It begins . . .

Today was horrible. I walked into the children clinic in MD Anderson Cancer Center today, with Rachel hand in hand, and I felt like I might fall over from the shock. I looked around me to see the very thing that I had expected to see, children with scarves, hats, or bald heads, masked faces to protect from germs, sad eyes, and long faces. However, I was not prepared for how it would make me feel to see those images now that I am projecting myself and my daughter into that reality. What a nightmare. I was speachless as I took my seat in the waiting room. The veteran mother’s were casually talking to one another about their children’s conditions and I just sat there stone-faced and choosing not to engage in a question and answer session about something about which I would rather be in denial. Rachel was vibrant, happy, and cheerful. She kept to herself, didn’t ask me any questions about why people had no hair or why they were wearing blue masks. She seemed content to sit on my lap and color, eat crackers, and be four. Oh, how I want her to be able to be four!!!!!! We waited for four hours! The only thing that we accomplished was to fill out some paperwork and speak to an anesthesiologist for about 10 minutes. Everyone stares at Rachel as if she is a fish out of water. She is the picture of health with her long flowing dark hair and all of her energy. She is not “sick.” I could feel the heavy burdens of the other mother’s and father’s in the room, worry written all over their faces. There is a “glazed over” look that is becoming all to easy to identify with. The building is incomprehensibly large, filled with sick people in every nook and cranny. I realize that there are those who are victorious in their battle with cancer but their lives are engrossed in that fight and nothing more. I want to go back home and be bored, clean my house, fold my laundry, and listen to my kids fight! I want to run away from this place, take my daughter to some remote island and forget this ever happened but instead I sit in a chair for four hours, pretending for Rachel. I believe in miracles. I need one to happen for her. This cannot be her reality. I still have hope.


She has an MRI tomorrow and we see the doctor on friday . . .