Sometimes, I wish I was the kind of “cancer mom” who hosted fundraisers or started a foundation. I wish I knew the ins and outs of current research and legislation. But I’m just the kind of “cancer mom” whose kid had cancer, no more, no less. If I’m being honest, I don’t want to know the statistics. In my darkest moments, I will blame myself for not doing more. Maybe if I had seen the signs sooner, pushed harder, or washed my hands more… I spin myself around, only to land in the same place every time. “He never should have had cancer in the first place.” Learning more about the disease that killed my baby feels like looking directly at the sun. It hurts too much.
So much love in your writing. So much love. Pain and love, in the list of details you remember, in the worry, in the photos, in the anger. Pain and love. It's brutal and it's beautiful and I thank you for your words. I'm so sorry for the loss of Aiden.
This old man was brought to tears and joy. Tears over the loss of your son, and the reality that you are a great "cancer mom." Joy over the fact that Aiden is with Jesus, who cherishes every moment of his eternal life. Both my wife and I are cancer survivors, however, each time we saw a child suffering with this monster - we sank into the storm of grief & the humility of prayer. Emily, you are a hero of encouragement to the many who suffer with the testimony of Aiden. Bless you!
You are welcome, Emily. We need more moms like you. You are a light in the dark forest of the cancer world. I will tell Aiden's story as often as I can. His story will touch the lives of many who suffer such grievous circumstances.
Oh Emily this had me in tears. Thank you for sharing so openly, for putting your heart on the page. There are no words to find so I won't even try but thank you. Holding you, your partner and Aiden in my heart xo
Yes absolutely. When I found out my daughter needed heart surgery that's exactly how I felt too. Some things we can't make sense of, we are simply asked to be and sit with all of it. So much love to you x
May I have your permission to reprint your story in our international blog network? I believe this post will minister to many. Just yesterday, one of my Directors in Bangladesh contacted me with a prayer request for his son, who suffers from likeminded conditions.
I get that. Be assured that I will share the link as the Lord leads. Thank you for considering it. However, in the mass blog communication, it would be word-for-word - a literal cut-n-paste of your newsletter posting.
Emily I had to stop after I read about Aiden. I had to stop because I was speechless. I do not and will not write platitudes. I can’t begin to imagine your pain. But I can send you my love. 💕Thank you for your honesty and for expressing your vulnerability.
Incredibly hard to read and I can only imagine how incredibly hard it was to write. Brought to tears, wanting to stretch my heart out to yours, stranger to stranger, in the loss and the grief. All my love x
Thank you for writing this. My mom was diagnosed with AML leukemia when I turned 14 and died when I was 15. It took me a long time to not feel guilty about not knowing about how low the survival rate was when she was sick.
I said I would read and I would try to write an answer in which you are feel seen and heard.
And so I read and I sat with your words. Not just read them, but sat. As if we were on two chairs in a quiet hospital corridor, the kind with that odd hush that wraps itself around grief like a thin blanket. Not enough to warm, only enough to say, “I see you’re still here.”
I want to say something simple. Just this: I’m here.
I’ve never lost a child. I know this canyon from a different place. Yet I recognize the endless circling—the if-onlys, the wishes for a different version of yourself, the comparisons you never wanted to make. I’ve walked that terrain with other losses, and your story cut through the noise in my own head. No gloss. No roles to play. Just you, missing your child, navigating this impossible map.
You wrote what others may not have dared to say out loud. The quiet rage, the envy that isn’t meant to hurt but still exists, the guilt that doesn’t dissolve just because you know it has no place. And still, you don’t run from any of it. You name it. I admire that. I admire you.
You didn’t try to fix anything, and I respect that. You let it be what it is. A story of a boy who died. A story of a mother who didn’t get to be the kind she thought she’d have to become. You didn’t turn it into a lesson. You just told the truth.
I wouldn’t have known what to say either. I still don’t. Maybe that’s part of why I’m here—because there are so few places where silence is allowed to hold what can’t be spoken.
You said he never should have had cancer in the first place. That sentence doesn’t ask for comfort. It just needs to stand.
So I’ll stand beside it.
And beside you.
You chose to hold Aiden. In skin-on-skin, in laughter, in diapers instead of gowns. You chose the moments. You didn’t miss the chance to feel him.
That matters.
You matter.
And if I had been in that hospital hallway, too—I would’ve smiled back. Nothing heroic. Just, “I see you. You’re not alone.”
Emily, this is such a moving post. Thank you for sharing...I’m at a loss for what to say other than I’m grateful to have found you here ❤️
Thank you Caroline and I feel the same about finding you and your writing.
Thank you for this beautiful post. It was hard to read, but impossible not to.
Thank you David.
Your love, your Aiden, your grief, and your writing are beautiful. I'm so sorry for your loss. Your words touched my heart. Please keep writing! ❤️
Oh wow! Adriana thank you so much for this. It's lovely to hear how my words touched you in some way.
