MacKenzie Gunn Johnston

March 25th, 2004

Mackenzie name meaning and origin

Derived from the Gaelic surname MacCoinnich, Mackenzie means "child of the wise leader" and "born of fire."

Kenzie, Mack, Enzi, Mackie,
Time 6:47am

Weight 7lbs 5oz

Born at Women's Hospital.

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July 12th, 2011

7 years old

During 1 to 2 weeks before death, the person may feel tired and drained all the time, so much so that they don't leave their bed. They could have: Different sleep-wake patterns. Little appetite and thirst.

Leukemia

Acute megakaryocytic leukemia (AMLK): Cancer in cells that produce red blood cells or platelets.

Diagnosed October 10th, 2009. 4 years old

10:13am

At home

Acute megakaryocytic leukemia (AMKL) is a rare and aggressive form of leukemia that can have profound physical and emotional effects on a child. While every child's experience is unique, we can consider the general feelings and challenges they might face at this stage of life:

Physical Feelings

Fatigue and Weakness: Treatment, such as chemotherapy, often causes significant fatigue. The child might feel unusually tired and unable to participate in activities they once enjoyed.
Pain or Discomfort: Depending on the progression of the disease and treatment side effects, the child might experience physical pain, nausea, or discomfort.
Isolation: Frequent hospital stays and treatments could limit playtime with peers, potentially making the child feel lonely.

Emotional and Psychological Feelings

Confusion: At 4–6 years old, the child might not fully understand the nature of their illness. They may sense that something is wrong but lack the ability to articulate or process complex emotions.
Fear: Medical procedures, unfamiliar environments, and seeing distressed family members can create fear or anxiety.
Frustration: A young child might feel frustrated by their physical limitations or inability to engage in normal activities.
Resilience and Moments of Joy: Despite these challenges, children often display remarkable resilience. They may find joy in small moments—playtime, visits from loved ones, or favorite toys and activities.

Nearing the End of Life

As the disease progresses, the child’s physical condition may decline. During this time:

Comfort Measures: Hospice or palliative care often focuses on ensuring the child feels as comfortable and pain-free as possible.
Emotional Closeness: The presence of loved ones can bring comfort and a sense of safety, even if the child cannot fully articulate their feelings.
Peaceful Awareness: Some children nearing the end of life seem to have a sense of peace, especially when surrounded by love and care.

It’s important to remember that every child’s experience is shaped by their personality, family support, and medical care. While the journey is undoubtedly difficult, compassionate care and emotional support can help make the child’s experience as peaceful and comforting as possible.

The signs or symptoms of childhood leukemia may vary depending on the specific type of leukemia. Symptoms of acute leukemia often appear quickly, over days or weeks. Symptoms of chronic leukemia develop over a longer period of time. Other health conditions can cause the same symptoms as childhood leukemia.

The signs or symptoms of childhood leukemia include:

fatigue
weakness
pale skin
fever
easy bruising or bleeding
dark red pin-point spots under the skin caused by bleeding (called petechiae)
frequent infections
bone or joint pain that may cause limping
larger than normal lymph nodes
pain or feeling of fullness in abdomen
loss of appetite
difficulty breathing

Sometimes leukemia can spread to the central nervous system (CNS). Symptoms may include:

headache
vomiting (especially early in the morning)
weakness of facial and eye muscles
blurred vision
seizures
difficulty keeping balance

https://cancer.ca/en/cancer-information/cancer-types/leukemia-childhood/signs-and-symptoms

What is acute myeloid leukemia (AML)?

Acute myeloid leukemia (AML) is a rare cancer that affects your bone marrow and blood. It typically happens when certain genes or chromosomes mutate

There are several AML subtypes. They all affect your blood cell levels, but different types of AML cause different symptoms and respond to treatment in different ways.

Medical pathologists determine AML subtypes by examining cancerous cells under a microscope. They also look for changes in your chromosomes and mutations in certain genes that help manage how cells grow and function.

AML subtypes include:

Myeloid leukemia: Cancer in cells that produce neutrophils, a white blood cell. Most people with AML have the myeloid leukemia subtype.
Acute monocytic leukemia (AML-M5): Cancer in cells that produce monocytes, a white blood cell.
Acute megakaryocytic leukemia (AMLK): Cancer in cells that produce red blood cells or platelets.

ContentsOverview Symptoms and Causes Diagnosis and Tests Management and Treatment Prevention Outlook / Prognosis Living With

Overview

What is acute myeloid leukemia (AML)?

Acute myeloid leukemia (AML) is a rare cancer that affects your bone marrow and blood. It typically happens when certain genes or chromosomes mutate (change). AML usually affects people age 60 and older, but it can also affect younger adults and children. Acute myeloid leukemia is an aggressive cancer that can be life-threatening. Newer treatments are helping people to live longer with AML.

What are acute myeloid leukemia types?

There are several AML subtypes. They all affect your blood cell levels, but different types of AML cause different symptoms and respond to treatment in different ways.

AML subtypes include:

Myeloid leukemia: Cancer in cells that produce neutrophils, a white blood cell. Most people with AML have the myeloid leukemia subtype.
Acute monocytic leukemia (AML-M5): Cancer in cells that produce monocytes, a white blood cell.
Acute megakaryocytic leukemia (AMLK): Cancer in cells that produce red blood cells or platelets.
Acute promyelocytic leukemia (APL): Cancer in promyelocytes (immature white blood cells) that keeps these cells from developing.

