While I was at work today, I heard from Shannon that another of our kids at Primary Children’s passed away. We say “our” children because the loss of any one of these kids is a loss to all of us. We are a close group, even if most of us do not know the other families that well or at all. Both Shannon and I are really upset about this little girl and the loss of her weighs very heavy on us. It turns out that she was diagnosed as “low risk” and had a 96% chance of disease-free survival. These statistics really mean nothing when your baby ends up in the 4%. I tried to post something to Facebook just to get it out of my system, but it hasn’t worked. I hope that putting it out there on Caring Bridge and WarriorNico.com will help somehow. This is what I posted today:
Today, Millie, a beautiful little girl at our clinic passed away after a three and a half year fight against leukemia. She is the second child in our clinic to be lost in the last month. I didn't know her and I don't know her family. It doesn't matter. This is devastating. You hope that this merry-go-round of ever more gruesome tortures that you put your child through has a purpose. You hope that the constant flow of poisons that you subject him to will really kill every single cancer cell in his little body. You hope that all of his suffering is necessary and after 24 spinal taps and 3 years of having toxins continually pumped through his veins that he will make it through this healthy and not crippled for life. You hope he gets the chance he deserves to make his own future. You convince yourself that this is all going to turn out fine and in 2016 he will take his last dose of chemo and never look back. You dare to imagine how he will score his first goal, what kind of girls he will date, what instrument he will play, where he will go to school, what his children will be like. And then the bright light of someone else's baby who is fighting this same enemy is extinguished. It shakes you. Now you aren't so sure of anything, no matter what the labs say, no matter how great he feels, no matter how positively the oncologist speaks. Fear and more fear are your and your spouse's only companions and they never ever go away. You tread perpetually over twin chasms of agony and depression. But I look at my son, and he simply doesn't give a crap. He likes trucks and granola bars with chocolate chips, reads Dr. Seuss and wants to play hockey. So far, his favorite number is two. He just goes on with his life and does what he wants to do. I always wanted to be an inspiration and an example to him, but I am a wreck inside. Instead, my boy is an inspiration and an example to me. He takes what comes, no matter how much it sucks, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how sick he feels, and he does what he wants to do anyway. So screw you cancer, I'm going to go home and "play trucks/cars" with my son, share some Skittles and watch the Blackhawks choke while my son asks me which Blackhawk I am because he knows my team is red and black. That is the least I could do for Millie and my son, too.
Today, Millie, a beautiful little girl at our clinic passed away after a three and a half year fight against leukemia. She is the second child in our clinic to be lost in the last month. I didn't know her and I don't know her family. It doesn't matter. This is devastating. You hope that this merry-go-round of ever more gruesome tortures that you put your child through has a purpose. You hope that the constant flow of poisons that you subject him to will really kill every single cancer cell in his little body. You hope that all of his suffering is necessary and after 24 spinal taps and 3 years of having toxins continually pumped through his veins that he will make it through this healthy and not crippled for life. You hope he gets the chance he deserves to make his own future. You convince yourself that this is all going to turn out fine and in 2016 he will take his last dose of chemo and never look back. You dare to imagine how he will score his first goal, what kind of girls he will date, what instrument he will play, where he will go to school, what his children will be like. And then the bright light of someone else's baby who is fighting this same enemy is extinguished. It shakes you. Now you aren't so sure of anything, no matter what the labs say, no matter how great he feels, no matter how positively the oncologist speaks. Fear and more fear are your and your spouse's only companions and they never ever go away. You tread perpetually over twin chasms of agony and depression. But I look at my son, and he simply doesn't give a crap. He likes trucks and granola bars with chocolate chips, reads Dr. Seuss and wants to play hockey. So far, his favorite number is two. He just goes on with his life and does what he wants to do. I always wanted to be an inspiration and an example to him, but I am a wreck inside. Instead, my boy is an inspiration and an example to me. He takes what comes, no matter how much it sucks, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how sick he feels, and he does what he wants to do anyway. So screw you cancer, I'm going to go home and "play trucks/cars" with my son, share some Skittles and watch the Blackhawks choke while my son asks me which Blackhawk I am because he knows my team is red and black. That is the least I could do for Millie and my son, too.
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