Dear Jude,

Fading orange and stretched thin, this is what I carry. “Jude’s Journey” and “Fighting Leukemia” label this rubber bracelet, but these four words don’t being to tell your story.

Many days ago, our mother hangs up the phone. The small click as it hits the table seems to echo through the house. The air stops moving, and so does time. The heavy feeling in my stomach is now being accompanied by my sinking heart. Everyone looks at you, while you are so unaware of the this terrible news. Life to you is toys and wolves and playing with your big brother. Life is soon to be hospital trips and needles. What even happens next? Cancer doesn’t really exist, it’s just in movies and books, and certainly doesn’t plague the life of a three year old. Slowly our family unfreezes and we’re drawn together, like the bleak news created a center of gravity.

It was the constant wish of our family, Jude, to redo that day, those months leading up to when we would find out. If we could somehow erase those memories and action, if we could just wash them away, everything would be okay. We would forget your heart-breaking cries and your transformation to a chubby, tired soul.

The shift from a cheerful toddler to a grouchy, bloated child of steroids brought frustration and agony. No longer wanting to go outside or play with toys, your life became lethargic, and the chemo drained your body. You’d go to sleep cranky and wake up cranky. All day you’d lay in bed, a pined expression on your face from the aches of being a living cancer patient. You were too exhausted to walk or talk or laugh. That time period was when I realized how difficult it was for you, and how extraordinarily brave you were.

During my sophomore year a few girls started a funs raiser for you. They sold bracelets and T-shirts, and set up donation boxes all around town. Your fight was spreading like wild fire. These amazing girls even dedicated a basketball game to you. The night air was cool and brisk, but the gym was not. You didn’t mind though Jude, because it was all for you. You laughed and ran around and suddenly it was like none of this had ever happened. It was like deja vu, I remembered a small child with a bright smile running through the yard. People came with candy and toys and of course their orange T-shirts. It was a sea or orange that night, because orange is the color of Leukemia. These strangers whom you had never met were supporting you. Later in the game we were allowed to come onto the court to speak. You clutched your new teddy bear, but soon relaxed to the watching eyes. As mom held out the microphone you let out a loud whoop, and the crowd cheered. You were so happy that night, it gave our family a new sense of hope. Our community would be there to help us; friends and family would join us every step of the way in this long battle.

You may be the only one with cancer in our family, and the only one we know going through this exhausting journey, but you are not alone. It is such a hot day and I am regretting wearing jeans. There are other kids, other families in situations like us. There are so many; here you are in the majority Jude. The day starts off with music and you get your face painted. You are having such a great time already, and I am so glad to see you like this. They are now calling patients to the stage, and tiny bodies with tiny voices are telling their names. Everyone is lined up with green medals worth more than any dollar value. These are kid survivors, kids still in treatment, kids in remission. I am comforted by your temporary company, that you are not the lone individual in this fight. As you leave the stage, running towards us with your medal and scary face paint, a slow song starts to play. Families that have lost loved ones hold up a single white balloon. The hush of silence spreads over the crowd. We watch the families let go, and the balloons drift into the speechless air. I am heartbroken over the lost lives and your cancer Jude, but I cannot explain how grateful I am you are alright.

No two moments in your campaign against leukemia have been the same. Some are hard, like the first time I saw you get your port accessed. Your small, fragile body on that big chair seemed out of proportion and wrong in so many ways. You kicked and cried because your skin wasn’t numb. I held my breath the whole time and could feel the sting of keeping back tears. Some are easy and fun, like when we went to Orlando, Florida for your Make-A-Wish trip, and we made so many amazing memories. Every experience is different, but one thing remains the same. I carry this bracelet, this fading orange rubber bracelet with four words that don’t even begin to explain your story. It’s an ordinary wristband, but it’s filled with meaning. A heavy weight, one I’ll always carry, but I am proud to bear it.

Sincerely,

Chloe