Sunflowers in the Rain - A Story of MacKenzie

“Sunflowers in the Rain: A Story of Me and MacKenzie”

When I first held MacKenzie in my arms, the world shifted. It was as if everything else blurred into the background—the noise, the chaos, the uncertainty. All that mattered was her soft breath against my skin and the way her tiny fingers wrapped around mine like she already knew she was my reason.

We were a team, just the two of us. As a single mother, life was a careful dance of work and worry, laughter and laundry. She was bright and curious, with a giggle that turned any grey day golden. Books were her favorite adventure—she could get lost in stories of faraway lands, magical creatures, and brave little girls who always found their way home.

When MacKenzie turned five, everything changed.

She’d been more tired than usual, bruises blooming too easily on her skin. I told myself it was nothing. But deep down, something whispered otherwise. The doctor’s office was quiet when they told me: Acute Megakaryocytic Leukemia. I felt the ground disappear beneath me.

“How do I tell her?” I whispered.

But MacKenzie, even then, was brave. Braver than anyone I’ve ever known.

The hospital became our second home, and the Ronald McDonald House became our sanctuary. It was strange at first, living away from home, surrounded by other families facing the same unimaginable reality. But that house—full of volunteers, kind strangers, and comforting meals—became a place of warmth during our coldest days.

MacKenzie loved the playroom. She painted pictures with bursts of color and insisted they be hung up for everyone to see. She made friends easily, comforting younger kids when they cried. Even when the treatments wore her down, she’d smile and ask, “Can I read tonight, Mama?” And we would—cuddled in bed, her voice sometimes reading to me when mine broke.

Every birthday, she wanted to pick out her cake at Dominion. It was our ritual. Grandma would meet us there, and MacKenzie would spend what felt like hours deciding between cupcakes with pink sprinkles or a small chocolate cake with her name written in curly letters. Grandpa always had a snack waiting for her—fruit or nuts, something he knew she’d love. He called her “Sunflower,” because she always turned toward the light.

The days blurred sometimes—between hope and fear, between blood counts and chemo rounds. But even then, we had moments. Ice cream on a hospital balcony. Bubble baths with too many suds. Late-night stories where she asked me if the stars could see her.

She fought so hard. With dignity. With grace. With the strength of someone far beyond her years.

On July 12, 2011, my world stopped. The silence of her absence was the loudest sound I’d ever heard.

But MacKenzie isn’t gone. She’s in every sunflower I see, every book I read, every child’s laughter that catches me by surprise. She’s in me—forever seven, forever brave, forever my little girl.

And I am still her mother.

I will always be her mother.

Sunflowers in the Rain: A Memoir of Me and MacKenzie

By Her Mom

Chapter One: Just Us

When MacKenzie was born on March 25, 2005, I remember thinking—this is what forever feels like. The nurses placed her on my chest, and she blinked up at me with those wide, searching eyes. In that moment, the world shrunk down to just us. Her tiny heartbeat was a promise. I was young, scared, and standing at the edge of a life I wasn’t sure I was ready for—but she made me brave.

Our world was small but full. Mornings with cereal and cartoons, afternoons spent at the park or cuddled on the couch. She had a wild imagination—always turning blankets into castles and pillows into ponies. Her favorite books became our rituals: The Paper Bag Princess, Goodnight Moon, If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, and Olivia. She’d recite lines from The Paper Bag Princess proudly, shouting “Ronald, you are a bum!” with the fierce energy only a little girl pretending to be a dragon-fighter could muster.

Her favorite meal? Homemade macaroni and cheese with broccoli. “Trees in my cheese!” she’d giggle. She also loved bananas, fruit cups, and anything her Grandpa snuck to her—especially dried mango and salted almonds. Her sweet tooth was saved for chocolate cupcakes and her birthday cake each year, handpicked from Dominion, where Grandma worked. She’d run to the bakery section, pressing her hands against the glass, her eyes sparkling.

Chapter Two: The Day Everything Changed

She was four when the bruises started to show. At first, I thought she was just playing too rough—kids fall, right? But then came the fatigue, the pale cheeks, the quieting of a girl who never stopped singing.

They ran tests. I held her hand while she squirmed on the table, trying to be brave. When the doctor walked in with quiet eyes and a clipboard pressed tightly to his chest, I knew.

Acute Megakaryocytic Leukemia.

I remember holding MacKenzie’s shoes in my lap while the words poured over me like cold water. I had to be strong. She needed me. There was no time for falling apart.

