Anonymous Journal

This journal was submitted by someone very close to me, who requested that her name remain anonymous. Im so happy to share these inspiring words of hope by a loving mom whose son was diagnosed with leukaemia in 2016. Three months after he turned two years old. He’s now five, started senior kindergarten last year and completed his last dose of chemo on February 5th. Children are resilient. Unaware of the politics and challenges of healthcare, they innocently adapt. I think this family is amazing for persevering through a challenge like this while holding onto each other tightly and never losing hope.

January 2, 2020

I went to bed last night feeling nothing. Nothing was different. It was just another appointment. Sure, one month closer to the end, but when you’ve been at it for 3+ years, and it has amounted to 2/3 of your parenting experience, you accept everything as part of life. Part of your routine. For better or worse, I had come to accept that this was just the way things were. Our reality. Our life. While my mind knew that we were nearing the end, I couldn’t fully accept it. It didn’t seem possible that this would be over soon.

When I was handed the appointment card and our NP explained what our end date was I didn’t believe it. I thought I was missing something. 5 more weeks and there would be no more chemo for his tiny body. What was the catch? Who’s going to hand me the “But...”? No one. That’s it. It will end. And the timeline is tangible. The relief and tears I let out were a small fraction of the emotion I was feeling. He didn’t understand why Mummy was crying. A moment ago wasn’t everyone just getting excited and talking about high fives? I told him I was happy. They were tears because I was excited and so relieved. He still didn’t quite get it. And all he wanted to do was hug me and comfort me. He stood up and sat back down. Not until his nurse told him it was ok to give Mummy a hug, and I opened up my arms, did he come to me - still very unsure. He stroked my arm and said “it’s ok Mummy”. I told him I was so proud of him. So proud of how strong he is.

A day - actually a year - that started out hopeless had turned around with one piece of paper. And I suddenly had the energy to make it to the finish line with my little man on my shoulders. There is an end. There is something more after this.

But....
No, not today. Today the fears and the doubts and worries about “after treatment”  can fuck right off. Today I will recharge and celebrate this tiny, infinitely strong human. I will feed off the knowledge that we have been through hell and made it this far. We WILL get to the end. We will do it together. The way we started this journey.

The Buts can knock at the door tomorrow.