The Longest Months of Our Lives

When Parker was first diagnosed, we were told the initial treatment would be nine months.

Nine months felt long.

Nine months felt impossible.

But nine months also felt like something we could wrap our heads around if we just took it one day at a time.

About seven months in, we learned the plan was changing. Treatment would be extended because of the Blina (blinatumomab) phase. I remember feeling frustrated—honestly, annoyed. We were already exhausted. We were already deep into survival mode.

Then they told us why.

That extension could reduce the risk of relapse by another 10 percent.

Suddenly, “annoying” didn’t matter anymore. We would do anything for that 10 percent.

From the beginning, treatment was a moving target. Every month—or sometimes every few weeks—we entered a new phase. Some months meant steroids every single day. Other months meant starting or stopping different chemo medications, adjusting doses, watching labs like hawks.

And through it all, we were at the clinic one or two times a week.

During the hardest stretches, it felt like every single day.

There are two weeks that still live so vividly in my body.

One was a steroid week. Parker refused to take the oral medication. We tried everything—mixing it, disguising it, bargaining, pleading. Nothing worked. So for five days in a row, we drove to the hospital for infusions instead. He had to get the medication somehow. There was no skipping it. No shortcuts. Just showing up, again and again.

The other week was during Blina.

That week was chaos.

We had line interruptions, bag breaks, and then the moment that still makes my heart race—blood coming out of his line. I remember freezing for half a second before instinct took over. Thankfully, my husband stayed calm. He clamped the line immediately, and we called and headed straight to the hospital.

Those moments are terrifying in a way that’s hard to explain unless you’ve lived it. Your child is connected to machines that are keeping them alive, and suddenly something goes wrong. There’s no time to panic—but later, it all hits you at once.

And yet… through all of it, we were never truly alone — even on the days when it felt unbearable.

There was always someone there.

Doctors who answered panicked calls late at night and patiently talked us through decisions that felt impossibly heavy. Doctors who explained things over and over again until fear turned into understanding, and who never made us feel silly for asking “just one more question.”

Nurses who somehow became the steady heartbeat of our world — nurses who could access Parker’s port with skill and gentleness, who knew how to distract him at just the right moment, and who made hospital rooms feel less frightening and more human.

Child life specialists who understood that healing isn’t just medical — it’s emotional. Who brought toys, laughter, and moments of normal childhood into spaces filled with IV poles and monitors.

trying to make him smile

Social workers who held space for our grief, exhaustion, and fear — who checked in not just on Parker, but on us. Who saw the toll this journey was taking and made sure we didn’t carry it alone.

And our case manager — the quiet hero behind the scenes — who helped make sense of an overwhelming system, coordinated the moving pieces, and made sure nothing fell through the cracks when our brains were already stretched thin.

Without these people — without their expertise, kindness, patience, and humanity — we truly would not have made it to the other side of this. They didn’t just help treat Parker’s cancer; they helped carry our family through the darkest season of our lives.

Their presence reminded us, again and again, that even in the hardest moments, there is still goodness. There are still people who show up. And sometimes, that is what makes survival possible.

Earthquake Soccer Visits

To the parents walking this road right now:

What you are going through is long.

It is draining.

It is relentless.

Your life has been flipped upside down. Your work is paused. Daycare is gone. Your routines, your calm, your sense of control—shifted overnight. Even your alone time looks different now.

Please hear this: you are doing hard things too.

Find ways—no matter how small—to care for yourself.

A really good cup of coffee.

A beautiful bushel of flowers.

Five quiet minutes in the car before going inside.

Loving yourself through this isn’t selfish.

It’s survival.

And if today feels endless, know this: you are not weak for feeling tired. You are not failing because you’re overwhelmed. You are showing up every single day—and that matters more than you know.

From one parent who has lived it to another:

You are not alone. 💛