MRI eve

After school today we came home and the kids had some free time to play. Brooklyn was agitated, and eventually had a meltdown 'because she didn't get to type on google classroom.'

I knew it wasn't about typing a few letters.
She hid in the corner for awhile, and eventually the truth came out.

"I don't want to go to my MRI on Friday!" she said, with tears streaming down her face. "Friday is a fun day at school. We go to the library, trade warm fuzzies and have a spelling test."

My heart fell.

I hugged her for a few minutes but was interrupted by our old dog's urgent bark to go outside. By the time I came back in, she had shut herself in her room. I intended to leave her there as she was calm, but she slowly crawled out of her room and looked up at me, ready to talk.

What happened next made me both very proud, and very sad.
Tonight she shared her feelings with a brave heart.

She said to me, "The cancer isn't coming back mama, because God is in charge and he won't let that happen. I prayed to him mama, my nighttime prayer. He's listening."

I explained that I wasn't sure why cancer existed. That I didn't think God chose her to have cancer, but rather that he was a capable companion along the journey.

"I don't want to have the MRI. It's like having the cancer out again."

It took me a few moments to take that in.
My experience with her 'having the cancer out' ranks far worse than any MRI.

 I asked why she felt that way, if it was because it hurt or was scary.

"Its both, mama. It's both."

"Mom, cancer can grow and grow and grow and grow."

I agreed, but explained that I didn't expect her cancer to return, That if it did, the MRIs help us discover it early so it didn't have to make her really sick. I reminded her that I loved her, and that I just wanted her to stay healthy.

"Mom, what is the name of the cancer I have?"

I stopped her there.
"HAD, honey. You HAD cancer. You do not have cancer anymore."

We worked on pronouncing the name of the cancer she HAD.
Neuro-blast-o-ma, she kept practicing, with a smile on her face.

"I need a hug, mama."

And just like that, she crawled into my lap and we sat.
More silence.

When she chose to speak, she said this.
"Mama, can you write a note in my agenda? Ask if I can write my spelling test on Monday?"

And just like that, fear loosened it grip and we went on with our evening.

This, is MRI eve.
This is cancer's aftermath.