Four Years

April 12 will mark the 4 year anniversary of our younger son’s cancer diagnosis. 

I’ve written about it a lot, here and here for example. 

Four years is both long and short. Like, what were you doing in 2022? It wasn’t that long ago, but things were probably really different for you at the time. It’s long enough for career changes, kids to move into a new phase of life, one type of school to be over and a new one to begin, etc. We had just, collectively, taken some steps forward from COVID fears, and life had returned to something like normal. Remember? 

Calling this an anniversary is not the right way to remember it. It’s not a celebration. That was probably the worst day of my life. Thinking about it now still puts me right back in a hospital room with my pale, tired boy all connected to tubes. The doctor, whom I love and whose name I’ll never forget came in and said, as directly as she was probably trained to deliver this type of message: “I have news, and it’s not good.” Even now, thinking about that day, my stomach drops, my heart sinks, and tears prick my eyes. The whirlwind of days that came next, and the long weeks and months that stretched out after that day had their ups and downs, but that day was the worst. 

On diagnosis day, we went from having a broad, confusing but potentially hopeful outlook on our son’s health to a much more focused, differently confusing but tunnel-vision sort of view. The rest of the world didn’t matter. A course was set and our wagons circled. Trudging forward was the only option. 

We made it through. So many don’t. I don’t always tell new people about the ordeal because I don’t want to make it awkward or make them think something is wrong. Our boy is kicking butt. He has some side effects that will be around for a while, maybe forever, but you’d never know by looking at him. 

He doesn’t remember much, if any, of the illness itself. We think he remembers some of the later treatment stuff, like taking pills in spoonfuls of Hershey’s syrup, which he no longer eats. He doesn’t eat apple sauce because we crushed pills and mixed them into that at first too. His body remembers. Every once in a while, something will come up where he’ll argue with a kid over who has had a bigger struggle, as 6-year-olds might do. You know what I mean? Whose bout of the flu was worse, whose scraped knee hurt more, stuff like that. He’ll come in with the big guns, saying, “well, I had cancer,” and then no one knows what to say. If I don’t witness it in person, like it happened at school, I have to laugh. Because what can I say? I picture those kids’ faces, or the teachers who might be around, if they don’t know his story, and I find the idea of their bewilderment really funny. He gets to tell people how and when he wants. I think as he gets older, he’ll stop using it as a punchline or quick path to victory.

It feels wild that a day can go by in which I don’t think about cancer. Granted, it’s shaped my worldview, especially when it comes to my kids. My stress spikes when either of them coughs. The little one got a nosebleed while playing on the playground last year, and I about had a panic attack. There were some parents around who clearly thought I was over-reacting, but anything having to do with bones or blood sends me through the roof. So I do over-react, but every illness makes me question my perceptions. Is it just a virus? Or relapse? Or potentially one of the secondary cancers we had to sign waivers about, acknowledging a possibility every one of the 19 times he had a lumbar puncture, not to mention the other terrifying chemo drug treatments his little body endured? It happens. We’ve met people to whom it's happened, in real life. Even when the other one gets sick (and kids get sick! I know this!), first among my reactions is, oh no, not him too. 

But the last four years have contained a lot of life. Time has carried us forward, like it or not, and we’ve managed to adjust and thrive, despite the challenges. Our boy is awesome, I say confidently as only a parent of her own child can. I’m in awe of him, scared for him, challenged by him, and in love with him more every day. Which is not any different than how I feel about our older son or how you might feel about your kids, if you have them. Still, it’s a beautiful thing, having cancer not be part of our daily lives anymore. The scars left behind are calming, silvery smooth, reminding us that resilience and healing can come after pain.