When my partner and I first started our life together, attending Sunday mass, we often found ourselves sitting behind a family with five sons. Despite my desire for a large family, I would jokingly elbow my partner, exclaiming, “Five boys… that’s my worst nightmare.” Over time, I learned that the mother of those well-mannered boys had bravely battled cancer and lost a leg, prompting me to shift my focus to, “Cancer… that’s my true nightmare.”
Five years ago, my deepest fears materialized when my five-year-old son was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor.
In the spring of 2009, I was nearly at my perceived nightmare with four little boys under the age of six. Their boundless energy and constant movement were more than I had anticipated. In the weeks leading up to the diagnosis, my nightly prayers included a plea for assistance in becoming a better mother. Little did I know that the change I sought would come in the most unthinkable form.
On the morning of April 22, 2009, our household was buzzing with the usual chaos of toaster waffles and cartoons. My oldest son was still in bed, likely sick from a recent tummy bug that had swept through our home. Meanwhile, my 15-month-old was busy creating mayhem. As I prepared for an Earth Day picnic my oldest had suggested, I noticed that one of my five-year-old twins, Ethan, hadn’t gotten up.
When I went to check on him, I was alarmed to find him unresponsive, his body jerking in an unfamiliar way. Realizing that something was seriously wrong, I called my partner at work, struggling to hold back tears, and asked him to come home immediately.
The paramedics arrived quickly, bombarding me with questions, all of which I answered with a shaken head. They suspected a febrile seizure, which offered me a brief moment of relief until I recalled that Ethan hadn’t had a fever. My father arrived to look after the other boys as they prepared to transport Ethan on a stretcher. I remember wishing I had a camera; I thought Ethan would find amusement in his ambulance ride once he recovered.
As we sped toward the children’s hospital, I chatted with the EMT, but the mood shifted when Ethan’s condition worsened, and the sirens blared. Once we reached the hospital, I was once again met with a barrage of questions, and I mentioned a fall he had taken during skating lessons three months prior. I hoped that would explain his condition.
After a CT scan, the ER doctor delivered the devastating news: “It’s a tumor.” In that instant, my thoughts raced. We were supposed to be enjoying a picnic for Earth Day, a day my son had been excited about. How could a child with such plans be facing something so horrific?
“How can a five-year-old have a brain tumor?” I asked, desperate for an answer, but the doctor merely returned his focus to Ethan.
I called my partner with the heart-wrenching news. His silence spoke volumes, and then he simply said, “I’m coming.” The moments that followed were etched into my memory—meeting the neurosurgeon, waiting for the biopsy results, and the sinking feeling when we learned that Ethan’s cancer was inoperable and terminal.
No parent is prepared for such news. Just three weeks before his seizure, Ethan had been a joyful, energetic child with a clean bill of health. I had dismissed his severe headaches as migraines or allergies, intending to mention them to the pediatrician. Little did I know the tumor had likely been developing since birth.
That day changed everything. Ethan succumbed to his illness on June 10, 2010, just shy of his seventh birthday. The laughter and energy in our home diminished, and his brothers struggled to navigate life without him. My partner and I found it challenging to rediscover joy.
Three months later, I discovered I was pregnant again. The thought terrified me; I wasn’t sure I could handle another child. Yet, this new little one has helped to heal our family in ways I didn’t expect. He serves as a reminder of Ethan and has brought joy back into our lives. Without him, I fear I would still be grappling with the deep sadness following Ethan’s passing.
While I can’t say that losing Ethan has made me a better mother, it has altered my perspective. Messy floors, noise, and chaos no longer overwhelm me. Family, I’ve realized, is about love and laughter in the moment. I choose to find joy in the little things, even as I carry the ache of missing my sweet boy. I strive to maintain positivity about the future, even as I come to terms with the family dreams that have been irreparably altered.
For those looking for resources on home insemination, check out Progyny for helpful insights. And if you’re seeking creative activities to enjoy with your little ones, Creative Bubble Bath Activities can provide great ideas. For those interested in home insemination options, our post about the Cryobaby Home Intracervical Insemination Syringe Kit might be of interest.
In summary, life can change in an instant, shattering dreams and altering our paths in unimaginable ways. Yet, within the pain, there can also be healing and new beginnings.