I’d say those were worst-case scenarios. But then, I’ve had a few of those in my life. Enough to know that they happen.
I still choose to get up each day and smile fiercely at the sun. Sure, maybe sometimes that smile looks more like a grimace of pain. Yet despite trisomy 18, despite grief of unimaginable magnitude, despite leukemia, despite Alzheimers, dementia, and mental illness, I choose to dig in my garden, to read books, to write, to cherish my children, the living and the dead, to kiss my husband, and to keep striving towards … whatever it is we strive towards—maybe just being a better person in the world. Maybe just spreading compassion and love.
“Are you telling me that she has leukemia?” I manage to gasp out.
“I’m so sorry,” her voice strained, “but I want you to take her to the hospital today. I’m hoping this is just a mix-up, some lab error. We need to recheck it to be sure.”
I’m tired of being told that I’m strong and resilient and all of the other things that people say. I am not strong. There is no alternative. If I break, to what end?
How is pediatric chemotherapy different in this age of pandemic?