For a long time, I thought the worst day of my life occurred 10 years ago, when I was a young student, living in a student apartment in one of the poorer sections of Jerusalem. I shared the apartment with a Gil, a friend and a photographer who spent most of his time in the dark room. When Gil brought home a small black puppy I told him that it would be his responsibility alone and that I had no plans to help care for the dog. I didn’t intend to become attached to the furry mop of an animal, but slowly, day by day he grew on me. He was so silly and stupid that we called him Intelligent. One day I finally let him sit on my lap and even lick my face. I took him for a walk outside and he followed me conscientiously, without a leash. As we reached close to home, I crossed the small street opposite our house, and Intelligent stopped for a minute, as dogs do, to sniff some unidentifiable scent. I called to him, and he raced across the road, his long black ears flapped. Suddenly a car zoomed up the hill, and smashed into our puppy. The puppy I had just let myself love. I looked at him, and saw him, half dead on the street, his insides and blood leaving a red smear. I couldn’t bear to look any more and ran up to the apartment. I called Gil, gestured at the street and collapsed. Intelligent died and I cried for almost 3 days without stopping. I mourned the loss of love and loss of life. For a long time, I thought that was the worst day of my life.

It was, until the day I was told that my son had cancer. Yarden was almost two years old and had a fever for almost a week. He was restless and inconsolable, very much different from his regular self. We were sent to the children’s emergency room by his pediatrician. It was a Wednesday morning in mid June and my husband and I both wore shorts and T-shirts as if we were going for a short check-up.

The initial diagnosis was pneumonia, and an x-ray was ordered. The first thing I learned was to pay close attention to doctor’s reactions to test results. The doctor’s “What kind of a picture is this?” could mean one of two things: either the x-ray had turned out fuzzy because Yarden had been moving around when they took it, or it showed something very unusual. Within a short time we were sent to do more x-rays, an ultrasound and finally, by noon, we were in the Intensive Care Unit. We were still in the dark, but thought it was a bad case of pneumonia and that Yarden might have to stay overnight.

The head of the Intensive Care Unit, Dr. Silver called us into his room about an hour after Yarden had been admitted. We didn’t know yet that being called into his room for a “parent’s conference” was not a good sign. “Look”, he said very seriously, “your son is presently in a state of stress. He cannot breathe on his own, his pharynx and heart are under a lot of pressure from his right lung. We are not sure what the problem is in his right lung, and we have to continue to perform more tests, but first we will have to put him on a breathing resuscitator. Go in now, and see him while he’s still awake, then you’ll have to wait outside for a while we put the tubes in. He is not well right now, and we will do everything we can to find out as soon as possible what the problem is.”

We were in shock and hardly knew what to ask. One of us asked him what the problem could be. He didn’t want to tell us until he was sure, but it might be some sort of growth in the lung. We still did not associate this with cancer, but as soon as we left the room, we were both on the verge of tears. We went in to the Intensive Care Unit to kiss Yarden and then left him to call our parents.

My mother arrived within the hour. She was with us when we were called into the office of the Head of Surgery, Dr. Atzmon. Dr. Silver was there too, and another doctor as well. Dr. Lichtfeld was introduced as Head of the Hematology department. I did not yet know that hematology usually goes with oncology. We were told that Yarden presented “an interesting and unusual case” and that his situation was critical enough that they would perform surgery on him that night. It was already mid afternoon, and the doctors had been working hard all day. My first thought was to be worried they would be tired. Then the doctors presented their two theories. Either it was a tumor or some other rare disease. In any case, the plan was to perform a biopsy, and if necessary, operate to remove the tumor at the same time - if indeed it was a tumor. The bad news, we were told, is that there may be massive bleeding during the operation. In this case, they said, he might not make it.

Roy and I went off by ourselves to try to understand and deal with this news. Roy was still in denial and hadn’t even heard the words “might not make it”. He refused to deal with the possibility that anything was seriously wrong. This left me to worry about this on my own, until I made Roy understand. We were both depressed and upset. Yarden had never been seriously ill in all of his short life. Apart from Yarden’s birth, which was by C-Section, neither Roy nor I had ever had an operation ourselves.

The operation was scheduled for 9:00 PM that night. Dr. Atzmon, who was performing the operation, together with Dr. Silver, went home to shower and to see her children. In the meantime, our parents were with us and also Roy’s many aunts and uncles began to arrive. Soon our friends also started to appear one by one, and together we suffered through the longest 5 hours of my life. At about 12:00 midnight, Dr. Silver came out of the operating theater and asked to speak to Roy and I alone. My father insisted in staying, and I loved him for that. He told us that the heavy bleeding they had been afraid of had indeed occurred, and that they were struggling to save Yarden’s life. His chances were very slim and we should prepare ourselves for the worst.

