September 8, 2023
September is Pediatric Cancer Awareness Month. Because it’s on my mind, I figured I would tell a story, a story I have not told yet to most people, but one that I think is worth telling. Warning: vulnerable post ahead!
It’s been 2 years, 1 month, and 11 days since my son’s, Luke’s, official cancer diagnosis. It’s not long enough yet that it still doesn’t hurt to think about it, but it’s been just long enough when people begin to not think about it. Don’t get me wrong. I understand that. There are spans of days now in this process when I don’t think about it or worry about it or grieve about it. It’s just there. I can still see it in the rearview mirror, but I haven’t quite found the exit ramp that I’m driving towards. The one that says “Healing Done! Exit Here”.
You think the grief of cancer occurs when you are in it – when you get the diagnosis, when you learn the treatment plan, when you watch your child in chemo or radiation or getting yet another MRI. You think it’s when you watch them miss all the things, like going to Kindergarten in person or an annual Christmas trip to Busch Gardens or playing soccer on a team. You think it comes in the quiet moments as you live through “scanxiety” and the worries of the what-ifs of the future and the broken-heartedness when you replay the moments of the past and what’s been lost as you watch your child sleep.
I love the book, Oh, The Places You’ll Go!, by Dr. Seuss. I used to read that to my 5th grade classes on the last day of school and I’ve read it to both of my kids (a bit of a shortened version), with tears running down my face. For a book with an uplifting message, I’ve actually identified with it the MOST during our darkest days of cancer.
Early on in Luke’s treatment, I wrote a blog post that quoted it – here’s the excerpt from that August 2, 2021, that said the following,
“Yesterday I was mourning what was and what isn’t and drowning in the black hole of “what-ifs”. One of my favorite books is Dr. Seuss’ Oh the Places You’ll Go. Some of the pages describe how it feels when you are in a Slump.
“You will come to place where the streets are not marked.
Some windows are lighted, but mostly they’re darked.
A place you could sprain both your elbows and chin!
Do you dare stay out? Do you dare go in?
How much can you lose? How much can you win?”
Dr. Seuss, Oh, The Places You’ll Go
While it’s hard to re-read some of my blogs from back then, it strikes me as ironic that the first thing I thought of with THIS blog post were the words Dr. Seuss wrote on the next page in that same book – words about “The Waiting Place”.
“The Waiting Place…for people just waiting.
Waiting for a train to go or a bus to come, or a plane to go or the mail to come, or the rain to go or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow or waiting around for a Yes or No or waiting for their hair to grow. Everyone is just waiting.
Waiting for the fish to bite or waiting for wind to fly a kite or waiting around for Friday night or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake or a pot to boil, or a Better Break or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants or a wig with curls, or Another Chance. Everyone is just waiting.”
Dr. Seuss, Oh, The Places You’ll Go
You see, grief – it’s a funny thing. I never imagined that the bulk of my grief would come when the treatment was done, when Luke was given the “all good” to return to school and activities and to life. I never imagined that the grief would rage even through good scans and the healing and miraculous work of God to restore my child to a thriving, healthy 7-year-old who loves soccer, football, the Philadelphia Eagles, school, his Nintendo Switch, his sister, and his mommy and daddy.
And I think I’ve found myself stuck in the waiting place, as Dr. Suess describes. I think I’m just waiting for the processing of what’s happened to be over and for the grief to subside, so my healing can finish. It kind of sucks. But it’s where I am, where my family is, and it’s my honest story.
But why am I telling all of this? As we prepare to honor September’s Pediatric Cancer Awareness Month, Luke’s journey hits a little harder for me than normal. But we honor it and we celebrate it; bringing awareness to this cause will only help little children and families like mine. I tell you because there is GOOD news to be had. Good to be celebrated each and every day. Luke is OKAY – he’s healthy, he goes for scans 4 months now instead of 3, and you would never, ever know he was sick if you met him.
I tell you because for me, the good today comes from God and a reminder that I needed today about people. God puts us in communities and with people who walk the walk and keep our paths straight in the times we really need it. God gives us people to help us put one foot in front of the other, even when you absolutely cannot imagine how to physically do it yourself. God gave me and gives me a community of people who helped me find my strength, who stood by me as I learned who to be in the midst of a crisis, and who now are helping me and standing next to me in a period of rediscovery (and in this waiting place) as I, along with my family, learns who we now are post-crisis individually and together.
Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.
Isaiah 41:10
Look around you – who is your community? Today, as you read this – I encourage you to grab them and hold onto them tight. They are your people, y’all – don’t let them go. On Monday, when we wear our gold and recognize Pediatric Cancer Awareness Month, please know that I am holding onto my people, who include you – MY preschool community, to whom I’ve been so grateful for over the last 2 years. Older or new families alike, hear this, from my own walk. This preschool community is something special, and as I tell the staff – there is NOTHING we can’t do if we do it together. I hope we all shine bright with gold.
Until next time,
Jess