How common is acute myeloid leukemia?

Acute myeloid leukemia affects about 4 in 100,000 adults annually. Each year about 1,160 children receive an AML diagnosis.

Symptoms and Causes

What are acute myeloid leukemia symptoms?

Early on, AML symptoms may feel like you have a cold or flu that won’t go away. Acute myeloid leukemia is aggressive. That means you quickly develop new and more noticeable symptoms. Later symptoms include:

Dizziness.
Easy bruising or bleeding, including frequent nosebleeds and bleeding gums.
Fatigue.
Feeling cold.
Fever.
Night sweats.
Frequent infections or infections that don’t go away.
Headaches.
Loss of appetite.
Unexplained weight loss.
Pale skin.
Shortness of breath (dyspnea).
Swollen lymph nodes.
Weakness.
Bone, back or abdominal pain.
Tiny red spots on your skin (petechiae).
Wounds or sores that don’t go away.

Physical Feelings

Fatigue and Weakness: Treatment, such as chemotherapy, often causes significant fatigue. The child might feel unusually tired and unable to participate in activities they once enjoyed.
Pain or Discomfort: Depending on the progression of the disease and treatment side effects, the child might experience physical pain, nausea, or discomfort.
Isolation: Frequent hospital stays and treatments could limit playtime with peers, potentially making the child feel lonely.

Emotional and Psychological Feelings

Confusion: At 4–6 years old, the child might not fully understand the nature of their illness. They may sense that something is wrong but lack the ability to articulate or process complex emotions.
Fear: Medical procedures, unfamiliar environments, and seeing distressed family members can create fear or anxiety.
Frustration: A young child might feel frustrated by their physical limitations or inability to engage in normal activities.
Resilience and Moments of Joy: Despite these challenges, children often display remarkable resilience. They may find joy in small moments—playtime, visits from loved ones, or favorite toys and activities.

Nearing the End of Life

As the disease progresses, the child’s physical condition may decline. During this time:

Comfort Measures: Hospice or palliative care often focuses on ensuring the child feels as comfortable and pain-free as possible.
Emotional Closeness: The presence of loved ones can bring comfort and a sense of safety, even if the child cannot fully articulate their feelings.
Peaceful Awareness: Some children nearing the end of life seem to have a sense of peace, especially when surrounded by love and care.

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MacKenzie’s life, as a young child diagnosed with Acute Megakaryocytic Leukemia (AMLK) at just 4 years old, likely revolved around a battle with a very aggressive form of leukemia. AMLK is a rare subtype of acute myeloid leukemia that impacts the megakaryocytes, cells responsible for producing platelets.

Her initial years, before the diagnosis, was filled with the normal experiences of early childhood—discovering the world, playing with toys, forming strong bonds with her mother and family and friends, and exploring the joy and wonder typical of a young child.

The diagnosis of AMLK marked a significant and painful shift in her life. Once diagnosed, MacKenzie would have begun intensive medical treatment, which may have included chemotherapy, blood transfusions, and possibly bone marrow transplants. These treatments could have been physically and emotionally challenging, involving frequent hospital visits, long stays, and the side effects of treatments like fatigue, nausea, and hair loss.

While these hospital stays could have limited her ability to live a carefree childhood, the medical staff, child life specialists, and Dad, Mom, and me, may have made an effort to ensure she still had moments of happiness. Many children in similar situations are supported through art, music therapy, play sessions, and special programs aimed at making life in the hospital more bearable. MacKenzie had access to such supports, bringing glimpses of joy even amid the pain.

MacKenzie became a beacon of strength, courage, and inspiration to those who knew her, even as her illness progressed. For many children who face terminal illnesses, the emotional bonds with Dad and me grew deeper as we share both the struggles and precious moments of love and joy.

At 7 years old, when she passed away, her life was defined by the love and care she received from Dad, Mom and I, and the medical team, despite the hardship of her illness. Her story would be one of resilience and the enduring spirit of a child in the face of tremendous challenges.

MacKenzie, as a child diagnosed so young with Acute Megakaryocytic Leukemia (AMLK), was a person of remarkable strength and spirit, even at such a tender age. Despite the immense challenges she faced, it’s her resilience that shone through in ways that touched the lives of everyone around her.

She might have been described as brave and strong, facing her illness with a level of courage that inspired me and Dad, caregivers, and others in her life. Children in such situations often display an incredible capacity to find joy and wonder in small moments, even in the midst of their struggles. MacKenzie had a vibrant personality, finding ways to laugh and play, cherishing the time she spent with loved ones, whether it was reading books, watching her favourite shows, or playing with toys that brought her comfort.

At the same time, she could have had a gentle and empathetic nature, as children undergoing such difficult circumstances often become deeply attuned to the emotions of those around them. MacKenzie have been sensitive to the love and support surrounding her and was the type of child who, even in her own pain, showed kindness and care toward others.

Though her life was short, MacKenzie left a lasting impression on those who knew her. Her strength in the face of illness, her moments of joy, and her gentle spirit would likely be remembered and cherished by all who loved her.