We could hardly face our friends and family with this news, but we couldn’t hide it either, with tears running down our faces. We huddled closer, some further, each pair of grandparents dealing with the pain in different ways. I was in shock, but refused to lose hope. Both Roy and I prayed to a God not knowing if he even existed. Thousands of thoughts went through my head. What would my life be like without Yarden? Would Roy and I survive the tragedy? For both of us, Yarden was the joy of our lives. He had been born shortly after our first anniversary, and so he was an integral part of “us”. For me, Yarden was the person who taught me what true unadulterated love was. He was a part of me, of my body and soul. There was no way I could let him go. I prayed harder and kept believing that he would make it somehow.

At 2:00 AM Dr. Atzmon came out, in her operating cap, green shirt and pants, little paper booties over her shoes and big gold earrings and necklace, She too asked to speak only to Roy and I. We were trembling as she asked us to sit down. “I’m sorry” she began to say and I interrupted her bluntly, asking if he was alive. “Yes”, she said, “and I’m sorry to tell you that we had to remove the entire lung, he had a serious tumor and he will need chemotherapy.” She also apologized for all the scars that would remain, but all I could hear was that he was alive. In a moment I saw them wheel him out, towards the ward and the relief sent more tears pouring down my cheeks. I whispered “Thank you, thank you” to Dr. Atzmon for saving his life. I was shivering, my teeth chattering and we went to tell everyone that the surgery had been a success, but they saw that for themselves, as they could see Yarden for a brief moment as he was whisked away on a giant bed - back up to Intensive Care.

Yarden recovered well from the surgery and began chemotherapy as soon as Dr. Lichtfeld received the test results telling him what type of cancer Yarden has. It is a rare type, found in only 16 known cases worldwide, so there are no statistics, and only a vast amount of hope. It is a tumor that responds well to chemotherapy when found in some parts of the body but not well in other parts of the body. Again, we had no information of how well this cancer, found in Yarden’s entire right lung, would respond. On the one hand, the entire tumor was removed, no metastasis was found, and so the treatment which must continue for 47 weeks is considered “preventive”. One the other hand, cancer is cancer.

For the next 4 months, Roy and I dealt with all the hardships of the chemotherapy treatment remarkably well, as did Yarden, and up until a week ago we lived in a bubble of illusion that Yarden HAD cancer, but now it was gone, and there was no real fear of recurrence. Two weeks ago Yarden started breathing heavily, and asking to be picked up all the time. We knew something was wrong when the tests began. We went to the hospital for tests every day for two days, and were supposed to wait until after the weekend for the next test, but by Friday night Yarden was breathing with much difficulty. We had to take him back to the emergency room. Again, the first diagnosis was pneumonia.

This time I didn’t believe he had pneumonia, although I wanted to, and was concerned but not surprised when we were told to take Yarden to the Intensive Care Unit. Tests were performed on Friday night, and we held the oxygen tube next to Yarden’s nose and mouth, knowing he would refuse to wear a mask. We sat with him through the weekend, still hoping each day to go home ‘the next day’. Dr. Silver finally made his diagnosis. He was convinced that Yarden had a leak of air from the stump of his bronchia into the empty chamber in his chest. This air leak was causing pressure again on Yarden’s heart and left lung, and causing a partial collapse of the left lung. It was a problem, but a technical one. Unlike cancer, it was a problem that could be solved.

On Sunday they decided to wait until Monday and on Monday Dr. Silver performed what was supposed to be a simple procedure on Yarden. This procedure would help determine both the existence of a leak and also its exact location. Roy and I were not even very concerned. Roy was concerned about the business trip he was to take the next day. I was trying to convince him not to go. The procedure was supposed to take half an hour, but an hour, then an hour and a half went by and finally Dr. Silver came out. He invited us into his office, which we knew by now was not a good sign.

He explained to us that Yarden was still being resuscitated and that something unusual and uncommon had occurred. Something that Dr. Silver did not have the answer to right now. In any case, Yarden had a complication and his left and only lung was in a critical condition. It took me a few seconds to comprehend what he was saying. He was saying that Yarden was on the verge of life or death again. That he might die. ‘Without a lung to breathe with, we cannot survive’, was what my mind was saying. And also, ‘Oh, no, the nightmare is back’. As we left his office, I burst into tears. I couldn’t stop crying, I couldn’t see Yarden yet, as he was being stabilized and “saved”. Roy went to call his office that he would not be taking the trip. I was led downstairs, away from the staring eyes in the waiting area down to the quieter, more familiar and private oncology ward. Roy joined me, and we were given a room to sit in. I was still crying. Roy told me to stop and I said I couldn’t and that he could join me. He did. We tried to understand what was happening, and why and what would happen. Dr. Lichtfeld arrived a while later and when he said that he hoped Yarden would pull through, I felt even worse. I had tried to delude myself that this was only a temporary major complication.

