Zack

  April is a strange time in our household. Life carries on as it always doe, school runs, meals, laughter, the everyday rhythm we’ve rebuilt but underneath it all, we remember. It’s been three years since Zack’s brain tumour diagnosis. In many ways, life is different. In many ways, it looks the same. But everything has shifted—the pace we move at, the direction we take, the way we measure time. These days, time isn’t counted in months or seasons, but in scans. Three months at a time. Waiting, watching, wondering. We live in the in-between. The space where every small change can feel significant. A headache, a quiet day, a moment that feels just slightly “off” and the questions begin: Is he okay? Is something different? That quiet vigilance never really leaves. The fear of the tumour returning sits in the background, a constant undercurrent to even the brightest days. And yet, here we are. Tomorrow, we’ll receive the results of his latest scan. It’s been a full year since ...

  The weeks leading up to your child’s scan are a kind of quiet storm. From the outside, life looks almost normal. School runs still happen. Dinners still get made. Conversations still fill the house. But underneath it all, there’s a constant hum , a tension that never quite switches off. It sits in your chest, in your thoughts, in the silence when the house finally goes to sleep… except you don’t. Sleep becomes a stranger in those weeks. You lie awake replaying everything. Every small symptom. Every “what if.” Every memory you wish you could forget but somehow feels sharper than ever. Your mind doesn’t rest it spirals. You tell yourself to be positive, to stay grounded, but anxiety doesn’t listen to logic. It just exists. Loud and persistent. The truth is, the anxiety is real. Deeply real. And it doesn’t matter how much time has passed. This was the time, three years ago,  when everything changed. When the word “tumour” entered your life in a way we could never have prepared ...