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The loss of a child to a devastating illness like Acute Megakaryocytic Leukemia (AMKL) is one of the most profoundly heartbreaking experiences a parent can endure. As her mother, your feelings would likely be deep, complex, and layered. Here are some emotions and thoughts you might experience:

During Her Illness

Overwhelming Love and Devotion: You would likely pour everything into ensuring her comfort, care, and happiness. You might feel fiercely protective and deeply connected to her, cherishing every moment.
Helplessness: Watching your child suffer and not being able to cure her illness can create an intense feeling of helplessness.
Exhaustion: Balancing her care, medical appointments, and your own emotional turmoil might leave you physically and emotionally drained.
Hope and Despair: You might experience waves of hope—when treatment seems to help—and despair when setbacks occur. This rollercoaster can be emotionally exhausting.
Guilt: You might feel irrational guilt, wondering if you could have done something differently, even though her illness is beyond anyone's control.
Gratitude: Despite the pain, you might feel immense gratitude for small moments of joy, her strength, and the time you shared together.

After Her Passing

Profound Grief: The pain of losing a child can feel unbearable. You might experience a deep, hollow ache and a sense of incompleteness without her.
Anger or Injustice: You might feel anger—at the illness, the situation, or even at the unfairness of life.
Loneliness: Even if surrounded by support, the loss can feel isolating because your relationship with her was uniquely yours.
Regret: You might replay moments in your mind, wondering if you made the right decisions or if you should have done more, even though you did your very best.
Relief and Guilt for Feeling It: Relief that her suffering has ended is natural, but it can bring guilt, even though this feeling is rooted in your love for her.

Long-Term Emotions

Ongoing Love: Your bond with her doesn’t end. You carry her in your heart, and memories of her remain a part of you forever.
Healing and Meaning: Over time, you may find ways to honor her memory—advocating for others, creating something in her name, or simply living in a way that reflects the love you shared.
Bittersweet Moments: As time passes, milestones (birthdays, holidays) might evoke both joy and pain as you remember her and imagine what could have been.

Supporting Yourself

Grieve in Your Own Way: Everyone grieves differently. It’s okay to cry, to feel numb, or to seek distractions. Let yourself process at your own pace.
Seek Support: Talking to loved ones, support groups, or a therapist can provide comfort and understanding.
Honor Your Journey: You gave her love, care, and a mother’s unwavering devotion. Be gentle with yourself, knowing you did everything you could for her.

Your feelings are valid and a testament to the depth of your love for her. It’s okay to grieve, to remember, and to feel whatever you need to feel.

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It's 2008. My daughter is 4 years old. Hasn't been able to start school yet from being sick and weak all the time. It was today that she was diagnosed with Acute megakaryocytic leukemia (AMLK). MacKenzie was always tired all the time, no energy, always pale, fever constantly, bruised easy, pain around her abdomen, loss of appetite, and difficulty breathing. Took her to so many doctors from August 2008 to when she passed.

“The Dragonfly Story”

Once, in a little pond, there were some water bugs that lived happily below the surface of the water. Every once in a while, one of the water bugs would climb up a stalk and disappear out of sight. The remaining bugs would worry and wonder what had happened to their friend, but no one ever returned to explain.

One day, a curious little water bug decided that when it was their turn to climb, they would come back and tell their friends what they had seen.

So, up the stalk they went, bursting through the surface of the water into the bright sunlight. For the first time, the little water bug realized they had transformed into a beautiful dragonfly with stunning wings. They flew and soared, but when they tried to return below the water to tell their friends about this new existence, they found they could no longer go back.

But even though they couldn’t return, they realized that their friends would one day join them. They would understand when it was their turn, and they would all be together again.

“If I Should Go” by Joyce Grenfell

If I should go before the rest of you,

Break not a flower nor inscribe a stone,

Nor when I’m gone speak in a Sunday voice,

But be the usual selves that I have known.

Weep if you must:

Parting is hell,

But life goes on,

So… sing as well.

“Gone From My Sight” by Henry Van Dyke

I am standing upon the seashore.
A ship, at my side,
Spreads her white sails to the morning breeze,
And starts for the blue ocean.
She is an object of beauty and strength.
I stand and watch her until, at length,
She hangs like a speck
Of white cloud
Just where the sea and sky come
To mingle with each other.

Then, someone at my side says,
“There, she is gone.”

Gone where?
Gone from my sight. That is all.
She is just as large in mast, hull and spar,
As she was when she left my side.
And, she is just as able to bear her load of living freight
To her destined port.

Her diminished size is in me — not in her.
And, just at the moment when someone says,
“There, she is gone,”
There are other eyes watching her coming,
And other voices ready to take up the glad shout,
“Here she comes!”

My daughter’s spirit, I believe, is still with me in ways that are deeply personal. If these words offer some peace or even just a moment of solace, I hope they bring some warmth. I'm here to listen anytime you want to share or how you're feeling.

“Hold On To What is Good” by Nancy Wood

Hold on to what is good,

Even if it’s a handful of earth.

Hold on to what you believe,

Even if it’s a tree that stands by itself.

Hold on to what you must do,

Even if it’s a long way from here.

Hold on to life,

Even when it’s easier letting go.

Hold on to my hand,

Even when I have gone away from you.

