Against All Odds

This child’s road to kindergarten has been littered with eight-hour surgeries and the side effects of chemotherapy. Days and weeks in the hospital and a list of medical specialists that would make your head spin. More CT scans in two years than the recommended allowance for an entire childhood. Central lines and blood pressure medications fit for a retiree.

But despite the bumps in the road, the twists and turns and inevitable hills, the outrageous and unexpected detours, this child has reached his destination. This child has, against all odds, started kindergarten:

And it was surprisingly smooth. I’ve gotta admit that for the past few years, this day has loomed large in front of me. If I were a stage actor and needed to make myself cry, all I would have to do is imagine walking away from that building with him inside it and the tears would start rolling. Honestly, I’ve teared up many times already as I lie in bed at night just thinking about it.

But today was different. We walked, the four of us together, the boys’ backpacks bulging with tissue boxes and Chlorox wipes, sharpened pencils and clean folders. Then there was the beautiful chaos at school as students and parents tried to find their new teachers and form something resembling a line before the flag raising. I had one quick moment when a friend asked how I was and I got choked up, before anything significant had even happened. But I hid behind my sunglasses, not wanting to make Austin any more nervous than he was already was.

Then into the building we went, down the hallway hand in hand. I left him in his classroom to join the parents for paperwork and Q&A. And that was another moment; I had to go into an empty classroom first and gather myself, right on the verge of a full-blown sob fest. But that too passed, as I was swept up in the mundane tasks of listing emergency contacts and ordering gym shirts. Then another goodbye, this one harder for him than me (but no tears). And that was it. I walked out chatting with parents and friends and headed down the street to my strangely quiet house.

Mark and I had specifically referenced this milestone, and not in a good way. Two weeks before Austin turned one, we sat in the hospital cafeteria with coffee cups growing cold in our hands, dazed and terrified as our boy underwent an eight-hour surgery to remove his right kidney and the nearly six-pound tumor that had burst out of it. Mark said, as gently as one can possibly say these words, “I think we need to prepare ourselves for the fact that this child may never make it to kindergarten.” Like that’s the sort of thing you could possibly prepare yourself for.

But he did. We all did. Austin is alive and well, as healthy and normal-looking as any child in that building. He is something we were never sure he’d be: a kindergartener. And next year, he’ll be a first grader. And then second and third. Before I know it, he’ll be a middle schooler. And he’ll graduate from high school and he’ll go on to college.

Because he is alive. And he is well.

Against all odds.