When a child is diagnosed with cancer, the entire family enters treatment—and no one leaves unchanged.
“As I searched through thousands of photos, I realized those weren’t just missing pictures. They were missing years.”
Recently, I was creating a photo blanket for Reese to take with her to college.
I sat down expecting a simple project—sorting through pictures, remembering milestones, laughing at old memories, and choosing the moments that best captured her life.
Instead, I found myself staring at something I wasn’t prepared for.
From 2019 to 2023, there were very few photos.
Very few birthday parties.
Very few vacations.
Very few family adventures.
Very few carefree moments with friends.
Very few pictures of Reese simply being a teenager.
As I continued scrolling, I realized those weren’t just missing photographs.
They were missing years.
People often think pediatric cancer only affects the child diagnosed. They see the treatments, the surgeries, the hospital stays, and the physical toll on the child. What many don’t realize is that cancer quietly takes pieces of everyone in the family.
It steals from siblings.
It steals from parents.
It steals from marriages.
It steals from grandparents.
It steals from friendships.
And perhaps most painfully, it steals time.
Five years of time.
Five years of memories.
Five years we can never get back.
As a mother, that realization hit me harder than I expected.
I dreamed of being a mom long before I ever became one. I was one of those little girls who imagined family vacations, cheering from the sidelines at sporting events, celebrating birthdays, creating traditions, taking Disney trips, and watching my children grow up side by side.
But from the ages of 12 to 16, our lives revolved around something entirely different.
Survival.
Our calendar wasn’t filled with vacations or family outings.
It was filled with MRI appointments, chemotherapy schedules, radiation treatments, surgeries, medications, blood counts, scans, and endless waiting rooms.
We didn’t spend summers planning adventures.
We spent them planning treatments.
We didn’t take the Disneyland trip I always dreamed of taking with my girls.
We didn’t make many memories.
We fought to keep our daughter alive.
Meanwhile, life continued around us.
Friends went on vacations.
Families celebrated birthdays and graduations.
Children played sports and attended dances.
The world kept moving forward exactly as it should.
I remember listening to people talk about their plans, their celebrations, and their everyday lives. I never resented them for it. In fact, I was grateful they didn’t understand our reality.
Because while everyone else was living, we were surviving.
We were watching our child suffer.
We were carrying a fear that never left us.
The kind of fear that follows you from the moment you wake up until the moment you somehow fall asleep.
And when you witness that kind of suffering, it changes you forever.
There are things you cannot unsee.
There are sounds you cannot forget.
There are moments permanently etched into your soul.
People often ask whether those wounds heal.
The truth is, they don’t.
You simply learn how to carry them.
Along the way, you also learn difficult lessons about grief and friendship.
Some people step closer.
Some people become family.
Others slowly disappear.
Not because they don’t care.
Not because they’re bad people.
But because grief this large makes people uncomfortable.
They don’t know what to say.
They don’t know how to help.
Sometimes they simply cannot bear to witness that level of heartbreak.
So they become silent.
And somehow, that silence becomes another loss to grieve.
Then comes the unimaginable.
The loss of your child.
Many people assume that when the treatments stop, the battle is over.
For families who lose a child, the battle is only beginning.
Because now you have to rebuild.
You have to rebuild yourself.
You have to help your surviving child rebuild.
You have to help your spouse rebuild.
You have to watch grandparents try to rebuild after losing a grandchild they loved beyond words.
You have to learn how to live in a world that no longer contains the person who made it feel whole.
For a long time, I felt like a shell of myself.
I couldn’t focus.
I couldn’t process information.
I couldn’t remember conversations.
Recently, a friend referenced a story they had told me before and asked, “Don’t you remember?”
I didn’t.
Not even a little.
Not because I wasn’t listening.
Not because I didn’t care.
But because grief changes your brain.
Trauma changes your brain.
When you spend years in survival mode and then years grieving, your mind does whatever it can to protect itself.
I’ve told friends and family that if they told me something during those years, they may need to tell me again.
The truth is, part of me wasn’t fully here.
Part of me was still sitting in hospital rooms.
Part of me was still waiting for scan results.
Part of me was still living in fear.
And after Rylee died, part of me died too.
What breaks my heart most is knowing Reese lost those years as well.
While her sister fought for her life, Reese quietly sacrificed pieces of her own childhood.
Birthday parties.
Vacations.
Time with friends.
Family traditions.
Ordinary moments that should have been part of growing up.
Then, after losing her twin sister, she was left to rebuild her own life while carrying a grief most adults struggle to survive.
She had to learn how to be a teenager without her best friend.
Without her built-in companion.
Without the person who had been by her side every day since the day she was born.
Yet somehow, she kept moving forward.
One of the most meaningful days we’ve had in years was Reese’s softball signing celebration for Pacific University.
We had a giant Pacific sign.
Family.
Friends.
Teammates.
Pictures.
Laughter.
Celebration.
I remember wondering if some people questioned why we made such a big deal out of it.
Why have a signing party?
Why invite so many people?
Why celebrate so publicly?
The answer is simple.
Because we all lost five years.
Five years of celebrations.
Five years of milestones.
Five years of joy.
Five years of normal life.
What many people didn’t see was that Reese wasn’t just playing softball during those years.
She was playing softball while carrying unimaginable grief.
She was trying to compete while watching her twin sister fight for her life.
She was trying to be a teenager while living in a world consumed by cancer.
There were days she walked onto that field carrying guilt.
Guilt for laughing.
Guilt for succeeding.
Guilt for getting to play the game she loved while her sister was enduring another treatment, another procedure, another hospital stay.
Yet she kept showing up.
She kept working.
She kept fighting.
She kept moving forward.
So when it came time to celebrate her signing, we weren’t just celebrating softball.
We were celebrating resilience.
We were celebrating survival.
We were celebrating a young woman who refused to let tragedy define her future.
Most of all, we were celebrating joy.
A joy that had been missing from our family for far too long.
After years of hospitals, treatments, grief, and loss, we deserved a day where cancer wasn’t the reason people gathered.
Reese deserved a day where the spotlight was on her.
A day where happiness won.
As I prepare to send Reese off to college, I feel overwhelming pride.
But I also feel grief.
I grieve the years cancer stole from her.
I grieve the years it stole from Rylee.
I grieve the years it stole from our family.
The missing vacations.
The missing memories.
The missing photographs.
The moments that should have existed but never had the chance to.
People often ask if it gets easier.
For me, that’s not the right word.
It gets softer.
The pain is still there every day.
The love is still there every day.
The missing is still there every day.
But over time, the sharp edges soften.
The waves still come, but they don’t always knock you completely under.
They ebb and flow.
And somehow, you learn to carry grief and joy in the same heart.
If there is one thing I hope people understand, it is this:
When a child is diagnosed with cancer, the entire family enters treatment.
And long after the treatments end, the family is left trying to rebuild a life they never expected to lose.
Some of those losses are visible.
Many are not.
But they are real all the same.
