And So It Begins.

*Written Thursday April 4.
Today was the beginning of chemo.
The first of many.
It was rough, not going to lie.
I cried more today then the day she was diagnosed with cancer.
The nurses thought I was so going crazy I think.
I was.
I held my princess in my arms as the process began.
She didn't understand.
She didn't want them touching her.
It was so sad.
She was so afraid.
I tried to comfort her,
distract her,
rock her fears away.
As the nurse started the chemo
and it began to drip down through her line,
my tears began and didn't stop for a long while.
I felt sick.
So sick.
Although I was so grateful for the medication,
for the opportunity of life that it was giving her,
I hated it for enslaving my baby to all of its nasty side effects.
Nausea.
Vomiting.
Mouth sores.
Loss of Appetite.
Fevers.
Irritability.
Change of personality.
Insomnia.
Fluid retention.
Extreme hunger (steroids)
big stomach (steroids)
Hair Loss (oh her sweet, fine baby hair)
Fatigue.
Flu like symptoms
Achy muscles and joints
Tingling in her nerves and muscles.
The list goes on.
Then I hated the cancer.
That one blasted cell that decided it won't follow the regular protocol.
Instead it went wild.
Blasted cell.
Blasted Leukemia.
Blasted cancer.
Then suddenly I felt such loss:
Loss of health.
Loss of control.
Loss of how things used to be.
I just felt plain lost.
I was no longer in control of what happened to my daughter.
It felt as if the nurses and doctors had more say as to what went on with her.
It felt so unfair.
This precious child that I had carried in my womb,
given birth to and brought into this world, and
tenderly cared for the this first year of her life
suddenly seemed to matter no more.
Now the doctor's care was more important.
She needed them to live.
And then I cried harder.
I wanted to scoop her up and run.
Run away home.
Run to where I could care for her again,
run to a place where I didn't need a doctor's permission to feed her,
a place where she could be left alone,
a place where she could sleep through the night without someone poking her,
a place where changing a diaper didn't mean donning purple gloves and masks,
a place where I didn't have to record feedings or bowel movements,
a place where vital signs don't exist,
a place where her and I felt safe.
Anywhere but here.
I was still crying...
I assured the nurses that I wasn't normally like this.
It is normal.
It happens all the time they said.
It didn't make me feel better.
How is this scenario normal?
I went outside,
basked in the sun for a while,
breathed in the fresh air,
called my mom and sisters, and
then prayed.
Boy did I pray hard.
I prayed until there were no more tears.
I prayed until I remembered that I can do hard things.
I prayed until I felt such peace that I couldn't deny that all would be well.
Then I went back into the hospital,
up the four flights of stairs, and
back into our tiny hospital room 4313.
I let go.
I am still her mother.
She needs me now more then ever before.
I am her advocate.
I am her voice.
So although I still dislike the chemotherapy,
and I still dislike this cancer that threatens my baby's life, and
although I still dislike being bossed around,
I understand that it is all necessary.
I can do it and so can she.
Let it begin
because only after it has begun can it ever end.