I've been dreading Christmas this year. At the end of the day last year, after all of the presents were opened and my family sat in my Dad's living room watching my just 2-year-old boy Victor enjoy his presents in spite of his exhaustion, I felt a "lump" on his abdomen. My family suggested it would be fine to wait until the morning to call his pediatrician as it wasost likely a hernia of sorts. I called my best friend who is a pediatric nurse and she agreed it could wait until morning because it's most likely nothing since he's eating and drinking okay, and because the ER is always crazy on Christmas night. The more I thought about it, the more I realized he's NOT eating and drinking okay. The boy who is usually a bottomless pit has slowly, but surely been rejecting food for the last couple weeks. His belly always feeling hard, and I assumed that he must have had a late snack at daycare. The boy who usually drinks his water like it's going out of style has suddenly required a certain amount of encouragement to take a few sips. I needed someone to tells I should have taken him that night. But no one did, so I chose to be the over protective and worried-for-nothing, new mommy and take him to the ER. After 3 hours in the waiting room, a CT scan, and 7 torturous attempts to insert an IV while I held down my terrified baby, we were headed via ambulance to St. Louis (2 hours away) because they believed it was liver cancer. They were right.

I cannot put into words the horror of watching your son go into a panic each and every time someone enters his hospital room. The sadness of his screaming "no, not you" to his family as he clung to me for dear life while my sister, mom, dad, or even his 'father' attempted to love on him. The guilt at knowing that I'm the ONLY one he trusts, yet am also the one who had to hold him down so strangers could stick him with needles, stick catheters in him to drain the urine, insert and remove drain tubes, and countless other things. Desperately needing ten minutes to myself to feel what is happening because I know I've already shut down and went I to 'fix it mode.' Aside from Christmas night when they continuously tried to get an IV in while his tiny body quivered and pleaded "no more, more more, no more. All done," I didn't shed a single tear until late July. The anger I feel at his 'father' for screwing up our marriage, leaving me to face this alone in his absence. The rage I still feel at the universe (I don't believe an all mighty god would willingly allow something like this to happen) for threatening to take my baby away when I already had to fight tooth and nail in order to live so I could be with him after his delivery.

I'm still detached to all who aren't Victor. I'm still caught in the hospital, or worse scenarios, in my mind late at night and the house is quiet. After six rounds of chemo, a major surgery to resect the tumor, and countless tears, my boy is now NED (no evidence of disease). We are worlds away from being 'safe' as he could relapse at any time in the next 5 years. But yesterday he had his port removed, which is what they used to run the poisonous chemo through his body. I was dumb of the idea and symbolism in it. But for the first time in nearly a year, I feel like my heart is working a little easier, my lungs are able to take in a little more air, and I'm now looking forward to Christmas morning with my amazing little boy who has hair and a healthy liver. I could still go without other people though ;)