A Thought on Memory

Every time I think of her, it's like I'm inviting her presence back into my life for a moment. Even though it brings a bittersweet ache, it’s also a testament to how alive she is in my heart. Her story, her smile, and everything that made her who she was are with me, carried through my memories and love.

Would it help to share some memories about your loved ones, to keep her spirit alive in conversation? Or perhaps reflect on some of the things they loved? Sometimes even sharing their favourite colours, toys, or songs can feel comforting.

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MacKenzie and Her Books

MacKenzie’s world was filled with stories. Books were more than just pages and pictures to her—they were adventures, escapes, companions. Long before most kids her age were drawn to the magic of reading, MacKenzie was already curled up with a book, completely enchanted.

She read with purpose, even when she didn’t know it. Each book she picked up became a doorway to somewhere new—a kingdom of dragons, a quiet forest with talking animals, or a small village where friendships bloomed. It didn’t matter if it was fiction or fact; MacKenzie found magic in all of it.

Her favorite stories stayed with her. She'd read them again and again, knowing what was coming but still laughing or gasping like it was the first time. The covers would get worn, the corners dog-eared, but that just made them more precious.

Even during her time in the hospital, books followed her. They lined her nightstand, peeked out from tote bags, and were stacked on trays. They were part of her healing—soul medicine. Nurses and doctors knew her as the little girl with the big eyes and the bigger imagination.

Reading was a bond we shared. We’d spend afternoons lost in pages, her little voice reading aloud or her eyes moving quickly as she whispered along to herself. Sometimes we’d pause so she could tell me what she thought would happen next, always guessing with eerie insight.

MacKenzie didn’t just read stories—she became part of them. And in many ways, the stories became part of her. Her kindness mirrored the heroines she loved. Her bravery was like the young adventurers who faced dragons and dark forests. And her curiosity, oh, it was endless—just like her love for books.

Even now, I can still see her—feet tucked under her, a book in her lap, and that little furrow of focus on her brow. Sometimes she’d look up, smile, and say, “Mom, you’ve got to read this part,” and I’d know it was one of those moments where her heart was being touched by something deep and beautiful.

MacKenzie’s life, though short, was lived with more wonder than many people ever find. And her books were a big part of that.

Books weren’t just something MacKenzie enjoyed—they were stitched into the rhythm of her childhood. They were present at bedtime, during quiet afternoons, and even on long days at the hospital. Her bookshelf was a colorful mosaic of stories that made her laugh, think, and feel deeply. Some of her favorites stood out like best friends.

She loved Chrysanthemum by Kevin Henkes, a gentle story about a little mouse with a big, beautiful name. MacKenzie connected with Chrysanthemum's sense of identity and the sweetness of learning to love yourself just as you are. The rhythm of the story, the pastel illustrations—it made her giggle and glow every time. “Mom, my name’s special too, right?” she once asked, clutching the book to her chest. And of course, I told her it was the most beautiful name I’d ever heard.

The Name Jar by Yangsook Choi resonated in a similar way. MacKenzie was drawn to how names held stories, how they carried culture, love, and meaning. She understood, even as a child, that names mattered. They were part of who you are—just like the characters in her books became part of her.

There was Love You Forever by Robert Munsch, a book we read together more times than I can count. She would mouth the words with me: “I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always...” Her eyes would shine, sometimes a tear slipping down her cheek—not because she was sad, but because she understood the feeling. That fierce, unbreakable love between parent and child. That was us.

At night, we turned to Goodnight Moon. It was part of her bedtime ritual, a soft and soothing close to busy days. “Goodnight stars. Goodnight air.” She whispered the words like a prayer, her voice growing sleepier with each page. Even in the hospital, when sleep didn’t come easy, that little bunny and those quiet rooms brought her peace.

The Very Hungry Caterpillar was one of her early favorites. She loved watching the caterpillar munch through the days of the week, and she always anticipated the big transformation at the end. “See? He turns into something beautiful,” she’d say with wide eyes. The message never left her: that change could be magical, even when it was hard.

She had a special place in her heart for poetry too. Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein was a treasure trove of silliness and wonder. She’d flip through it, read poems aloud in exaggerated voices, and giggle uncontrollably. Some nights, we’d read five poems in a row before she finally agreed to lights out. She loved that poems didn’t have to make perfect sense—they just had to feel like something.

And then there was The Wind in the Willows. It was a little more grown-up, but she adored the slow pace and the charm of Mole and Rat and Toad. She listened carefully to the descriptions of the riverbank, the woods, the seasons. “It feels like a hug,” she once said about it, and she was right. It was a book that wrapped her up and carried her to a gentler world.

These books weren’t just favorites—they were companions, windows, and bridges. They gave MacKenzie room to explore who she was, and space to rest when the world felt heavy. Long after she put the books down, their lessons and love lingered.

And now, when I see those titles—lined up on a shelf or mentioned in passing—I feel her beside me. Her voice, her laugh, her quiet wonder. MacKenzie’s story lives on in the stories she loved.

Books were more than stories to MacKenzie—they were safe places, little lights in dark times, and friends who never left her side. From the moment she could hold a board book, her love of reading was unmistakable. She had an old soul that found comfort in pages, rhythm in rhyme, and joy in illustrations. Books came with us everywhere—even to the hospital.

