An Open Letter to Parents of Kids Without Cancer

An Open Letter to Parents of Kids Without Cancer:

I remember where you are. I remember going to work. I remember coming home to the craziness (or what I thought was craziness) of a home with three young children; a wife who was a stay-at-home-mom who handed me a baby and said “I’m done. You take her.” I remember.

I remember infants that will only sleep when laying on your chest in a recliner. I remember infants that would later only fall asleep listening to Toby Keith on a CD player that didn’t have a repeat function, waking as soon as the CD ended. I remember diapers, and diapers, and diapers, and explosive poop all up the back of a onesie.

I remember planning my week around kids’ activities.  I remember tee ball and horseback riding and swim team. I remember bedtime stories, followed by more bedtime stories, followed by countless visits by a young one into our room and the follow-up escort back to their bed. I remember falling asleep on the floor next to a toddler bed, waiting for the child to fall asleep so I could go to my bed.

I remember a regular life. I remember normal. I remember a time before hospitalizations, clinic visits, CT scans, ultrasounds, chemotherapy and radiation.  I remember a time before knowing how to read a CBC. I remember a time before central line care. I remember a time before Neupogen injections, IV and feeding tube pumps on an IV pole in a child’s bedroom; before hospital grade HVAC filters and air purifiers running constantly. I remember a time before weeks upon weeks of falling asleep alone with my wife far away on an uncomfortable vinyl convertible chair/bed just feet from a hospital bed and alarming IV pumps. I remember a time when the site of bald child would shock me.

I remember telling a child I was too tired to read a book.  I remember telling a child I didn’t have time to play a game. I remember telling a child no more hugs tonight. I remember telling a child no more snuggles.

I would give almost anything to go back and read that book, play that game, give that hug or enjoy that snuggle without the omnipresence of cancer reminding me that these times may be limited.

You’re tired.  You’re frustrated. Your life may not be going as expected. But you still have the precious resource of time.

Make time.  Make time for a book, a game, a hug or a snuggle. Not only will they quickly grow out of these things, but tomorrow you may find your time is quickly running out. 

Sincerely,

A Parent of A Kid with Cancer