5 Years

The five year mark in cancer care is monumental.  Once you've had five years with No Evidence of Disease, or NED, you're considered cured.  It is one of our five year anniversaries today.

But it's not a joyous one.  His cancer was so aggressive, we didn't even make it five years from the day he was flown to Seattle in a jet because he was bleeding from a ruptured pineapple-sized (we were initially told grapefruit, but even after it had shrunk from chemo, it came out the size of a pineapple) tumor, spilling blood and cancer into his pelvis.

Where we may have had celebratory pictures and party at this five year anniversary, today our pictures, all of them forever more, look like this:

I have been struggling since New Years Eve night, since my brain exploded with the migraine sensation of realization that this is 'still real.'  I think it has finally become real.  I think my brain has finally come to understand that my Caden has died, he's not coming back, this is not a dream.

I've been struggling since that day, but I think that Keilie being sick on Shelby's birthday has exacerbated everything emotionally for me, since her symptoms mirrored those that Caden had five years ago.  Well, minus the pineapple-sized mass...  My mind started down the path that now it's another child's turn, I'm heading back to Seattle to watch another child suffer, really and truly suffer, and ultimately die.  It's not rational, I know that, but it feels very, very real for me recently.  I am scared, but have nothing to be scared about.  I find myself crying, yet don't know what I'm crying about.  I want to go out, but I can't get myself to actually do it.  I'm bored, but everything sounds like too much work.  I want to read, but sitting down to read sounds boring.  I either feel empty inside, or so full of sorrow that I can't function.  I feel confused, and heavy, and torn, and hopeless.  Because it's still real: My child is dead.