Tyson Symons

Our family’s journey with cancer began on December 28, 2021. Our oldest, Tyson—just 12 weeks old at the time—was brought to the emergency department because he was struggling to breathe and had cold-like symptoms. While receiving care at South Health Campus, we were transferred to the Alberta Children’s Hospital, where we were quickly given the devastating news: Tyson had leukemia.

He was admitted to the PICU and treatment began immediately. We learned that Tyson had been diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukemia, with a KMT2A variant known as ELL. Our medical team explained that his chances of survival were less than 10% without a stem cell transplant.

For over 150 agonizing days, my wife, my son, and I shared a small room at the Alberta Children’s Hospital. My wife never left the hospital and rarely left the room—her only focus was comforting our son and being by his side every moment she could.

By March 2022, we were told a donor had been found—a 9/10 match from an amazing anonymous man somewhere in Europe. Tyson received his second chance at life on April 14, 2022. By May 9, just one day after Mother’s Day, we were finally able to go home. His recovery continued through frequent check-ups that slowly went from twice weekly, to weekly, to bi-weekly, then monthly, and eventually to every few months. Almost five years later, Tyson is now a happy, energetic big brother—sometimes a little too loud, but full of life.

One thing that helped us get through it all was finding humour in the everyday moments. During a COVID isolation, my wife and I ended up in a “quiet shouting” match—whisper-yelling at each other to go for a walk, only to remember we couldn’t actually leave.

We also became very familiar with Raffi, as we made the terrible choice of avoiding screens except for the occasional rerun of CSI: Miami. So ‘Apples and Bananas’ was played for almost every procedure or central line dressing change. I once told a nurse—who happened to be a bit too loud—that our son “has a weird thing where loud noises wake him up.”

We often joked about starting “Beads of Courage,” but after 10 days in the PICU, intrathecal chemotherapy, and a sudden bout of seizures, we lost track before we even made it to the oncology unit for the remaining 140 days.

If you asked my wife what kept her going, she would say it was the hope of returning to the mountains with her son, and her deep, unwavering love for him. Our room at ACH always had a view of the mountains—and thankfully, they both got to return to them.

If I can leave you with one thing, it would be the phrase that carried me through it all: one step at a time. I remember walking from my car to the PICU late one night, forcing myself forward when everything felt overwhelming—just one step, then the next.

On October 17th, we will take it one step at a time for those who are fighting, those who are thriving, and those who we have lost. Cancer journeys often feel like that—just one step at a time. Even when treatment ends, the journey doesn’t. So we keep going for them, one step at a time.