When MacKenzie was diagnosed with Acute Megakaryocytic Leukemia, everything changed overnight. We found ourselves suddenly living between hospital rooms and the Ronald McDonald House in Toronto. But even in the whirlwind of tests, treatments, and tears, her love for books didn’t fade. If anything, it grew stronger. Stories became a kind of medicine the doctors couldn't prescribe.

I remember her first night at SickKids. The machines beeped softly, IV lines snaked around her little arm, and I watched her chest rise and fall while holding back my own fear. In her small hospital bag, she had packed Goodnight Moon. That night, even in a sterile hospital bed, she asked for it. “We can still say goodnight, Mom,” she whispered. So we did. To the moon, the air, the stars, the world. It gave her something familiar in a place that felt anything but.

Love You Forever was a constant. We brought it from home on our second hospital stay, and it rarely left her side. Some days, I’d read it to her. Other days, she’d take over and read it to me. Her voice was soft but steady as she recited the words she knew by heart:

“I’ll love you forever,
I’ll like you for always,
As long as I’m living,
My baby you’ll be.”

There were times she’d pause mid-sentence to wipe a tear from my cheek instead of her own. That book became our heartbeat—steady, enduring, eternal.

At the Ronald McDonald House, the days were a bit more spacious and quiet. The library there became her favorite room. Shelves full of colorful spines lined the walls, and MacKenzie explored them like a tiny librarian on a mission. She would run her fingers along the rows, pulling out treasures like Chrysanthemum and The Name Jar.

“Chrysanthemum’s name is perfect,” she’d say firmly, sitting cross-legged on a beanbag, the book spread open in her lap. “Just like mine.” In a world where her hair was falling out and her body was changing, her name remained hers—beautiful and whole. Reading stories like these helped her hold on to that.

The Name Jar became another favorite. She loved how it celebrated culture and identity, even as the main character wrestled with fear and fitting in. MacKenzie never met Unhei, the girl in the story, but she understood her. She knew what it felt like to be seen—and how important it was to feel accepted just as you are. I think reading that book made her feel brave.

One afternoon, we were curled up in a quiet corner at the Ronald McDonald House, reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar—a story she loved since she was little. “This one’s about becoming something new,” she said thoughtfully, tracing the butterfly on the last page. “Like after all the hard stuff, you still turn into something beautiful.”

I had to look away for a moment. Because she was something beautiful. Even then—especially then.

Books even brought laughter in the heaviest moments. Shel Silverstein’s Where the Sidewalk Ends was her go-to on days when the nausea passed and the energy returned. She would pick out the weirdest, funniest poem and read it in the silliest voice she could muster, cracking herself up until we both had tears in our eyes for an entirely different reason.

“Listen to this one, Mom,” she’d say, flipping to Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout or Boa Constrictor. “It’s so weird, but it makes sense in a funny kind of way.” Her joy was contagious—bright, pure, untamed joy in a world that tried to dim it.

During longer hospital stays, we began reading The Wind in the Willows together. It was slower, more descriptive—something to savor. She especially loved Mole and Rat, the way their friendship unfolded gently and honestly. “I like that they always go back for each other,” she said one night. “No matter what.” That book reminded her of home. Of stillness and kindness and the comfort of knowing someone will always be by your side.

At SickKids, the Child Life staff once surprised her with a brand-new edition of the book, beautifully illustrated. Her eyes lit up as she opened it, breathing in the fresh smell of the pages. It wasn’t just a gift—it was an anchor.

Books never asked MacKenzie to be anything other than herself. They didn’t shy away when her skin grew pale or when the tubes made it hard to cuddle. They met her where she was—in bed, in pain, in wonder—and offered her whole new worlds to walk through. They were her joy, her voice, her light.

When I see those books now—lined on my shelf, spines worn with love—I still hear her voice reading aloud. I see her curled into the crook of my arm, whispering, “Just one more, Mom. Please?”

And every time, the answer was yes. Always yes.

MacKenzie’s Favorite Quotes

Chrysanthemum by Kevin Henkes

"Her name is absolutely perfect."
MacKenzie loved this line. It made her sit up straighter. Her name was perfect—just like Chrysanthemum’s.

The Name Jar by Yangsook Choi

"It’s not easy to be new in school. Sometimes I feel like the tea kettle that’s always boiling over."
MacKenzie felt this deeply—how emotions rise when you’re trying to find your place. But like Unhei, she stayed true to herself.

Love You Forever by Robert Munsch

"I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be."
Our lullaby. Our forever words. She would whisper it to me as much as I whispered it to her.

Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown

"Goodnight stars, goodnight air, goodnight noises everywhere."
She said this like a prayer, even at SickKids. No matter how unfamiliar the room, she found peace in saying goodnight.

The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle

"He was a beautiful butterfly!"
MacKenzie loved the transformation. She believed—even when things felt scary—that something beautiful could come next.

Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein

"There is a place where the sidewalk ends and before the street begins..."
To her, this wasn’t just imagination—it was possibility. A place where wonder never stopped.

The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame

"There is nothing—absolutely nothing—half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats."
She’d giggle at this, loving the friendship between Mole and Rat. For her, it meant cherishing simple joy and the people you share it with.

