Eight years ago, my son was diagnosed with leukemia right before his eleventh birthday. Because his age put him at a higher risk, his treatment plan was harsh and everything that could go wrong did go wrong. We spent a lot of time in the hospital the first year of his almost four-year struggle.
When you’re in and out of a small isolated hall on the fourth floor of the children’s wing, bonding with other parents becomes natural. Seeing the same faces over and over makes for fast friendships. Especially when you’re taking cover in the same sterile foxhole.
Years later, a few of those moms I befriended have grown stronger, others have broken, and some are barely hanging on years after cancer rocked their world. It almost doesn’t seem to matter if the child made it to remission or not.
When something bad happens, you have two choices. Be bitter or be better.
So what made the difference in these moms? Personality? Personal beliefs? Support system?
From my experience, I would have to say none of those things.
I believe hope made the difference. But not any hope. Hope in something real. Hope in something outside of ourselves. Hope in a life-changing God.