10/26/2026
Clinic day update š¤šļø
Today was clinic day, and Finley has been asking to go for weeks now. I finally asked her, āWhy do you want to go to clinic? Is it because you get to miss school?ā š
She said, āNo, I want to see my nurses.ā
Let that sink in for a minute.
A year ago, she wouldnāt have even acknowledged her nurses. Now, she looks forward to seeing them. Finley has come such a long way, and even something as simple as port access has gotten so much better. Itās little things like this that remind us just how far she has come. ā¤ļø
Her counts are a little low this time around, so we will be holding chemo and rechecking her labs in two weeks. She will be out of school until Thursday.
She also still has a lingering cough. She had another chest X-ray, and thankfully, it looked good! Since she will be on a chemo hold for the next two weeks, they are prescribing antibiotics to hopefully get rid of this cough once and for all. Please pray that the antibiotics do their job and that she can finally get better. If the cough doesnāt improve, the next step will be seeing a pulmonologist.
For now, we wait, pray, and take things one day at a time.
Our lives are slowly starting to look more normal again. We have somewhat of a routine. School, after-school activities, sports on the weekends. The everyday things we once took for granted are slowly becoming part of our lives again.
But in the slowness, Iāve found myself struggling.
For the past year and a half, I havenāt really allowed myself to feel everything that has happened to us.
I didnāt have time to break down. I had no other choice but to be strong.
I was just two months postpartum when our six-year-old daughter was diagnosed with cancer. I was trying to navigate life with a newborn while suddenly learning how to keep another child alive add in 2 more kids. There were appointments, medications, lab results, hospital stays, fears, and a million unknowns. There was no time to stop and process what was happening. We just had to keep going.
Have I cried? Absolutely. There have been plenty of tears driving home alone, sitting in the car, or maybe in the ER when I finally had a moment to myself.
But I have never liked for my kids to see me cry. I didnāt want them to think something was wrong or that something bad had happened. I wanted to be their safe place. Their strong mama.
So I took all those feelings, all that fear, all that heartbreak, and packed them away in a box. I put the lid on it and kept moving.
A year and a half later, that box is starting to open.
Only it isnāt opening gently.
It feels like the box is splintering, and all the emotions I tucked away are seeping through the cracks. Anger. Envy. Dread. Sadness. Grief. Feelings I donāt always know what to do with. Feelings that sometimes catch me off guard because I donāt even recognize myself in them.
And honestly, I think Iām finally beginning to understand why.
No one really talks about the after of a childhood cancer diagnosis or a traumatic childhood diagnosis in general.
We talk about the diagnosis. The treatments. The scans. The lab results. The milestones. The bell-ringing day we all pray for. June/July 2027!!! So ready
But what about the family left to pick up the pieces? What happens when the crisis slows down and everyone expects life to start moving forward again?
What happens when you finally have a little breathing room and realize you never actually processed what you went through?
I am grieving the life we had before cancer. More than ever lately.
Iām grieving the version of our family that didnāt know what it felt like to live in fear of a phone call. The version of motherhood that didnāt involve checking lab results, counting medications, worrying about fevers, and measuring time in clinic visits and treatment milestones. I canāt even picture our lives 1 year from now.
I have always tried to find the good in every situation. I remind myself that God didnāt make us to live on the ground. That even in the hardest seasons, there is still beauty, hope, and something to be grateful for.
And I still believe that.
But Iām learning that finding the good doesnāt mean you arenāt allowed to grieve the bad.
Faith doesnāt mean you never struggle. Gratitude doesnāt mean you arenāt hurting. And being strong doesnāt mean you have to pretend that something hasnāt changed you.
I am not the same person I was at the beginning of 2025.
And if Iām being completely honest, there are days I mourn the person I used to be. The mom, the wife, the friend, the nurse, the woman who existed before all of this.
I miss parts of her that Iām not sure Iāll ever get back.
But Iām also beginning to realize that maybe I donāt have to become the old me again.
Maybe I can learn to love the person I am now.
The person who has survived days she never imagined living through. The person who has learned how to function through fear, celebrate the smallest victories, and find joy in the middle of uncertainty. The person who is still showing up, even when she feels like sheās running on empty.
And I think the old me would be incredibly proud of her.
Maybe healing isnāt about going back to who we were before. Maybe itās about learning who we are after.
Iām sharing this because I know I cannot be the only parent who has experienced this. The trauma doesnāt magically disappear when treatment slows down. The fear doesnāt automatically leave when the scans look good or the routine becomes more manageable. Sometimes, itās only when we finally have room to breathe that we realize just how hard weāve been holding our breath.
We need to talk more about the aftermath of a childhood cancer diagnosis or medical diagnosis.
We need to talk about the parents who are still trying to process what happened while everyone else assumes they are doing better. The marriages, the friendships, the siblings, the mental load, the grief, and the parts of ourselves we lose along the way.
We need to make room for families to heal, too.
Because childhood cancer doesnāt just affect the child who is diagnosed. It changes an entire family.
And while we continue to fight for Finleyās healing, Iām learning that I need to allow myself some healing, too.
One day at a time. One feeling at a time. One little crack in that box at a time. š¤šļø
If you are a childhood cancer parent and youāre struggling with the after-effects, please know you arenāt alone. You donāt have to pretend youāre okay just because the world is moving forward. You are allowed to grieve, to struggle, and to heal at your own pace.
