I cried while taking pictures of my oldest son on the first day of his senior year of high school.

Not because he was a senior.  Not because summer had come to an end.  Not because I wasn’t ready for him to grow up (well kind of)..

I cried because, almost 5 years earlier, after being diagnosed with Stage IV non-small cell lung cancer at 43 years old, I wasn’t sure I would live long enough to see that day.

When I was diagnosed in December of 2019, I was told I had six to twelve months to live. After responding well to treatment, my second opinion cautiously gave us a little more hope, maybe two years. At the time, the five-year survival rate for Stage IV lung cancer was just five percent.

So one morning I woke up and told my husband that someone had to be part of the five percent so it might as well be me.  This would allow me to live long enough to see my oldest graduate from high school.  As a mom, I needed a goal.

Today, against the odds, I am preparing to send my children back to school for the sixth school year since my diagnosis. My oldest is now a junior in college, my daughter is a sophomore in college, and my youngest is a sophomore in high school. Every August reminds me just how grateful I am to witness another first day of school.

Back-to-school season has always been bittersweet for me.

There are a few things that instantly transport me back to childhood.   One of those walking down the school supply aisle. I can smell the permanent marker before I even take the cap off. Fresh filler paper. Brand-new crayons. Boxes of sharpened pencils. Color-coded folders waiting to be labeled. As a former teacher, I have always loved the anticipation that comes with a new school year. Even now, I can’t resist wandering those aisles and buying myself a few new school supplies..

Before cancer, I was always a little sad to send my kids back to school. I loved the slower pace of summer.  The vacations, late mornings, evenings at the pool, and simply having the kids home with me. BUT, I also welcomed the return of routine school brings.  There is something special about a fresh start, whether you’re five years old or fifty years old.

Cancer hasn’t taken those feelings away.  It simply has amplified them.

Every new school year means my children are another year older.  Another year closer to becoming adults and building lives of their own. That is what every parent hopes for, yet as a mom living with Stage IV lung cancer, they carry a different weight.  I don’t just see another school year.  I see another year I have been given.

When my children were younger, preparing for school involved much more than buying backpacks and filling out registration forms.  Every August, I wrote emails to teachers, school counselors, and administrators.  Those emails never got easier.  Every year, I felt like I was dropping a bomb into someone’s inbox.  “Hi, my name is Leah…” Before long, I would be explaining that I had Stage IV lung cancer.

It always felt strange because if you met me in the grocery store or sat next to  me at back to school night, you would never know I was living with advanced cancer. I look healthy and still volunteer when I can. Then suddenly I was asking other people to carry one of the hardest things my family deals with, but I knew why I was doing it.

I wanted the adult who spent so much time with my children to understand that they might be carrying something a little heavier than the average student. I wanted counselors to know they had permission to check in. I wanted teachers to understand if one of my children seemed distracted or unusually emotional. I wanted administrators to know that if my health suddenly changed, our family might need a little extra grace.

I also didn’t want anyone to be caught off guard if one of my children casually mentioned that their mom had cancer. Kids have a way of sharing big information at the most random times. Teachers hear it all and I wanted them to be prepared with the correct information about my diagnosis.  As a former teacher, I also knew those emails mattered. I never viewed information like this about my students like one more thing on my plate. It  helped me understand what a student might be carrying before they ever walked into my classroom. It reminded me to offer grace, to quietly check in, or possibly to become a safe place for a child who needed one. That is exactly what I hoped my own children’s teachers would become.

As my children grew, so did the challenges.

Middle school brought a new layer of emotions. Those are the years when children desperately want to blend in.  Having a parent with cancer automatically makes you different.  I couldn’t change that.  What I could do was make sure my children were surrounded by adults who knew our story and could step up if they noticed one of them struggling.

High school brought another shift.  The emails I wrote each August changed.  Instead of explaining why my younger children might need extra emotional support, I found myself asking teachers and counselors to simply keep an eye on my teenagers.  Every twelve weeks, I travel from Kentucky to MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston for scans and follow-up appointments. Those trips have become routine, but mentally and emotionally they never will be.  Unfortunately my children know exactly what scan week means. They know that one appointment could change everything.

While I’m away, they’re expected to sit in class, take tests, finish homework, and carry on with life while quietly wondering whether their mom is ok.  I don’t ask for lower expectations for my children.  I simply ask them to be aware.  To let me know if they seem unusually anxious.  If they’re withdrawing.  If they don’t quite seem like themselves.  Over the last 6 plus years, I have become incredibly grateful for the teachers, counselors, coaches, principals, school nurses, and administrators who quietly became part of our family’s support team.

Back-to-school season also brings another reality many families navigating cancer understand all too well.  The financial burden.  School supplies. New clothes. Athletic fees. Laptops. Dorm essentials. Parking passes. Books. College tuition.  Those expenses don’t stop for medical bills, insurance deductibles, travel costs for treatment, time away from work, and the financial toxicity that often accompanies a cancer diagnosis.  So many parents deal with this stress and as they get older and more aware, so do their children.  Our children are just like other kids excited by picking out a new backpack, choosing the perfect notebook, decorating a dorm room, or walking into school on the first day feeling prepared and confident.  If you know a family in this situation please know that back to school may be hard for several reasons.

Then senior year arrived.  The year I had been praying for.  I cried at opening ceremonies.  I cried when his basketball team won the regional championship.  I cried when he put his tux on for prom.  I cried at graduation.

Not because I was sad he was growing up (well, kind of).  I cried because I had made it.  I watched him walk across that stage.  I hugged him afterward.  I took the pictures.  I soaked in every second.

Somewhere in the middle of all those tears, I realized something I never expected.  I had spent years believing that if I could just reach graduation, I could finally exhale.  Instead, I realized there was no finish line.  Parenthood doesn’t work that way.  Just when I thought graduation might bring a sense of relief, cancer had another lesson for me.

College.

Every parent tells you how hard it is to leave your child at college.  They’re right, but for me, there is another layer.  Every move-in day leaves me wondering how many more I’ll get.  How many parent weekends.  How many fraternity brother visits during the summers.  How many sorority mother-daughter brunches.  How many late-night phone calls before big exams.  How many two-hour drives to check on a sick college kid.  How many move-out days.  How many ordinary weekends when everyone is back under one roof.

Now my heart has quietly set a new goal.  I want to watch my youngest graduate with the Class of 2029.  Will I be there?  I honestly don’t know.  I know I am living with an incurable cancer.  I know my health could turn on a dime.  I also know that none of us are promised tomorrow.  Not me.  Not you.

So I am here for it.  The first-day-of-school pictures.  The robotics practices.  The parent weekends.  The late-night phone calls from almost grown children who still want and need their mom.  The two-hour drives.  The back-to-school vaccinations.  The move-in days.  The move-out days.  The backpacks.  The bus stops.  Every seemingly ordinary moment.

Because somewhere between hearing the words, “You have six to twelve months to live,” and watching my oldest son walk across the stage to receive his high school diploma, I realized something that changed me forever.  I thought my goal was to make it to graduation.  Instead, I realized parenthood doesn’t have a finish line…

There is no amount of time that will ever be enough to be here with and for my children.