We spent Easter in Charlotte with my (Neesha here!) brother Kiran and cousin Sri. Many Easters over the years have been spent at this heavenly bachelor pad to our north where “the uncles” delight their nieces and nephews with a hundred (almost, some years) egg hunt in the backyard, a brunch with a menu of their choosing and s’mores every evening. This year, we celebrated Obelia’s birthday by seeing a touring production of Aladdin ahead of the Easter festivities, as well, and got hooked on the show Ted Lasso.
Phin and I had a simultaneous spring break the week after Easter, so we took an impromptu trip down to the Jacksonville Zoo where we spent the hours from 9:40 a.m. to 4:40 p.m. exploring every inch of the zoo as if we’d never been there before when, really, the amount of times we’ve gone are uncountable. I intricately documented this trip through photos and sent them to Dustin along the way.
You may remember the last time Phin visited the zoo was with Dustin mere days before his AML diagnosis. This is one of the most painful memories for us to think 
back on from last year. When we map out Phin’s progression of symptoms this and a birthday party three days before his admission are the most telling ones: fatigue, lack of appetite, pallor, increased whininess…they’d come to a head and even though he wanted to enjoy—and did, as much as he was able—his experiences, the cancer had caused too much discomfort for him to really love the time he had there. Dustin remembers carrying Phin through most of the zoo, getting him a snow cone he never ate. But this year he ran through most of the zoo, ate everything I handed him as he went, only stopping three times: once to ride the train, once to eat a full lunch and once more to sit in the water at the splash pad (if that even counts since he spent a whole hour playing in the water there, too). The photos worked like a salve over the painful, guilt-ridden memories from last year. In time, I believe, there will barely be a metaphorical scar where last year’s memory resides.
April has been a month that brought us insurmountable joy in every moment we have our family at home living a prototypical “normal” life. It has been a month of continued gratefulness.
But April has also been a month of loss. Cancer claimed the lives of two people we loved—our neighbor Tim and a three-year-old patient, Ace, who was sometimes inpatient with us while Phin went through treatment.
Tim was diagnosed with cancer about four months before Phin. When he heard about Phin’s diagnosis he was angry alongside so many of us, but celebrated his victories as if they were his own. I vividly recall Tim passing by our house one rare day between treatments when Phin was home and outside in the front yard playing. “It’s so good to see him running and playing. Kicking cancer’s ass,” he’d said, as if Phin’s fight were truly his, too. Tim had the most incredible spirit of generosity—buying our girls out of Girl Scout cookies and taking orders from his whole office to increase their sales. And the most beautiful flowers cascading down the second story balcony of his porch. There is not a resident in our neighborhood who won’t miss him.
We met Ace during one of Phin’s month-long admissions. When he wasn’t feeling well, Ace traveled in a wagon, but when he was feeling well, Ace traveled in his dancing shoes, often stopping in the middle of the hall to get down and, boy, could this little cutie get down. Phin always wanted to play with Ace or get his attention with some crazy antic so he could hear him giggle. When he’d arrive back at the hospital for an admission he’d say “Do you think Ace is here, too?” Often, they’d have a dance party at the nurse’s station to whatever music an obliging nurse would put on. Phin loved Ace. It was impossible not to love Ace. It is impossible to imagine him gone.
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Ace and Phin at the Camp Sunshine Christmas party November 20, 2022. |
We’ve talked to Phin about these losses—gently and delicately. He remembers Mr. Tim and
following around Mr. Tim’s dog one afternoon when we swung by to help with something. He remembers Ace and the snowball party, and dancing, and when I told him Ace had gone to heaven now he said,
“He was just a baby.”
following around Mr. Tim’s dog one afternoon when we swung by to help with something. He remembers Ace and the snowball party, and dancing, and when I told him Ace had gone to heaven now he said,
“He was just a baby.”
Here is a link to the GoFundMe page Ace's aunt set up to help his family cover funeral costs.
April has been a month of showers.
