We'd had a good time.
We'd celebrated a huge milestone; me reaching one year old.
We were coming to terms with my cortical vision impairment.
I was starting to grow.
We were getting familiar with the therapies I had to do.
We were starting to understand some of the cerebral palsy terminology.
We were starting to feel comfortable.
And then, I went to my paediatrician.
Over the years, he has had to tell Mum some truly awful news. She's shared that news with Dad, sitting outside and crying on the phone. That day, she told Dad there was a chance I had cancer.
(Remember that just that morning, she had been celebrating the news that she was pregnant.
It's massive.
It has to be told. It has to be mentioned.
But... we've told it before.
So, instead... how did it change us, this 'enlarged liver'?
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It broke us.
My family were only hanging on by the tiniest of grips, as it was. They were still recovering from the four months in hospital, hoping each morning to hear good news about me.
They were still coming to terms with my official vision impairment diagnosis.
They had expected I would soon get an official cerebral palsy diagnosis, and that it would be severe.
They were healing.
And then... my enlarged liver was found.
I think there was a numbness. Shock. A quiet retreat into the backs of their minds, where they struggled to come to terms with it. I think there was anger and bitterness and absolute frustration. I think there was fear that exhaustion would overcome and they would not have the strength to carry me forward.
And there was fear. Absolute fear. Fear I would die.
Imagine Mum and Dad, barely holding themselves together and then having to share this news with already broken family members. What an awful day.
The wait from detection to official diagnosis was longer than normal, due to a few circumstances. In that time, my family wavered between convincing themselves I would be fine and preparing themselves for the awful battle that is cancer.
Eventually, they convinced themselves it was cancer.
They just hoped it was hepatoblastoma and not neuroblastoma.
Hepatoblastoma it was.
The treatments are quite different, and I needed surgery but reduced chemotherapy treatment time, compared to leukaemia patients.
When Mum or Dad stayed at the Ronald McDonald House, I wasn't with them. I was in hospital. Sometimes, they would be ignored at the House, because they didn't have a child with them. Almost always, they were dismissed by the other families. The Home Away From Home felt very isolating. The families at the House at the time, who had children with leukaemia, didn't want to talk to my family, seemingly because our cancers were different.
Mum and Dad took turns sleeping beside me.
They caught my vomit and cleaned me up.
They treated my mouth ulcers and pureed my food.
They let me eat anything... just so long as I ate.
They sat beside me during my chemotherapy treatments and watched over me as my platelet, plasma and blood transfusions were completed.
They cut my clothes off me, when cleaning them was no longer an option.
They tried to keep me away from sick people and endured sleepless nights in isolation units.
They watched kids die.
They took me for my first hair cut; a bald shave.
And they carried on, as best they could, without sleep.
They went though the motions and endured it all.
It changes you; childhood cancer.
Any cancer.... but, childhood cancer is hard, because the patients are so young.
You remember the kids who fought and went home.
You remember the kids who fought, but were lost.
Today, my family look like they are healed.
They're not.
They are scarred and broken.
They didn't smile for about a year and only started laughing again after about two years. They can make jokes now, but one simple, tiny little trigger and they are full of dread and anxiety.
They will never be the same.
The people they were back then, on my 'enlarged liver' day... Those people have gone.
The people they have become are stronger and tougher in many ways. They are calmer in an emergency and level-headed in stressful times.
But they are broken and feel incredible pain. They still hurt quickly and easily.
They do not yet have the emotional strength they once had.
Look into their eyes. You will see their pain.
But, they are getting there.
The fundraising that we did, for Camp Quality and the NSW Cancer Council was a way of gaining back some power and control over cancer. So far, we've raised over $33,000. (Thanks to everyone who has supported us along the way!)
Watch Mum speak about me at our local Relay for Life here and here. Listen to the words... Feel the emotions. That's what my cancer did to them.
**Mum and Dad will most likely send my Noisy Sister to see a therapist. She has been there through all of this. She has seen so much. She has heard so much. She is a clever little girl, and carries it all inside her. Her memory is incredible and she will bring up events and conversations from months ago. We will make sure she gets the help she needs, to keep her safe and healthy.
Cancer. We'll never be the same.
**If you're reading this and you've lost a child to cancer, we are so sorry. We remember the kids and young adults we got to know. We feel sad when we think of the kids who are no longer with us. xx