When my sister Nicole was diagnosed with leukemia, I was five and a half months pregnant.
When my mom told me how the doctors had diagnosed her, I cried. When I went to visit her for the first time, I cried again. I cried a lot those first few days. But when the PICU nurse told me that I needed to be prepared to help my parent's bury a child, I didn't cry. I couldn't. I stared at him. I didn't know how to respond, so I just thanked him for taking care of my sister.
That same day, Tyson and I went to stay at my aunt's house for the night. I didn't sleep hardly at all. I couldn't get the nurse's words out of my head. Before that, I'd sort of clung to the reality that cancer is curable nowadays. But Nicole's case was not an average case. Her case was so unheard of that you couldn't even Google it. There weren't statistics to go on. Her doctors didn't even know how to proceed. She was a worst case scenario. And I couldn't ignore that anymore.
Before, I'd cried because she was my sister and I didn't want her to have cancer. I cried because I hated seeing my parents go through it. I cried because she was hooked up to more machines than I could count. I cried because I was scared. I also cried because I was just plain hormonal. But that night, sitting on my aunt's couch bed, I cried for different reasons.
I was going to have a baby. That baby and Nicole were supposed to be best friends. How were they going to be best friends if Nicole was dead?
I had big plans for the two of them. Coordinating Halloween costumes, playing in the sprinklers in my parent's backyard, sticking them in the tub together, etc. I know those things don't seem that important when compared to the other effects her possible death could have had, but they were important to me. And I cried because I suddenly didn't know if those things were going to happen.
Not too long ago, Jace and Nicole had coordinating Halloween costumes. Last week, they sat in the bathtub together. They know each other's names and talk about each other even when they're not together. They play together. They also scream at and hit each other. Sometimes they share, sometimes they don't. When Nicole is sad, Jace will stick her binky in her mouth. When Jace is sad, Nicole will tell me to get his blanket. They share cups and steal each other's food.
Everything and more that I wanted to happen already has, and they are only toddlers.
Sometimes, when I see them together I'm overcome with happiness. Sometimes in those moments I remember Nicole lying in that hospital covered in bruises and tubes and I can't believe how blessed my family is to still have her here.
All things denote there is a God; yea, even the earth, and all things that are upon the face of it, yea, and its motion, yea, and also all the planets which move in their regular form do witness that there is a Supreme Creator. Alma 30:44
All things. From the miraculous medical technology and intelligent medical staff that saved Nicole's life to the little rocks and sticks that Jace collects outside, all things denote there is a God. Everything around us is proof that we have a Heavenly Father. And moments like the one in the picture below denote that God is mindful of us and loves us.
When I look at this picture, I think of that scripture. Jace and Nicole are both little miracles in my life, and I can't help but see God's hand in moments like these.
To read more about my cute little sister, check out these posts: