Rainbow lunchbox

You picked out a rainbow backpack with a matching lunchbox. You were so excited, so proud to be starting Kindergarten. But today, instead of going to your first day of school, we spent the day here at Duke Children’s Hospital, trying to recover from chemo. And today you packed that new rainbow lunchbox with a snack, crayons, coloring pages, and a koosh ball so we could go walk outside and feel free from these walls for a while. Feel free from this reality that your dad and I wish we could shoulder for you. Instead of walking proudly into school in a pretty outfit with your hair styled, probably a pony tail on top like you love, you are cowering behind a hat you won’t take off unless the room is dark, feeling ashamed of the way you look. Embarrassed and emotionally hurting because in a matter of 3 days almost all of your hair has fallen out and you haven’t had time to understand and process it. And all the while we stand watching in awe of the amazing soul you are. You asked us what more can you do when you were exhausted and so sad, feeling defeated. You cried asking what else you could possibly do so you wouldn’t have cancer. Your daddy held you and let you know you have done and are doing everything, and how amazing you are, how proud we are, how you just need to be YOU and that is enough. You asked us if you were going to die. Instead of talking about your first day of school, THIS is our discussion. 

We were so close baby. You did so good. You went through hell and came out on the other side a brilliant light and free of this disease. I do not know how we are back here. What more must it take? 

And I yo-yo between feeling strong and broken, between feeling confident and lost, between feeling hopeful and discouraged. Smiling and playing and feeling like me one moment, crying and withdrawing and wondering who that woman is in the mirror in another. What more must it take?

Well it can’t have you. It can’t have your happy childhood nor your brother’s or sister’s. It can’t have our marriage either, our family. It can’t take your light, your spirit, your gift to to this world. We won’t let it. 

It can take your hair and your carefree days being a kindergartner. It can temporarily take your time playing with friends and your activities like swim team and gymnastics. It may take your energy and appetite many days. But it won’t take you. Nor your brilliant spirit that lights up our lives and this whole world.

We won’t let it.

God, please don’t let it.

Tonight I’m hurting. And I know that’s ok. I know we are blessed to be here on the side of recovery right now. On the side of recovery while on a curative path. Blessed that complete healing is a possibility. We have hope. God thank you for the hope. Tomorrow is a new day. And we’ve got work to do.