Side effects from Cytarabine

Watching someone you love go through chemotherapy is like standing in a storm with no shelter — you can’t stop the wind, you can’t quiet the thunder, and all you can do is hold on and hope it passes soon.

Lately, that storm has been named Betsie.

After each round of Cytarabine, I watch it hit her. The exhaustion that sinks into her bones. The nausea that rolls in waves. The way even simple things — standing up, eating a few bites, walking across the room — suddenly become mountains. It is brutal and relentless and unfair. And the hardest part? I can’t fix it.

I would trade places with her in a heartbeat. I wish I could just trade places with her. It’s so unfair.

There’s something so painful about being the witness. When you’re the one who’s sick, at least you’re fighting. When you’re the one watching, you feel helpless. You measure time by medication schedules and side effects. You celebrate small victories: a few sips of water, a short nap, a moment when the pain and sickness eases. You learn to read subtle signs — the way she shifts on the sofa, the look in her eyes when the nausea creeps back in. Her little voice saying she’s going to be sick.

And through it all, she makes no fuss whatsoever.

That’s what gets me most.

She doesn’t complain. Not once. She doesn’t snap. She doesn’t cry. She just endures. Quietly. Steadily. Bravely. Even when her body is wrung out and trembling, she just wipes her mouth, pushes the sick bowl away and says ‘I’m all done.’ Even when she feels awful she finds the energy to smile and it makes my heart break and heal at the same time.

Her strength is not loud. It’s not dramatic. It doesn’t demand attention.

It’s steady.

It’s the kind of bravery that shows up in the small moments. It’s agreeing to the next medicine even though she knows what’s coming. Taking the oral medication, knowing it tastes horrible. Letting herself rest when she’d rather be doing a hundred other things any other toddler would be doing. Then getting up and doing it all over again

I am so proud of her I can barely put it into words.

Proud of her resilience. Proud of her strength. Proud of the way she refuses to let this awful disease define her spirit, even when it’s clearly attacking her body. Proud of the quiet courage she carries in her small tiny body.

And yes, sometimes I cry when she can’t see me.

Not because she isn’t strong — but because she is. Because no one should have to be this strong. Especially someone so young! Because loving someone means feeling their suffering in your own chest. Because watching the person you love most fight the hardest battle of her life changes you.

Cancer is cruel. Chemotherapy is harsh. There’s no pretending otherwise.

But if there is anything brighter, it is Betsie’s spirit.

One day, this season will be something we look back on — a chapter we survived. Until then, we take it one hour at a time. One treatment at a time. One wave of nausea at a time.

And I will keep doing the only thing I can do: sitting beside her in the storm, holding her hand, and marvelling at the extraordinary courage of the little girl I love more than anything in the world.

I am so, so proud of you, Betsie.