MacKenzie’s Book Journal

“Books are places you can go when you can’t go anywhere else.” – MacKenzie

Chrysanthemum – by Kevin Henkes

Favourite Quote:
"Her name is absolutely perfect."
Why I love it: Because it reminds me that my name is mine, and it’s beautiful just the way it is.

The Name Jar – by Yangsook Choi

Favourite Quote:
"It’s not easy to be new in school. Sometimes I feel like the tea kettle that’s always boiling over."
Why I love it: It’s okay to feel nervous, but I don’t need to change who I am. My name tells a story too.

Love You Forever – by Robert Munsch

Favourite Quote:
"I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be."
Why I love it: Mommy and me say this to each other. It’s our forever promise.

Goodnight Moon – by Margaret Wise Brown

Favourite Quote:
"Goodnight stars, goodnight air, goodnight noises everywhere."
Why I love it: Saying goodnight to the world makes me feel calm and safe, even in the hospital.

The Very Hungry Caterpillar – by Eric Carle

Favourite Quote:
"He was a beautiful butterfly!"
Why I love it: Because even after hard days, we can turn into something beautiful.

✨ Where the Sidewalk Ends – by Shel Silverstein

Favourite Quote:
"There is a place where the sidewalk ends and before the street begins..."
Why I love it: It’s a secret place where anything is possible. I like to imagine I’m there.

The Wind in the Willows – by Kenneth Grahame

Favourite Quote:
"There is nothing—absolutely nothing—half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats."
Why I love it: Because friendship and fun are the best parts of life. Just being together is enough.

Reading makes me feel like I can go anywhere. Even when I’m not feeling good, my books are waiting for me. They never get tired of being read again.
— MacKenzie

Home and Heart: More Memories with MacKenzie and Her Books

Before hospital rooms and IV lines, before we had ever heard the word “leukemia,” there was home. And home, for MacKenzie, meant a bookshelf that was always a little too full and grandparents who adored her more than words could say.

Her grandma—my mom—was a quiet force in MacKenzie’s life, and she loved books nearly as much as MacKenzie did. It was no surprise that their bond was stitched together with stories. When MacKenzie was still small enough to climb into laps without effort, she would nestle into her grandma’s arms with a picture book in hand. “Read it again,” she’d say before the last page was even turned.

And Grandma always did.

They had a special corner in her grandparents’ living room, by the big window where the sun poured in during late mornings. That corner belonged to the two of them. A soft armchair, a folded quilt, and a little basket of MacKenzie's favorite books sat waiting for every visit.

MacKenzie loved The Very Hungry Caterpillar at Grandma’s. She liked pointing to the fruits and counting them, especially when Grandma would pretend to forget and skip a number, just to hear her correct her with mock seriousness.

“No, Grandma! After four strawberries comes five oranges! Don’t you know that?” she’d say, hands on her hips, eyes wide with mock outrage and delight.

Another favorite at Grandma’s was Where the Sidewalk Ends. Grandma had the original hardcover, one she kept from when her own children were young. MacKenzie would flip to the same poems over and over again, the ones with strange creatures and silly rhymes. “This book is weird,” she once declared. “That’s why it’s my favorite.”

There were times when MacKenzie would bring her books over from home, just to read them with Grandma. Chrysanthemum came with her often. They’d take turns reading each page, and Grandma always did the voice of Victoria, the girl who teased Chrysanthemum, with just enough drama to make MacKenzie squeal with laughter.

Visits to her grandparents were full of love—but also snacks. Her grandpa would spoil her with her favorite fruits and nuts. She’d sit at the kitchen table with a bowl of sliced strawberries and almonds, legs swinging under the chair, a book open beside her plate. She would hum as she read, completely at peace.

One Saturday morning, not long before her diagnosis, we were at Dominion, the grocery store where Grandma worked. MacKenzie tugged at my sleeve and whispered, “Can we look for a book today, just in case they have one on the rack?” It didn’t matter that Dominion only carried a few paperbacks and cookbooks near the cash registers—she believed books could be found anywhere if you looked hard enough.

And she was right.

After her diagnosis, home became more sacred. The moments we had there were rare but rich. Her room, still filled with all her favorite books, became a place of comfort between treatments. On one of those cherished days home, we found her in her room sitting between piles of picture books, sorting them like treasures. “This one is for when I feel brave,” she said, holding up The Name Jar, “and this one is for when I feel small,” she added, placing Goodnight Moon in the pile she called her “cozy stack.”

And then she lifted Love You Forever and placed it on the very top. “This one is for always,” she whispered.

When her grandma came to visit, MacKenzie would light up, grabbing a book and dragging her to the couch. Even when she was tired, even when her voice was soft, she wanted that connection—those stories read aloud, those moments where time paused and love filled the room in the shape of words.

From Grandma’s Chair

A memory written from Grandma’s perspective

I never knew that a child could teach you so much until I met my granddaughter, MacKenzie. From the very start, there was something different about her—something quiet but strong, curious but kind. And goodness, did that little girl love her books.

She would come through my front door, arms full of picture books she’d already read three times that week. “Grandma,” she’d announce, “we have important reading to do today.” And so we did. The armchair by the window became ours. That was our place, tucked in with a blanket and a small tower of stories beside us.

