Looking Back: Anniversary of Leukemia Diagnosis
The following entry highlights Owen’s treatment during February, 2024…
It’s been a year. A year since everything changed and we were catapulted into a world of hospital walls, chemo schedules, steroid side effects, and pediatric oncology lingo we never asked to learn. Sometimes it still feels like we’re catching our breath from those first chaotic weeks.
Looking back now, what stands out the most isn’t just the pain (and yes, there was plenty), but the surprising, weirdly beautiful moments that stitched everything together.
We still remember that first day like it was yesterday — Owen’s swollen lymph node that started it all, the fear in our bones, and the unconcerned ER doctors who said “it’s normal”—while leukemia crept silently in the background. How quickly that moment of “maybe everything is fine” was crushed by an urgent call and a diagnosis no parent wants to hear: B-Cell Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.
And then the whirlwind began — oxygen masks, emergency blood transfusions, PICC lines, spinal taps, meds with names we couldn’t pronounce, and a child too young to understand why bacon and pancakes were suddenly “not allowed” before procedures. It was as if time broke into chunks of trauma and tiny victories. Owen breathing easier after steroids? Huge win. Owen eating half a hamburger? Parade-worthy. Owen asking for “sketti” at 6am? Weirdly comforting.
There were moments we thought we’d break — the sleep-deprived nights on hospital chairs, the endless med battles (six meds crushed into applesauce like a chemistry experiment), and the emotional landmines of making logistical choices that felt impossible. Owen’s personality was shaken, but never dimmed. Even when his legs hurt and his appetite vanished. Even when he cried through dressing changes and clung to us at 3am whispering “I love you...”
The support we received during those first few weeks was overwhelming in the best way. The GoFundMe goal being met still brings tears. Gift baskets, bacon deliveries, kind strangers, old friends showing up with toys and notes — it was proof that in our worst moment, we weren’t alone. That still floors us.
And we’ll never forget the “firsts” that now live in a totally new category in our memory bank:
First time Owen’s lymph-node completely disappeared after first round of chemo treatment.
First full breakfast devoured post-procedure like he was making up for lost time.
First “I’m sorry I’m sick” from a kid too young to carry that weight, and the hug that followed.
First poop in six days — which earned a literal celebration from his care team. (Parenting in crisis is weird.)
Now, in 2025, the memories are still raw but clearer. Owen is still Owen. Still obsessed with dinosaurs, spaceships, still quoting cartoons, still asking “why” a hundred times a day. We’re still in the thick of treatment, yes, but we’re no longer standing at base camp. We’ve climbed. We’ve learned how to live inside this new normal.
And honestly? We’ve changed. We don’t sweat the small stuff the way we used to. We take the naps when we can.. We know now that life can shift overnight, and that the smallest kindness — like a bacon delivery or a video message pretending to make waffles — can carry a family through.
So to everyone who helped us back then, whether with a donation, a text, or just by reading along: thank you. You were part of Owen’s story, and you still are.
Here’s to more milestones, more ordinary days, and more mornings where the weirdest thing we have to deal with is being asked for spaghetti at sunrise.
