To the mom looking out from those blue tinted windows at Children’s Hospital & Medical Center, I see you.
I know you spent half the night caring for your sick child, and the other half worrying if they’d be OK. You dozed, only to wake minutes later to a resident or the sunrise.
Your hair’s a mess and your slippers aren’t glass. The only ball you go to is the one in the shower where you hope your child can’t hear you cry.
You haven’t had a breath of fresh air for days because you refuse to leave your baby’s side.
Everyone says you need a break, but all you need are some answers. You need your child to quit hurting and finally run and play like they’re supposed to.
I know it’s scary and life feels like it will never be the same. You forget to eat because you’re so worried, but you’d give anything if your child would take just one more bite. I know you feel far from your husband and even further from your family and friends.
I know all this, because I’m you.
My son was diagnosed with leukemia, a cancer of the blood, when he was just 2.
Days bled into months as I looked out those same windows you do. I watched those same ants go marching by on Dodge Street, and wondered if they knew how lucky they were.
I cried myself to sleep at night and faked smiles in the morning.
I know it’s hard. You feel abandoned and alone and scared.
But every time you look out those windows, know there are mamas on the ground raising our eyes to you. We’re looking back through the blue glass, and our mother’s hearts are breaking for the pain you and your child are enduring.
You are weary and bone tired; more scared than you’ve ever been in your life. But you are not alone. You are not forgotten.
We are here, keeping vigil with and praying our best for you.