Light the Night and the End of Treatment

Wow.

Just Wow.

Over 50 people walked with us in honor of Alex. Over 50 people held red balloons to signify their support of our amazing little man. Thank you, does not begin to do justice to the gratitude I feel for all our Warriors 4 Alex - both here and afar.

I am humbled by the generosity of the people who donated their time, and their money to help us support the science that is so desperately looking for a cure for this vile disease. Our team has raised over $9,300 to date, and we hope to break the $10,000 mark before January 31, 2011.

As you may have already read in my previous post, we are on the countdown to the end of treatment for Alex. Our final Chemo day is scheduled for November 19th, 2010. Exactly two years and nine days after diagnosis. Those first few days are still so raw. I tear up thinking about them (even while on Prozac). Our little boy has been so strong, and has grown so much in spite of the intensive treatment, and disruption to his life.

Cancer has been the most horrific thing I have ever dealt with. I'm sure Eric would say the same. Even so, to be perfectly honest, the Chemo and doctor appointments have become the norm, and the idea of stopping cold-turkey on November 19th scares me to death.

These next 36 days are going to be challenging. While I hate the poison that is pumped into our son, there is comfort in knowing that we are actively fighting the cancer. We are waging war daily, with hopes that the cancer cannot gain critical ground. Once we sign the peace treaty with his body, and halt all warfare, who is to say that cancer will not begin an all-out assault once our guard is down?

I can tell you that every time Alex has a swollen lymph node, I will not sleep until cancer is ruled out. I will be THAT mom, pestering the doctors for a CT scan "just to be sure". Every breath will be held until the routine blood test results are returned.

Every time.

For the rest of my life.

And I am SO grateful for the opportunity to worry. It means my son is alive. It means treatment worked. It means I have a son who I can hold, talk to, hug, and watch grow into the fantastic young man I know he will be. It means that my daughter will have a big brother to grow up with.

Not every parent is that lucky. For every ten parents sitting in the waiting room up at the hospital, two of them will have their hearts torn open as they watch their children succumb to a blood cancer. They will sit there, watching as my son gets better, while their child fades in front of their very eyes.

We need a cure.

Please click the link on the right side of this blog, and donate $5 or $10 to the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. Help us fund research that will someday make blood cancers 100% curable.