When I told her, she said, “Like the kids in that book with the big hospital?” She was talking about Franklin Goes to the Hospital. I nodded. “Will I get a sticker too?” she asked. That was her. Always finding the silver lining.

Chapter Three: Home Away from Home

The Ronald McDonald House became our second home. It was bright and kind. The volunteers knew MacKenzie by name, and she knew which cupboard held the best coloring books. We shared stories with other families over shared meals—lasagna, casseroles, warm cookies.

There were hard days—so many. But there were also magical ones. We built snowmen in the courtyard during a late March snowfall. We had movie nights with popcorn and soft pajamas. On the really tough days, we’d read Love You Forever and cry together.

One night, after a long round of chemo, she turned to me and whispered, “Mama, the stars are your freckles in the sky.” I wrote that down in my journal. I still have it.

Chapter Four: The Quiet Fight

MacKenzie never complained. Even when the needles came, or the nausea, or the hair falling out in clumps. She’d pat her head and say, “I’m just making room for more imagination.” Her strength humbled me. Her laughter—even weak—was a balm.

Her favorite quote became something she told the other kids:

“We’re not sick kids. We’re story kids. We’re just in the middle of the hard part of the book.”

I watched her make friends, comfort them, share her books and snacks. She read Charlotte's Web again and again, especially the ending. “It's sad,” she said, “but it's also beautiful.” She understood more than most adults ever could.

Chapter Five: A Love That Doesn't End

By July of 2011, her body was tired. She looked older than six, in her quiet eyes and wise smile. But she still asked to read.

On the night of July 12, I lay next to her in her hospital bed. We read Goodnight Moon one more time. She whispered, “I love you more than the stars. Even the sleepy ones.”

Then she closed her eyes.

I held her hand long after she was gone. I didn’t know how to leave.

But I never truly did.

Epilogue: My Sunflower

MacKenzie lives in every page I turn, every cupcake I bake, every moment I choose kindness over despair. She taught me how to live, how to laugh through pain, and how to carry someone in your heart even when your arms are empty.

On her birthdays, I still go to Dominion. I still get a cake. I sit with her memory, tell her what she’s missed. She’d be twenty-one now. Maybe she’d be studying literature. Maybe she’d be writing books of her own.

But I know one thing for sure—she’d still call me “Mama,” still turn her face toward the light.

She’s my sunflower in the rain. Always.

Chapter Six: The Empty Room

After the funeral, I walked into her room and stood still. Her books were still on the shelf. Her shoes were by the door. The sheets smelled like her shampoo—grape and lavender. I couldn’t breathe.

Grief is a ghost that moves in with you. It doesn’t knock. It just takes up space. It’s loud in the quiet and quiet in the noise. I’d find myself talking aloud to her, asking, Did you see that bird today, Kenz? Or Do you still remember how we made pancakes with hearts in them?

Some days I sat in her room and read The Paper Bag Princess out loud. Not because I thought she could hear me—though maybe she could—but because it helped me remember the sound of her laugh.

Chapter Seven: What the World Doesn’t See

People think grief ends. That after a funeral, after the casseroles stop coming, after the memorial is held, you “move on.”

But there’s no moving on. There’s only moving with.

I returned to work. I smiled politely. I nodded when people said things like, She’s in a better place or You’re so strong. But inside, I was shattered glass held together by duty.

The only place I felt whole was at the Ronald McDonald House—volunteering, listening, sharing coffee with another mom whose child was in treatment. Sometimes, we didn’t talk about anything. Just sat in the silence, connected by the understanding that life had split us open and stitched us up with threads of courage we didn’t ask for.

Chapter Eight: Remembering Her Loudly

I made a promise: MacKenzie’s name would not be whispered—it would be spoken.

So I told her story. At fundraisers. In schools. At hospitals. I stood before strangers and spoke of sunflowers, cupcakes, bedtime stories, and bravery. I read her favorite quotes and passed out little bookmarks with her drawings on them.

And slowly, the world began to know her too.

One year, I helped organize a book drive for the Ronald McDonald House. We collected hundreds of children’s books—Olivia, Charlotte’s Web, The Paper Bag Princess—and stamped them with a sticker that said:

“In memory of MacKenzie—forever a reader, forever a light.”

Chapter Nine: A Mother Always

On what would’ve been her tenth birthday, I sat by her grave with a cupcake in hand. I sang “Happy Birthday” softly. The wind rustled the trees.

And I realized something: I will always be her mother. Even without her here. Being her mom didn’t end on July 12, 2011. It continues every time I speak her name, live with intention, or comfort another child who misses home during a hospital stay.

