For almost a year, my seven-year-old daughter Alice’s life had been filled with leukemia treatments, blood tests, nausea, and hospital rooms.
On her birthday, her doctors and nurses surprised her by dressing as superheroes. Superman knelt beside her bed and said there was one more surprise.
Then her doctor told us the latest results looked encouraging. Treatment wasn’t over, but Alice could move into a less intensive phase and slowly begin returning to school.
Alice lit up.
I didn’t.
After months of watching every symptom, every breath, and every change in her face, I was terrified to let her live normally again.
I questioned the school about germs, medicine, fatigue, and every possible danger. At Alice’s first classroom visit, I watched her constantly.
Finally she said, “Mom, you’re watching me breathe.”
That night, I accidentally saw a page in her notebook titled:
“THINGS I WANT TO DO WHEN MOM STOPS BEING SCARED.”
Ride the bus. Go to recess. Sleep at Grandma’s. Have messy hair in her school picture.
That’s when I understood.
Cancer hadn’t only taught me to protect Alice. It had made me afraid to let her live.
Weeks later, she walked back into school without me.
When she came out, she looked tired, messy, and happy.
I reached for her backpack.
“I’ve got it,” she said.
So I lowered my hand.
Alice carried it herself.
And I simply walked beside her.