There is a specific kind of silence that exists in a pediatric surgical recovery wing. It is not a peaceful silence; it is heavy, clinical, and thick with the scent of antiseptic and the rhythmic, hollow beeping of monitors. As a cancer parent, this is the environment where your soul is stripped bare. This is the part that rips you open, over and over and over again, until you wonder how there is anything left of you to break.
Standing by Will’s bedside today, looking down at his small, fragile frame, I realized that no amount of experience in this journey ever prepares you for the sight of your child coming out of a major operation. You can read the pamphlets, listen to the surgical consultations, and pray until your voice is gone, but the reality of the aftermath is a physical blow that takes your breath away.
1. When “Small” Becomes Substantial
We went into today with the hope of a “minor” procedure. In the world of oncology, we often cling to words like small, routine, or minor as if they are life rafts. We convince ourselves that if it’s small, it won’t hurt as much; if it’s routine, the recovery will be swift. But cancer doesn’t play by those rules.
Today, the “small surgery” we prepared for vanished the moment the surgeons had to pivot. Now, my son lies there, cut open from the outside of one hip to the other, a jagged line of staples and trauma that continues down the inside of his thigh. To see your child’s skin—the same skin you used to tickle and kiss—marred by such extensive surgical intervention is agonizing. It is a visual representation of the violence this disease inflicts on a body that should be focused on nothing more than growing and playing.
2. The Labyrinth of Tubes and Wires
When you walk into that recovery room, you don’t just see your child. You see a terrifying labyrinth of medical technology. There are tubes coming out of his arms, his hands, his neck, and his nose. Each one serves a vital purpose—delivering life-saving fluids, monitoring internal pressure, draining surgical sites—but collectively, they look like a cage.
Every time Will shifts, even slightly in his medicated haze, the monitors alarm. Each beep feels like a hammer against my chest. As a parent, your instinct is to scoop your child up, to hold them close and tell them everything is going to be okay. But you can’t. You can’t even find a place to touch them that isn’t covered in a bandage, a lead, or an IV line. You are reduced to a helpless bystander, watching the machines do the work that your own love and protection cannot do.
3. The Dread of Tomorrow’s Dawn
The hardest part of tonight isn’t just the sight of him now; it’s the anticipation of tomorrow. Right now, the anesthesia and the heavy narcotics are keeping the monster of pain at bay. He is in a deep, artificial sleep, unaware of the trauma his body has just endured. But as a mother, I am already mourning for him.
I am paralyzed by the thought of what happens when the fog clears. I am dreading the moment he opens his eyes and the full weight of the physical agony hits him. I know that scream. I know that look of betrayal and confusion in his eyes when he realizes he can’t move without searing pain. This is the part of childhood cancer that never gets easier. People say you get “used to it,” but they are wrong. You don’t get used to watching your child suffer. Your heart just develops more scar tissue, layer upon layer, until you feel like you are walking around with a stone in your chest.
4. The Thursday Horizon: No Rest for the Weary
In a “normal” world, after a surgery like this, a family would have weeks, maybe months, to recover. They would go home, heal, and breathe. But in the relentless cycle of cancer treatment, there is no pause button.
Even as I sit here, watching the rise and fall of Will’s chest, we are already bracing for Thursday. Two days. That is all we have before we head back into the operating room for a second surgery. The goal is to attempt to “freeze” two more spots, provided they have remained stable enough for the procedure.
It feels like we are in a war where the enemy never retreats. Just as we clear one trench, another is waiting. We are exhausted—spiritually, physically, and emotionally. We are leaning on a faith that feels paper-thin tonight, not because we don’t believe, but because we are just so incredibly tired of the fight.
5. The Unseen Community of “Angels”
I write these words because I need the world to see the truth. Childhood cancer isn’t just gold ribbons and inspirational posters. It is blood, it is scars, it is the smell of a PICU, and it is the sound of a parent’s heart breaking in the middle of the night.
But I also write this because I know there is an army of “Angels” standing behind us. I know that while I am sitting in this dark room, thousands of you are lifting Will’s name up. I know that your prayers are the only thing keeping the walls of this room from closing in on us. When I say we need you, I mean it with every fiber of my being. We need your strength because ours is gone. We need your hope because we are currently dwelling in the shadows.
6. A Plea to the Heavens
God, please. That is my only prayer tonight. It isn’t eloquent. It isn’t structured. It is just a mother’s soul crying out for her child. Please be in the nerves and the muscles as they begin to heal. Please be in the hands of the surgeons on Thursday. Please be the peace that transcends the monitors and the tubes.
Will is a warrior, but he shouldn’t have to be. He is a little boy who deserves a childhood without staples and drainage tubes. Until he gets that, we will continue to stand guard. We will continue to hold his hand through the wires. And we will continue to believe that even in this agonizing pain, there is a purpose we cannot see and a love that will not let him go.
Thank you for walking this road with us. Please don’t stop praying. Thursday is coming, and we need a miracle more than ever.
#WillStrong #ChildhoodCancerReality #CancerParent #PrayersForWill #WarriorChild #TheHardPart #FaithInTheFire #NeverGiveUp
