After two years of chemotherapy, my daughter had just rung the hospital’s victory bell
and I believed that the most difficult period of our lives was finally over. However, her doctor ran after us as soon as we arrived at the hospital and said, “Wait… I couldn’t keep it a private matter any longer.”
Applause reverberated across the hallway outside the pediatric oncology ward.
Martha, my daughter, was still holding the rope she had just pulled with both hands. The dazzling ringing of
the brass bell, which swayed softly above her head, reverberated down the hallway as if it would never go away.
The nurses applauded. Parents sobbed. After holding their breath for too long, doctors grinned quietly.
Above her head, the brass bell wavered softly.
Martha received a paper certificate with sparkling stars on it from someone.
As if she had just won an Olympic medal, she raised it above her head.
“I did it, Mom!”
From one freckled cheek to the other, she grinned.
She chuckled when I gave her such a firm hug. “You sure did, sweetheart.”
I didn’t have to fake a smile for the first time in two years.
It just happened.
“I did it, Mom!”
What is the most difficult aspect of childhood cancer, people frequently ask?
They anticipate that parents may mention chemotherapy. or the needles. or the anticipation.
They’re not correct.
Seeing your child gradually quit acting like a youngster is the most difficult part.
Martha had been eight years old two years prior.
She believed that every shiny pebble she collected held a little dinosaur egg. She gave squirrels a name.
She maintained that cutting pancakes into stars improved their flavor.
Seeing your child gradually quit acting like a youngster is the most difficult part.
Then, one typical Wednesday afternoon, everything was altered by bruises that shouldn’t have been there.
Three days later, the diagnosis was made.
leukemia.
I can hardly recall ever leaving the doctor’s office. All I can recall is clutching Martha’s small hand and feeling that something had gone horribly wrong.
Martha gave me a glance.
“Mom?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Are we still getting pizza tonight?”
Three days later, the diagnosis was made.
I started crying. We had to postpone supper, so she assumed I was weeping.
It became our way of life.
rooms in a hospital. blood testing. chemotherapy.
And waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting.
I rapidly discovered that I didn’t have time to break down as a single mother.
Martha’s remaining hair needed to be braided, insurance companies needed to be argued with, and drugs needed to be managed.
I rapidly discovered that I didn’t have time to break down as a single mother.
I so locked myself in the hospital restroom each night after she went to sleep. I would weep for
precisely five minutes while sitting on the locked toilet lid.
I would then wash my face. Grin at yourself in the mirror. Return to her room.
She was unaware.
I came back from one of those restroom excursions one afternoon during her second round of
chemotherapy.
Martha peered over the cover of her coloring book at me.
“You cried again.”
I used to cry when sitting on the closed toilet lid.
I froze. “What makes you think that?”
“Your nose gets pink.”
I made an effort to laugh. “It does not.”
She patted the vacant area next to her and said, “It does.” “Come here.”
I sat cautiously on the bed’s edge. I missed the tear under my eye, but she reached up and brushed it away.
She said softly, “We’ll beat this, Mom.” “You’ll see.”
Honestly, there were moments when I questioned which of us was rearing the other.
“We’ll beat this, Mom.”
She was adored by the nurses.
Martha wasn’t always happy. On some days, she sobbed over her lost hair or yelled after receiving another needle. She was still a young child.
But in some way… She was never broken for very long.
She was sitting cross-legged on her bed one morning, painting something with intense focus.
“What are you making, darling?”
“Birthday cards.”
“It isn’t your birthday.”
She gave me a look as if I had overlooked something clear. “They’re for Nurse Angela.”
She was never truly broken for very long.
“It isn’t her birthday either.”
“It is next week, Mom.”
“How do you know?”
She shrugged and said, “I asked.” “Nobody should work on their birthday without getting a card.”
When Martha delivered it to Angela, she sobbed.
After a month, Martha learned that one of the janitors, Mr. Howard, had a dinosaur-loving granddaughter.
“Nobody should work on their birthday without getting a card.”
