Hi. I am writing this on a Sunday afternoon at the end of August. I am at my kitchen table. The kids are at the park with my husband. I have a coffee in front of me. I have been thinking about you all day.

If you are reading this in the hospital tonight, this letter is for you.

What I know about your tonight

It is the last night of August. Tomorrow is September. Childhood Cancer Awareness Month starts at midnight. There will be gold ribbons in the lobby of your hospital tomorrow if there are not already.

Your child is in the bed. You are in the recliner. The IV pump is running. The hallway has the quiet hum it gets at this hour. Somewhere a nurse is making her rounds. Somewhere a child you do not know is being told a bedtime story by a parent who is also exhausted.

I have been there. The recliner. The hum. The hallway. The end of one month and the start of another, both of them inside a pediatric oncology unit.

What I want you to know

You are doing everything right

However tonight is going, whatever has not gone well, whatever you feel like you have failed at, you are doing this right. The exhaustion is right. The fear is right. The small irritability is right. The way you keep checking the IV pump even though the nurse already checked it is right.

Being a cancer mom on an inpatient night is one of the hardest jobs in the world. You are doing it.

Your child can feel you there

Even when they are asleep. Even when they have not opened their eyes in hours. Even when they are too tired to look up. Your presence in the chair next to them is doing more than you can see right now.

I used to sit in the recliner with my hand on my son's foot. He would stir, sometimes, and reach for my hand without opening his eyes. The hand-holding was almost involuntary. It was also one of the most important things in our shared experience of his treatment.

Your child can feel you. They know.

You do not have to be okay tonight

You can cry. You can be angry. You can be numb. You can be all of those things in the same hour. You can text someone you love to say you are not okay. You can text someone you love to say nothing.

Inpatient nights do not require you to perform being a strong cancer mom. They require you to be there. You are.

The nurses see you

If your nurse tonight is good, she sees you. She knows you are running on no sleep. She knows you have not eaten dinner. She knows your kid had a hard procedure earlier. She is rooting for both of you.

If you want a small kindness, ask her. "Could you bring me a juice or a soda when you have a minute?" "Could you grab me a warm blanket?" Most pediatric oncology nurses will say yes immediately and quietly. They love their patients' parents.

The other moms on this floor are with you

Down the hall. In the next room. Two floors up. There are other cancer moms on this floor tonight. They are also in recliners. They are also not sleeping. They are also looking at their phones at midnight wondering if they should stop.

You are not alone tonight. The cancer mom community is closer than it sometimes feels.

Tomorrow morning, the sun will come up

It will. The hallway light will get a little brighter. The day-shift nurse will come in. The breakfast cart will come around. Someone will bring you bad coffee. You will drink it. You will get through tomorrow the same way you got through tonight. One hour at a time.

September is starting

Tomorrow is the first day of Childhood Cancer Awareness Month. You are part of why the country pays attention this month. Your child is one of the reasons. The work you have done to keep your child alive, the work your spouse has done, the work your community has done, are part of what we will collectively honor through the next 30 days.

You do not have to do anything for the awareness month. You can just exist. The existing is the awareness. The recliner is the awareness. Your child in the bed is the awareness.

From one cancer mom to another

I do not know you. I love you anyway. I love what you are doing for your child tonight. I love the strength I do not even need to see you show. I love that you are sitting in that recliner instead of trying to be anywhere else.

I love that you are reading a blog post on your phone at midnight, looking for someone who knows what tonight feels like.

I know what tonight feels like. So do thousands of other cancer moms. We are all with you, in our own kitchens and bedrooms and porch swings and recliners, holding tonight with you.

You are not alone.

A small permission

Whatever you need to do tonight to get through it, do. Eat the candy bar. Watch the show on your phone with one earbud in. Cry quietly without trying to stop. Call your mom. Text your friend. Write down one thing you want to remember. Do not write anything down. Sleep when you can. Do not sleep if you cannot.

There is no wrong way to be a cancer mom on an inpatient night.

There is only the way you are doing it. Which is enough. Which is more than enough.

And finally

Tomorrow morning, I want you to do one small thing. I want you to look at yourself in the mirror in the small bathroom of the hospital room. Just for a second. I want you to see her. The cancer mom in the mirror. The one who got through another inpatient night.

I want you to nod at her. Just once. Just a small acknowledgment.

You did this tonight.

September starts tomorrow. We are with you for all of it.

Dina
Mom of Max | Founder, Maxwell’s Toy Shoppe
Childhood Cancer Advocate 💛

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