A blurb from the book Childhood Leukemia; A Guide for Families, Friends and Caregivers

Chemo is such a horrible thing to do to your child, but at least you are actively fighting the beast, so when it ends you feel a bit like you're flying without a net. You get so used to this bizarre new "normal" of treatments ad blood tests and doctor visits and then suddenly you stop, but you don't get the old normal back.
I think it's probably best to approach the end of treatment as a chance to see your child get his healthy color and energy back and a opportunity to create and explore a new "normal" for your family that is richer and more meaningful than the one you left behind. It's also really nice to finally have the chance to reconnect with your spouse (and other children) and heal all the relationships that have taken a beating during the stressful treatment period.
As for me, perhaps a year after Joseph's treatment I existed in a dazed mix of emotions and thoughts. I was fearful of relapse, thrilled that Joseph had survived the cancer and the treatment, concerned about what late effects lay around the corner, all tempered with a warm and thankful feeling that I knew I would never, EVER take my kids or my good life for granted anymore or sweat the small stuff the way I used to. There were days I felt like I didn't want to crawl out from under the bed, and other days I couldn't stop singing and being silly.
I think off treatment is a lot like on treatment-you just have to take it one day at a time.

Today I am obsessed with highlighting, copying and writing down points about the effects of cancer treatment. I have a meeting with the school staff tomorrow and I'm going in armed. I just logged onto my e-mail to look up another blurb about long term late effects and found that a child from my leukemia support group has relapsed. Just three months after finishing treatment. *shudder* Isabel is almost five months off treatment. She's okay. She's fine. The cancer is not coming back. Gah. I just want to put this shit behind me and well...I can't. Because it won't let me. I can't just shake it off because it's always there, hovering like some ghastly ghost. The further she gets from her initial diagnosis the better, no matter what happens, so I will continue to put one foot in front of the other and keep on keeping on.

I have three books on childhood leukemia stacked by my feet, a binder from the hospital about what to expect off treatment, and four papers I'm highlighting, plus the two pages I've typed out and need to print.

I'm in firm denial that Isabel will have any problems whatsoever. Serious denial. I don't want it. I don't want cancer to take away part of her brain function. No, unacceptable. Therefore, I will prepare for it, but refuse to believe it will ever happen.