Luckily the doctors gave us the green light and although she had her last dose of fever reduction medication on the airplane we were able to go. Being around such a large number of people in the airport was so different from what I have become accustomed to over the past year of isolation. Jemma is now allowed to do normal activities, but the transition from living in a germ-free bubble to germ filled public spaces is hard for me to mentally deal with. I'm taking it slow.
To cope, my husband and I traveled loaded with sanitary wipes. Each time we sat in a new seat on the plane or in the waiting room it was cleaned, as were the bathroom stalls every time Jemma needed to go.
From all outward appearances Jemma looks normal. She has energy. She has hair. Nobody but me sees the pills she continues to take, the thermometer that checks her temperature each night and the doctors each week for blood checks. Twenty or more times per week I'm reminded my daughter is still undergoing treatment for cancer.
As negative reminders continue to torment my thoughts I struggle to tell myself "Today is a good day."
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