The Hardest Night

This is a continuation of what happened the night of Joy’s initial diagnosis.

After Dr. Perry (real name: Dr. Perry Morocco) left the room, Jordan and I had another moment. I don’t remember much. I just remember repeating, “This isn’t happening. This is just a dream. Pinch me. This cannot be real.” This went on for about five minutes. 

I wanted to run back to Joy and rush her out of the hospital because the path ahead for her was just too much for any three year old to bear.

Instead Jordan and I wiped our faces and readjusted our masks and walked back down the hallway to see our brave girl. She was with a child life specialist who was gently rubbing her arm and cuddling her while watching a Disney Junior show. Her bed was overflowing with toys the staff generously kept bringing her. (In a later post, I’ll share how awesome child life specialists are.)

After that, things happened fast. We made phone calls and texts and told our employers we weren’t sure when we’d be back to work. We packed up Joy’s belongings, and I held her in a wheelchair as we rode up to the sixth floor. The cancer floor.

As we got off the elevator, my heart could barely take it as I looked around and saw all the gold childhood cancer ribbons on the wall. Children in these rooms fighting for their lives against an ugly disease. The constant beeping of machines. I remember passing by the bell—the bell some kids are lucky enough to ring on their last day of treatment. 

Please God, let us ring that bell one day. 

We were taken to room 608 where a lovely nurse with the sweetest voice greeted us. Joy wanted nothing to do with this new space or this wonderful nurse. She kept crying to go home.

She was hooked up to an IV right away. She would get a blood transfusion a few hours later. I remember I had to watch her closely for 15 minutes during her transfusion to look for any negative reaction. It was about 2 a.m. I was laying next to her just watching her little body, praying for her, and thanking God for this blood donor. 

My mind raced all night. I think I slept maybe 30 minutes. It really was the hardest night—learning about Joy’s leukemia, wondering what type, thinking about our boys at home and how they were processing the news, pleading with God to heal her, and asking for peace through it all.

The next day was a blur. She had chemo right away in her spine. I remember signing paperwork. So.much.paperwork. The side effects sounded scarier than the cancer itself, but we trusted these doctors. She also had her picc line inserted. When she was wheeled back I remember thinking, “She has to live with that in her arm?!” 

Around 4 or 5 p.m., we got the official diagnosis—acute lymphoblastic leukemia. We were grateful to hear that this type of leukemia is the more treatable cancer. Thank you Jesus! Many children go into remission after the first month of treatment! Even still, they must endure chemotherapy for a little over two years. We knew this was going to be a battle like nothing we’ve ever faced. But we were prepared to go up against it and give it everything we had.