Justin is sick and miserable on steroids. He missed a school field trip Friday, a birthday party Saturday, Sunday school and Christmas program rehearsal today.
These are all things he’d be gladly doing if he were well.
He isn’t well.
This cuts me day after day after day.
The suffering. The missing his childhood.
Every little piece of normalcy stripped away.
Nearly every part of me having a life outside of pediatric cancer is gone. What I still hold onto comes with a price.
So I keep reminding myself. Justin is alive. He is alive. He is alive.
Friday he bled and bled and bled. I held him and caught his blood for nearly an hour.
Leukemia. Blood cancer.
I am burnt out. I am always burnt out now. After 656 days, I don’t remember what not being burnt out feels like.
I know that Light is here. I can’t see it. I can’t feel it. I can’t touch it.
I just believe.
And, because of this, I know that even if we should be wrung out to the point of death, we will wake in the Light.
In him was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. John 1:4-5