She changed me. Not just in the way loss leaves you tender—but in the way love leaves you rooted.

Chapter Ten: Love Like a Sunflower

Sunflowers were MacKenzie’s favorite. She once said, “They always know where the sun is, even on rainy days.” She was my sunflower—tall, bright, reaching always for the light.

Now, I try to live like she did. I read books she never got to read. I bake her favorite meals. I volunteer. I love hard. I laugh fully. I cry freely.

Every July 12, I light a candle. Every March 25, I buy a cake.

And every day in between, I carry her with me.

MacKenzie’s story is not just one of illness. It is one of fierce love, unbreakable bonds, and the way a little girl taught the world how to live—even when she was dying.

Endnote: For the Ones Who Stay Behind

To every parent who’s lost a child, I see you. I walk with you. Our grief may never leave, but neither will their love.

To MacKenzie:

I love you forever. I’ll like you for always.

As long as I’m living—your mama I’ll be.

Great—let’s continue by adding a Dedication, Acknowledgements, and a Foreword, which will give the memoir a strong, heartfelt foundation before readers step into your story.

Dedication

For MacKenzie, my Sunflower—

The brightest part of every day,

The gentlest voice in every memory,

And the reason I keep choosing love, even in the rain.

I was honored to be your mama.

Acknowledgements

To MacKenzie’s grandparents, who filled her life with warmth, stories, and snacks—your love helped her feel safe.

To the nurses, doctors, and staff at the children’s hospital—you saw more than just a patient; you saw her. Thank you for treating my daughter with dignity and gentleness, even in her hardest moments.

To the Ronald McDonald House and its extraordinary volunteers—thank you for giving us not just a place to stay, but a home to grieve, to laugh, to cry, and to hope.

To the other parents walking this path—you are not alone. Your love is powerful, your grief valid, and your child’s story deserves to be heard.

Finally, to MacKenzie: thank you for choosing me. You made me a mother. You made me brave. You made me whole.

Foreword

When I began writing this memoir, I didn’t know if I’d ever be ready to share this story. Not because it’s too painful, but because it’s too precious. My daughter, MacKenzie, was seven when she passed away from Acute Megakaryocytic Leukemia. In her short life, she became more than just my child—she became my teacher, my compass, and my daily reminder of what it means to live fully, even in the face of the unimaginable.

This memoir is not just about cancer. It’s about connection. It’s about what it means to mother a child who is dying, and still find joy in bedtime stories, banana slices, and cupcakes. It’s about the power of storytelling, memory, and the unshakable bond between a mother and daughter.

You’ll find laughter in these pages. And tears. You’ll find recipes and quotes, and the names of books that helped us escape when we needed magic the most. But mostly, I hope you’ll find MacKenzie—bright, beautiful, and full of light.

And if you do, please say her name out loud.

Because love doesn’t die. And neither do stories.

MacKenzie’s Kitchen: Recipes from a Little Heart with a Big Appetite

Food was more than fuel for MacKenzie—it was joy, comfort, and memory. Whether it was Grandpa’s snacks, birthday cupcakes from Dominion, or our own silly creations in the kitchen, food became part of our story.

These recipes aren’t just meals. They’re love in spoonfuls. They’re moments we shared between appointments, in hospital beds, or during quiet nights at the Ronald McDonald House.

“Trees in My Cheese” Mac & Broccoli

MacKenzie’s Favorite Comfort Meal

Ingredients:

2 cups elbow macaroni

2 cups sharp cheddar cheese, shredded

2 tablespoons butter

2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

2 cups milk

½ teaspoon salt

¼ teaspoon black pepper

1 cup broccoli florets (aka “trees”), steamed until just tender

Instructions:

1. Boil the macaroni until al dente, drain, and set aside.

2. In a saucepan, melt butter over medium heat. Whisk in the flour to create a roux. Cook for 1–2 minutes.

3. Slowly whisk in the milk. Stir until thickened.

4. Add the shredded cheese, salt, and pepper. Stir until smooth.

5. Fold in the macaroni and broccoli florets. Stir gently.

6. Serve warm with a smile—bonus points for calling the broccoli “trees.”

Dominion Chocolate Cupcakes

A Birthday Tradition

Ingredients:

1 cup sugar

½ cup butter

2 eggs

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1/3 cup cocoa powder

½ cup milk

1 cup all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

¼ teaspoon salt

Instructions:

