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pediatric cancer sucks

I found this journal buried entry in my leather bound book. My finger has lingered over the “publish” button for weeks, unsure whether these words were meant to stay between me and the page. But this morning, I woke up with the feeling that perhaps they no longer belong only to me. Maybe they belong to the countless mothers who have carried fear, hope, and love in the same breath.

Lately, I’ve found myself in twilight, clinging to any spark of light dancing across the horizon.

Whimsy has cancer.

Those words still leave my tongue paralyzed, resting against my bottom teeth while my vision blurs and every muscle in my body refuses to obey my brain’s frustrated signals to just keep going.

6:00 a.m. My alarm is going off, loud and sharp, as if to say, Get up. Now. And even though my eyes have already been peeled open, watching the sun kiss the horizon, I drag my heavy body into the shower. Burning water pours down my limbs before I roughly scrub my body dry. Aching arms slip into my favorite dress, the one I know Whimsy loves. After not knowing what could erase the sorrow from my eyes, I opt for no makeup today. What’s the point, anyway?

I hear little footsteps above. I instinctively know which child they belong to and how soon their sweet voices will cascade through our kitchen, each making their case for why they should be the ones picking breakfast today. I listen, and I smile, folding them into my arms and holding them just a little longer than I previously would have. My son makes a compelling case, so I grab a pot, pour in milk, and softly begin making oatmeal for them all—his favorite.

Whimsy is in the hospital today. Every sixteen days, Lucky’s fingers wrap around the leather handle of his overnight bag, filled with Whimsy’s pink crushed velvet and gingham nightdresses. I see the brokenness in his eyes, the ache deep within his being that I wish I could mend and stitch back together like I do everything else. With the brush of a kiss, he walks out to load the car while I cradle Whimsy’s tiny body, searching for a pair of shoes that will fit. As soon as her pink cowboy boots are on, I place her in the car, knowing that no word, hug, or kiss is going to change any of what comes next.

As the tires kick up gravel and the car disappears from my view, I feel the salty burn of tears trickling down the bridge of my nose. I don’t know how I got back inside, but I find myself with sore knees pressed into the carpet at the foot of my bed, praying for the impossible.

Make it mine to carry.

I am begging You.

As days turned into weeks, I learned to live with the sense of impending doom. The what if? The ever-lurking shadow of grief waiting to make itself permanent, etched into every crevice of my home. Patiently waiting.

I saw it when I hastily threw Whimsy’s nightdresses—reeking of the chemicals she had been enduring—into the washing machine; when I made meals that, under normal circumstances, would’ve been eaten but now sat untouched on lonely plates; or when I ran my fingers over her beautiful bald head.

Shaking it off felt like an impossible fight to win. But suddenly, I felt like David placing a stone into his sling. I had to win—there was no other way.

Something inside me shifted. Grief was no longer allowed to lead. I picked up my sling and walked towards the giant. I marching down hospital corridors that I once avoided with an anger aimed squarely at the disease invading her body.

How dare it claim a seat at the table without an invitation?

I would drag it out, kicking and screaming, with no mercy or ounce of hesitation.

Weeks turned into months, and as snowflakes danced along our windowsills and the scent of fir filled our home, I found the sliver of hope I so desperately needed. When the snow finally melted, the ground thawed, and the sound of birds chirping signaled the beginning of spring, that hope grew—from a sliver into an orb, and further still until it eclipsed every shadow I carried.

Days after her most recent scan, my phone rang.

Her doctor.

With steady hands, I reached for it, feeling a quiet sense of readiness. As her words drifted through my thoughts, they slowly took shape.

The scan didn’t light up.

The treatment, designed to annihilate every cancerous cell, had worked.

And for the first time in months, I felt like I could breathe. My lungs grasped for oxygen like an old, familiar friend they had missed for far too long.

She had done it.

Her tiny, strong, resilient body had made it through months of fighting.

As I descended the stairs in search of her, I saw her sitting on our green gingham couch, her back facing me.

And as if sensing me, she turned around, her eyes finding mine, and a smile—oh, so triumphant—lit up her face.

In that moment, I knew she felt her victory just as deeply as I did.