Deep Truths

The pain cuts like a knife. It hurts so bad that I've just become numb and accustomed to it. I'm so good at pushing it down, it's unhealthy. Long gone are the days of 'I can't wait to do this with my kids,' or 'I can't imagine having a sick child.' Now are the days full of 'oh look, he's doing something I wouldn't allow him to do for 1 1/2 years.' Time. Wasted. Worrying.

I called it protecting then, now I'm just overcome with anger, pain, sadness, and disappointment. How could I, as his mother, not allow him to be a child. And his sisters too! And still have the confidence to convince everyone I was protecting him. I was only protecting me. My heart, my aching heart. It was all a facade to protect myself. I sure put on a tough face for everyone else, my kids, my husband. But only 1 or 2 people really saw the broken me. I wish they were no more, but the nights I laid in bed sobbing still happen. More often than not, it starts when I kiss Aidan goodnight. Just tonight he was going on and on about the things he loved the most about our Make A Wish trip, his favorite people, and 'hey mommy, remember this!!!!' And I'm reminded of all the moments on that trip where i watched Aidan's face literally light up from excitement and joy. And all because I finally didn't have to protect him. He could've eaten dirt for all I cared, he was off chemo. I missed out on seeing that boys face light up in ways that I can't even describe, for 1 1/2 years, because i was scared. Shame on me. 

It is so hard to be done with treatment. And boy do I ever understand how lucky we are to still have him, and not be discontinuing treatment because it's not working. Palliative care and hospice were words that never came out of our doctors mouths. But holy moly I don't think I'll ever get over how unfair it is that this happened. Not just to my son, but to all the children affected. I lose my breath just thinking about the possibility of him not making it, or relapsing. Yet there are families who find the strength to wake up and smile, but they actually lost their child. It's a sickening perspective. 

I'm not sure that anywhere during Aidan's journey I ever stopped grieving. I just became soooo good at it that even *I* was convinced I was coping. Grief has no timeline or life expectancy. It comes with it's own ebbs and flows. Someday I hope I can finally tell someone who asks how I'm doing, that I'm starting to heal. At what point does a parent of a childhood cancer survivor EVER reach the point of not letting a relapse or new tumor growth, control their life? Maybe with time.....