Our daughter June lay motionless on the operating table, preparing for the insertion of a Broviac-Hickman dual lumen central line. At just eight months old, she was battling cancer. Just weeks before, I discovered a tumor in her abdomen, and we had recently learned she had high-risk neuroblastoma.

The line was placed in June's chest cavity, curling over her collarbone and emerging from her delicate neck, a stark contrast of plastic tubes before it descended into the subclavian vein, hidden from view. It was strategically positioned near her heart to administer chemotherapy designed for adults, carefully adjusted so it wouldn’t overwhelm her tiny body. It would also provide continuous morphine and antibiotics and later deliver nutrition when she lacked the strength to wake.

In her final year, there were countless days when June’s only connection to the outside world came from what the line provided and the love I could muster for her. Even now, I often feel as if my cells are in denial, endlessly pouring love for her despite her absence.

After June’s cancer diagnosis, the central line became a lifeline.

For any parent, managing the remnants of the umbilical cord before it fell off is a daunting task. I was constantly anxious about it getting caught on her onesie during diaper changes. I often found myself frantically searching for care instructions, despite being a nurse—my brain seemed to shut down when it came to my children's care.

The day I finally found the last piece of her umbilical cord, I felt a sense of relief wash over me. "Should we keep it?" I eagerly asked my husband, holding a Ziplock bag. His reaction was one of confusion, while I beamed with naïve joy, believing it symbolized our shared pain and connection.

That umbilical cord was her first lifeline.

Imagine the anxiety of caring for a central line compared to just a bellybutton scab. The worry peaked as I prepared to change her, unbuttoning her onesie to reveal the latest wound.

First, it was the umbilicus.

Then came the central line.

A central line demands constant attention, unlike a healing belly button that can be ignored. It requires nurturing, particularly when your energy is running low.

Like a ship stripped of its hull, I felt vulnerable. Each small concern throughout the day weighed me down until I was drowning in worry. The day June received her line felt like adding concrete to my already sinking vessel.

A central line serves as a lifeline, but if neglected, it could also lead to death. I bore the weight of June’s line, floating aimlessly, searching for a glimmer of hope amidst the chaos of pediatric cancer.

The day she underwent surgery, my husband and I waited in her hospital room. A nurse practitioner entered, offering us a handbook on caring for the line, which we reviewed for an hour. Yet, my mind was solely focused on June and her surgery.

The key takeaway was clear: If June developed a fever of 100.4°F or higher, we had to contact her oncologist immediately. This could signal a life-threatening infection due to the foreign line in her body. We couldn't afford to take any chances.

I didn’t open the pediatric cancer textbook given to me at her diagnosis. I feared it would join the other reminders of denial in my kitchen closet.

“Keep it out of her diaper line,” the nurse practitioner warned us ominously.

Upon returning home, I placed the handbook in the closet, making space for the dense resources that filled me with dread. I greeted June and my husband as they arrived home, carefully lifting her from the car seat. She cried out in pain as I laid her on the changing table, an act that felt eerily similar to our first day home from the hospital.

I gazed at my beautiful baby, fresh from surgery, lifting her shirt carefully, reminiscent of when her belly button was still clamped just months earlier.

The new version of me met this new version of my baby, and I felt stripped down to my essence.

The line appeared grotesque, an unnatural intrusion sutured into her delicate skin.

Later, the doorbell rang, bringing a box filled with heparin, saline flushes, antiseptic caps, alcohol pads, gloves, and yellow Kelly clamps. I began sorting the supplies, realizing that I might have to accept this as my new reality.

I carried a small bin of supplies upstairs, organizing them on her changing table. The line, emerging from June’s chest, split into two long catheters. I soon found them dangling dangerously close to her diaper.

I scrambled for alcohol pads to clean the lumens. Had they been compromised? I couldn’t see any bacteria! I would have to wait and watch for signs of infection.

I cried.

I couldn’t bear to think that I had put June at risk.

