To live as a parent of a child, formally a blood cancer patient. What does it mean to live through it?
Long after the last drop of your child’s blood is medically deemed unpolluted with an alarming number of mutated leukocytes, fear still lives in you like a latent virus infecting your own cells. Dormant. Inactive at times. But, still, it is alive. You almost forget it is there, until, what otherwise might be a minor event or innocuous comment, somehow inflames panic.
The fear virus.

The fear virus flares up like a raging case of dermatitis. You feel the painful swelling and annoying itch, yet must carry on with your duties. But you know it’s not your best work. You attempt to cover the defenseless, raw blemishes. But you know others can still see them. You lament the discomfort; the whole sleepless, joyless, listless ordeal.

You apply ointments and balms, oils and antiseptics. But nothing works. You just have to let it run it’s course.

All you can really do is wait for it to pass.

Likewise, you wait for the fear virus to pass. You pray and you wait and you pray. You hold tightly to God and hope. It doesn’t leave your body, but it does leave your sight. It does pass. It will pass. You will live through it.

Grace be with you, parents and friends.

Justin says he has a headache. Okay, no problem. I give him water. Maybe some ibuprofen.

It was always Tylenol before. Ibuprofen does something to your blood. Leukemia patients can’t have it. I can’t remember why, but I remember Tylenol never did much for the pain.

And just like that, I can hardly breathe. A random thought memory sends me reeling back into the rooms with awful lights. Awful smells. Pain. A bag of stranger’s blood and a bag of chemicals dripping down into my child’s veins.

I am there again. And I can’t get out. I can’t get out unless I anchor my mind to something. Something good. Sometimes a good memory. But, most of the time, it is words. Words on a page force my brain from the disarray of fight or flight to whatever part is more logical. To me, the amygdala is completely unreasonable, but can be commandeered with words and sentences.

So thank you for reading my words and sentences that, even after 7 years, are still needed to quell the panic attacks, bring me back to the present and make me breathe.

Justin is not sick anymore. He is here. His eyes are full of life and he is holding a baby chick. So carefully. So tenderly. God is faithful.