One news item that has hit particularly hard during the last two or so weeks of horror in Ukraine is the reports about children suffering from cancer who are now either hiding in bunkers or fleeing the Russians. It never seems to be more than a paragraph in the larger story, and I don’t know if that’s all there is or, if there is more, but I’m just too afraid to look more for it. I mean, simply writing the sentence “The patients in a children’s cancer ward had been moved to the basement of a Kyiv hospital for their own safety” is almost draining in and of itself. You don’t want to ask any more because the answers can’t be good. Are they still getting their medicine? Was their chemo interrupted? Do they need help breathing and, if so, was it possible to get it down to them? What about pain medication?
It’s really almost too much to think about.
That said, back in 2016 as our world fell apart the first time, everything was so miserable. You were either in that hospital room hoping he wouldn’t die or outside the hospital room wondering how long it would be until you were back inside it. Those were the two modes available. Had someone told me back then that “The Russian army is on its way,” I think I would have only been able to muster an eye roll because, of course the Russian army is coming now. It was always clear that this wasn’t going to be hellish enough. It wasn’t bad enough knowing he had cancer. We had to deal with doctors who had no people skills and insurers who couldn’t process claims fast enough and medical goods providers who asked right in front of him how long it would be until he died and doctors fighting a turf war about the best way to provide him with a trach. An invasion would have been a significant escalation, but it seems like it would have fit the pattern.
I don’t want to make light of what’s happening to these kids and their families. I just wonder how the invasion registers on them. Like, is it their biggest problem? Maybe, if you know your kid is going to die – and you know that that death is going to take a little bit of you with it – maybe the idea of being shelled to death seems quicker and easier. I say it so often since Colin’s death: I know I’m not suicidal. But when the time comes for me to die, I don’t see myself holding on to this life with all my strength either. There is something nice about the idea of slipping away and, if we’re lucky, seeing him again.
And I know that’s a bit of a twisted thing to think. But I’ve also been thinking a lot about how I reacted to Colin’s illness and death and how other people did. The people who were calm and the people who freaked out. The people who were there and the people who seemed to disappear from our lives. And this isn’t judging. But, having gone through everything we did, I’m starting to realize I’m not the sick one. My reactions to everything that happened – they weren’t great, they were far from perfect – but they were absolutely human. So were the reactions of everyone else who had to deal with the news of a dying kindergartener. It was all absolutely human.
What’s messed up, I’m coming to realize, is the world, from childhood cancers to wars in Ukraine, it’s kind of a mess. I’m not saying it’s not worth saving, but it’s a brutal place. So you have to react to it however you can, and that’s sometimes throwing yourself all in and sometimes it’s withdrawing to your mental safe space. It’s human. It’s all we can do.
I understand the Sonnenhof, the hospice where Colin died, has taken in some refugees, so that’s good to hear. Maybe the place where we were so simultaneously miserable and happy can help save a few lives. Maybe it’s just the cycle starting over again. I think we just work with it to the best of our abilities and harm as few others in the process. It might be all we can do.
❤️