There is a specific kind of silence that exists only in pediatric oncology wards. It is a heavy, sterilized silence, punctuated by the rhythmic hum of IV pumps and the distant, muffled squeak of rubber-soled shoes on linoleum. For seven days, that silence has been our world. But today, the atmosphere has shifted. Today, the air feels lighter. Today, we are breaking out of this place.
The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, they say. But in the world of childhood cancer, the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single sip of water—and a morning without vomiting.
The Anatomy of a Breakthrough
To an outsider, our current situation might not look like a “victory.” If you saw him, you would see a boy who is visibly swollen, his face and limbs puffed up from the sheer volume of fluids the doctors have pumped into him. It is a process called “flushing.” After a full, brutal week of chemotherapy, the body becomes a reservoir of toxic chemicals. The medicine that is designed to save his life is also the medicine that ravages his spirit. To protect his kidneys and his heart, they flood his system with hydration, forcing the remnants of the chemo out.
He is nauseous. The feeling hasn’t fully eased; it lingers like a persistent shadow at the edge of his consciousness. But last night was different. Last night, the vomiting stopped. This morning, he reached for a cup. He took a sip. Then another.
In this room, a sip of water is a miracle. It is a sign that the body is reclaiming its territory. We are trusting the process—the swelling, the nausea, the exhaustion—because we know that each drop of fluid is a soldier clearing the path for his recovery. One full week of chemo is officially behind us. We have survived the fire; now we are walking through the smoke toward the exit.
The Metric of Mercy
When you live in the “middle of the storm,” your metrics for success change. You no longer measure progress in terms of months or years; you measure it in milligrams and half-doses.
Since we started this specific treatment cycle, he has only needed half a dose of pain medicine for his leg. To some, “half a dose” is a technicality. To us, it is a shout of joy. The pain in his leg has been a constant thief—stealing his sleep, his smile, and his ability to just be. To see him navigating this week with less reliance on heavy narcotics is a win we do not take lightly. It tells us that something is working. It tells us that his body is finding a way to endure.
We have learned that if you wait for the “big” miracle—the “cancer-free” bell or the final scan—you might miss the thousands of tiny miracles that keep you alive long enough to get there. God is in the half-dose. God is in the absence of pain. God is in the strength of a leg that was supposed to be too weak to stand. We will praise Him for these little things, for they are the breadcrumbs leading us out of the wilderness.
The Quiet Strength of a Mother’s Hands
People often ask how we do it. The truth is, most days, “doing it” looks like falling apart in slow motion. But today was different.
In the beginning, the grief is a nonstop flood. You wake up crying, you pack bags through tears, you talk to doctors with a trembling lip. But today, for the first time in what feels like an eternity, I didn’t cry nonstop. There were moments of mistiness, yes, but the crushing, suffocating weight of the sorrow allowed me a few hours of air.
I was able to pack.
It sounds so mundane, doesn’t it? Folding clothes, gathering charging cables, stacking books, and clearing off the bedside table. But when you are a parent of a sick child, packing is a monumental task of the soul. It requires you to believe that you are actually leaving. It requires organization in a mind that has been shattered by trauma.
Packing today felt like a declaration of independence. Every shirt tucked into the suitcase was a “no” to the hospital and a “yes” to our home. These things—the lack of tears, the ability to organize a suitcase—may seem small to someone who hasn’t lived in a crisis. But in this journey, they are everything. They are the evidence that my spirit is being sustained. They are proof that I am not just surviving this storm; I am learning how to navigate it.
Grateful, Faithful, and Moving Forward
As we wait for the final discharge papers, I look at him. He is tired, yes. He is swollen, yes. But he is a warrior who has just finished a week of combat. We are moving forward. Not because the path is clear, and not because the danger has passed, but because we are fueled by a gratitude that defies our circumstances.
Gratitude is not a reaction to good news; it is a weapon used against bad news. We choose to be grateful for the fluids. We choose to be faithful in the nausea. We choose to move forward, even if we are limping.
We are breaking out today. We are taking our “small” wins—the half-doses, the sips of water, the dry eyes, and the packed bags—and we are carrying them home like treasures. Because they are. They are everything.
To everyone who has stood in the gap for us: thank you. Your prayers are the wind at our backs as we walk out of these sliding glass doors. The storm is still raging, but today, we found a harbor.
Moving forward. Trusting the process. Praising the Provider.
