I sit down this evening to write with a heavy heart.
Today is Labour Day
in Canada, and it unofficially marks the end of summer. Most parents
are trying to get back into routines, and are preparing for their
children to go back to school tomorrow. A family we know from our
clinic and parental support group had their son succumb to relapsed
neuroblastoma this morning, and instead of back to school, they’re preparing for their child
to be buried.
Today has been
rough. I’ve been crying off and on all day today. I’m having
problems coming to terms with the unfairness of the situation. A
family has lost their little boy to this awful fucking shitface
asshole of a disease named cancer. He did nothing to deserve this,
and now all of his budding lifetime potential is gone. He was only 5
for fuck’s sake. Now is the part where I attempt to explain
how I’m not trying to be selfish by writing about my grief over
another parent’s loss.
One of the things I
see crop up in some of the online leukemia support groups reads:
“Childhood cancer makes friends into strangers, and strangers into
friends”. Through our journey, I identify more with the latter than
with the former. Some people have friends or family turn toxic after
a childhood cancer diagnosis, while others are ghosted by their
so-called-friends. Like I said, I wouldn’t say that has been our
experience, but everyone’s experiences are different. I do identify
with the “strangers into friends” part of the statement.
Until you get to
know me, I’m a shy, introverted person. Around people I don’t
know, I’m usually quiet, reserved, and hesitant to strike up
conversation. With other parents of a child with cancer, whether we
meet them at clinic, or through our parental support group, I find
myself just openly, and easily chatting with them. I perceive a
kinship, an understanding. When I meet another parent of a child with
cancer, it’s like two dogs meeting in a park. There’s a
recognition there. You know that you’re both in that same awful
club, and many of your experiences, worries, hopes, and fears line up
– you don’t have to explain, they just get it. I consider these
people friends, even though we may not know them well, or even much
at all outside of our connection with childhood cancer. I’ve
written about a similar topic before, but I would be there to help
out ANY of these people if they were stuck, or in some sort of
situation. I root for their kids; I rise when they’re doing well,
and I stumble when they have a setback. Any of them would be welcome
in my home to share a meal, or a cup of coffee.
Having said all
that, I don’t think I’m projecting my “what if this happens to
E?” feelings onto this situation. I don’t think I’m
experiencing collective grief either. We know this family – we
don’t know them really well – but I’m genuinely upset that this
has happened, and there’s nothing that medical science could have
done to save him. Neuroblastoma is a cancer that occurs in types of
nerve tissue. It is unfortunately, a more aggressive cancer when
found in children older that 1.5 years. It’s also one of the types
where intensive treatment does not always result in a favourable
prognosis, especially in the high-risk group.
This is where the
underfunding of childhood cancer research really fails our children.
What if there was more funding, and more scientists and doctors were
studying it? Maybe we’d be closer to a cure, or at the very least,
have higher treatment success rates.
Rest in peace little
James, I will always remember your courage, your smile, and your
positive outlook on life. You deserved better. All children with
childhood cancer deserve better. It’s up to us to try to get
politicians and organizations to properly fund childhood cancer
research, because right now, we’re failing these children.
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