She insisted on giving him her favorite dinosaur sticker the following afternoon.
She put it in his palm and said, “I have lots.” “Now your granddaughter has one too.”
For months, he kept that sticker inside his job badge.
The security guy acted as though he had forgotten how to operate the electronic doors every Tuesday morning.
“Oh no,” he would let out a big sigh. “I guess I’m trapped.”
Martha would roll her eyes. “You forgot again, Johnny?”
“I’m afraid so, Little Miss.”
She would look across the reader with pride at his badge. “There! You’re rescued.”
He would give a salute. “My hero.”
“You forgot again, Johnny?”
Martha cherished that game.
To be honest, I thought it happened organically.
I never asked why Johnny always seemed to forget on Tuesdays.
Somehow, the cafeteria women recalled that Martha adored strawberries but detested peas.
One extra bowl always ended up on her platter whenever strawberries were offered as a dessert.
To be honest, I thought it happened organically.
She told me in a whisper one soggy afternoon, “I think the cooks like me.”
“I’m pretty sure they do,” I replied.
With pride, she grinned. “I like them too, Mom.”
As the months went by, I lost sight of the small details because I was so preoccupied with blood levels and treatment plans.
the vibrant bandages rather than the white ones.
The nurses are dressed in absurd duck or superhero-themed socks.
“I think the cooks like me.”
When Martha appeared scared prior to a treatment, the child-life specialist magically created bubbles.
Martha’s prescription bag always had a small joke from the pharmacist.
They were just amazing folks, in my opinion.
I had no idea how meticulously those moments were prepared.
After two years of therapy, Dr. Collins finally entered Martha’s room with a smile I had never seen before.
He examined her chart. Next, Martha.
They were just amazing folks, in my opinion.
“I’ve been waiting a long time to say this,” he said.
The room fell silent.
“Your treatment is officially complete.”
No one moved for a single pulse.
“So… I get to ring the bell?” Martha said.
Dr. Collins chuckled. “I think you’ve earned it.”
“So… I get to ring the bell?”
The whole floor erupted in celebration.
Physicians left their workplaces.
The pharmaceutical station was abandoned by the nurses.
Outside patient rooms, parents hesitated.
From the wheelchairs lining the corridor, children undergoing treatment grinned.
Martha encircled the rope with both hands.
She first glanced at me. “Ready?”
I nodded while crying.
She tugged.
The whole floor erupted in celebration.
Once, the bell rang.
But then again.
Then a third time.
The hallway was filled with cheers.
My daughter was applauded by strangers as if she had just scored the game-winning goal in a
championship.
She was given balloons by someone.
I nearly dropped our overnight bag as another nurse gave me an intense hug.
The hallway was filled with cheers.
“We’re going to miss her,” she muttered.
I grinned while shedding joyous tears. “We’re going to miss all of you too.”
We gave each person who had become family a hug.
It was more like saying goodbye to family than it was like leaving a hospital.
Martha, holding her award in both hands, skipped next to me.
She gestured to the glass doorway. “The sun looks brighter today, Mom.”
“We’re going to miss her.”
I chuckled. “I think it’s the same sun.”
She gave a headshake. “No. I think today he’s smiling.”
I gave her a firm squeeze. “Let’s go home, darling.”
Someone yelled behind us when we were just a short distance from the hospital’s main doors.
“Juliette… Wait!”
I pivoted.
Dr. Collins was breathing heavily and running toward us.
“Juliette… Wait!”
Only when he got to us did he slow down.
He just stared at Martha for a few long seconds. Then at me.
Tears had welled up in his eyes.
“There…” he said, pausing to gather himself. “…there’s something you needed to know. I couldn’t keep it a private matter any longer. But now that Martha’s treatment is over… I think you deserve to know.”
I scowled. “Know what?”
He looked across to Martha.
“Would you both come with me? Just for a few minutes.”
“I think you deserve to know.”
“Are we in trouble?” Martha asked, glancing up at me.