I secured the lumens away from her diaper, but they wouldn't stay in place. I tried adhesive clips, only for them to irritate her skin. As chemotherapy approached, I worried about her ability to heal.

Each week at the clinic, the nurses and I experimented with different methods to keep the line safe. We moved the clips to less irritated areas, but the irritation always returned.

“Temporary” became the mantra of our daily life with pediatric cancer, a concept I wished I had grasped earlier.

Panic gripped me during every diaper change.

Sometimes, the line would slip from the clip and dangle outside her onesie. I had to be vigilant to prevent it from being pulled out.

The line was a constant source of stress, adding to the worry of her cancer diagnosis. It was essential for her eighteen-month treatment, but I couldn’t imagine how it would endure as she grew more active.

Weeks into managing the line, I searched online for ways to secure it within her clothing. I stumbled upon a product called CareAline, designed specifically to keep central lines safely tucked away on children’s bodies.

I was astonished to discover a family creating such products for children like June. I eagerly explored the website, finding a video of a mother explaining how CareAline began.

I wasn’t alone.

There were others, like me, navigating the hardships of pediatric cancer.

CareAline quickly became my lifeline. I purchased several wraps, alleviating my fears of infection as the line was no longer at risk of getting caught in her diaper or being yanked by little hands.

After June passed, I found the CareAline wraps tucked away in drawers, repurposed by my older daughter for her dolls when we could no longer use them for June.

A year later, I volunteered at a bereavement retreat organized by Rett’s Roost for families affected by childhood cancer.

As I exchanged farewells with familiar faces, I held a framed photograph of June for the altar. I stepped outside to find a couple in conversation, and upon greeting them, the man remarked that my photo of June reminded him of his daughter.

We shared a moment, admiring the photo together.

They mentioned their daughter had the same beautiful, wise eyes and had also succumbed to neuroblastoma.

When I meet another parent who has endured a similar loss, I linger and connect. Their understanding of the grief and anger we share is profound and comforting.

Yet, despite their loss, they were alive.

There is something uniquely powerful about encountering someone who has faced the same devastating loss and still chooses to embrace life.

This couple was attending their first bereavement retreat, having lost their daughter over ten years prior. They were still working to gather resources for families affected by cancer.

“What’s your website?” I inquired.

“It’s spelled Care-Aline,” the woman replied. “We offer PICC sleeves and central line wraps for kids—”

“You make those?” I asked, stunned as my past collided with my present.

“Yes,” they responded in unison.

A beacon of hope.

In that moment, I felt a connection with these individuals who had unknowingly supported me through my darkest days, helping me realize I wasn’t alone in this fight against cancer.

During the harrowing times when I was alone with June and her frightening diagnosis, the invasive line, and the daunting books on my shelf, CareAline provided me with a tool to cope.

When the wrap arrived in the mail, I embraced June tightly, aware that life had become unpredictable. I carefully placed the CareAline wrap around her tiny chest, slipping the double lumens into the specially designed pocket.

The wrap was more than just fabric; it symbolized hope—a lifeline amidst the turmoil. It was a temporary reprieve that allowed me to regain my strength.

With renewed energy, I prepared dinner for the first time in ages, filled with love for June as I watched her play without fear. My anxiety transformed into hope, enabling me to be a mother rather than just a caregiver.

“June, we’ve got this baby. We’ve got this,” I whispered, genuinely believing it for the first time since her diagnosis.

Meeting the compassionate creators of CareAline after June’s passing felt like destiny. It was no coincidence but rather a reminder from the universe that I was exactly where I needed to be. In the aftermath of losing June, faith found its way back into my heart.

“Thank you for what you did for me, for June, and for families like ours,” I expressed through tears. “I can never fully convey my gratitude.”

The memories of our time together, stacked cups on the living room floor during her final months, played in my mind. Those moments of joy amidst chaos were my lifeline.

Though I cannot reclaim that time, I cherish the memories forever.

I look forward to creating new memories that may somehow involve June.

Meeting that couple at the bereavement retreat reassured me that even in her absence, she was guiding me to understand that everything would unfold as it was meant to.