This is post was originally published in 2022.
I looked out the window as the plan began to descend along the Schuylkill. We were now 1 year out from HuCAR T-cell therapy. A timeline that would allow us to stop the follow-up indicated by the trial and move to the care of our local Survivor Clinic, if we wanted to. The option was ours and I wasn’t sure what we’d decide. Beau leaned over me and pointed out the AKA, a building easy to identify on landing.
What would it mean for this to be our last time in this god-forsaken town? And just as soon as the thoughts began I immediately started to miss this city. We hadn’t even landed and already I felt like I was loosing something. Beau and I have spent hours upon hours, weeks upon weeks, in this metropolis, a city that holds all the pain and hurt of pediatric cancer, but also holds his survival.
A city that took everything out of me, saw me emptied to nothing.
And yet I’ve never been more alive than on the streets of South Center City, wandering around the Magic Gardens, eating rolled ice cream in Rittenhouse Square, or that accidental right turn that led to a most-treasured memory.
Every moment in this town is a reminder that survival is never promised and this very breath is the only thing you have.
To be alive.
Alive when we ordered room service in that fancy hotel across the street from the U.S. Constitution.
Alive when we stopped each morning to get crap hot chocolate from the machine on floor 28 of the AKA, because we knew that rest was in the routine.
Alive when we putt putted, every time we putt putted, on that crappy course off the freeway downtown.
Alive when the random guy on Facebook marketplace gave me a stroller for free and then his wife dropped off dinner.
Alive when the building manager gave us tickets to the Phillies game.
Alive when that gracious volunteer asked Beau one hundred questions about Patrick Maholmes.
Alive when Beau and I would go to Floor 28 for a post-chemo cocktail and he’d drink Coca Cola from a champagne glass and I’d cheers him and silently pray he wasn’t going to die.
Alive when Lorin had dinner waiting for us when we arrived and the cornbread tasted like home.
Alive when the barista at Ultimo Coffee was such a jackass because Philadelphians can be total dicks.
Alive when Beau asked for everything on the Dim Sum menu and I agreed.
Alive when my acquaintance Jane became a dear friend because we both found ourselves alone in a city and full of hurt.
Alive when Beaudin learned every inappropriate lyric to “Despactio,” driving down Lancaster Ave.
Alive when the Brywn Mawr little league team made Beau an honorary player and gave us something to do during those long lonely weeks.
Alive when Grandpa came to visit and caught approximately 3,489 pitches in the Penn batting cages.
Alive when we drove to Jersey for Monster Golf with Jude.
Alive when we tacked a quick trip to the Franklin Museum on our shorter trips.
Alive the night we went swimming way past bedtime in the pool that overlooked the city and I took the bathing suit selfie with my kids despite feeling fat because my friend Jenn told me I should I always take the selfie.
Alive when Josh and I shared avocado toast in the airport terminal while swapping places and it was the only time we’d been alone together in 6-weeks.
Alive when I ran into Kate at clinic and realized that we could be friends in real life.
Alive when I ran my hands through Wes’ hair.
Alive when I hugged Kelly.
Alive when we tried every donut place and Jude was sure Dottie’s reigned supreme.
Alive when Nurse Diane called me as we boarded our flight to tell me he was cancer-free.
To be alive, in Philadelphia.
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