For almost a year, I measured my daughter’s life in treatments and test results. On her seventh birthday, I thought my only job was making one hospital day feel special. By the end of it, I realized Alice had been waiting for something I was terrified to give her.
My daughter was already crying when Superman knelt beside her hospital bed and told her there was another surprise.
I was crying too.
Around us stood Wonder Woman, Batman, Spider-Man, and Captain America. Under the masks were doctors and nurses who had spent almost a year treating my seven-year-old daughter for cancer.
My daughter was already crying when Superman knelt beside her.
Alice wiped her cheeks and looked at me.
Dr. Malcolm rested one hand on the edge of her bed.
“There’s one part of today your mom doesn’t know about either.”
Everyone in that room seemed to know there was more coming except me.
My fingers tightened around the bedrail.
“What part? What’s happening? Is Alice okay?”
Alice wiped her cheeks and looked at me.
Dr. Malcolm’s expression softened.
And suddenly the costumes didn’t matter anymore.
Because whatever came next had nothing to do with Alice’s birthday party.
Three hours earlier, I’d been trying to convince myself that spending her seventh birthday in the hospital didn’t have to feel like another thing cancer had stolen.
Dr. Malcolm’s expression softened.
Alice had been fighting leukemia for almost a year.
There had been chemo, needles, nausea, blood tests, and days when sitting up took more energy than she wanted anyone to see.
Somehow, she was still the kid who was obsessed with making everyone else smile.
Her other obsession was superheroes.
She kept a row of little figures beside her bed and chose one before every treatment.
Alice had been fighting leukemia for almost a year.
“Chemo buddy,” she’d announce.
That morning, Spider-Man was clipped to her IV pole.
I’d hung paper stars around the room and brought a small cake.
Alice looked at the decorations, then at me.
“You did too much.”
“It’s your birthday.”
Spider-Man was clipped to her IV pole.
“You said that about Christmas and brought candy canes for everyone, Mom.”
“You only turn seven once.”
She smiled, but a moment later, she stared at the birthday balloon above her bed.
“Do you think I’ll have my eighth birthday here too?”
