What if we go?
Masonic Children’s Hospital sent an invitation to their Pediatric Day of Remembrance, and it delivered a tangle of complicated feelings.
I read it and my immediate, visceral response was NO.
AJ would say NO to any hospital invitation. I can hear the sigh, see the smirk, watch him shake his head and repeat NO without hesitation... then set it aside, move on, and walk away.
He was an all IN or all OUT kind of guy. You always knew exactly where he stood. When it came to the hospital and anything cancer, he was all OUT (at first). As you can imagine.
He needed time, space, and a humbling dose of surrender to put one foot in the battle while bracing himself with the other. The stakes were so high. The decisions so impossible. And the memories will stab me in the heart forever.
So while my response to the invitation felt exactly like AJ’s immediate NO, I could also feel his soul guiding me to turn it over... to look from a different angle and entertain a possible YES.
What is the opportunity that comes with a YES?
This is the hard work of grief. The shift in perspective to find a softer place. To find something deeper. I watched AJ take a crash course through his journey. The AJ who was diagnosed at 19 was not the same AJ who left at 22. He matured. He softened. He loved more. He thought of others more. He wanted to help the Masonic 4th floor kids he saw facing his same battle. He wanted to show his gratitude to his team of nurses and caregivers. He wanted us to know how lucky he felt to have family and love by his side... and he wanted his friends to feel that love too, and reminded them to take their health seriously.
Why did cancer and death have to be the teacher? There are so many ways to learn a lesson. Why did cancer have to be his... and ours?!
I sigh, shake my head NO, want to give it the middle finger and walk away. Because that’s how I feel. That’s how AJ felt. And there is nothing wrong with that. It’s human. It’s authentic.
AJ is teaching me to embrace this human experience and to stay authentic. BUT ALSO... he is teaching me there’s more to it, and to dig deeper. To listen to myself. To remember myself. To stay true, but also to align with a higher purpose and the highest version of myself. I’m learning that when I move through life in that frequency, I connect with AJ. I feel AJ. I carry his legacy forward. And I believe he is cheering me on.
So here is my perspective shift, and the opportunity I’m presenting:
What if by going, we are honoring his soul and his transformation... on earth and from earth?
What if going meant we could remember AJ in public and connect with other grieving parents, supporting one another the way only we can?
What if going meant we could give thanks to the caregivers and truly acknowledge their effort?
What if going meant we could support the kiddos and families still in the fight?
What if by going, we could deliver donations straight to families (like ours) living a nightmare... and brighten their day, even if only for a minute?
Going means something deeper from this perspective. It feels like what AJ would want. Yes, it honors him. But it’s also bigger, as big as he is now in his spirit form. I can feel him telling me: YES mom, YES! Help them, I don’t need help anymore.
Both a painful and a purpose-driven reality.
I don’t entirely know what I’m doing. But we’ve raised some money through Everywhere Still, and this event feels like the perfect place to bring that love directly to the people who need it... exactly where the donations were always meant to go.
So we are going to the Masonic Pediatric Day of Remembrance on Friday, June 26th.
And we are bringing donations... in the form of what AJ leaned on most during his hospital stays: DoorDash gift cards. Tasty pantry snacks for the shared kitchen. Room activities like Legos, puzzles, mini putt, an over-the-door basketball hoop. Cozy blankets. EMF-blocking blankets. Hats for bald heads. Essential oils for the caregivers. Chocolate peanut butter cups from Trader Joe’s for the cute female nurses... oh, that one makes me smile. I could go on and on.
AJ would be so happy to deliver every bit of it in person… from the other side of those hospital rooms. Honestly, it’s probably the only way he’d willingly walk back into that hospital... so it’s exactly how we’ll return. Bearing gifts to soften the piercing pain of the memories.
Here’s my call to action: let’s see how much we can raise together before we walk through those doors! I’ll be shopping over the next couple weeks, but the deadline to be part of the June 26th delivery is Wednesday, June 24th.
Here’s exactly what your love becomes:
$75... a DoorDash dinner for two exhausted parents and a kiddo who can’t stand one more tray of hospital food
$60... a round of mini putt with the nurses when boredom takes over
$50... an EMF blanket to protect the healthy cells still fighting
$40... a 3D puzzle (AJ’s preferred puzzle) for when a brain needs somewhere else to go, or a caregiver needs to dissociate for a while
$30... an over-the-door basketball hoop for the days when being able to get out of bed IS an option
$10... Trader Joe’s Dark Chocolate Peanut Butter Cups to melt the hearts of the nurses you now call your friends
100% of everything we raise goes straight to the kids, families, and caregivers crushing cancer. Every dollar becomes a snack, a blanket, a game, a moment of relief... delivered by hand.
And I’ll bring the stories back to you, so you can see how, together, we can make a difference.
Let’s bring AJ back through those doors the only way he’d ever agree to... arms full, for them.