It is all coming back to me now, this world of childhood cancer.

It feels sadly familiar and it hasn’t taken long to get back into the groove of things. Medication schedules, doctor’s rounds, nurses coming and going, and the never-ending sounds of machines are becoming the norm.

Time of day is now measured by what pills are about to be administered, when vitals need to be done and shift change. Right now, the most exciting part of our day is finding out who our nurse is going to be (and if we already know them).

Returning to this world was hard.

Surreal.

I immediately realized that I had blocked out so much about the time we spent here. I mean, I never completely forget, but I did move on, and in some ways put so much of this behind me.

I didn’t dwell on the process.
I left here after Logan’s last chemo (round 3) desperate for a fresh start.

It wasn’t entirely what we got, but we rolled with it. We had no choice.

Logan’s health problems continued post radiation and we spent more time in clinic than we wanted to, but somehow, we did make the most of life and we really did embrace our new found freedom.

We had so much of it, we didn’t even realize.

Freedom from the worry about blood counts, and clogged NG tubes, and chemotherapy regimens and delays. Freedom from long-term hospital stays, excruciating wait times, and outrageous parking charges. There was less anguish about needles and hair loss and no concern when a sudden fever popped up.

In five years we never panicked that maybe Logan needed blood.

Life, for us, slowly became normal (insert sarcasm) and we did our best to embrace the word ‘stable’ for all that it was.

We had time.

Time to forget which was nice, because, for the most part what happens is you forget all of the bad stuff first.

It is like washing your hands from the most intimate and scary parts of cancer once you are done treatment. You never really walk away but you do breathe a small sigh of relief.

Time is a gift.

It teases you, it taunts you, and in the end it is so very elusive.

Time, despite being gracious, doesn’t change what you’ve been through and it certainly doesn’t heal all the wounds, but what it does is give you space to process, the space to move forward and space to open up to the possibility of hope.

Hope is powerful.

From Day One I have said “Hope is the only thing more powerful than fear.”

It is why I am pretty sure Trump isn’t going to win the American election tomorrow (put that on record) and it is also pretty much the only reason any of us have the strength to battle through round four of chemotherapy and hopefully beat this cancer once and for all.

Hope inspires.

It rallies.

And what I have realized this past couple of weeks is that although I might have be lucky enough forget the really shitty parts of cancer quickly, sadly as I walked away, I also forget the really amazing parts about it too.

Cancer is a journey.

Logan hates when I call it that.

To be honest, for some reason I hate it too and I’m not sure why.
Maybe because the word ‘journey’ makes it all feel too long, maybe because it plays down the magnitude of what we face, or maybe it is because the word is so over used, it gets on my nerves. But, despite all attempts to abolish the word, I always come back to it. It is a journey.

A lingering one, with ups and downs, misguided expectations, roundabouts and a heck of a lot of awesome sights to take in along the way.

I forgot.

I forgot all about the scenery on this journey. I forgot about the beautiful things that unfold during such agonizing times, and I forgot how when we stop, pause, and allow ourselves to take it all in, our perspective around how shitty the situation is, changes.

It is not all bad. It is not all terrible and not every moment is living the worst.

There is hope.

In the past two weeks since Logan’s treatment has started I have received hundreds of emails, messages and texts. I have had thousands of people read the blog, share Logan’s story and root for us- AGAIN!!! I have been blown away by how much she is loved, and how many people truly believe in her strength

.

I have had oncology families from years past show up with food and gifts and wine (plenty of wine and screw tops). I have seen groups band together and instead of asking what they could do, just doing. Friends from previous lives have not hesitated to reach out. We have eaten plenty of vegetables and less lasagnas (you did listen) and again I am humbled by the outpour of love and support.

There have been small moments of self-awareness, (holy shitballs!!! therapy might just work!) and pausing to reflect on the good. All of it is making this ‘journey’ very different the fourth time around.

I am keeping a lot of my ‘F’ words on the inside and instead of shouting them in everyone’s direction, I am actually using the deep breathing techniques I have learned (thank you yoga).

I am happily and not so secretly drinking a tiny bit of wine out of my hydro flask each evening while tucked in bed beside my girl and even though this whole situation is shit, Logan is in good hands and I take peace in that.

I have not made a whole new slew of oncology parent friends.

I am not as social this time around and am more cautious about jumping on board anyone else’s rollercoaster yet I feel far more aware and sensitive to what is going on around me.

There are so many families struggling through this, just as I am, on the other side of the wall.

I was beyond sad to hear that Michael Buble’s son was diagnosed this week. It hit home how cancer never discriminates but also shed so much light on the reality of how hard it is for families who don’t have anything or anyone to help get them through these hard times.

As is Michael Buble, we are so lucky.

I feel so much more compassion this time around.

I am less consumed by our own misfortune and more aware of the struggle so many are facing along side of us. It has amplified an understanding. Truly, we are all more the same than we are different.
It doesn’t matter if you are a mega celebrity or a single dad who is eating the donated food each night on this ward.

We are all connected.

By the way, there is a food fairy.

I am not kidding. Every weekday night on the ward, some random lady drops off dinner for the families staying while their kids getting treatment.

Every. Single. Weekday night. This. Kindness. Really. Happens!

No one seems to know exactly who it is that brings dinner in but at 5’oclock, like clockwork, there is a hot meal on the table in the parent kitchen.

Imagine.

Then, try imagine a doctor who despite being over worked (they are always short staffed) stays until 8pm to have a comforting conversation with you because she knows you’ve had a tough day with a inconsiderate cardiologist.

Imagine yet another amazing doctor pushing and encouraging you to take your critically ill daughter to watch her brother play lacrosse, simply because he believes that life, despite cancer, is still supposed to be about doing things that make you happy.

Imagine Carebear onsies, and late night family snuggles. Imagine camp friends and fun games. Imagine seeing a twelve year old boy tell his 19 year old sister how proud he is of her. Imagine free tickets to ‘We Day’ where you got to witness a young lady using her only ‘wish’ as a platform tell the world not to give up, that life is still worth trying to salvage even when someone tells you, you are going to die.

Imagine, having good things flood in faster than bad things. Imagine feeling supported and loved from the minute that you wake up until the minute you fall asleep. Imagine having to manage a schedule of visitors because so many people just want to swing by and give you a hug. Imagine days off without having to make big plans but instead celebrating small moments.

Imagine wheel chair races down vacant hallways, fresh laundry, late night chats with besties, and gourmet take out. Imagine inappropriate but hilarious movies, new pj’s and free Starbucks. Imagine not having to be anywhere or even wishing you were somewhere else.

Imagine, acceptance.

Finding out Logan’s cancer was back, sucks balls, don’t get me wrong.

But if I continue to focus on every set back, every chemo treatment, or MRI, every time she collapses, all the terrible blood pressure reads, people’s drama, new symptoms or the mountain of obstacles we have ahead of us I am going to put myself in the loonie bin before Christmas.

I just can’t.

So, instead I am going to take a cue from Logan and try to roll with all of this, with as much grace and dignity as she does.
I am going to do my best to forget the bad days but not so much the good moments and I am going to try to be aware of how lucky we really are.

I know its not going to be easy, and I promise I am going to stay real and not go all Polly-Anna on you while I write these blogs but for ‘F’ sakes….. some thing around here has to B+ and not just the packed red blood cells on transfusion day.