This blog was created in 2011 to capture my very personal journey of leaving full time work to become a work-at-home mother of three beautiful children. Naturally, this space has morphed into a place of personal reflection, celebration and sometimes even sadness. I’ve written about childhood cancer, food allergy and anaphylaxis, grief, marriage, friendship, parenting and everything in between, all with a growing sense of mindfulness and gratitude.
Please, grab a cup of tea and stay awhile.
Today marked a very special occasion...
the end of Brooklyn's first year of after-care protocol.
Today we learned that she is still cancer free.
NED.
No evidence of disease.
Her results were PERFECT.
100% perfect.
She has gained 15lbs since her cancerous tumour was removed and sprouted almost 8cm (3 inches) in 11 months. Even her feet have grown nearly two sizes. She looks incredible, healthy and well. She is smarter than ever, working on grade two spelling words and practicing for her dance recital in June.
Her anxiety is manageable.
She is happy more often than sad.
Long, gorgeous hair is growing like mad.
God is good.
My heart is so damn happy.
While waiting for her oncologist to call her in, I took this photo.
With those bright, beautiful eyes of hers, she asked if we could confide in each other. We had made 'wish chip' wishes at lunch time, and she wanted to know if we had the same wish.
I told her the truth.
I wished for a clean scan, cancer free, and no appointments until October.
She looked at me and smiled.
"Me too, Mama."
Then she went back to her toys. Well, warrior princess, wish granted.
Fuck you, cancer. You cannot bully us for six whole months. #TeamBrooklyn #WarriorPrincess
Today is Brooklyn's one year cancer-free-iversary.
One year ago, doctors meticulously removed her tumour, diagnosed as stage one neuroblastoma for the mix of benign and malignant cells inside its walls. The cancer had not spread beyond her tumour, a reality I like to call being lucky, as far as unlucky goes.
One year ago we began healing.
All of five of us.
First, Brooklyn's physical body.
Her bravery lines.
Then, mom and dad's physical selves.
Back pain. Acid reflux. Sleep issues.
Now, all five of us are focused on our mental health.
Kicking the nightmares.
Lessening the anger.
Managing the guilt.
Feeling the sadness.
All this and we are the lucky family.
We endured a mere five weeks of treatment.
Quarterly follow ups.
A healthy child.
(This is where my guilt takes hold)
Thankfully Brooklyn is finally speaking about her time in treatment, thanks to an incredible play therapy program offered by Wellspring Niagara, which is led by Liz Christie of Playful Solutions. Just last week she said to Liz that every child with cancer is sad, but that sadness is really just being afraid. She has been able to articulate, through sand tray therapy, that sadness has taken her heart, a crushing reality of childhood cancer and medical trauma.
Her progress is slow but reassuring.
And we are grateful.
Little brother still clings, worries with every doctor's appointment and hugs his sister like a deity.
Big brother still feels jealous of the attention she has received, but we're discovering a level of anguish in his anger which seems to be tied very closely to all that happened last year.
And we were the lucky family. Our daughter is alive. NED.
She has grown over 10lbs and 3 inches in the last year.
Her hair, ironically cut as a Wigs for Kids donation two summers ago is growing long and thick.
She expresses her desire to be a dance teacher, play therapist, babysitter and mommy someday.
She reads beyond her grade level and next week will be doing a long first reading of Genesis at her school's monthly mass.
She's a freakin' rockstar. A Warrior Princess.
So, in honour of this special day, we've decided on morning muffins, pasta day at school and then a meal at the kids' favourite restaurant.
We will laugh, eat and play as a family.
Be together as a family of five.
Tell the guilt of having a healthy child to go away, for a day, so we can celebrate.
Today, our Warrior Princess is one year NED.
And our prayers tonight will be plentiful.
diagnosis day. part three.
I've struggled to write this final post until today. If you've been following my blog, you know I've written the story of dday part one and part two. I've also written about the moment the nightmare ended, which picks up the story after Brooklyn's biopsy.
The realization I came to today is that part three isn't over.
Part three of Brooklyn's diagnosis day story began the same day active treatment ended, by a stroke of gorgeous luck or perhaps with God's grace. The most unusual case of stage one neuroblastoma seen in ages, which still causes imaging technicians and doctors alike to proclaim how lucky we are.
Brooklyn will always be a child who had cancer.
Her diagnosis will not change.
The problem is, the outcome could.
NED now, but what if the next scan tells us otherwise?
The most profound transition, one which is shared by many cancer families I have met and spoken with this year, is the one which takes place once the child completes active treatment and begins after care.
This is the place where a singular hole in one's mental wellness can result in a fall out.
Where anxiety and depression loom.
Where each worry must be replaced with the very powerful statement: "In this moment, right now, everything is ok."
And so, as Childhood Cancer Awareness Month comes to a close, I'd like to suggest this:
If you know a family who has been touched by cancer, reach out and check in.
Not so much on their physical health. But on their mental health.
Honour survivors and angels alike through a commitment to ensuring that each family member is supported through their grief, anger, fear, anxiety and even survivor's guilt.
In many ways, this is the diagnosis day story they struggle to share.