In the months that had followed Yarden’s initial diagnosis, I had discovered that I was pregnant. I had conceived just a few days before Yarden’s first hospitalization. I had mixed feelings about this pregnancy, and was not as joyful as I had been with Yarden. But it seemed to bring joy and hope to the people around, and their enthusiasm caught on to me most days. But now, the only feeling I had was an overpowering need for Yarden to live, to survive. Nothing else seemed important to me, nothing. As I held Roy and we cried together he told me that whatever happened we would have to hold on, not to crack up. I couldn’t think what justification we would have to remain sane if Yarden didn’t make it. He pointed at my bulging stomach. Sometimes I love Roy just for his ability to look a few steps forwards, when I am deep in a crevice. Again we prayed silently and separately for Yarden to recover. A few hours later, Dr. Silver looked much calmer, and told us - not in his room- that Yarden was improving. Again, I thought that probably the worst day of my life had just passed.

Over a week after that incident, Yarden was still in Intensive Care, but now stable, and able to breathe room air without any extra oxygen. He was still hooked up to various machines, but mainly to monitor that he remained stable. We had surgery scheduled for the next week, and in the meantime had accepted the fact that Yarden would remain in the Intensive Care Unit in the interim. We decided to start to get back on a routine and to try to go back to work. I went to work the next day and was surprised how pleasant it was to be away from all the sickness, fear and anxiety that accompanies not only Yarden being in the hospital, but detached from the entire atmosphere of the place, where night and day merge into a florescent blur and sick and injured children are all around. You lose your grasp on reality and think how many children there are who are sick, who have tumors and cancer. You start to think that all parents have to suffer watching a physician stick their children with needles, make holes in their children’s bodies, stitch them up, make another hole and stitch that one up. Nurses become your most intimate friends, and enemies. So I enjoyed my day at work and stayed an extra hour.

When I arrived at the hospital that afternoon, Roy was waiting for me. He told me that the routine tests that had been sent to find out if any cancerous cells had appeared had returned. The results were not good. There was a 99% chance that Yarden’s cancer had recurred. Suddenly I saw our dreams slide into oblivion. Reality became a blur. But Roy was feeling worse than I. He had been living with this information since early that afternoon. He had been dealing with it alone, imagining life without our little boy, wondering how long he would live, what his remaining time would be like.

I hurried to convince Roy and myself that even in the face of this new disaster there had to be hope. There were other treatments, different - harsher treatments, but we would try them all. We would not give up hope, especially not now. I wanted to comfort Roy and I wanted to see my baby boy. The one who might be counting his last days. When I saw him sitting up in bed, he looked so happy and cheerful I couldn’t believe cancerous cells were eating him up as he sang and laughed. I went to a group therapy session with another mother and I cried therapeutically. But I didn’t want Yarden to see me upset. He didn’t have to know. Not yet. We could have a long time together yet. He could be cured by other chemotherapy, by a bone marrow transplant from his little sister who is still in my belly. They could try radiation therapy. I couldn’t go to work the next day. Yarden sensed my mood and was quiet and subdued. He didn’t know what was going on but he could sense the tension.

The doctors refused to accept the test results. Apparently, in medicine, 99% is far from 100%. The tests were to be repeated, and this time at three different hospitals in Israel. Twenty four hours after we had received the bad news, Dr. Silver came to me as I was sitting silently by Yarden’s bed. It was a warm afternoon in fall and the Intensive Care Unit was unusually calm. “Smile Audrey”, he said, and I obeyed automatically. “The results just came back from Hadassah in Jerusalem. Yarden is fine.” I wanted to hug and kiss Dr. Silver, and again the tears just rolled down my cheeks in relief. I kissed Yarden, instead, and ran to phone Roy, my parents and sister, Roy’s parents. Then I ran back to be next to the child I had just been given back. I thanked the God I have begun to believe in hesitantly. I praised the doctors for not trusting the initial results.

I have Yarden back, he still has a leak in his lung, but it is temporarily stopped, without having had surgery, he is free of cancer and still has over 30 weeks of chemotherapy to overcome. He is well for now, but he has cancer. I cannot live in that balloon of euphoria and illusion I used to live in that everything will work out. I do not take each day for granted. I love Yarden more each day. I love Roy more each day for being with me, for being Yarden’s father, for being so sensitive and feeling lost just like me. I know we might have more worst days because my son has cancer - but for now we can live and love.