him. “Mommy,” he said, “if I die, will Dooby go with me?”

As time went on and Matthew struggled with the idea of dying, Pat said, “Matthew, think about taking all your concerns and troubles out of your mind and putting them in a box. Close the box and hand it over to God, and let him take care of it for you.” The day after that conversation, Matthew’s demeanor had changed. In Pat’s words, he was cheerful, chipper, glowing. When asked why he was so much happier, Matthew said, “Well, Mom, last night I changed my brain.”

Matthew died eleven months later. Even now, Pat keeps a glass box on a her desk. Into the box she slips little pieces of papers on which she’s written her worries and concerns. Whenever a friend has cancer, or maybe whenever they’re just having a hard time, Pat sends them a “Matthew’s Box” like the one she sent my mom.

Today I woke up tired and started the day by reading about Matthew and then crying into my grapefruit. I’ve been slightly on edge because I’m quitting coffee (for a while), and I’m overwhelmed that Mom is starting chemotherapy this Friday. (It’s the little things, it’s the big things.) Isn’t it all happening too fast? I spent the afternoon with my physical therapist, my massage therapist, and my chiropractor. My physical therapist actually described me as having, “almost perfect posture,” and my massage therapist got my shoulders to not round forward so much. And whereas all of that is exciting, it also feels like I have a long way to go. Tonight I’ve been thinking, What if I can never get my hips perfectly level or my ears above my shoulders?

What if my dreams never come true?

Tomorrow I see my therapist, and I honestly can’t wait. It’s been a couple of weeks, and–as always–I have a list of things I’d like to talk about, things that have bothered me but I haven’t been able to figure out on my own. This evening I realized that my therapy list is a lot like a “Matthew’s Box” or a Cool Whip container. It’s a place for me to put my own worries and concerns until I can get some help with them. My nature, of course, is to want a solution “right now,” to be able to check another item off my list. Thank God, I don’t have to worry about that anymore. But I realize that’s not how healing works. Healing’s not an item on a to-do list. No, healing is crying for breakfast, laughing for lunch, and eating peanut butter from a jar for dinner. It’s flowers on the table and asking a friend for help when you need it. It’s doing everything you know how to do while simultaneously acknowledging what’s not yours to control and admitting that often the only reliable thing you can change–as Matthew might say–is your brain.