Isolation on the Children's Cancer Unit

It’s evening now. A cold winter rain makes the chill seep into my clothes. 

The parking lot is empty. During the day, there’s never a place to park. But now, I have my pick. 

I enter the doors & am greeted by silence. The hallways are empty. There’s no one sitting in the waiting rooms, and the welcome desk staff are gone as visiting hours are over now.

I walk the hallway in somber silence & wait for the elevator. Upstairs, a single guard waits near a locked door requiring a keycard. I smile at the guard as I swipe my badge & enter the long familiar hallway. 

Our hallway is the first one on the left. There’s another set of locked doors with signs informing you that you must sanitize your hands when you enter. I swipe my badge again & enter our floor. 

It’s equally quiet here, only 4 kids on the floor right now. No one is around, but I sanitize my hands thoroughly and head to our room. 

We were excited to be put in room 1. It’s our favorite. Close to the toy room, but we’re on isolation precautions, so Kensie can’t go there for now. It’s also closest to the fridge & water dispenser. The best part though, is that it has a bigger bathroom & a better bed. When you’re here, these little things become exciting. 

When the hospital is quiet like this… it’s when I hear the words the loudest. It’s when I am most clearly reminded that I am alone. That our family is walking an unfamiliar path. There’s no one to smile politely at in the elevator. There’s no crowd to fade into in the hall. I am one of a select few, part of a world no one wants to see. 

Because childhood cancer isn’t fun. It isn’t cute. The things that happen in our hallway, to our kids, people can’t imagine. The inch-long needle in her chest as soon as we walk in the door… that’s easy, routine. Most of the time, she barely makes a sound. These pains are commonplace to us. The foreign-ness of the hospital is our second home. The isolation room; the gowns & gloves, & masks; the beeping of the iv pole; the constant hand washing- these are the background noise of our normal right now. 

I sit in the dark of the hospital room, watching my baby sleep. She has grown so much over the last 17 months. Her hair is getting longer & she’s becoming more independent & confident, which I didn’t know was possible. 

Though all is quiet & still, I am suddenly reminded that I am not as isolated as I feel. Not even a little bit.  

There is a whole team of people outside my door that loves my baby, nearly as much a I do. A team of people that chose this line of work, that chose to know what happens in our hallway, & make it a little brighter of a process. These people have cried with me & advocated for me & listened to me & encouraged me & snuggled more than 1 of my babies. They know my family, my kids, my preferences, & they trust my input when I have it. 

We have an amazing medical team; I am not alone. 

There is a small army of people, many of whom I’ve never met, who are praying or thinking about us. There are people who have sent money, or card, or encouragement, or spent time helping us in some way. There are people who would put their life on hold to come & sit with me in the hospital. There are people who will take care of our farm when we’re gone over & over again. There are people who will help us with house projects & work on the cars & put up fencing & cut down trees, even though they have their own stuff to do. There are people who volunteer to clean our house or bring us food. 

We have an amazing encouragement army; I am not alone. 

There are two sets of family within an hour’s drive. They have kept the kids, changed their weekend plans, babysat more than any grandparent could want to, learned how to give chemo, got on hands & knees to clean my floors, helped the kids with school, brought foods to the hospital.

I have four parents & six siblings who have given so much; I am not alone. 

There are four other little people who live in my home. They are weird people, but they are compassionate & kind. They see when I am tired & they try to be helpful or encouraging, & they are the four other strongest kids I know. 

& there is a man who works harder than anyone I have ever met. He goes into work before the sun is up, so that he can spend more time with his family. He never bats an eye at helping with chores around the house. He ensures that we need nothing, & that our house is taken care of. He fights the insurance companies when they try to charge us too much. He is strong & protective, & he is gentle & compassionate.

I am not alone. 

& in this hallway, faith can be the most important thing to hold onto. 

“The Lord is the one who goes ahead of you; He will be with you. He will not fail you or forsake you. Do not fear or be dismayed.” Deuteronomy 31: 5

“Therefore, let us draw near with confidence to the throne of grace, so that we may receive mercy & find grace to help in time of need.” Hebrew 4:16

I am most definitely not alone. Not in this dark hospital room, in our hallway, in a quiet hospital. Not yesterday, or today, or ever.