There is a specific kind of silence that exists only in oncology wards. It is heavy, sterile, and punctuated by the rhythmic hum of IV pumps and the distant squeak of rubber soles on linoleum. For seven days, that silence was our world. For one full week, the air we breathed was filtered through hospital vents, and our timeline was measured not by sunrises, but by the slow drip of chemotherapy—the poison we pray will be a cure.
But today, the air feels different. Today, we are breaking out.
To the outside world, a discharge paper is just a piece of bureaucracy. To us, it is a manifesto of survival. As I stand in the middle of this cramped hospital room, looking at the rumpled sheets and the discarded plastic cups, I realize that I am not the same person who walked through these doors seven days ago. This journey doesn’t just change your circumstances; it reconfigures your soul. It forces you to abandon the luxury of grand expectations and teaches you the sacred art of the “small win.”
The Anatomy of the Win
If you looked at him right now, you might not see a “victory.” You would see a boy whose face is rounded and swollen, his skin holding onto the liters of fluids the doctors pumped into him to flush the toxic remnants of chemo from his kidneys. You would see a child still battling the lingering, ghostly pull of nausea. He isn’t running out of here; he is slowly sipping water, cautious and methodical, making sure his body accepts every drop.
But in the economy of cancer, this is a fortune.
Since last night, there has been no vomiting. In this room, that sentence is worth more than gold. To see him hold down a few ounces of fluid is to see a miracle in motion. We are “trusting the process,” a phrase that has become our North Star. We trust the swelling will go down. We trust the nausea will fade. We trust that the medicine, as harsh as it is, is doing exactly what it was designed to do: fight.
Then, there is the leg. The source of so much fear, the site of the primary battle. Since we started this treatment, he has only needed half a dose of pain medication. I say that slowly because I want the weight of it to sink in. Half a dose. We do not take that lightly. In the middle of a storm that threatens to pull you under, a reduction in pain isn’t just a medical metric—it is a whisper from God that we are moving in the right direction. Every milligram less of morphine is a mile gained toward home.
The Strength of the Spectator
This week has been a lesson in “the middle.” We are no longer at the beginning, where shock numbs the senses, and we are far from the end, where the bells are rung and the victory is public. We are in the messy, terrifying, exhausting middle. And it is here, in the middle of the storm, that I have found a version of myself I never knew existed.
Today, I realized something profound: I didn’t cry nonstop.
For days, the tears were like an involuntary reflex. They came with the sight of the IV pole; they came with the smell of the cafeteria food; they came in the shower when I thought no one was listening. But today, the tears stayed at bay. My eyes were clear as I folded his t-shirts. My hands were steady as I tucked his favorite blanket into the suitcase.
I was able to pack everything we needed. It sounds so mundane, doesn’t it? Packing a bag. But when you are a parent in a cancer ward, “being able to pack” means you have regained enough mental clarity to think about the future—even if that future is only the two-hour drive home. It means the paralyzing fog of grief has lifted just enough for you to function. It means you are winning your own internal battle against despair.
Praising in the Storm
People often ask how we find the strength to keep a smile on our faces or how we find the words to pray when the news is so heavy. The truth is, you don’t find strength; you receive it in small, daily portions. You find it in the “little things.”
I’ve learned that you don’t have to wait for the storm to pass to praise the Creator. You can praise Him for the sip of water. You can praise Him for the thirty minutes of sleep. You can praise Him for the nurse who had a gentle touch or the fact that the sun is hitting the hospital windowsill at just the right angle.
If we only celebrated the “big” wins—the clear scans, the end of treatment, the total remission—we would spend most of our lives in a state of mourning. But when you learn to celebrate the half-dose of medicine, the absence of a fever, or the ability to pack a suitcase without collapsing, you realize that life is still happening, even in the ward. The storm is loud, yes, but the “still, small voice” is louder.
Moving Forward
As the wheelchair arrives to take us down to the lobby, I take one last look at this room. It has been a sanctuary and a prison all at once. We are leaving behind the constant monitoring, but we are carrying with us a new kind of wisdom.
We are moving forward. Not with a sprint, but with a steady, faithful shuffle. We are grateful for the one week of chemo that is now behind us. We are grateful for the nurses who became family. We are grateful for the thousands of people out there—people we’ve never met—who have held us up with their prayers when our own knees felt too weak to stand.
To anyone else, we’re just a tired-looking family heading to the parking lot. But we know the truth. We are a family of conquerors. We are swollen, we are nauseous, and we are weary—but we are faithful. We are moving toward a bed that doesn’t have wheels. We are moving toward a kitchen that smells like home.
We are moving forward, one small win at a time. And in this journey, those small wins aren’t just “something”—they are everything.
