Toy Horn

Dear readers,

Today's story takes you to the heart of a cancer clinic where my cousin and I recently navigated 10 radiation sessions over two weeks. It is a story about love, connection, and a toy horn.

The cancer clinic, with its sterile halls and clinical efficiency, has become a strange second home. My cousin and I tread these corridors for 10 radiation sessions over two weeks. This comes after 12 brutal rounds of chemotherapy. Early detection brought hope, but the treatment is unrelenting.

Life, in all its messy beauty, demands this fight.

Louise Erdrich writes in The Painted Drum, “Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that. And living alone won't either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel.” These words resonate deeply as I sit in the waiting room, feeling both helpless and present, watching her brave this journey.

She is a fighter, her spirit fierce and unyielding.

Our days after treatment are a blend of quiet moments punctuated with bursts of laughter. We find humour in the absurdity of it all, making jokes that lighten the heavy atmosphere. Away from the comfortable familiarity of home, these moments are precious, a reminder that love and connection are anchors in this storm.

On the last day of her treatment, the clinic nurses give us each a small, colourful toy horn. It's a symbol of celebration, marking the end of this phase. We blow into them, and the cheerful sounds fill the space, victorious notes against the backdrop of her struggle.

The horn, a child’s toy, becomes a symbol of our shared journey.

As we leave the clinic, the morning sun, peeking through the clouds, signals a promise of brighter days ahead. We walk in silence, each of us lost in our thoughts. The pain and uncertainty still linger, a slow burn that won't easily fade.

But there is hope.

We have faced something monumental, together.

In these two weeks, amidst the stark environment of the clinic, and the long hotel stay, we find moments of unrestrained laughter and silliness. We create joyful noises that feel both absurd and triumphant, small acts of defiance against the weight of her diagnosis.

“You have to love. You have to feel.” These words remind me that standing by my cousin’s side, witnessing her courage, is an act of love.

It’s about more than just enduring the pain; it’s about the connections we forge in these moments, and the love that both carries and sustains us.

The toy horn is more than a celebration; it's a symbol of our journey. Its cheerful, childish sound becomes a cry of victory.

And so, with the echoes of those toy horns still lingering, we step into the morning light. The world outside feels both familiar and new, filled with the promise of tomorrow.