My five-year-old has cancer Jasmine Mendiola Philippine Daily Inquirer
October 20, 2009
MANILA, Philippines—Cancer’s a bitch. And yes, so am I.
But I wouldn’t wish cancer on my ex-es or my enemies.
It’s worse than dysmenorrhea, worse than labor contractions, worse than any heartache known to man. It eats you up and your loved ones. Your heart gets crushed, your vital organs feel like they’re being pounded.
Cancer leaves a single mom like me helpless and paralyzed at the sight of my child’s growing pain.
Last night, Mio, my five-year-old son, asked me to kiss his arthritic foot to make the “owie” go away. I do this out of habit and with little faith that, indeed, my kiss does comfort him.
He asked, “Mom, when you kiss my owie, will it make the enemies in my blood go away, too?”
José Emilio has just been diagnosed with Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia (ALL).
ALL is the kind that’s rapidly developing. The doctor explained it to my son by saying the enemy is attacking his body fast. Invading would be the right term. An excess of white blood cells is suffocating all the other healthy cells in his bone marrow and signals his anti-bodies otherwise.
I don’t get it. I don’t get how my bouncing baby boy, born with healthy bones, 10 toes, 10 fingers and who grew up with 20 healthy teeth, can have cancer. I don’t get how my son, who hates getting paint or crayon stains on his hands, asks for alcohol after he pees or holds money, chose to be a vegetarian, hates soft drinks and candy (which I’ve been trying to shove down his throat, believe me) and takes his time with chocolates and ice cream, could be so ill. I don’t get how a child born and raised by hundreds of my friends, schoolmates and family—loved even by strangers— would have this disease.
But I am beyond understanding the mysterious ways of God. Regardless if this is a punishment for my shortcomings, my arrogance in thinking I can brave the trials of single parenting or the anger I harbor for those who have hurt us. This is the biggest battle I have to fight. My soldiers have raised their armor.
This isn’t about me anymore. It has never been and it is foolish of me to think this has anything to do with my dedication as a mother or my capacity to love. It simply is a bitch tampering on my child’s future and I will not let that happen.
Mio is not mine, despite the name my Student Council group and surveys have given him during my pregnancy. It is precisely for these simple reasons that he is ours.
He is a bright boy with the longest lashes in the whole wide world, who paints and draws in two dimensions—a far cry from a child’s usual flat sketches and stick figures. He is the shy boy who dances to the beat of the drum and wants to be an artist.
The past three days has been a field trip for Mio. When asked how he’s feeling or if he’s better, he’d candidly reply “I’m not sure... I’m fine now...” The fact that people bother and hover over him actually delights him. He tries not to show us that he is massaging his ailing foot or scratching his wounds under the blanket. He tries to hide his discomfort from me and his visitors.
He knows he’s sick and yet he remains thankful to God in our evening prayer for the toys he receives, for the nurses and the medicine that will help his owie go away. I have yet to give him the world I promised him.
I think you’ll all agree when I say Mio deserves an army to fight this war. I’ve always thought I had forever with my little boy. I used to imagine him as a grown man—smart, healthy and handsome. I’ll have to put those thoughts on hold and fight this battle now.
I need everyone to storm the gates of heaven so my son—and all the other children in the world unjustly suffering this illness—could have a chance at a normal life.
I can only take it one day at a time. And today, if I have to remain grateful and open to what tomorrow brings, I can only be sure my son has turned into an instrument of love and prayer. I can only pray for the world to continue fighting with me.
Follow Mio’s fight against cancer on www.miofightscancer.com.
