Today is a wonderful day.

Today I celebrate my son’s 12th year on the Earth.

Somehow, inexplicably, twelve years have flown and crawled and staggered past us. Ten years have gone since his cancer diagnosis, and time has rubbed away some of the horror of that wound, for all of us.

2020 has, and let’s not sugar-coat it, been a bit of a shit year all ‘round, am I right? All of our lovely plans have gone up in smoke, the global pandemic rages on, and the uncertainty of what the future holds has us staring at the ceiling at night, and anxiously checking our news-feeds over and over.

My son is currently in Australia without me.

He’s with his Dad, of course, visiting our family, but it feels slightly surreal that I feel safe enough for him to be 15,558 kilometres away from me.

Gavin and Craig, off to Sydney

Over the past couple of years, the Bean has grown so much in independence and maturity. He is learning to navigate the world on his own, which is just as it should be for a 10-almost-11-year-old boy.

It always stuns me, slightly, to return to this blog and see how much time has passed since I last posted. If I’m not posting here, it’s generally because life is busy, rushing past at the speed of light, and I’m hard put to find the time to breathe, let alone blog.

June is always very full. It marks the end of each school year, as we stand on the cusp of all of our summer adventures, with short weeks of glorious hot weather ahead of us, complete with lake swims and ice cream. We’ve got outdoor birthday parties and long, light nights for soccer games. We’re back on our bikes, waiting for Toronto’s pools to open, and gearing up for summer camp.

When I blow out birthday candles, break a wishbone, throw coins in fountains, or see the first star of the evening, like a child, I close my eyes and make a wish. My wishes are always the same. Of course.

So with a heart full of the most immense gratitude, I can declare that my wishes have all come true, again. Heaving a great sigh, and pulling myself together, I move on with no more worries to beset me. For the next six months, at least.

It’s been a big week. Some notes:

1. Gavin had his MRI last Saturday, which was his first to be done annually. I haven’t had any news from that scan. It wasn’t the smoothest day for my boy. He’s deeply traumatized by the ongoing pain of IVs, and unfortunately had to act as pincushion for an unpracticed nurse. The second nurse, a seasoned professional, talked him down and managed to get an okay site. Things were proceeding well, until he had a panic in the machine and screamed to be let out. That’s the first time that that’s happened. We had to stop the scan, pull him out and calm him. After a breather, he got back in and finished. He felt better after pancakes and an Oreo milkshake, as all of us would. He and I will be back at hospital next week for his kidney ultrasound and first clinic appointment with After-Care.

This post was written in December, 2016.

There is a story behind this horse. This horse and her Barbie friend were given to Skye by a woman I admire deeply and hold in the highest regard for the level of care she gave my Gavin whilst he was in residence on the bone marrow transplant unit, 8B, at the Hospital for Sick Children. She is a doctor who fights for her patients with ferocity and adores them with a mother’s heart. It’s been almost six years since we left that unit, but I will never forget how she, and the other doctors there - and nurses of course - fought and prayed and believed in the Bean.

My cell phone rang last Friday morning. My phone doesn’t ring much, as I communicate with most people in my life via text or email. For a moment, I looked in shock at the 813 prefix, a million thoughts careening through my mind, knowing that the news I was about to hear would either rocket me over the moon or plummet me into the depths of despair. No tumour. Tumour.

I’m doing busywork today. Organizing old papers. Vacuuming. Fixing a picture-frame. Anything, really, that might distract me from the thought of Skye’s MRI on Thursday, July 21st. This will be her very first one, and I’m dreading it.

Contemplating Thursday morning has my abdomen tied up in knots. Do I have reason to believe that the scan will be anything but clear? No. And yes. Well, realistically, no. But the fear that accompanies each scan for my children is all-encompassing, and subsumes logic and rational thought.

Gavin, Skye and I spent the morning in the neuro-oncology clinic to go over the results of Gavin’s most recent MRI. Once again, I’m overjoyed to report that Gav’s scans were clear. This means that we have another 6 months to go until the next one, at which point they will become annual.

SIX. YEARS.

Hard to believe that this silly, bright, fun-loving, goofy, stubborn boy is going to be 8 in a couple of short months.

Life seems to be hurtling past at a great velocity. Days and weeks blur and blend together, leaving me wondering, really, where does the time go?

We’ve now just about reached the first anniversary of Gavin’s return to wellness. I hesitate to use the expression “wonder drug,” but Gav’s medication has been life-altering for us. He hasn’t had a visit to the ER since last January. Going back over old posts, I see that February of last year was horrendous. Below is Bean’s report card from December of this school year. He went from missing over 20 days of school in the first term of 2014, to missing none in 2015. None!