I See You - A Letter to the Parents of Children Battling Cancer, From a Peds Oncology Nurse

When you hear the words, “Your child has cancer,” the world does not just pause — it shifts.

Before I was a pediatric hematology and oncology nurse, people often planted doubts in my head about choosing pediatrics.

“Seeing sick kids must be so hard.”
“Just because you like kids doesn’t mean you’ll like caring for them every day.”
And the one that never sat well with me:
“What about having to take care of the anxious parents too? That’s gotta be hard.”

Since starting my job as a pediatric hematology and oncology nurse in July of 2024, I have witnessed firsthand the strength of families facing life-altering diagnoses. This post has been on my heart ever since. Because while I care for brave, resilient children every shift — I also care for you, the parents.

And I see you.

I know I don’t know what it truly feels like to be in your shoes. I have never sat in the chair where you sit when a doctor explains treatment plans and side effects. I have never had to sign consent forms for chemotherapy for my own child. But I have listened. I have stood beside you and held you. I have caught glimpses of just how fragile — and just how powerful — this role is.

When your child is first diagnosed, everything feels overwhelming. New language. New routines. New fears. You are expected to absorb it all while your heart is breaking. And somehow, you still show up as their safe place.

I see you needing a moment to scream and cry in the hall - I’ll sit with your child and they’ll never know a tear fell from your face. 

I see you swallowing back the emotions but choosing instead to stay strong for your kid - I wish I could personally take some of the weight for you. 

I see you bowing your head down in prayer when your child refuses their life-saving meds - let me be the “bad guy” and give it to them.

I see you wanting to jump up and down for the little wins, but hesitating because you know how much of the journey is left and that the next scan is full of unknowns.

I see you feeling like you’re missing out on your other kids’ lives at home, missing their first smiles and steps and I see the guilt that follows those thoughts. You are doing the impossible.

I see you blaming yourself when your kid is back in the hospital with a new infection - it is absolutely not your fault. 

I see you thinking you are asking too much of your nurses - trust me, you never are and never will be.

You are living the unimaginable — the kind of story that used to make you tear up during a commercial, not the one you ever expected to live. It is beyond unfair.

Yet you amaze me. You become the nurse you never wanted to have to be — all while still being Mom. Still being Dad.

One of the most valuable pieces of advice I received as a new nurse was simple:
“The parent will be your best friend.”

Because you know your child.

When we wonder if something feels “off,” we ask you. The back of your hand truly is the best thermometer. 

You may feel like you are barely holding it together, but from where I stand, you are the armor behind your hero of a child.

I used to be scared of silence in difficult conversations, but being an oncology nurse has forced me to get out of this habit. A listening ear, I have learned, is all that you sometimes need - to talk to something else that’s not an extended family member that doesn’t seem to understand what you’re going through. Something else that is not the four walls of the hospital room you’ve been stuck in for 28 days.

Funny enough, the very thing people warned me about — “the parents” — is one of the greatest honors of my job. The relationships we build with families are what sustain us. Your resilience inspires us. Your love teaches us. Your courage strengthens us in our own lives, even outside work. 

There’s this incredible mom by the name of Shelby Skiles who heroically experienced the reality of a cancer diagnosis when her 2 year old daughter, Sophie, was battling T-Cell Lymphoma, back in 2016. 

Since diagnosis, this mother consistently wrote blog posts about her little girl’s journey, and graciously granted me approval to mention her story on my blog after I came across her Facebook page. One post, a letter to pediatric nurses like the ones caring for “Sophie the Brave,” went viral. The post brought me to tears and filled my heart with gratitude for what I get to call my job. 

She saw her nurses. And I hope you feel seen by us, too. 

“You say ‘No owies’ and ‘I’m sorry’ more times in one day than most people say ‘thank you.’” She said, “I see you carrying arm loads of medicine and supplies into one child’s room all while your phone is ringing in your pocket from the room of another…” Our chaotic reality could never come close to comparing to the parents of our patients, but is a sweet reminder of the joy that is busyness at work - I’m trying to see it as one opportunity after another to show our love and passion for getting to care for patients and families like Shelby’s own.

“I see you using your phone as a template to paint the perfect cartoon character on the new kid’s window…Our children wouldn’t get what they need without you.”

Little do you know, we couldn’t keep doing it without kids like Sophie and the joy they bring to us in return.

In this letter, Sophie’s mom took the time to appreciate the way their nurses checked in on her just as much as they checked in on her daughter. She noticed when her nurse would sit down for some time to listen to her, phone ringing and buzzing like crazy in their pocket. To my nurses reading, sound familiar?

Since I know mainly nurses follow my blog, I have to say, I hope, like me, this only inspires you to be there in more ways than one for your patients’ families, and to be truly servant-hearted. My prayer for us is that our resilience continues to be built by the families we encounter. I pray in the moments of the silly chaos - running out of hands while a patient is calling out 5x in a row for Cheerios they can easily walk and get themselves, we can take a step back more often to understand how far a simple Bluey drawing on the door can go. I pray that we can encourage more nurses to step into the colorful pediatric world for the parents who inspire us equally as much as their children do.

To the moms and dads I get to care for each shift, we notice the way you memorize lab trends. The way you sleep upright in a chair without complaining. The way you advocate fiercely but still thank us afterward. The way you keep loving so intentionally in the middle of pure chaos and fear. On the days when you feel like you cannot possibly keep going — know that you are not walking this alone. We are walking it with you. Step by step. Scan by scan. Day by day.

I see you.

The facebook link to Shelby’s letter can be found here: https://www.facebook.com/share/p/1DpURsMFbb/