Boy, my almost three year old irrepressible cheeky monkey of a son, has had swollen lymph nodes, so his dad took him to the doctor yesterday morning. The doctor said it was almost certainly nothing - but there was a teeny tiny chance it was leukemia. That's right: the doctor dropped the 'L' bomb.
It's funny how the tiniest portion of a miniscule possibility can knock you right on your parental arse. Against all logic, my partner and spent the day almost in anguish. At one stage I sequestered myself in the loo at work, so my colleagues wouldn't see me sniffling. I couldn't wait to get home to see Boy, who rewarded my concern by climbing along the back of the couch and jumping on my head from behind.
This morning, Boy's lymph nodes are smaller, and it seems like the sun is shining again after a storm. Everything's in perspective once more, and the possibility of Boy having cancer appears exactly as it is - almost nil.
So I feel like a bit of a dick. But mostly, I feel grateful for having that thing which is so easy to take for granted: healthy, happy children.