Seven years ago today I was told to get to the children’s hospital with my son as soon as possible. The ultrasound he had earlier in the day had revealed there were lesions on his liver and a biopsy was necessary.

That night, I would sleep on a faux leather futon next to my sweet baby’s hospital crib. It would be a long night alone, wondering if my perfect love had cancer.

The next day he would have a biopsy and all four of our parents would wait with us to hear the doctor explain hepatoblastoma, a cancer that had overcome his entire liver. He would need chemotherapy to shrink the tumors. But it wouldn’t be enough. He would also need a liver transplant.

My first question was, “Can he survive this?” We were told yes, he could. But, he didn’t.

This is the first October, the first fall season, since we lost him that I haven’t been a complete mess. I’m usually in bed, crying, with no motivation, wishing I could forget these days. These days where I have photos of him nearly walking, swinging, smiling…then within weeks, in the hospital, exhausted, with a port in his chest, and his hair falling out.

I have healed. The wound is deep and will never completely fade. But I’m no longer triggered the same way. These dates and seasonal reminders no longer level me. Because my heart feels better. And I know that perfect angel is sitting right beside me, reminding me that he’s still here. And as long as I can feel him, I can continue to heal.

But this year, I am better. I’ve completed trauma therapy and actively attend CBT with the therapist I met within months of losing him. I’m excited for Halloween, I’m planning my son’s 9th birthday, and I’m seeing friends and making plans.