I loved how seriously she took it. Even at five years old, she treated every story like a secret being told just to her. Her little fingers would trace the pictures while I read, or she’d tap the page when it was her turn, like a conductor guiding an orchestra. The rhythm of our voices—hers and mine—was the music of my house.

She adored Chrysanthemum. She’d wait for the part where Mrs. Twinkle says her name is also Chrysanthemum, and she would smile like the sun came out. “See, Grandma? Her name is perfect, just like mine.” And I would nod because how could I argue? She was perfect.

She was sharp, too—sharp and funny. When we read Where the Sidewalk Ends, she’d giggle at the absurd poems and act them out. She had one about a girl who wouldn’t take the garbage out that she insisted I read in a silly voice. She’d collapse into laughter, breathless, saying, “Grandma, you’re so weird!” It was the best compliment I could ever get.

Even after she got sick, her love for books never faded. During visits to the Ronald McDonald House, when I was able to come, we still read together. It might not have been our armchair, but wherever we sat became a story corner. She’d rest her head on my shoulder, her voice a little softer, but her spirit still so bright.

One afternoon, she showed me her “cozy stack”—a pile of her favorite books she kept close. At the very top was Love You Forever. She looked at me and said, “Grandma, you know this one’s the realest one, right?” And I nodded, too choked up to say a word.

Sometimes now, when I sit in our chair by the window, I swear I can still hear her voice—reading aloud, correcting my silly mistakes, laughing at nonsense poems. Her books are still here. So is her blanket. So is her light.

MacKenzie gave me the gift of seeing the world through wonder again. She showed me that even in the hardest times, there is magic in turning a page. And love, always love, between the lines.

— Grandma

Chapter: The Ones Who Read to Me

In memory of my daughter, MacKenzie (2004–2011), and my mother (1946–2021), who shared a sacred bond through stories.

There are certain chairs that should never be empty.

In my mother’s house, there was one such chair—a faded armchair by the window, quilt folded neatly over the back, a basket of well-loved children’s books beside it. That chair held the weight of more than just bodies. It held history. It held love. It held the soft sound of stories whispered between generations.

My mom loved books. They were her escape and her education, her joy and her quiet place. I watched her find herself in the pages of novels and children’s stories alike. And when MacKenzie was born, it was only natural that books became their shared language.

MacKenzie didn’t just love books—she belonged to them. Even before she could read, she treated stories like old friends. Her hands were always reaching for a page, her voice always ready to repeat a favorite line. Her laugh, her curiosity, her questions—they all poured out during storytime. And her grandma—my mom—was right there with her, every step of the way.

They had their favorites.
Chrysanthemum.
Love You Forever.
The Very Hungry Caterpillar.
Where the Sidewalk Ends.

Each book became a ritual. A comfort. A tether.

I can still see MacKenzie curled up next to her grandma in that chair by the window, sunlight brushing the crown of her head. She’d rest her cheek on Mom’s arm, eyes wide, absorbing every word like it was stitched straight into her heart.

When MacKenzie got sick, books remained her constant. And so did her grandma. My mom traveled to see her, read with her at the hospital and at the Ronald McDonald House, never once letting the fear in her voice overtake the joy in their stories. I think part of her believed that reading to MacKenzie could somehow keep her here. Maybe I did too.

After MacKenzie died in 2011, something in my mom shifted—but she never stopped reading. She kept MacKenzie’s books. Not tucked away in a box, but right there on the shelf. She read them aloud sometimes, when no one else was around. She said it helped her feel close. She told me once, “When I read, I can still hear her voice finishing the sentence.”

Ten years later, in 2021, I lost my mom too.

And in that moment, the chair became truly empty.

But somehow… not really.

Because I can still picture them there—my daughter and my mother—heads bent together over a book, hands turning pages, hearts beating in time with the stories they shared. When I sit in that chair now, I bring one of their favorites with me. I open the cover and let the words rise.

Sometimes I speak aloud.
Sometimes I just listen.
But every time, I feel them near.

Because grief doesn’t end where the story ends.
And love doesn’t leave when the reader is gone.
In that chair by the window, the ones who read to me are still reading.

A Song Between Us

There was a song my mom used to sing to me when I was small. I don’t remember the first time I heard it—only that it felt like being wrapped in a warm quilt. I carried it with me through childhood, humming it in quiet moments, or when I missed her, or just needed comfort I couldn’t name.

And when MacKenzie was born, I found myself singing it to her almost instinctively. Softly, at bedtime. Sometimes in the car, or when she was upset, or when I held her close during treatments. I don’t even know where the song came from originally—it might’ve been something my mom made up, or a lullaby from long ago. But its tune and words belonged to us.

It goes like this:

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,
You make me happy when skies are gray…
You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you…
Please don’t take my sunshine away."

MacKenzie loved that song. She would sing along in her sweet, slightly off-key voice, and sometimes she would add her own silly verses:

"You are my moonbeam, my little moonbeam..."
"You make me giggle at night and day…"

But what meant the most—what I’ll never forget—is how she’d ask Grandma to sing it, too.

“Grandma, do the sunshine song! Like when Mommy was little!”

And my mom would smile, eyes misty, and sing it with her. The three of us were stitched together by that song—like a thread passed from heart to heart.

