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I've been sitting here staring at the cursor on this page for a while now. I know I need to write something, but the words are struggling to come out. There are too many angles, too many directions to look in. All of the paths are completely dark. All of the emotions are completely overwhelming.

I. am. overwhelmed. It's really the best way to communicate my own perspective. And it's awful because this really isn't my experience. It's hers. It's her body getting shot after shot after shot. It's her blood going in to vial after vial after vial. It's her flesh being poked, prodded, analyzed.

There I stand, by her side, helpless. I can't make it not hurt. I can't make them not do it. I can't protect her from whatever the hell is going on inside of her. I. can't. fix. this.

So I let her squeeze my hand, and watch her knuckles turn white, when they draw blood. I let her hide behind me when the doctor's come around. I sit and listen when she asks me if she's dying...

What mother should EVER have to hear her 7 year old daughter ask her if she's dying!?!?!

When we were walking into the Oncologist's office today, Lolli was so scared she was shaking. She said I'm scared Mommy. I said I know. And we sat next to each other in the waiting room with her curled up against me.

The looks you get when you walk your daughter into the Pediatric Oncology office are heart wrenching. It's the looks of mothers saying to themselves "Oh my gosh... What if that was my child?" I know, because I've done it before.

Sitting across from me, in the waiting room, was a little girl who looked about the same age as Lolli. Her head was bald and she was getting some sort of treatment (I thought I heard a nurse say Chemo, but I'm not sure). I couldn't look at her. What kind of sickness is there in me that I couldn't look at that child? My inner voice just kept saying Don't cry. That's not your daughter. Don't cry. She's already scared enough...

The truth is, this situation is hell on earth. The truth is there's nothing than any one can really say or do. The truth is the only comfort that will come to me is when some doctor says that my child is fine. The truth is that the only thing I want is to honor God in the circumstance. I don't have to have peace. I don't need to not worry. I don't need to "give it all to God" and then live in some completely illusion-filled mentality that this isn't a living nightmare.

She is flesh of my flesh. Bone of my bone. Blood of my blood. She grew in my body, nursed at my breast, cuddled, snuggled, spit up on, cried to, and found comfort in my heart beat. She is half of my DNA, and the first human bi product of the fact that her Daddy and I love each other. She is the most immaculate human being, with the most awe inspiring heart, of anyone I have ever known. She doesn't deserve this.

In truth my emotions are all over the map. I have moments of calm and comfort where I genuinely believe she will be just fine. Then I have moments where the hysteria is so intense that I can't breathe. It's difficult to talk about it all. What is there to say? I mean, what the hell should I really say? Um... Yeah... My daughter might be dying. In fact it's beginning to look more and more like something really terrible is happening here... 

I'm angry. There's no denying it. This situation pisses me off. And that's okay. But it's important for me to remember that this really isn't about me. Yes, she's my child. Yes, this is immensely impacting my emotional and mental state. But this is ultimately Lolli's adventure and it began in May 2004 inside of my body. And on that day that she began, her father and I were chosen to be her hiking instructors. We were chosen to teach her the ways of the trail: how to climb up mountains, and climb down them; scale rocks, get through ice, quicksand, and rain. How to enjoy the amazing days of the adventure and navigate the horrible ones. We were chosen to help illuminate the safer paths, and help her to get through the scary nights. This is her adventure. And as terrified as I might be of the grizzly bear that is standing in front of us roaring and growling and showing us its teeth, I choose what I will teach her about how to react.

So while I have all of my feelings, fears, and experiences, I have to remember that the best gift I can give to my daughter is my love, strength, dedication, and comfort. The best I can do is wrap my arms around my frightened daughter and tell her it's all going to be okay. This bear will eventually go away and this long, long, long night will eventually end. And she will still be standing. Because I swear on my life, come hell or high water, that I will be there to pick my sweet child up and help her to keep standing in the face of this crippling nightmare. I will fight, I will scream, I will sing, and I will shine with all of my might until she believes, until she knows, that she handled this terror and the amazing days have returned.