Thoughts on the 5 Year Cancer Anniversary of our Daughter

Tomorrow marks five years since we first heard the word “cancer”. I’ve described it many times before as being just like the movies portray it. Sounds dimmed, peripheral vision blurred, and I felt like I was in a tunnel. I remember hearing the doctor’s voice on the phone say something about a tumor, and that it was a cancer called Wilms, but then his voice muffled and I couldn’t understand anything else. I remember pulling the phone away from my ear and handing it to my husband hoping he’d be able to make sense of this nonsense. I’m pretty sure I swore.

I remember the nurse who was waiting at the door when we hung up the wall phone. I remember that she held my hand tightly as she walked us down the hall to the Emergency Room. I remember her saying I would be okay.

Of course what I really wanted was for her to tell me my daughter was going to be okay, but she knew better than to promise me that.

Maybe she was simply speaking a platitude that she didn’t believe. But when I look back I know that God was using her words prophetically. I would be okay. No matter what happened… no matter how much life changed… regardless of the final outcome… Christ was holding me fast and would refuse to let go.

Since that day our family has faced several more medical trials. The twists and turns of cancer treatment, and then a baby born with a mysterious mass, a few traumatic injuries in other kids, a pandemic…

I’ve been asked if going through our daughter’s cancer treatment has made my faith stronger. And I’m not really sure how to answer that. I think I’m more aware of how loose my grip is on Jesus, and simultaneously more tuned in to how tightly he’s gripping me.

In his book Gentle and Lowly, Dane Ortlund talks about walking into the ocean with his son. At first the child holds tightly to Ortlund’s hand, but as the water rises the boy’s hand inevitably slips. What holds the child secure is the fact that Ortlund is determined to hold on to his son, and will not let go no matter how hard the boy might try to slip away.

That is how I would describe my faith on this side of cancer. A deeper awareness of how tightly God is holding onto me.

There are many others things I could say five years out from cancer. I could fill a book with how my daughter has changed, grown, and processed. I could rant and rave about some of the things she has endured and the aftershocks that continue to ripple from the initial trauma. But that is her story, so I won’t process that here.

The last thing I will share for now is that when I first became a “pediatric cancer mom” I was really angry and felt incredibly alone. Even with our amazing support network, I didn’t feel like anyone quite understood. As the years have passed I’ve had the honor of connecting with other moms in this club. These women are incredible. Jesus shines out of them in ways he couldn’t before they became cracked vessels. It is a privilege to know them, to watch them love others well, and to hear them talk about the goodness of God.

I wish I knew who that first nurse was who held my hand and told me I’d be okay. I wish I could hug her and thank her for being present, compassionate, and for telling me the truth. Because I am okay. Thank you Jesus.