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The impossible happened: My 16-month-old baby has cancer

My baby has cancer. My sweet, snuggly, smiling boy who still plays with my hair while breastfeeding and loves long walks wrapped high on my back, burying his head into my shoulder, has cancer. I want to scream from a mountaintop. I don’t know how to process this information, so I tell everyone I encounter: the waitress at our favourite restaurant, strangers at the dog park. Maybe if I say it enough times, it will feel real. Maybe I’ll feel as brave as everyone keeps telling me I am. Maybe I’ll cry. I’m terrified to feel anything resembling sadness—it’s too similar to loss.

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