Last Night

Tonight is our last night at BC Children's Hospital. Today is exactly seven months from Eleanor's diagnosis and our first night at this hospital. Tomorrow we go and start the rest of our lives. I am so sad. Unbearably sad. Every time I find myself alone, I am crying. I am replaying every moment, every milestone, every high and low of this journey and my heart beats and breaks every second.

Ga-goom


crack



Ga-goom


crack



Ga-goom


crack


The thought that keeps bouncing around in my head is loud and mean: Is there something more I could have done? Up til now I have been really good at not placing blame on myself or our GP or anybody who saw Eleanor in the months leading up to her diagnosis. Now I am fraught with the notion that I should have pushed harder. I didn't know that there are pediatricians on call in the hospital at all time. I didn't know that if I had gone to Emergency at the first suspicion I had, she would have had tests run and maybe we would have caught this thing before it spread to her lungs. I didn't know. I thought Emergency was for paranoid people and broken bones and wounds that won't stop bleeding. I wish I had known more. I wish we had more time.

Our time in the hospital is over, which means her first line of defence is over. And very rarely are they able to catch these things the second time around. I am crazy about this kid. She falls asleep wrapped around my arm, with her little feet resting on my leg and her little face an inch away from mine. Every night. I love her. And she might be taken from me? How can we be finished this part? Where is her reprieve? Can't she get SOMETHING for enduring seven months of chemotherapy? All she gets is a pat on her smooth, shiny head and a "See you later". No remission, no lasting success, nothing. She gets to wait for a miracle. She's had a lot of those, and it looks like they are running out, too.

Everything is fleeting. We weren't supposed to get this far, SHE wasn't supposed to get this far. Her heart was in such bad shape when we came in, the doctors weren't even sure how it was working. They had never seen anything like it. She nearly died. Her heart stopped twice in one day. Removing her tumor gave us these last seven months, and there has been so much joy in our stay here. Yes, it's been scary, but having these amazing doctors and nurses hold your hand when your world crumbles around you is a deeply personal and sacred thing. The staff here have not only healed Eleanor's little (big) heart, they have also healed mine and Kris's. They listen to your fears and strife and make it better. There is no promise of anything grand, it's just quiet understanding and hope.

HOPE

What is a world without hope?

And that is what Eleanor has to come away with, I suppose. We have hope. The doctors have hope. It's still too scary to look forward, but I can't waste anymore energy looking back, either. It hurts so goddamn much. We will all have to take it day by day, and find ways to slow the breaking of our hearts.

Say goodbye.

Hello.