12) Adaptation

They say that there's no guarantees in life, and I guess that's true, but I never imagined that I would be the father of a child with cancer. Nothing ever really prepares you to hear that your child has a prognosis, even if that prognosis is a good one.

We spent 9 days at SickKids and had a revolving door of doctors & nurses coming in and out of our room during our stay. Needles, bloodwork, and checks of vitals were done on E at all hours. Meals were usually based on "I should probably eat something", rather than "I'm hungry". Sleep was a rarity, and when it did come, it happened in fits & spurts, and was usually light. Since I have given up regular coffee, the initial few weeks after E's diagnosis were powered by sheer adrenaline. When our 9 days in the hospital came to an end, I was more nervous bringing E home as a cancer patient than I was bringing him home as a newborn. We returned home and spent a night all together as a family under one roof. I woke up the next morning and remarked to my wife that I felt like no time had passed since we were all together. If felt like the last 9 days had been a collective bad dream, but then reality set in.

Upon returning home, I find that some of the most difficult things to do are mundane tasks. For example, I remember my first trip to the grocery store. I recall navigating the aisles when all I could think of was my son. The words cancer and leukemia were rattling around in my head. Walking around the store felt like an out of body experience, like I was watching myself but not actually there. I became aware of all the other shoppers going about their errands. For them, nothing had changed; for me, everything had changed. I had all of this stress, anxiety, and upset bubbling up inside of me, and here I was in the grocery store, buying food to eat, with no one aware of the upheaval that had happened in my life. At the checkout, I felt hollow when replying "Good thanks, how are you?" to a cashier's inquiry of "Hi, how are you today?". How could I be okay right now? How would I ever be able to be okay again? But the "Hi, how are you today?" is just a social nicety. It's polite to ask, but no one really wants to hear the truth if the truth is less than happy.

It's remarkable how quickly we can adapt to various situations. A short 6 weeks later, and I can now wear my "Good thanks, how are you" mask in public without feelings of guilt that my words are betraying my inner thoughts. I'm not happy about it, but I no longer feel like I'm betraying my son by maintaining a calm disposition. Early on, we were told that we would have to find strength. We would need strength to support E, but also strength to make his and J's lives as normal as possible. And I try. It's incredibly difficult, draining, and exhausting, but I do my best to act silly, and to keep my boys smiling and giggling. A fly on the wall observing our family for short periods may never guess the hell that we have been through. But it's always there. Always scratching at the back of your mind, waiting for the dark & tired times to bring uncertainty and undermine your thoughts. Fvck you leukemia.