Cancer

One year ago...we headed in to the conference room on the PICU to attend our first set of "rounds" on Henry.  We walked in having no idea what to expect.  We walked in to a room filled with doctors, nurses, residents, pharmacy staff, and other medical personnel.  We sat in two chairs off to the side of the room...feeling small like mice.  The doctors started talking about Henry...this 6 month old male patient.  They said a lot of things that I don't remember, and that I definitely didn't understand.  But one word kept coming up that I did understand...chemo.  We had been told the night before that Henry probably had leukemia, or another type of cancer, or most unlikely some type of blood infection.  But we hadn't been given an official diagnosis.  As the doctors and medical personnel kept throwing that word "chemo" around, my dad (who was sitting in the back of the room with Tim's mom) finally asked if we could talk about the elephant in the room.  He said you guys keep throwing around these words, but no one has told these guys what we're dealing with.  At that point, one doctor (who turned out to be Henry's oncologist) turned to us and invited us into an adjoining room to chat.  At that point, we officially got the news that Henry had acute myeloid leukemia.

It was impossible to comprehend...our sweet, perfect baby boy...leukemia...these aren't things that are supposed to go together.  It still is impossible to comprehend...living a life without our son...all the milestones that he will never reach...all because of this beast called cancer.  And the worst part is, we are one in a huge sea of people affected by cancer every day...every minute.  Every day forty-some kids are diagnosed with cancer.  Every day people lose their spouses, brothers, sisters, grandparents, friends to cancer.  We have met so many families whose children are fighting or have fought cancer.  It's a disease that doesn't discriminate...old or young...rich or poor...perfectly healthy or medically fragile...it doesn't matter. 

That's why we want to do the Twelve Days of Giving.  We don't remember Henry as a kid with leukemia.  We remember him as our monster...happy, smiling, giggling, playing, up for anything.  We want to spread that joy as far as we can in his memory and in his honor.  So today as we start these twelve days, find someone that could use a smile.  Give them a hug.  Let them know you're thinking of them.  You don't have to spend money or give anything to let someone know you care.  Every smile we can pass on will fill our hearts, and will bring smiles down from our angels in heaven.