Have you ever had a date that feels permanently etched into your memory—whether because of a joyous celebration, or a traumatic moment that changes your life forever?
For me, that date is November 14, 2017. It is a day that changed my life, and my family’s life, in ways we could never have imagined.
Just two days earlier, on November 12, I had loaded both of my children into the car to visit my brother and sister-in-law at their church. We were about two hours away from home, visiting after they had tragically lost my nephew just two weeks prior. Shortly after leaving my parent’s house, my youngest, Milo, began projectile vomiting in the backseat. It was November, so I assumed it was just the flu. After calling my husband, who had stayed behind in Charleston, we decided it would be best to go to an urgent care facility to get him checked.
I dropped my daughter back at my parents’ house and gave Milo a bath before heading out. I still remember walking into the urgent care with just Milo and myself. At the front desk, I explained that I was fairly certain he had the flu but wanted him tested anyway. We waited in the lobby until we were called back. Milo clung to me, exhausted and clearly unwell.
In the exam room, the staff agreed he didn’t look well. They recommended starting an IV for fluids and labs—a procedure that would become one of many times I had to hold my son down while strangers drew blood from him. I still vividly remember his terrified eyes and his small voice screaming, “Mommy, no!” Words cannot capture the raw wave of emotions that hit me in that moment.
After an hour, the nurses returned. Something was wrong with his labs—they needed to draw blood again. Soon after, the Nurse Practitioner came in and told me an ambulance was on its way to take us to the Children’s Hospital. The next few hours passed in a blur. I remember loading Milo onto the stretcher, riding in the ambulance, and calling my husband in hysteria, urging him to come quickly. At the hospital, a team of doctors met us in the ICU. I was told Milo would need multiple blood transfusions to save his life. I signed the consent forms through tears, utterly confused and heartbroken, wondering how this could be happening.
The next morning, my husband went for a quick shower. Within minutes, a team of doctors entered our room. They introduced themselves as the oncology team. In that instant, I knew. When they spoke the words, “We believe Milo has cancer, and we are confident it is leukemia,” my body collapsed into a heap. Everything went numb. The days that followed became a blur of fear, confusion, and heartbreak.
We were transferred to MUSC in Charleston, and the next day, we received confirmation: Milo had B-cell Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. We met with his oncologist, who explained the first phase of treatment. I barely remember the details—my mind was spinning—but I clearly remember hearing that treatment would last three years. Three years! How could my two-year-old possibly endure that? We felt helpless. Milo went into surgery to have a port placed and received his first chemotherapy doses immediately afterward.
The treatment children endure is brutal. We were given long lists of potential side effects for each chemotherapy dose. We consented to poisons, knowing that without them, we could lose our son. We fought alongside him, watching him suffer through complications, hospital admissions, and countless procedures. Our once healthy toddler’s world was replaced with hospital beds, doctor appointments, and the constant risk of infection.
The first year was especially tough. We adjusted to frequent temperature checks, dozens of home medications, and chemo infusions at the clinic. Milo lost the ability to walk due to high-dose steroids and chemotherapy. Watching him refuse to bear weight on his legs was agonizing. But then, at the end of the first month, we received the news that he was in remission. We celebrated quietly, knowing that remission didn’t mean the end of treatment. The fight would continue for three years—because leukemia can hide in the body and return if left unchecked.
Over those years, we witnessed things no parent should ever see. Milo’s hair fell out, he suffered from mouth sores so severe that opening his lips caused bleeding, and he relied on morphine pumps and TPN for sustenance. We watched him endure hundreds of pokes, IV infusions, surgeries, and hospital nights. And each time, he bounced back with a strength that inspired even strangers who followed his journey.
As parents, you feel powerless when your child suffers. One piece of advice from his oncologist stayed with me: this was not our fault. Milo’s illness was not preventable, and we should never carry that burden. It’s a lesson that is hard to internalize but so important to remember.
Through it all, we participated in the Beads of Courage program, which allowed Milo to collect beads representing each procedure, treatment, and milestone. By the time he was five and a half, Milo had endured:
- 1,022 doses of chemotherapy
- 201 pokes
- 155 IV infusions
- 177 days in hospital isolation
- 32 lumbar punctures
- 40 times being unable to eat for procedures
- 36 instances of being put to sleep
- 112+ hospital nights
- 21 blood products
- 34 diagnostic tests
- 137 clinic visits
- 36 unplanned ER visits
Take a moment to let that sink in. This was Milo’s entire childhood up to age five. Hospital gowns, stethoscopes, and blood pressure cuffs were his toys. He learned to operate medical machines and administer medications like a pro. Cancer became his “normal.”
This is not the childhood I envisioned for him, but I have learned to find gratitude amidst the pain. It is hard—holding a bag for the fifth time in a day, watching him scream, cleaning up hair that has fallen out—but I remind myself he is still here. I remind myself of the parents who endured this journey and lost their children. Life is unfair, and nobody walks away unscathed—but Milo survived.
November 14, 2017, will forever mark the day our lives changed. But now, there is another date I hold close: September 24, 2020—the day Milo finished treatment. And on January 30, 2021, our brave warrior rang the bell, marking 1,045 days of fighting cancer and the start of a new chapter. Surrounded by family and friends, we celebrated Milo’s monumental accomplishment.
We look forward to watching him thrive, to see the world through his resilient eyes, and to watch him accomplish everything we know he is capable of.
For those currently in the trenches of childhood cancer, know this: you are not alone. Hope exists. Community exists. Strength exists in ways you cannot yet imagine. You are seen, loved, and supported every step of the way.
