red balloons

Hello and welcome back! If you missed my post last week, I shared a major life update and the reason that I’m back to writing weekly. I want to use this blog space to share encouragement for how to look for the light- or the red balloons- during a dark and difficult season. Although I am not certain I would say that I was “fully” through the hard season that is widowhood, I have spent the last seven weeks adjusting to another difficult season- unfortunately, in May 2024, my youngest son, Mason (age 13), was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia. 

The hospital where Mason is in-patient has a specific floor/unit that is dedicated to treatment for brain and blood disorders, the AFLAC unit. We have been tucked into this unit for the majority of our time here, except for the first week that we spent in the pediatric intensive care unit (ICU) as we waited for a confirmed diagnosis and solid treatment plan, as well as one other terrifying 48-hour period where Mason’s erratic blood pressure sent us straight back to the ICU for observation. 

This AFLAC unit is WONDERFUL. No one actually wants to be in the hospital, and definitely not due to the type of illness that these children have been diagnosed with. BUT. If you have to be here, this unit is the place to be. The rooms are a little larger, because most of the patients here for treatment end up needing to stay in the room for weeks at a time, rather than just hours or days. The room is set up with a desk area for schoolwork (which we haven’t had to use yet, but it will come in handy next month), and the floor provides access to laundry as well as the Ronald McDonald Family Lounge. 

The Ronald McDonald Family Lounge is a beautiful place (at the end of the day, none of these places are as lovely as my own kitchen, Mason’s own bedroom (or mine!), or our own house in general- but since we need to live here during this season, we’re going to make the best of where we are). The Family Lounge is in the corner of the top floor of the hospital. Two walls are floor to ceiling windows and offer a view of the skyline of the nearby Buckhead area of Atlanta. The lounge houses an industrial sized refrigerator, where each room is provided their own bin to store food and drinks as needed, as well as a freezer with separate bins, which Mason has fully stocked with ice cream. They have a free-for-all bin filled with ice pops, as well as a cabinet filled with microwavable macaroni and cheese and soup cans, for those moments where the cafeteria is closed, but the patient is hungry. 

Which brings me back to the red balloon of this week’s post. Last Tuesday night, Mason’s appetite kicked into high gear around 10 p.m., which was amazing, as we need him to start gaining back some of the 30 pounds that he lost over the last two months. Although he had eaten a full dinner, he narrowed his eyes and reviewed the four shelves full of snacks in his hospital room. He tried a few different items- Goldfish, granola bars, an orange, and finally asked if I would go into the family lounge to make him some microwave popcorn.

I had to call the nurse to have her come unlock the door to the lounge, as the staff for the lounge itself was gone for the night. As she unlocked the door and opened it, I stepped into a darkened room, bag of unpopped microwave popcorn in my hand. 

“Well that’s way healthier than what I’m eating!”

Her voice seemed to come out of nowhere. Because it was 11 p.m., I wasn’t expecting to run into anyone else, but as my eyes adjusted to the very dim lighting in the room, I saw a fellow mom standing at the table that runs through the middle of the room. She had a fork in hand, hunched over a black to-go container from The Cheesecake Factory, and was devouring a slice of cheesecake. 

As I started the microwave to get Mason his snack of choice, she shared that the cheesecake was the first thing she had been able to eat in four days, since they had arrived at the hospital. I apologized for interrupting her quiet retreat, and we chatted a little more about our patients. I told her that mine is a 13 year old boy who I’m trying to feed ALL the calories and ALL the food to regain some serious weight. Hers is a 17 year old boy who would only eat bread, ham and cheese. Her refrigerator bin reflected that fact as I watched her try to tuck away the last half of her cheesecake within all the ham sandwiches. 

As she tried to find the space, she told me about the friend that had come to visit and brought her the cheesecake. There wasn’t a lot to the story, but as she gave up trying to find space to store the leftovers and pulled out another fork to just finish the piece of cheesecake instead, I was thankful for the friend who had been thoughtful enough to bring it for her. 

I remember those first few days in the hospital after Mason’s diagnosis. As my mind and heart struggled to accept the fact that we were in a whole new difficult season, and as I tried to take in the amount of information that was being thrown at us daily about this new-to-us disease and the treatment plan, I felt very much like I did the first few days after Todd died. Raw. Exhausted. Terrified. 

And I was lucky enough to have an entire village that was ready to once again step up to support me in any way that I needed. While it wasn’t a piece of cheesecake (although now that I know there is a Cheesecake Factory close, that might be my next request!)- it was two of my dearest friends going to my house to put together a bag of clothes for me at the hospital the first morning I was there, even though as widows themselves, hospitals can be incredibly triggering and hard. 

It was two other very dear friends making the drive up the next day to sit with me and help me process the information that was coming at me. While sitting with those friends, we happened to see a young man that they recognized as a graduate from our high school, who had actually been diagnosed with lymphoma as a teenager, and was walking proof that his diagnosis led to an interest in and passion for working at the same childrens’ hospital where he had received treatment. This very sweet young man also stopped by Mason’s room a few days later to check in with him and see how he was adjusting, and was able to share information regarding other resources available as we move through this treatment process. Truly, only God could have manipulated the circumstances to fall into place for us to randomly meet in the lobby that day.  I never would have known who this young man was or the example he could be to Mason. 

It was two other very dear friends who declared Monday nights to be “Supper Club” and drove more than an hour at dinner time to bring me homemade meals at the hospital. We found a lovely courtyard to sit in, and they allowed me to pour out my fears and my worries while also making me laugh harder than I had in days. These same friends were kind enough to hand over the dinner the next week, when they made the trip to the hospital only for Mason to not be stable enough for me to leave him long enough to go eat outside of the room.

I have so many other examples of the outpouring of love and support we received in those first weeks, and that we continue to receive, and I’m looking forward to highlighting those as the weeks go by. But for this week, my red balloon was the cheesecake- the reminder of all the good, supportive people that are out there, just waiting to run by and choose the perfect slice of comfort to bring to a mama who is living out her worst nightmare. 

And if you are the one receiving the support- I would encourage you to go ahead and step out of the hospital room for a few moments, find a quiet, dark spot, and indulge in that entire piece of cheesecake. You deserve it.