Dr. Collins laughed. “Quite the opposite.”
He guided us back through the oncology ward that we had just left.
He passed the treatment rooms, the nurses’ station, and an ancient conference room that I had never
seen before.
I was immobile when he opened it.
“Are we in trouble?”
There were people in the room.
Not in the presence of outsiders.
Inside, almost everyone who had subtly entered our lives during the previous two years was waiting.
“Is this… for me?” Martha muttered.
“It is,” Dr. Collins said.
Smiles that seemed oddly hard to contain filled the room.
Dr. Collins’s hands were folded. “For two years,” he replied, “you believed your daughter’s medical team
ended with the people wearing white coats.”
He gave a headshake. “It never did.”
“Is this… for me?”
Perplexed, I looked around. “I don’t understand.”
Angela chuckled while crying. “None of us wanted you to.”
Dr. Collins went on. “Every Thursday after our afternoon rounds, whoever had time gathered in this
room.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You had meetings?”
He grinned. He turned to face Martha and said, “Not about blood counts.” “They were about her.”
He opened a folder and unfolded a few papers.
“They were about her.”
He read out loud.
“What made Martha smile this week?”
The room fell silent.
He raised his head.
“Who’s making her laugh before Friday’s procedure?”
He flipped to the next page.
“Does anyone have a new card game?”
“Can somebody bring bubbles?”
“Who remembers she gets nervous before spinal taps?”
“What made Martha smile this week?”
I gazed at him. “You planned all of that?”
The back of Mr. Howard’s neck was scratched. “Somebody had to.”
Angela chuckled. “It became surprisingly competitive.”
Martha cocked her head. “Competitive?”
“The dinosaur pancakes,” a cafeteria cook acknowledged. “We argued over who got to make them.”
Another chef gave a nod. “I practiced at home.”
“You planned all of that?”
Martha gave a gasp. “They weren’t on the menu?”
“No. They were just for you, sweetheart.”
Martha’s jaw slowly dropped.
One hand was raised by the security guard.
He smiled and said, “My turn.” “I never forgot my access badge.”
Martha gave a blink. “You didn’t?”
He tapped his shirt pocket and said, “Nope. I kept it right here.” “I only pretended because you smiled every time you rescued me.”
“They weren’t on the menu?”
“You knew?” Martha asked, glancing at me.
I gave a headshake. “I honestly didn’t.”
Everyone chuckled.
There was gentle chuckling. and cozy. The kind that emerges from a shared experience.
Mr. Howard took out his wallet. He carefully removed a faded dinosaur sticker.
“I still carry this.”
Martha’s eyes grew wide. “You still have it?”
“I promised my granddaughter I’d never lose it.” He said. “She asks about you every birthday.”
“You still have it?”
Next to step forward was Angela. She opened a tiny pile of vibrant birthday cards.
“I’ve kept every card you ever made me,” she said.
Martha appeared ashamed. “They were messy.”
Angela brushed away another tear and said, “They’re perfect.” “You remembered my birthday before
some members of my own family did.”
The child-life specialist chuckled. “Remember the magic tricks?”
“They were messy.”
Martha happily nodded. “You never guessed my card.”
The expert gave a sheepish smile. “I cheated.”
Laughter erupted around the room.
“I knew it!” exclaimed Martha.
“I absolutely cheated,” the expert acknowledged once more. “You were having such a rough week that
I figured losing one card game was a small price to pay.”
“I absolutely cheated.”
People told me stories one by one that I could hardly recall.
Martha once remarked that birds were happier than hospital walls, so the volunteer spent a whole weekend learning how to fold paper cranes.
The pharmacist who concealed little jokes in medication packs.
The receptionist saw that my daughter enjoyed watching the aquarium maintenance staff feed the fish on Wednesday mornings, so she discreetly changed Martha’s appointments whenever she could.
The manager of the cafeteria stored fresh strawberries in a different refrigerator because Martha referred to them as “little pieces of summer.”
People told me stories that I could hardly recall.
