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Journaling:My dear sweet boy, It has been one year. Fifty-two weeks. Three hundred sixty-five days. Only yesterday. Already a lifetime since I heard the words, “It looks like he has leukemia.” To hear those words and to put it together with the fact that you had cancer was almost more than I could bear. I knew you were watching and listening as the doctor was telling me what our first step on this journey would be. I somehow managed to keep myself together so I didn’t scare you. There have been so many times during this last year that I have wanted to curl up and cry. Most of those times I have gotten through by drawing my strength from you. But there have been those moments when I have allowed my grief to wash over me. I’ve cried for the pain you’ve endured. I’ve cried for the loss of your innocence and carefree days that did not include hospitalizations and clinic visits. I have cried when I’ve heard you talk of “accessing your port” or having a “good blood return”. These are words that no four year old should ever speak. I cried as you got your first haircut of all that thick new hair after the chemo made you loose almost all of it at the beginning of your treatment. I cried on your first day of Pre-K because it was on that day we came full circle to our new “normal” lives again. We were all able to breathe a little easier praying that the hardest part of your treatment was behind us. There is no way I would have ever wished for this journey, but we have experienced blessings for which we will be eternally grateful. We have met other families fighting this horrible disease who we now consider part of our family. We have been the beneficiaries of kindness and generosity from family, friends and strangers alike. I have found strength within myself that I would have never known I had without your diagnosis. You have been able to play baseball with Craig Biggio from the Houston Astros and gone directly to the front of every line on a magical trip to Walt Disney World. This all seems perfectly natural to you. You’re not quite old enough to realize that most four and five year olds aren’t this fortunate and I have no intention of spoiling that for you. Even though there have been so many blessings that have come out of your diagnosis, it wouldn’t be fair to disregard the hardships. I don’t think I can ever go back to the days where I just assume that you will grow up and that I will die before you. That sense of security is probably gone forever. But with that loss of security I have gained something I’m finding even more valuable. I’m learning that tomorrow is not guaranteed for any of us. I’m learning to breathe in life’s everyday moments for these moments are what make me who I am. I’ve also learned to tell the people in my life how much I love them more often now. I love you Nicky, and I count every day on this journey with you as a blessing in compassion, patience and gratitude. I hope you continue to run down your life path with your eyes and heart wide open to every experience along the way. I just ask one thing of you - please, every now and then I hope you’ll slow down enough to realize that no matter how fast or how far you go, I will always be right there with you. Love, Mommy Written on November 27, 2005 - The first anniversary of Nicky’s leukemia diagnosis.Supplies used:Kaleidoscope - “All About Me” Orange PaperKaleidoscope - “Playful” Teal PaperKaleidoscope - “Friends” Floral PaperKI Memories Alphabest Soup - GumboRibbons - American CraftsColorBox - Fluid Chalk Inkpad - Chesnut Roan
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