Before hunkering down to write this post though, I checked Facebook briefly. Just a quick check. Sandwiched between the perky, upbeat posts of families on vacation, there were two shared posts by a couple of cancer mom friends about children I don't know. One is local, one is not. One is in the PICU at our hospital, fighting for her life. Her parents have asked people to pray for a miracle. Barring a miracle, they fully expect that they will lose their little girl sometime very soon. She is 3. The other child, who is not local, died last night at 6 pm. She was 10.
These parents are confronting the idea of "letting go" on a level that I fear more than anything in this world. As hard as it is to say goodbye to Fionn for 4 nights, it is just that. Four nights. I think the thing that makes those 4 nights so hard is that it taps into that fear for me. That primal fear that he is not mine to keep. That Conor and I could find ourselves at the end of a long and terrible road someday with Fionny (or any of our children). It is terrifying. My thoughts are with these families this week as I confront my own minor feelings of letting go. And I will never take for granted how lucky we have been thus far in this journey. Never.
As it is in our incredibly lucky universe, my task tomorrow is this. I get to pack up my little boy for 4 nights of overnight camp at Camp Sunrise which is a camp in Annapolis for kids with pediatric cancer. Most of the kids are treated at Johns Hopkins which sponsors the camp. We learned of Camp Sunrise by a University of Maryland student and pediatric cancer survivor whom we met last year as part of Fionn's experience with Team Impact. He highly recommended the camp and said he attended it as a camper and now returns as a counselor. Fionn heard "camp" and immediately gave it the thumbs up. Fionn loves anything "camp." Recently, following one of my many proclamations about how Fionn "loved" something, my mom said, "Fionn seems to love everything." I have been thinking about this ever since she said it earlier in the week. There are plenty of things Fionn despises (reading, writing, and regular non-chocolate milk come to mind), but in general...yes. He loves life. He loves fun. New adventures. New friends. ANY activity. It is one of my favorite things about my boy. He runs headfirst into any and all new experiences without a moment's hesitation. And he never looks back. What's more, he immediately seems comfortable and at ease in his new surroundings. It is so different than me. So enviable to me.
So I shouldn't have been surprised at all when we picked Fionn up from his first day of day camp at Camp Sunrise last night at 5:15 pm (after Conor literally peeled him away from the other campers), and he ran to the car with an excited grin on his face. "Mom, it was so much fun! And, Mom, there are a LOT of other kids who are staying OVERNIGHT! They are going to sit by the fire and SLEEP there! I wish I could do that too!"
I felt simultaneously elated and sick to my stomach. I truly love that Fionn feels confident enough and ready to spend time away from home. And I truly trust the camp and the staff. They have oncologists there at all times and are completely well-versed in everything related to Fionn's nightly chemo regimen as well as any fever emergency that might arise. Plus, it's only 30 miles away. We can easily pick him up at the first sign of homesickness or sickness in general. And yet...four nights. What if he cries? What if someone is mean to him? What if he is mean to someone else? What if it rains and storms, and I'm not there to make sure that he is safe and dry? What if he hates it? All of these thoughts came tumbling through my mind like rapid-fire snowflakes as I sat in the car with my son last night.
It would have been possible to say no, of course. To lie to Fionn and tell him that he isn't able to stay as an overnight camper because we signed him up as a day camper. It would have been so easy to pretend that the director DIDN'T tell me earlier that day that Fionn could stay overnight any and all nights that he wanted. That he has a bed and a cabin and 2 counselors already assigned.
But looking at the shining eyes of my son last night in the car, it was clear that there was only one real answer. "Yes, Fionny, you can do it. You can stay overnight at camp."
"Yay," he said, bouncing a little in his booster seat. "I love camp."
Letting go, I am learning, can be a blessing. I am lucky to have the luxury to let my little boy out on a short tether. It is his choice. Our choice. Letting go, I am learning, can be a luxury. When it's temporary. And natural. And desired.
Keep those other cancer families in your hearts this week if you would. No parent should ever truly have to let their children go in the way that these families are encountering this week. It's so unnatural, so wrong. Screw you, Cancer. SCREW YOU.
