My name is Jordan, and I’m the proud mom of four boys: Arian, who’s nine; Tias, who’s six; Kian, who’s five, and little Taren, who’s three.  

Before cancer, our days were filled with school runs, speed skating, and helping my husband on our dairy farm. It was a full, happy, chaotic life. 

Then Kian started spiking fevers and complaining of tummy pain. After two weeks, my nursing instincts told me something wasn’t right. I pushed for tests. The bloodwork came back abnormal, and before we knew it, we were being transferred to the Children’s Hospital more than 100 km away in Hamilton. 

At first, doctors suspected infection or sepsis. Leukemia wasn’t obvious because there were no bruises or the usual signs. But then came the words no parent ever expects to hear: your child has cancer. 

From that day forward, everything changed. 

Kian’s treatment was filled with complications. He needed a rare blood transfusion flown in from BC because of unusual antibodies. He developed an infection at his bone marrow site. And he had to have an NG tube—a thin tube through his nose into his stomach—for both chemo and feeding. The adhesive from the tube caused painful skin infections, and his blood counts were painfully slow to recover. 

We expected to be at hospital for a week but ended up living there for two months. The high-dose steroids brought a whole other set of challenges: a puffy face, weight gain, mood swings, and hunger that made him “hangry.”  

But the physical part was only half of it. 

Cancer has been a thief in our lives. 

My husband is a dairy farmer, and you can’t just take time off when you own the farm. So, I left my nursing job (eventually giving up my license) to manage Kian’s care full-time. Cancer didn’t just bring financial strain; it stole time, attention, and energy from our whole family. It changed who we are, how we parent, and who remains in our lives. 

It stole bonding time with my youngest son, time I’ll never get back. It left my older kids wrestling with anxiety and feeling invisible. My eldest, Arian, once wrote that “everyone is always concerned about Kian, but forget that we exist.” Hearing that as a mom breaks you. 

Coming home after long hospital stays was hard. Kian looked like a different child. He was bloated from steroids, a tube taped to his face, unable to walk steadily. Sometimes he crawled; sometimes his brothers had to help him move. Watching your child lose basic abilities is devastating. 

But there were moments of grace. Once, when all Kian wanted was dill pickles, a friend showed up with a jar—peeled and cut small enough not to irritate his feeding tube. To anyone else, it might have looked like a jar of pickles. To me, it was survival. 

And then, there was POGO. 

I can’t describe what a gift it is to have some piece of normalcy when everything else has been torn apart. 

The POGO Satellite Clinic in Kitchener-Waterloo became our lifeline. Instead of driving hours to Hamilton, Kian could get expert care close to home. That meant less time on the road, more time with his brothers, and a chance for all of us to feel normal again. 

I can’t describe what a gift it is to have some piece of normalcy when everything else has been torn apart. 

Beyond care, the clinic gave us something just as important: community. The staff knew us by name. They understood the ups and downs of treatment and made us feel seen. Through POGO, we learned that we were never alone in this. 

Today, Kian is strong, funny, and creative. He’s even started making videos to help other kids understand what cancer treatment is like. That’s who he is: a little boy who turns something painful into something that helps someone else. 

When I look at Kian, I see how far he’s come, but I also see how far we’ve come as a family. My husband and I have weathered storms we never imagined. Arian, Tias, and Taren have learned resilience no child should need to. And I’ve learned that asking for help—and accepting it—is not weakness. It’s survival. 

– By Jordan Vanstee