PART 2
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then my husband whispered:
“Both of them?”
The doctor nodded.
“We’re going to run additional tests, but the scans are concerningly similar.”
I looked at Noah.
He was sitting on the hospital bed, swinging his little legs.
He had no idea what was happening.
He looked at me and smiled.
“Mommy, when can we go see Emma?”
That nearly broke me.
His sister was upstairs recovering from brain surgery.
Now he was going to have surgery too.
I stepped into the hallway and finally collapsed.
My husband caught me before I hit the floor.
“I can’t do this,” I whispered.
He held me tighter.
“Yes, you can.”
“What if we lose them?”
“We’re not going there.”
“What if—”
“We’re not going there.”
He looked directly into my eyes.
“Today, we fight.”
So that’s what we did.
We fought.
Emma had already begun struggling after her surgery.
There were moments when she couldn’t speak the way she used to.
Sometimes her emotions changed without warning.
Sometimes she looked at me as if she knew exactly what she wanted to say but couldn’t get the words out.
And now Noah was preparing for the same terrifying operation.
6
The night before Noah’s surgery, my husband sat beside me.
He stared through the hospital window.
Then he said something I’ll never forget.
“I’m scared this is the last night we’ll know him exactly as he is.”
I couldn’t answer.
Because I knew what he meant.
We had watched Emma change after her surgery.
Our bright, energetic little girl suddenly struggled with things she had once done effortlessly.
And now we had to hand our son over to the same surgeons.
The next morning, I kissed Noah.
He wrapped his tiny arms around my neck.
“Don’t cry, Mommy.”
“I’m not crying.”
He wiped my cheek.
“Yes you are.”
I laughed through the tears.
“Okay.”
He smiled.
“Save some pancakes for me.”
“I will.”
Then the operating-room doors closed.
And I was left standing there with nothing to do but wait.
Hours passed.
Finally, the surgeon came toward us.
I stood up so quickly my chair nearly fell backward.
He smiled.
“The surgery went well.”
I covered my face.
My husband pulled me into his arms.
For the first time in weeks…
I allowed myself to breathe.
But surgery was only the beginning.
There would be chemotherapy.
Radiation.
Rehabilitation.
Long nights.
Terrifying test results.
And days when my children would be too exhausted to play.
But something happened that I never expected.
Emma and Noah became each other’s strongest source of comfort.
When one of them was scared…
the other understood.
When one was too sick to eat…
the other would sit beside them.
When one cried…
the other reached for their hand.
They were four and six years old.
They couldn’t understand everything happening to them.
But they understood each other.
And somehow, in the middle of the worst season of our lives…
my two children became the reason I kept getting out of bed every morning.