Stunned, I looked around the room.
I had thought I was seeing everything over the past two years.
I had been so preoccupied with keeping track of prescriptions, temperatures, side effects, and test
results that I had failed to notice a whole network of goodwill that was subtly developing all around us.
Dr. Collins gave a soft smile. “There’s something else.”
He moved to the room’s opposite side.
“There’s something else.”
One wall was flanked by a folding divider.
He withdrew it gradually.
There was a massive mural behind it. From floor to ceiling, the wall was covered in hundreds of vibrant handprints.
tiny hands.
teenage hands.
Some were painted in vivid yellow and red.
Others were encircled by flowers, dinosaurs, rainbows, and stars.
There was a massive mural behind it.
There was one handwritten sentence beneath each handprint.
Not in relation to cancer.
concerning life.
“I’m going camping.”
“I’m finally eating Grandma’s cookies.”
“I’m learning to ride my bike.”
“I’m getting braces.”
“I’m sleeping in my own bed.”
“I’m going swimming.”
“I want pancakes every Saturday.”
There was one handwritten sentence beneath each handprint.
I grinned while shedding more tears.
The dreams weren’t very remarkable. They were exquisitely unremarkable.
Dr. Collins bent down next to Martha. He gave her a blue paint tray.
“This wall belongs to every child who rings that bell.”
Martha glanced at the vacant area that was waiting close to the center.
“Really?”
He gave a nod. “It wouldn’t feel complete without you.”
“This wall belongs to every child who rings that bell.”
She dipped her small hand into the paint with caution.
then pushed it up against the wall.
She removed it, leaving behind a flawless blue handprint.
She was given a marker by Dr. Collins. “What would you like to write?”
Martha pondered for about a minute.
Everyone in the room was waiting.
“What would you like to write?”
At last, she printed nine tiny words underneath her palm.
I am eager to arrive late at school once more.
Tears filled the room. Mr. Howard even broke down in tears.
Despite my own tears, I laughed.
“Late for school?”
Martha gave a shrug. “I’ve missed enough already, Mom.”
Dr. Collins scanned the room in silence. “This,” he stated, “is why we never erase these walls.”
“I’ve missed enough already, Mom.”
He glanced toward me. “Medicine helped heal Martha’s body.” A beat elapsed before he could go on.
“But every person in this room wanted to protect the little girl inside it.”
No one said anything.
Nothing else could be said.
After a few minutes, we eventually made our way back to the hospital entrance.
The whole staff followed us outdoors without any preparation.
No one said anything.
As Martha entered the midday sunshine, they stood together under the awning, grinning.
Halfway down the walkway, she came to a stop. then started hopping across every fissure she came across.
I chuckled. “What are you doing?”
With the largest smile I’d seen in years, she turned to face me.
“I missed sidewalks, Mom.”
The nurses kept their tongues shut.
Angela was crying too much to remain upright, so she leaned on Mr. Howard.
“I missed sidewalks, Mom.”
Not because Martha had overcome cancer.
For the first time, she was concerned about something that only a ten-year-old would consider.
My daughter’s hand was squeezed by me. She gave me a squeeze in return.
She then turned to face the folks in front of the hospital and wildly waved both arms.
Each and every one of them waved back.
I turned for a final glance as we arrived at the parking lot.
At last, she was concerned about something that only a ten-year-old would consider.
I could still see hundreds of handprints, including Martha’s new blue one, drying through the glass
doors.
I had thought I was taking my kid on the most difficult journey of our life for the past two years.
I wasn’t.
Every night, I carried her home.
Every day, they supported her.
Every day, they supported her.
And I came to a realization that brought tears to my eyes as Martha skittered toward the automobile, cautiously dodging every imperfection in the sidewalk as if it were the most crucial task in the world.
Hearing that her treatment was finished was the biggest miracle.
It was witnessing my young daughter worry about typical childhood issues once more.
We have been striving for that future.
Hearing that her treatment was finished was the biggest miracle.
