“Dad, do you ever regret having us kids?”
My eleven-year-old son posed this question recently, delivered
in his typical matter-of-fact deadpan style as I slumped heavily into our couch
to try to recover from a particularly chaotic – and expensive – Sunday
afternoon. My family had all recently returned from attending church, going to two
separate birthday parties, grocery shopping for the week, buying new school
shoes for the older three, and signing the youngest up for soccer. Finally home,
we now had to get everyone bathed and in bed so we could begin our week anew
tomorrow. The couch was my refuge as I searched for a few moments of solace to gather
my thoughts and regain the strength to continue doing the things that all
parents must do just to have a functioning household each day.
I glanced over at Paul and realized he was staring at me
wide-eyed, waiting for whatever nugget of wisdom I was about to impart on him. Paul
doesn’t ask questions like this without fully contemplating them himself first, and I
could tell by the look on his face that he was afraid of what my answer may be.
We have always been very open with our kids, so before I gave my reply, I took
a deep breath, dropped my eyes to the floor, and contemplated the last three
years of our life.
My children have experienced horrendous, gut-wrenching,
life-altering things over the past three years. Upon Hazel’s initial diagnosis,
they watched as their parents were broken – our hearts torn apart by the
realization that our youngest, most vulnerable child was about to begin a fight
for her life; one that we didn’t know if she would win or lose. My kids then watched
as we delivered the news to grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins – each time
witnessing new shockwaves of grief, pain, and sadness ravage those they hold
most revered in this world. For the three years following that diagnosis, I had
one child actively battling cancer – a process that demanded absolutely
everything of Elizabeth and I – but I also had three children explaining to
their friends and classmates that their baby sister had poisonous blood and may
not live to see her third birthday.
I have often written about the scars that cancer has left on
my family. The worst of these are not physical, but mental and spiritual. Our
souls are etched. Our psyches shattered. The courses of my children’s lives
have been changed forever. They have sacrificed more than any of us can even
know. They have been scared, they have been sad, they have been alone, they
have mourned.
My children have grown up much too fast. They have attended
funerals of cancer warriors both younger and older than they are. They have spent
hours, days, and weeks in the hospital. They have stood outside Hazel’s door
with masks and hospital gowns on, blowing her kisses because it was too
dangerous for them to touch her, lest she get sick. My kids have had chemo
stored next to the milk they put on their cereal in the morning, they have
foregone vacations so we could stay closer to Hazel’s doctors. My children have
missed out on parts of their childhood because of a minor mutation on one of
Hazel’s alleles that she has had since birth.
Do I wish I could have saved my family this pain? Do I wish
I could have avoided the heartache of the past three years? Do I wonder what
life would have looked like without cancer darkening my door? Yes, absolutely.
I would do anything on earth to be able to walk this all back and change our
path.
Do I regret having my kids and sharing this life with them?
Not for a second.
“Paul, let me explain something to you, and I hope you
understand,” I started. “You are my greatest accomplishment. You kids and this
family is what I have worked my entire life for, and I would never give that
up. I know much of the time I look tired or I am grumpy, and maybe sometimes I
complain. But buddy, you have to understand how much you mean to me. I may
regret being a better person or building a better life for you, but you and
your siblings complete me. You make all of this worth it and I would never,
EVER, regret that.”
Paul’s gaze was at first quizzical and then softened as he
seemed to stare at something far off behind my head. “Life is hard sometimes,
huh Dad. But I guess it seems better cuz we are together.”
September is Childhood Cancer Awareness month, a time
designated to help raise research awareness and funding for all types of pediatric
cancers, as well as show support for those young warriors who are actively
fighting, have fought, or have lost a fight to cancer. One month a year – 30 short
days – during which the eyes of the world are on our children and the plight
with which they deal. Many stats are thrown around during this month on social
media. Profile pictures are adorned with yellow ribbons, bumper stickers show
up on cars, charity walks are organized, and viral pledges are made. All of
this activity…for one month out of twelve. I know countless families for which September
is nothing special, nothing more than another month filled with days, hours,
minutes, and seconds of pain. More clinic visits, more test results, more
consultations, and more decisions. To cancer families, September can mean more
tears, more tragedy, and more sadness. My family has been there, we have walked
this path, and we are one with these families.
How fitting that September is also Hazel’s birth month.
Tomorrow we are poised to celebrate her fifth birthday and by the grace of God,
she will do that cancer-free. Some would say Hazel is lucky – her cancer was
treatable, highly researched, and she responded well. She also had massive
support from her family, friends, church, and community. Her doctors were some
of the best in the world and her chemo was readily available. But I don’t believe
luck had much to do with it.
“You faithfully answer our prayers with awesome deeds, O God our savior. You are the hope of everyone on earth, even those who sail on distant seas. You formed the mountains by your power and armed yourself with mighty strength. You quieted the raging oceans with their pounding waves and silenced the shouting of the nations…From where the sun rises to where it sets, you inspire shouts of joy.” - Psalm 65:5-6, 8
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