The Night I Shattered: A Perfectionist's First Lesson in Caregiving

Dear Shattered One,

Whether it’s a diagnosis, a crisis, or an overwhelming life change, know that your trembling hands, racing thoughts, and overwhelming emotions are a normal response to a threatening situation. This is your permission slip to fall apart. Because tomorrow, you’ll begin gathering the pieces, one small step at a time.

 The Breaking Point

I read somewhere that life deals us experiences with a clear before and after. The ancients called these moments Kairos - not just time passing, but an instant when everything changes. Before my daughter’s diagnosis, I was a gymnast-level perfectionist. I loved being the go-to person, the helper, the problem solver. These identities shielded me from facing my wants and needs. When people offered to help, I never knew what to say. “I’m okay, but thanks” became a staple in my pantry of responses. If I continued to be a helpful “good girl,” I believed life would continue to reward me.

The Stoic philosopher Epictetus warned us about this illusion of control in "Enchiridion" (The Handbook), "Some things are in our power, while others are not." I was about to learn this the hard way.

I didn’t know then that being strong doesn’t mean doing it alone. Sometimes, the best thing we can do is ask for or accept help. I learned this lesson by singing silly songs with my daughter under the fluorescent light of a pediatric emergency room.

The Moment Everything Changed

Imagine my shock when the ER doctor said, “This is the worst part of my job. The CT scan I ordered shows a tumor on either side of your daughter’s spine.” We spent weeks trying to understand symptoms. There were three trips to the pediatrician and two journeys to the local children’s hospital ER. The doctor had sent us home three weeks before when a blood test showed inflammation from a common virus. What temporary relief that had been.

This time was different. I felt my body crash in a bloodless heap as a nurse hugged me. I vaguely remember the pep talk about mentally preparing for children with no hair on the hemoc floor. At the same time, gorgeous gifts like a giant purple glittery unicorn pillow poured into her room.

When a crisis hits, your mind tries to make sense of the senseless. It’s okay if you can’t process everything at once.

Many thoughts lashed my swollen brain as I tried to take one step at a time next to her hospital bed:

“What is hemoc? Can I handle looking at bald children? Our daughter's voice rang through the halls, “I’m three and will be four in March!” She isn’t sick. I watched her hopscotch and chase other kids last Saturday. This tumor is benign. We eat healthily. We garden! God, I hope she turns four in March. Please help.”

Facing Reality

The bland double doors opened to the hemoc floor and nurses rushed to greet us. They ordered food knowing we may never eat it, but this gesture signaled, "we've got you until you find your feet." We listened as nurse practitioners and doctors gingerly explained what they believed our daughter's diagnosis would be as they rushed to place a port in her tiny chest and many other tests within the first twenty-four hours.

Throughout history, parents have encountered these moments of shocking realization. You may have gone through something similar.

The Moment of Breaking

The diagnosis came quickly, confirming the oncologist’s suspicion: Stage four neuroblastoma. My sister-in-law’s recent stage three breast cancer diagnosis was the only reason I understood the severity. The nurse practitioner pointed to signature points on consent forms to help me see through blurry tears as the oncologist explained each phase of treatment. She calmly explained it’s a challenging disease. Some kids survive it long-term, but we take it step by step and see how her body reacts.

What I know now: It’s okay not to be okay. Breaking down doesn’t mean you’re broken - sometimes, it means you’re human.

In the late afternoon, through sobbing and shame for inquiring, I asked my husband if I could go home, shower, pack a hospital bag, sleep, and come back the next day for the first chemo treatment. He looked dazed, but he reluctantly agreed.

I knew I could rally and manage this situation if I could regroup at home. I just needed to cry and breathe. The hospital air took my breath.

The Night of Shattering

If you’ve ever experienced panic, you know the hospital air didn’t deflate my lungs. Driving home offered no relief. Showering offered no relief. Screaming and crying didn’t help.

When I started packing a bag for the next day, my body shoved itself under our soft, fluffy, cold, and slightly weighted bed covers. My body shook violently into a time warp. My nose, completely stuffed from crying, sometimes suffocated my breathing, so I took unnaturally deep breaths from my dried-out mouth. Hot breath, saturated my face. My will to get out of bed did not match my heavy limbs and violently trembling body.

The next morning, the uncontrolled fighting in my body ended. I quietly rolled to the floor, weeping without the ability to generate more tears. My body was weakened from emotions and severe dehydration. How could I go back to the hospital and help my daughter? I didn’t want to terrify her with these emotions that I couldn’t manage myself.

What helped me survive that night:

- Allowing myself to fall apart completely

- Accepting that perfection wasn’t possible

- Understanding that this breakdown was necessary

Finding My Way Back

I showered again, attempting to fix my puffy, vein-broken face, and started to chant what would become my survival mantra:

"I am okay in this moment.

She is okay in this moment.

We are okay in this moment.

God, please give me the strength to be okay."

I started to live this way:

- Pack your bag

- Drive to the hospital

- Walk into the room and kiss her head

- Get through this minute

- Get through this hour

- Get through this day

The moments stacked up and got easier. Our daughter remained inquisitive and joyful as nurses poked her in ways she had never experienced before. She chose a new toy, a bracelet maker, that my husband and I couldn’t figure out how to assemble. In her first moments of chemo, we sat on the cold tile hospital room floor, laughing at the ridiculous challenge of the toy assembly tripping us up. Our daughter giggled, too.

The Lessons That Saved Me

I slowly realized that looking at her face made me feel calm. Her ornery crescent shaped dimples let me know she’s still here. Here’s a few survival strategies I learned early in the process to handle acute stress:

- Take a breath. Remind yourself you are okay.

- Choose to play.

- Live one moment at a time, no matter what.

- Stay curious.

- Keep learning.

- You won’t do any of this perfectly, and that’s okay.

- It’s not your job to save the day. It's your job to love your child.

- Controlling all the good variables in life didn’t prevent this bad luck.

- Ask for help because you will need it.

- Surrender the rest!

A Message for You

Unfortunately, I’m not the first mother to experience a heartbreaking moment like this, and I won’t be the last. Your crisis might look different from mine. It might be a different diagnosis, fear, or loss. But if you’re shaking right now, can’t breathe, or feel shame for not being strong - I see you.

This is your permission slip to:

- Fall apart

- Ask for help

- Take one tiny step at a time

- Not have all the answers

- Feel everything you’re feeling

- Simplify your assignment to love no matter what

You’ve taken a significant step by searching for a connection to how you feel by reading this piece, even if it’s just words on a screen. If you’d like to share your experience or need someone to witness your moment of shattering, I’d love to hear from you. Sometimes, knowing we’re not alone makes the pieces easier to gather.

Remember: You’re okay in this moment. That’s all you need to be.

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