So much love in your writing. So much love. Pain and love, in the list of details you remember, in the worry, in the photos, in the anger. Pain and love. It's brutal and it's beautiful and I thank you for your words. I'm so sorry for the loss of Aiden.
Thank you Georgina.
This old man was brought to tears and joy. Tears over the loss of your son, and the reality that you are a great "cancer mom." Joy over the fact that Aiden is with Jesus, who cherishes every moment of his eternal life. Both my wife and I are cancer survivors, however, each time we saw a child suffering with this monster - we sank into the storm of grief & the humility of prayer. Emily, you are a hero of encouragement to the many who suffer with the testimony of Aiden. Bless you!
Thank you Dr. Phinney, it means a lot
You are welcome, Emily. We need more moms like you. You are a light in the dark forest of the cancer world. I will tell Aiden's story as often as I can. His story will touch the lives of many who suffer such grievous circumstances.
Oh Emily this had me in tears. Thank you for sharing so openly, for putting your heart on the page. There are no words to find so I won't even try but thank you. Holding you, your partner and Aiden in my heart xo
Thank you Claudia... Sometimes there are no words for a reason.
Yes absolutely. When I found out my daughter needed heart surgery that's exactly how I felt too. Some things we can't make sense of, we are simply asked to be and sit with all of it. So much love to you x
Yes! love to you too!
Thank you for sharing this honest and vulnerable piece of your heart. So much love to you stranger ♥️
Thank you Kensho.
May I have your permission to reprint your story in our international blog network? I believe this post will minister to many. Just yesterday, one of my Directors in Bangladesh contacted me with a prayer request for his son, who suffers from likeminded conditions.
I'm flattered, but I'm not sure I want such a personal story shared outside my newsletter. You are welcome to share the link if you like
I get that. Be assured that I will share the link as the Lord leads. Thank you for considering it. However, in the mass blog communication, it would be word-for-word - a literal cut-n-paste of your newsletter posting.
Emily I had to stop after I read about Aiden. I had to stop because I was speechless. I do not and will not write platitudes. I can’t begin to imagine your pain. But I can send you my love. 💕Thank you for your honesty and for expressing your vulnerability.
Thank you Allan.
Incredibly moving. Thank you for sharing with just tenderness
Thank you for this writing of great beauty and generosity. Your honesty is a beacon.
Emily thank you for sharing this, for giving us a piece of your heart and allowing us to see your beautiful son.
Beautiful stranger,
Incredibly hard to read and I can only imagine how incredibly hard it was to write. Brought to tears, wanting to stretch my heart out to yours, stranger to stranger, in the loss and the grief. All my love x
stranger to stranger, I feel your support.
Thank you for writing this. My mom was diagnosed with AML leukemia when I turned 14 and died when I was 15. It took me a long time to not feel guilty about not knowing about how low the survival rate was when she was sick.
Hello kim, somehow I missed this comment. I hope you continue to heal in your journey through grief
I’m deeply sorry you had to go through this and for the tragic loss of your son.
Emily,
I said I would read and I would try to write an answer in which you are feel seen and heard.
And so I read and I sat with your words. Not just read them, but sat. As if we were on two chairs in a quiet hospital corridor, the kind with that odd hush that wraps itself around grief like a thin blanket. Not enough to warm, only enough to say, “I see you’re still here.”
I want to say something simple. Just this: I’m here.
I’ve never lost a child. I know this canyon from a different place. Yet I recognize the endless circling—the if-onlys, the wishes for a different version of yourself, the comparisons you never wanted to make. I’ve walked that terrain with other losses, and your story cut through the noise in my own head. No gloss. No roles to play. Just you, missing your child, navigating this impossible map.
You wrote what others may not have dared to say out loud. The quiet rage, the envy that isn’t meant to hurt but still exists, the guilt that doesn’t dissolve just because you know it has no place. And still, you don’t run from any of it. You name it. I admire that. I admire you.
You didn’t try to fix anything, and I respect that. You let it be what it is. A story of a boy who died. A story of a mother who didn’t get to be the kind she thought she’d have to become. You didn’t turn it into a lesson. You just told the truth.
I wouldn’t have known what to say either. I still don’t. Maybe that’s part of why I’m here—because there are so few places where silence is allowed to hold what can’t be spoken.
You said he never should have had cancer in the first place. That sentence doesn’t ask for comfort. It just needs to stand.
So I’ll stand beside it.
And beside you.
You chose to hold Aiden. In skin-on-skin, in laughter, in diapers instead of gowns. You chose the moments. You didn’t miss the chance to feel him.
That matters.
You matter.
And if I had been in that hospital hallway, too—I would’ve smiled back. Nothing heroic. Just, “I see you. You’re not alone.”
Thank you for writing. Thank you for staying.
With care,
Jay