It has been exactly 3 years since Oliver was first diagnosed with cancer.
I have been aware of this day approaching over the past week and at times have felt quite teary about it. Today, strangely, I completely forgot about it until now. First, a picture that speaks a thousand words.
Our little boy is so far from cancer today that it is hard to believe he was ever sick. You can tell he is a strong, robust, beefy, HEAVY, joyful, cheerful, cheeky, happy, loving little boy. He is such a blessing to us, and continues to bring joy and happiness (coupled with the expected 3 1/2 year old trials) into our lives.
And yet, he is not far from cancer. On Wednesday we go back in for another check-up, and as cliche as it may be, I love to see peoples reaction to how he has changed since they first met him at 8 months old. Each time I change his clothes, the scars around his chest remind me of his treatment. A couple of nights ago Ollie prayed for Angel Immie. And of course, my current studies reflect this change of course in our lives.
The reality is that we juggle this dichotomy - in one sense, we don't want him to be reminded, or even educated given what he may remember, of what he went through. We don't want him to think of himself as 'the kid that had cancer', or to limit himself in some way because of his lymphoma. We don't want cancer to define his life. And yet, it is what it is, and cancer has become a major driver in our lives. I want him to understand what he has been able to overcome, and what others have valiantly fought. I want him to understand the meaning and hope he brings into our lives, and maybe to the lives of others.
I can look back on Oliver's cancer, with him being where he is now, and identify all the positives that have come from it. The friends we have made, the lesson's we have learnt, the adventures we have been involved in, the changes it has brought in our lives, the relief we see when people hear his story - and I can almost say it has brought good in our lives.
But only because he is where he is. If he were still sick, still fighting, still enduring chemotherapy, maybe radiotherapy, maybe a bone marrow transplant, maybe a last ditch experimental effort. If we were considering more comforting measures, having lost any hope of cure. If we were trying to celebrate his short but wonderful life. Then all these things - the friends, the lessons, the adventures. They would all mean nothing to me - because I would have lost one of my dearest treasures; a piece of my heart would have been permanently carved away; I would give up all the friends, the learning, the adventures, to have that which I miss the most back in my arms - back laughing and giggling, and being disobedient and drawing on the walls, and snoring peacefully, and waking at ungodly hours, and bringing great pride and great embarrassment.
And so I sit here, three years after my amazing little boy began a victorious 12 month fight against cancer, and I celebrate his life - and the joy he continuously brings to our lives.
And I weep for my friends who have lost their children in this short time, and for those who I may not know so well, but who's loss weighs heavily all the same.
To Angel Immie, Angel Evie, and Pirate Angel Elliot - we miss you and what you may have been in our lives.
To Fiona & Jason, Kody, Ashton and Nic; to Michelle & Alison; To Rick & Emily, Hudson and Harry. We think of you often, and we will never forget what you have lost.
I have been aware of this day approaching over the past week and at times have felt quite teary about it. Today, strangely, I completely forgot about it until now. First, a picture that speaks a thousand words.
Our little boy is so far from cancer today that it is hard to believe he was ever sick. You can tell he is a strong, robust, beefy, HEAVY, joyful, cheerful, cheeky, happy, loving little boy. He is such a blessing to us, and continues to bring joy and happiness (coupled with the expected 3 1/2 year old trials) into our lives.
And yet, he is not far from cancer. On Wednesday we go back in for another check-up, and as cliche as it may be, I love to see peoples reaction to how he has changed since they first met him at 8 months old. Each time I change his clothes, the scars around his chest remind me of his treatment. A couple of nights ago Ollie prayed for Angel Immie. And of course, my current studies reflect this change of course in our lives.
The reality is that we juggle this dichotomy - in one sense, we don't want him to be reminded, or even educated given what he may remember, of what he went through. We don't want him to think of himself as 'the kid that had cancer', or to limit himself in some way because of his lymphoma. We don't want cancer to define his life. And yet, it is what it is, and cancer has become a major driver in our lives. I want him to understand what he has been able to overcome, and what others have valiantly fought. I want him to understand the meaning and hope he brings into our lives, and maybe to the lives of others.
I can look back on Oliver's cancer, with him being where he is now, and identify all the positives that have come from it. The friends we have made, the lesson's we have learnt, the adventures we have been involved in, the changes it has brought in our lives, the relief we see when people hear his story - and I can almost say it has brought good in our lives.
But only because he is where he is. If he were still sick, still fighting, still enduring chemotherapy, maybe radiotherapy, maybe a bone marrow transplant, maybe a last ditch experimental effort. If we were considering more comforting measures, having lost any hope of cure. If we were trying to celebrate his short but wonderful life. Then all these things - the friends, the lessons, the adventures. They would all mean nothing to me - because I would have lost one of my dearest treasures; a piece of my heart would have been permanently carved away; I would give up all the friends, the learning, the adventures, to have that which I miss the most back in my arms - back laughing and giggling, and being disobedient and drawing on the walls, and snoring peacefully, and waking at ungodly hours, and bringing great pride and great embarrassment.
And so I sit here, three years after my amazing little boy began a victorious 12 month fight against cancer, and I celebrate his life - and the joy he continuously brings to our lives.
And I weep for my friends who have lost their children in this short time, and for those who I may not know so well, but who's loss weighs heavily all the same.
To Angel Immie, Angel Evie, and Pirate Angel Elliot - we miss you and what you may have been in our lives.
To Fiona & Jason, Kody, Ashton and Nic; to Michelle & Alison; To Rick & Emily, Hudson and Harry. We think of you often, and we will never forget what you have lost.
