It's been over three years since we last stayed at the Ronald McDonald house in Toronto - and it was Fiona's lung issue that was the reason for our stay then and the reason for our return this June. 

Lot's has changed in those three years and our stay reflected that. This time, Fiona didn't stay in the hospital overnight and we didn't sleep on a fold-flat chair. Fiona was able to come back to the house with Tim & I during the evenings. Fiona did not need to wear a mask while out of the hospital and was able to play in the courtyard and participate in the crafts and generally enjoy the house. In fact, she said it was rather like a holiday.

And I was able to watch her. And watch all the going-on around and in the house and the hospital.

When you look around either you see parents and caregivers who all have a different reason for being there. Some are there for a routine check up, some are there for treatment and some are there waiting and wondering. Some, like me, are there dealing with another "it" or the fall out and aftermath of whatever the "it" was originally.

There are mums and dads, nannas and grandpas, siblings, aunties and uncles (real and honourary) all working to endure whatever "it" is.  

I always see the Mamas.

And sometimes, if I look closely, if I am paying attention, I see the battles they are fighting, the day they are enduring or the dread and fear they are trying to keep at bay. I see strained smiles and choked back tears. I see the herding to and from rooms and procedures and appointments. I hear the quiet promises of reward for compliance and the whispered threats when the promises don't work. I see the fatigue and the weariness of these mamas as they carry their child through this fight. I watch them take on the changes of the days as if it has no weight when I know it is in fact very, very heavy.

That weariness? That's battle fatigue. This thing they are doing? It's war. That fear? That we won't win. That we won't fight well. That we are doing it wrong.

Because there is no basic training. You are deployed - or re-deployed  - for an unknown period of time. Some of the territory is well known and well travelled. It has better sign-posts but there are still landmines and twists in the road that can send you into less well known - and more dangerous - territory. Some get deployed straight into uncharted territory. The territory of the rare, the special, the complex and complicated. Here you mustbe on guard at all times and things can change in a heart beat. This is the land of ICU and surgeries and experimental. 

Then there are those that are deployed straight to the colonies. You don't come back from the colonies.

So. To the mamas fighting the long drawn out wars where things are well-known and more predictable but no less difficult to endure: You do whatever you have to do to survive steroid or treatment days. You promise the sun and the moon if that is what makes the 90 minute laying perfectly still procedure doable without anesthetic. Feed them the donut and the cupcakes and the drive-thru whatever if it means there's a hope in hell of getting the feeding tube removed. No one knows your battle, your little soldier or the other weight you are carrying. No one can promise you anything and only you know what landmines might still lay ahead. You are fighting and you are doing it right.

To the mamas who are proceeding slowly, with ninja stealth into the dark uncharted territories: You go carefully. You ask as many questions as you can think of and insist on answers. You decide what can and cannot be done and do your own research when you think something is not good enough, thorough enough or just plain wrong. You take breaks when you can and keep vigil when you must. You tell others what you can and cannot bear and take the help when you need it. You celebrate the wins and take the blows as they come. You are fighting and you are doing it right.

For the mamas who are doing the unthinkable and fighting the battle with no winners, only casualties: You are doing the hardest work that love requires. There is dignity in that fight, even when that means laying down your arms and leaving the battle field early and on your terms. However you fight, or don't, you are doing it right.

With all this battle comes trauma, but also a quiet solidarity.

And it doesn't matter if you are on the 8th floor or the 2nd floor or - the place we now visit - the 4th floor, all of us are in this shitty army of rag-tag soldiers, recruited by conscription to fight a fight many of us didn't know existed until we were unceremoniously deployed to the front line of the battle.  

So a couple weeks ago, as I stood in the hallway outside Fiona's room with a team of doctors to discuss the fact that the pulse did nothave the effect we wanted, it was the passing glance and knowing look of a mama walking by that kept me on my feet. It was my fight instinct that kept me dry eyed and asking questions while the team explained this was disappointing but not without hope. And when they said the right next step was to try another pulse in July, it was my battle experience that helped me ask the right questions to prepare for the next deployment. 

I don't like this army and I wish the fighting would stop already. Until it does, I have to keep going. 

I don't have a choice. Neither does Fiona. None of the mamas do.