It crept into our lives very gently, quietly, slowly. As if life didn’t want to hit us too hard. As if life knew we’d already been through several tough times. That it was too much for us, but apparently, we’re still able to take it.
It appeared one evening or one morning. In summer or winter—I don’t remember anymore. One day, we noticed it: a small bump under your eye. You asked us about it. To us, it looked like a little pimple.
However, it wouldn’t go away. It grew bigger and changed shape. We went to see a doctor. We were told to wait, that it would go away on its own, but it didn’t. It wouldn’t go away. It just stuck with you. Our worries turned out to be well-founded. From one specialist to another, we ended up in a surgeon’s office more than 250 km from home.
In the waiting room, I was anxious, but you were smiling. At 9 years old, you don’t realize the gravity of what’s happening. The doctor was kind and reassuring. He tried to make you smile. Then he spoke. Words that echoed in my head, that made my heart pound so hard, that made my stomach churn. I held back my tears. I hid my worry. I listened carefully as he spoke those words: suspicious mass, surgery, possible cancer.
Then we went back home. That mass kept changing—growing, shrinking, expanding. You had to undergo several tests. The wait for the call from the surgery department seemed like an eternity.
Then one day, the phone rang. We set off again. Far from home, far from your bed, far from your brothers and sister. We slept at a hotel. You didn’t sleep a wink all night. You were worried, and I felt so helpless. Dad held you in his arms.
The next morning, we arrived at the hospital very early. The nurses got you ready for your surgery. We went up to the operating room. You met a nurse, a respiratory therapist, an anesthesiologist, and a resident. Then the surgeon arrived. He talked to you. He made a few jokes to help you relax. But I know those eyes of yours. Even when you’re acting like a brave boy, I know your tender, sensitive little heart. I know that deep down, you were scared to death.
And the doctor said the word “cancer” again. Right in front of you. It hurt me. I wanted to hold you so tight in my arms. He talked about radiation therapy. I couldn’t believe I was hearing those words. I held your hand very tightly. I told you that I loved you so much. Then I left you. I waited.
In the small, gloomy waiting room, I explained to your father everything the doctor had told me. And I cried. I couldn’t hold back my sobs anymore. That hour of waiting seemed endless. And finally, the doctor arrived. He told us you were fine. And that, in the end, it seemed to be benign.
Benign. He said that word so casually. Without realizing the impact it had on us. That word made me feel so much better. The pressure eased. I just couldn’t wait to hold you close and tell you the news. A few minutes later, we were able to see you, and it was one of the most beautiful moments of my life.
A moment when I realized the importance of good health. The importance of seeing you bursting with energy—running, climbing, shouting, laughing, dancing, playing. I was so scared. Scared of what might happen. Scared of losing you. Scared of seeing you sick.
But today, life has given us a wonderful gift: the gift of keeping you healthy.
I am so incredibly grateful for that.