The Count Down
Here’s what we knew about Olive’s tumor:
It was big—about the size of a cantaloupe.
It was rare.
There were very few survivors.
The hospital’s rules were clear. Olive wasn’t allowed to sleep with me. She was too little—a fall risk. Her crib sat just out of reach.
I couldn’t hold her. Couldn’t take her home. Couldn’t make her better.
That night, New Year’s Eve, I could barely look at her.
“We can’t beat this with chemo alone,” her oncologist had told us. “She’ll need surgery.”
Then one by one, the surgeons began saying no.
The tumor was too large, too close to her hepatic vein.
I was the one who was supposed to protect her.
We’d begun chemo, hoping it would buy her more time.
Every morning that week, the nurses checked Olive’s ANC—her absolute neutrophil count.
Every morning, it came back the same: zero. Zero immune system. Zero chance of going home.
During the day, distractions pushed away my fear. Playing with Olive, changing diapers, entertaining our social media supporters. Perfecting my brave face.
But that New Year’s Eve, something inside of me began to crack.
Instead of showering per my usual nightly zombie routine, I curled onto the couch, facing the wall. The click of the IV machine repeated in my brain.
If we found a surgeon who agreed, would it already be too late?
Olive and I had already spent Christmas Day alone at home, isolating. My husband, Nick, had taken our six-year-old to the usual family gatherings while Olive and I stayed behind. Nick and I went through the motions—both silently worrying that we were missing our last chance to celebrate Christmas together as a family.
And now, New Year’s Eve didn’t feel like a beginning. It felt like the end.
Who could I call?
My parents were likely home, watching Times Square on TV, munching popcorn. I wanted them to believe the smiling pictures I’d sent earlier.
There was Stephany, my best friend. She’d be surrounded by family, half-asleep. She was having the night I wanted to be having.
It wasn’t that I didn’t have anyone. It was that I couldn’t bear to say it out loud:
I think my baby might die.
There in the dark, the thought landed like a body blow.
There was no lock on our door. The night nurse could walk in at any time. Wanting to hide, I pulled the blanket higher to cover my face. The air was too cold. The IV machine clicked.
I wondered how many mothers before me had tucked their child into the hospital bed then cried themselves to sleep on this same couch. How much grief had soaked into these four walls?
The ball would drop soon. The world would cheer.
And we would still be here, counting down a different number.
sparkler image by Danil Aksenov on Unsplash
About the Author
Mikaela Perron-Sampson is a writer and mother of three. Her essays about motherhood, illness, and survival have appeared in Motherwell, The Manifest-Station, and Her View From Home. She is currently completing a memoir and lives in Florida with her family
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