In 2009, I watched as my daughter boarded the kindergarten bus. It was a momentous occasion for us, considering she had just completed a grueling treatment for high-risk cancer. With hearing aids, leg braces, sparse hair, endocrine issues, and kidney damage, she had faced immense challenges. As the bus pulled away, I stood at the end of the driveway, overwhelmed with relief, joy, and gratitude. This was a milestone that reassured me that everything would be alright, at least for now.
During her first week of school, Emily became obsessed with mastering the monkey bars and begged me to sign her up for soccer. Watching her balance on her tippy toes, her heels weakened from being bedridden for so long, filled me with both worry and pride. I was afraid she would fall and get hurt, but seeing her on the soccer field in her orange jersey, cheering her on from the sidelines, was a moment I cherished. Just a year ago, she was fighting for her life during grueling stem cell transplants. Now, she was celebrating victories on the field and we would even stop for pizza to mark the occasion. These were the everyday moments that I had missed the most during her time in the pediatric oncology floor.
However, Emily’s health issues continued to dictate our lives. She required occupational therapy, physical therapy, speech therapy, and a reading tutor. She resisted leaving school early for doctor’s appointments, determined not to miss out on any more of her education. It seemed as though she had a timeline she wanted to keep, and I couldn’t help but wonder what the future held for her. By the end of kindergarten, she had made remarkable progress. She could read, conquer the monkey bars, and no longer needed her leg braces. My worries about her making friends were replaced by reports of which snacks she had traded with her classmates during lunch.
For five years after her treatment, I lived in constant fear, waiting for Emily’s remission mark. Uncertainty plagued me, and even a simple headache made me fear that the cancer had returned. I joined a neuroblastoma parent Facebook group, but the constant reminders of loss and tragedy became overwhelming. I longed to speak with certainty about Emily’s future, like other moms did with their children. The highs of typical childhood milestones and the lows of the lingering effects of cancer took a toll on my emotional well-being. Elementary school events and waiting for test results became equally nerve-wracking. A mix of extreme joy and extreme grief coexisted in a way I never thought possible.
Most of the time, the good moments sustained me. We threw a surprise party for Emily’s 10th birthday and allowed her to go to the movies with her friends unsupervised for the first time. Other parents referred to these moments as bittersweet, but I couldn’t find anything bitter about them. To me, they were pure sweetness. Emily was alive and thriving, and that was all that mattered. I felt like I lived in an alternate universe where the present was sweet and the past, though bitter, served as a reminder of our strength and resilience.
As Emily grew older, the physical differences between her and her friends became apparent. At night, lying in bed, I wondered if she would live to experience prom and get her driver’s license, and if she did, what those milestones would look like for her. The cancer treatment had stunted her growth and robbed her of estrogen, so she had to wear a patch to help her body develop. It was a small consolation, but it made her feel more like her friends. Finding a dress for a middle school dance became a challenge, but we didn’t give up. Eventually, we found a fancy store that offered the same prints for women and children, ensuring her dress fit in with her peers. Seeing her at the dance, I couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of pride and relief. We had overcome another hurdle.
When Emily entered high school, I struggled to comprehend the fact that she was alive to experience moments I had only dreamed of. The stakes felt higher, and she pushed herself academically and athletically to compensate for her physical limitations. I witnessed milestones that I had once only imagined. She obtained her driver’s license with the help of car modifications, and her prom dress no longer needed to come from a children’s shop. She leaned on social media platforms like TikTok to learn hairstyling and makeup techniques that would make her appear older. I listened to other parents in awe as they talked about the impending end of their active parenting years. While I understood their sentiments, I was in awe that we had even made it this far. Every moment and milestone became a precious gift, reminding me of how far we had come.
Cancer gave me a unique perspective on life. It taught me that the little moments are truly the big moments. The milestones along the way reassured me that Emily was doing well, and in turn, I was doing well. There was no bitterness in our journey, only sweetness and gratitude for the ordinary and extraordinary moments we had shared. We had slowly but steadily progressed towards our goal since that day we put Emily on the bus 12 years ago. Its arrival has filled me with wonder and appreciation.
Amy McHugh is a Cape Cod-based freelance writer. Her work has been featured in publications such as The Washington Post, Oprah Daily, NBC News, and Shondaland. She is currently working on a memoir about parenting, mental health, and new beginnings. You can find more of her work at www.amymchughwriter.com.
If you have a compelling personal story you’d like to share, we’d love to consider it for publication on HuffPost. Find out more about what we’re looking for and submit your pitch to us.
Denial of responsibility! VigourTimes is an automatic aggregator of Global media. In each content, the hyperlink to the primary source is specified. All trademarks belong to their rightful owners, and all materials to their authors. For any complaint, please reach us at – [email protected]. We will take necessary action within 24 hours.