1. Preheat oven to 350°F (175°C). Line a cupcake pan.

2. Cream together the butter and sugar until light and fluffy.

3. Add eggs one at a time, then stir in vanilla.

4. Mix in cocoa powder. Alternate adding flour and milk until well combined.

5. Add baking powder and salt, stir gently.

6. Spoon batter into cupcake liners, filling each 2/3 full.

7. Bake 15–18 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean.

8. Let cool and top with her favorite: pink sprinkles or a swirl of chocolate frosting.

Grandpa’s Fruit & Nut Snack Packs

A Little Bag of Love

Ingredients:

Dried mango slices

Salted almonds

Banana chips

Dried cranberries

A chocolate kiss (optional, but MacKenzie-approved)

Instructions:

1. Mix a small handful of each ingredient into snack bags.

2. Store in a cool place for quick smiles and snack breaks.

3. Great for hospital waiting rooms, car rides, or story time picnics.

MacKenzie’s Kitchen

“Magic Soup” (Chicken Noodle for Healing Days)

A hug in a bowl

Ingredients:

1 tablespoon olive oil

½ onion, diced

2 carrots, sliced

2 celery stalks, chopped

2 garlic cloves, minced

6 cups chicken broth

1 cup cooked chicken, shredded

1 cup egg noodles

Salt and pepper to taste

A pinch of parsley (fresh or dried)

Instructions:

1. In a large pot, heat olive oil over medium heat. Add onion, carrots, and celery. Sauté for 5 minutes.

2. Add garlic and cook another minute.

3. Pour in chicken broth and bring to a boil.

4. Add noodles and cook until tender. Stir in shredded chicken.

5. Season with salt, pepper, and parsley. Simmer for 5 minutes.

6. Serve with toast or crackers and a snuggle on the couch.

“Banana Smiles” Pancakes

Inspired by sleepy mornings and silly faces

Ingredients:

1 cup flour

2 tablespoons sugar

1 teaspoon baking powder

½ teaspoon baking soda

¼ teaspoon salt

1 egg

1 cup buttermilk (or milk + 1 tsp lemon juice)

2 tablespoons melted butter

1 ripe banana, sliced

Chocolate chips or blueberries for eyes

Instructions:

1. Mix dry ingredients in a bowl. In another, whisk egg, milk, and melted butter.

2. Combine and stir until just mixed.

3. Cook on a greased skillet over medium heat. Add banana slices and chocolate chips to make smiley faces before flipping.

4. Serve with syrup and lots of giggles.

“Rainbow Sprinkle Toast”

A silly snack for hospital or home

Ingredients:

1 slice bread, toasted

Butter or cream cheese

Rainbow sprinkles (the more, the better)

Instructions:

1. Spread toast with butter or cream cheese while still warm.

2. Cover generously with sprinkles.

3. Cut into hearts or stars if you’re feeling fancy.

4. Perfect for “just because” snack moments.

“MacKenzie’s Movie Mix”

Our hospital movie night go-to

Ingredients:

Popcorn (air-popped or microwave)

Mini marshmallows

Pretzel sticks

Chocolate chips

Dried strawberries or apple slices

A dash of cinnamon sugar (optional)

Instructions:

1. Combine all ingredients in a large bowl.

2. Gently toss. Add cinnamon sugar if you like it sweet.

3. Share under a cozy blanket with your favorite film or storybook.

“Trees in My Cheese” Mac & Broccoli

“Look, Mama, they’re little trees! We’re giants!”

She made vegetables an adventure. Every bite became part of a fairy tale.

Dominion Chocolate Cupcakes

“Can I pick the one with the most sprinkles?”

Cupcake day wasn’t just a birthday—it was a celebration of joy. Dominion was her cupcake kingdom.

Grandpa’s Fruit & Nut Snack Packs

“Grandpa always shares his snacks. Even the banana chips!”

These tiny snack bags were love sealed in Ziplocs. She carried his kindness everywhere.

Magic Soup

“This is the kind of soup that fixes things.”

On her tired days, this soup was warmth, healing, and a nap in a bowl.

Banana Smiles Pancakes

“Make mine with the big smile, okay?”

No matter how early the morning or where we were, a silly pancake could start the day right.

Rainbow Sprinkle Toast

“It’s toast, but fancy!”

She believed in fun for no reason. A sprinkle toast breakfast could turn a hospital morning into a party.

MacKenzie’s Movie Mix

“Can we watch Hook again? With snacks this time?”

Movie night was sacred. Laughter, chocolate, and a blanket made everything feel normal again.