Trigger Warning: Pediatric Cancer
It’s a common tendency to convince ourselves that terrible things happen only to others. This mindset offers a false sense of security, making us believe we are immune to life’s harsh realities. That was until July 21, 2018, when my world shifted irrevocably. Since that day, I’ve come to understand that even when your worst fears materialize, life moves on. It isn’t graceful or simple; there are times when it feels as if you can hardly breathe, yet you somehow keep going.
On that fateful day in July, my life took a dramatic turn when my two-year-old son was unexpectedly diagnosed with a brain tumor. Just two days later, he underwent surgery, and complications kept us in the hospital for an extended period. As he began chemotherapy, my four-year-old started pre-K, and my existence morphed into a chaotic haze. I’ve become a mother confronting her worst nightmare, donning a brave face for my healthy child while grappling with the overwhelming challenges alongside my husband. I often find myself reflecting, “What was I so upset about before?” I would give anything to return to the days when a family stomach virus or a toddler’s tantrum felt like the lowest points in my life. That single moment transformed everything.
Throughout this ordeal, I’ve discovered the incredible resilience of my son. He remains blissfully unaware of the gravity of his situation. He smiles at me, reaches for my face, and continues to express his love even after enduring countless painful procedures. He doesn’t understand that my soothing whispers—“It’s okay. This will be over soon. Mama loves you so much”—are meant to comfort him through the worst of it. His unwavering affection is a reminder of how much I cherish him.
I’ve also learned that I married an incredible partner who provides the strength I need to face each day. Our family, the one we’ve built together, is worth every fight.
Perhaps most surprisingly, I discovered a community—a remarkable network of parents who, like me, were thrust into an experience they never wished to join but who stand together in solidarity. It’s essential to understand that parents of children with cancer were once just like you, living normal lives until one pivotal moment changed everything.
I often replay the worst night of my life in my mind—the instant my belief that “cancer happens to other people’s children” was shattered. While I know it’s not her fault, I will always harbor resentment toward that ER doctor. When I explained my son’s symptoms, she regarded me with a grave expression. My son had casually mentioned that the back of his head was bothering him twice in the preceding days—once, a gentle kiss seemed to ease his discomfort, and he was off to play. The second time, he pointed to the exact spot, raising my alarm. I asked my husband to keep an eye on him, but he never brought it up again.
As a nurse, I discussed it with colleagues at work. He didn’t have a fever, was eating well, and while he’d been a bit cranky, he was just two and a half years old. I even checked his neck for stiffness, recalling that he had recently transitioned to a big-boy bed. The consensus was to monitor him closely, so I did. Everything seemed normal at home and at the summer camp he attended daily, where they called for even minor issues like a splinter.
One night, my husband called me in a panic, asking, “Where are you?” I was just two minutes away. “Good,” he replied, “Get into the kitchen immediately when you get home.” The line went dead. I raced home, fearing the worst.
When I arrived, my husband handed our lethargic little boy to me. He had started complaining about his head on the drive and then began vomiting. Should we head to the hospital? After a recent party and being prone to car sickness, we initially decided against it, opting for a visit to the pediatrician the next morning. Even there, he was observed and sent home with instructions to monitor him closely.
So when the ER doctor said, “Two-year-olds don’t complain of headaches,” I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. “Did you notice his heart rate was 67 when you came in?” she asked, her tone shifting. I was panicking—what’s normal for a toddler? As an adult nurse, I felt woefully unprepared for pediatric metrics. “I’m ordering stat imaging. I’d prefer an MRI, but if it’s delayed, we can do a CT scan. We need to determine the cause quickly.”
They assured me they just needed to rule out the worst-case scenarios, hoping to send us home with reassuring news. “Oh, and I’m marking this as life-threatening just to expedite the process,” she added, trying to ease my concerns.
Lying in the MRI tube with my son, I nervously asked the attending fellow, “How did it look?” I was met with silence, and he replied, “The doctor will discuss the findings.”
Barely five minutes passed after returning to the ER room when that doctor—the one I will forever resent—entered. Her speed only heightened my anxiety. “Well, it isn’t…” she hesitated. It should have been good news, but I could feel the air thicken around us as she continued, “There is a mass, a very large mass, in your son’s brain.”
That was it. Period. End of sentence. No matter how compassionate or skilled she might be, I couldn’t help but hate her for delivering that news.
In summary, my journey through my son’s cancer diagnosis has taught me painful lessons about resilience, the fragility of life, and the strength found in community. It’s a narrative filled with heartbreak, but also with hope and love for my family.
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