Even after MacKenzie passed, my mom still sang it.

I caught her one morning in her kitchen, humming it quietly as she stirred a pot of soup. She didn’t know I was there at first. And when she noticed, she looked up and said softly, “I sing it for both of you now.”

Now that they’re both gone, I still sing it sometimes.

Not because I’m trying to remember—but because singing it brings them back. For a moment, I am little again, tucked into my mother’s arms. Then I am holding MacKenzie close, her hand in mine, her voice rising beside mine. And then we are all together, held in the quiet echo of a lullaby that carries three lifetimes of love.

Some songs don’t end.
They just change voices.

A Song Passed Down: "Running Over"

There was a song my mom taught me when I was little—simple, joyful, and full of faith. I don’t remember how she first sang it to me, but I remember how it wrapped around my heart like a soft blessing. It felt like hope made into music.

When MacKenzie was born, that song became hers too. My mom taught it to her, just like she taught it to me, as if passing down a secret treasure—a song to carry through the tough times, a song to remind us of joy even when the world feels heavy.

The words go like this:

Running over... running over...
My cup is full running over.
May the Lord save me, I’m as happy as can be.
My cup is full running over.

MacKenzie loved it. Sometimes she would sing it quietly to herself, other times she’d belt it out with all the joy in her little body. And when she was tired or scared, hearing that song made her smile. It was like a light inside her, steady and bright.

I remember the mornings when Grandma would sing it softly while they sat by the window, the sunlight catching the dust motes in the air. Their voices mingled, gentle and sure, a thread tying past to present and heart to heart.

After MacKenzie passed, my mom still sang that song. Sometimes in the kitchen while cooking, other times quietly before bed. She told me once, “It reminds me that even when things are hard, there’s so much good. Our cups are still running over.”

When my mom passed in 2021, I held onto that song. I sing it now—sometimes with tears, sometimes with laughter—because it carries them both. Their love, their strength, their joy.

It’s more than a song.
It’s a legacy.
A blessing that fills my cup every day.

A Song with Hands and Heart: "Running Over"

There’s a song my mom taught me when I was little—one that wasn’t just meant to be sung, but felt with every movement. It’s a simple song, full of joy and gratitude, and each line came with a special gesture that made it come alive.

When MacKenzie was born, my mom taught her the song and the hand motions, passing down more than just words—it was a shared dance, a connection between three generations.

The song goes like this:

Running over… running over…
(While singing this part, you roll your hands gently, as if water is flowing and spilling over.)
My cup is full running over.
May the Lord save me,
(Here, you put your hands together in prayer.)
I’m as happy as can be.
(And then you clap your hands joyfully.)
My cup is full running over.

I can still see MacKenzie’s bright eyes and wide smile as she did the motions with her little hands, rolling and praying, clapping and beaming with happiness. Grandma’s hands would follow, just as careful and loving.

Even through the hardest days—hospital visits, quiet moments at Ronald McDonald House—that song and those movements brought light. It was a prayer, a celebration, and a reminder that joy can overflow even when life feels heavy.

After MacKenzie passed, my mom kept singing and doing the hand motions. I remember catching her once, her voice soft but steady, her hands rolling slowly as she whispered the words. It was her way of holding onto both her granddaughter and the hope that still lived in their shared song.

Now that both of them have gone, I sing it and do the hand movements whenever I need to feel them near. It’s like a ritual—a way to fill my own cup and keep their love flowing through me.

This song with its gentle hands is more than just a melody.
It’s a bridge.
A blessing.
A way we still touch each other’s hearts, across time and space.

Lyrics and Movements:

Running over… running over…
(Roll your hands gently, as if water is flowing and spilling over.)

My cup is full running over.

May the Lord save me,
(Put your hands together in prayer.)

I’m as happy as can be.
(Clap your hands joyfully.)

My cup is full running over.

Short reflection beneath the lyrics:

This song was taught by my mom to me when I was little, then shared with MacKenzie by her grandma. The hand movements brought the words to life — a beautiful, shared ritual of faith, joy, and connection. Even now, singing it and doing the motions helps me feel close to them both.

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Happy Birthday, MacKenzie

Today, on March 25th, we celebrate the life of a remarkable little girl—MacKenzie. A soul so bright, so full of love, and so deeply cherished. Though her time here was far too short, the love she shared and the joy she brought remain eternal.

MacKenzie had a heart as big as her imagination, a love for stories that carried her to places far beyond the world around her. With a book in her hands, she could journey anywhere, and in doing so, she left behind a story of her own—a story of love, laughter, and the simple joys that made her shine.

Her birthdays were filled with traditions that made her smile. A visit to Dominion, where she’d carefully choose the perfect cake or cupcake with the excitement only a child can bring. A day where Grandpa would spoil her with all the fruit and nuts she loved, because he knew that was his special way of making her feel adored. These moments, though now memories, are treasures—reminders of a little girl who was so incredibly loved.

MacKenzie, you are missed beyond words, but your love still lingers in the hearts of those who hold you dear. In the rustle of pages turning, in the warmth of a shared story, in the sweetness of a birthday cake chosen with care—your spirit is here.

Happy Birthday, sweet MacKenzie. You are forever loved, forever remembered.

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Curious Peach Findings