The words we use to talk about cancer, in children and adults, influence how we think about cancer and those unlucky enough to be touched by it. Survivors are called "victorious" and "winners." Those who have not survived their cancer are called "angels" and "in a better place.

My challenge, to anyone who cares to tackle it, is to keep your eyes open a bit longer than you think you can stand. If for only one day this month, enter the world of childhood cancer. Become aware.

Most of the other guests at Jill's House were older men receiving proton for their prostate cancer. These folks quickly became like extra grandparents to Donna and Mary Tyler Son. There was always a set of arms wanting to hold and moon over the baby. It was a Brigadoon in Cancerville.

Donna developed a fever and we were told to bring her in to the ER. It was 3 a.m. on Christmas Eve and there was a blizzard happening. Poor Mary Tyler Dad was out in the alley trying to push the car and I was inches from delivery and trying to steer the car with my big belly in the way.

As we exited the plane, rows of Chicago firefighters and police officers gave the kids standing ovations. I lost it -- tears, sniffles, undisguised emotion. Something about these men and women who put their lives on the line daily saluting these sick kids really moved me.

Now is the time for action if you agree there should be a stronger law to protect your kids from toxic chemicals found in your couches, carpets, household cleaners, canned foods and more.

After a checkup to ensure Donna's brain wasn't swelling from the drugs, our oncologist asked her, "How is it that you are as sweet as you are?" Donna considered that question a moment, turned to look at me, and responded: "Because I love my Mommy and Daddy so much."

How to reconcile the girl in our photos, our beautiful Donna, with the photos the doctors order, those inside her body? How, as a parent, do you make sense of what you see in front of you and what the doctors tell you is happening?

Getting Donna into dance was one of the ways we chose hope, the mantra that had guided our Cancer Parenting since diagnosis. Choosing hope meant believing that Donna would enjoy her classes, make it to the recital, shine on a stage like the star she was, and live.

My heart breaks a little whenever I see these photos. I ache for the family that was. I want to protect our naivete. While I can't do that, I can remember the family we were. I can see our joy and our love and marvel at Donna's beauty and light. All of those things are intact. Still, today, intact.

I cannot describe what it is like to see your child suffer and know that you are incapable of making it better.

You know your kid is sick when you're jealous of another kid's cancer.

If you see a bald child, smile. Look their parent in the eye. Let them know you understand. Be aware that you are looking at greatness. Know that kid is amazing and brave and so very, heartbreakingly vulnerable. Just like Donna.

There my husband was, tossing his burger, repeatedly, and I was incensed. 'How could he?' I remember thinking. My picture-perfect family getaway where we were going to ignore cancer for five whole days was being usurped not by chemo or neutropenia or cancer but by blue cheese!

When you are caring for a child with cancer, you take nothing for granted. Nothing.

I was huddled in a corner wrapped in a prayer blanket that had been gifted to me that morning. There was a hush in the room and the nurses silently completed their task. The space felt sacred.