Elizabeth Lytle

It’s hard to articulate the way it feels to see your tiny “sleeping” child limp in hospital clothes on a rolling bed with tubes and needles and monitors surrounding her. There’s this hollow yet immensely weighty feeling of helplessness that becomes overwhelming quickly.

Maya has been through more at 2 than many adults have. She’s resilient and funny and full of energy and joy and wonder despite chemo and cancer and antibiotics and scars and an endless stream of new medical people touching and pricking and pushing. Every week I’m so surprised by her energy and smiling face and bright spirit.

Sometimes I’m heartbroken because we’re just asking too much of a 2 year old who doesn’t understand any of this. Be calm while a stranger pushes a needle into your chest week over week. Stay still while we strap you to this hard bed and put you into a tube for imaging. Live life every day like a “normal” child while chemo and antibiotics wreck your immune system and yet simultaneously *hopefully* rid your body of any cancer that remains. Sometimes I tell her I’m sorry, when she feels poorly or is hurting and she says, “no, you not sorry” and it’s a little funny but sometimes it hits me like a punch in my stomach. Sorry? Sorry, but we keep doing it? Week over week? How can she understand? How can she process what’s happening?

You might read this and think we feel hopeless or miserable or fear or anxiety or frustration and yes, those fleeting feelings are there. But nothing, and I do mean nothing compares to the peace we can somehow find in knowing that there is a good God and that His hand is on this. Sure, this isn’t what we would have chosen for our 2 year old but we know she is now and will continue to grow into her name sake: Maya, a bright light. Caroline, a joyful noise, the most brilliant, kick ass, spirited, kind girl. I’m so incredibly proud of her and thankful to be a supporting player in her story. ❤️