To my best girl,

I’m sitting here in our dark hotel room listening to you breathe as you sleep, along with the beep-click-whir of the machine giving you chemotherapy, and the chatter of the nurses in the hall.

I’ve been looking out the window and seeing the cars pass on the freeway, probably all heading somewhere normal. To a friend’s house, to work, to celebrate this Midwestern holiday called beggar’s night. I keep thinking that you should be exhausted at home with a pile of candy that you got trick-or-treating (just like Timehop and Facebook remind me you always have been before). Instead, your costume hangs on the back of the door in our hospital room – you were too sick to even sit up and let me slip it on. It’s still so jarring to see the freeway from our hospital room. It doesn’t make sense that “that” world exists next to “our” world – our reality.

A little over three weeks ago we were shocked (shattered, terrified, enraged, broken-hearted) to learn that your cancer has come back. If hearing that you had cancer the first time was the worst moment in my life, this was a very close second. Actually worse in many ways (we knew in advance what it would mean if we ever heard those words), but not as shocking I suppose. After all, we knew it was a real possibility, even if everyone acted like it wouldn’t happen to us.

When you were in the surgery to biopsy a spot in your lung (to verify that the cancer was back) the woman in charge of sedation called me and told me that they would be putting your port back in while you were still under. We knew what that meant. You hadn’t been prepared for this though. You really had no idea, my brave, smart, funny, happy, six-year-old girl, that you might wake up to find that you were, once again, a child with cancer. A child with tubes and a port implanted beneath your skin.

I had, of course, had several complete breakdowns before you opened your eyes after surgery. How could I tell you this news? How could I destroy the beautiful childhood you had been allowed, again, to enjoy these last ten months since treatment ended? How could I possibly make you fight this war that no one deserves, let alone a child… a second time. Especially knowing how much more intensely you would have to fight this time?

When you opened your eyes we told you carefully and quietly, your dad and I sitting on your bed. “Hey sweetheart. That bandage you’re feeling is there because you have a port in your body again. They looked at a piece of one of those spots in your lungs and found that it is the cancer again.” I held my breath then, waiting for you to crumble For you to scream and cry, and for my heart to shatter yet again. You didn’t. In your quiet voice you said “The cancer came back? And it’s in my lungs now. Oh… okay.” That’s it. You never complained. You didn’t cry. You just listened while we told you what was going to happen. How is that possible? It leaves me in awe still to remember.

When we lay together in the narrow hospital bed on your first day of your (brutal) relapse chemotherapy you stroked my face and said, “I beat cancer once, Mommy. I can do it again. I won’t let you down.” You didn’t cry.

When you realized your hair, your beautiful hair that everyone had complimented a million times over, would be falling out again, you sighed one deep sigh and then said, “Well, I did just get that new cute Pikachu hat… and we still have my favorite headbands right? And my winter hats?” You didn’t cry. I did when I was along again, as I often do.

I am SO angry for you. So heartbroken that you have to live this. I would give up anything… ANYTHING, to be able to take this from you. I told you that once and you said you would never let me do that because you wouldn’t want me to have cancer.

I want you to know that it’s only because of your amazing strength that I am able to do this standing upright… I watch how you handle this war and I know that I have to be strong and stand beside you. You are the bravest, strongest, most inspiring person I have ever known, and you are my own six-year-old daughter. You are my hero, Elayna. I couldn’t be more proud of you.

I often wonder where you get this strength. It surprises me constantly. As I’m sitting here tonight, I’m wondering if you’re getting it straight from God. Is he holding your hand while you fight this war? I’ve been struggling to have faith since relapse. I’ve been so angry at God. A normal emotion to feel, I think. I kept praying for you of course, but it felt hollow. I kept thinking that if God had a plan (as many well-meaning people tell me) why would he choose to make you live through this torture again? Hadn’t we learned enough from the first trial? If he had a plan, why would he let children have cancer at all, and often make them suffer in pain before they could pass on? Now though… Now I am wondering what God is doing that I can not even see. What is he saving you from, sweet girl? Is he holding you in love and giving you the strength that no six-year-old should have to have, so that you can fight and win this evil war, often with a smile on your face? I like to think so.

We were meant to be together, you and me and Daddy, so this is just one part of our story. We have so many adventures left to go on. So many things to experience. Thank you for showing me so bravely that we can do hard things.

Cancer really did mess with the wrong kid.

I love you, Mommy

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This photo is from tonight- one year later. What a difference a year makes. She’s worn out, but trick-or-treating was a success. We are SO thankful for every moment.

Please remember that while you’re celebrating a holiday, some families are sitting next to their children and watching them fight for their lives. Please don’t stop being active in the fight against childhood cancer. If you would like to help, go to: http://unravelfor.org/elayna . Thank you.