A Brief History Of A Long Road

DO YOU EVER WONDER HOW IT ALL STARTED…??

On Sunday, Chase’s marks ten years of cancer fighting. TEN YEARS is quite the journey, dear ones, isn’t it? In case you’ve joined us more recently, or in case you’re curious or it’s been a while… here’s what brought us to this place:

Just before dawn on Tuesday, July 31, 2012, a six-year-old Darcy woke us to complain that Chase – only two and still in his crib – was “moving around and won’t stop”. 

“El…! You need to come here! Chase is having a seizure!” The mix of deadly calm and worry in Bob’s words propelled me from the bed before my eyes were fully open, heart racing. 

And just like that, we woke to the first day of a completely different life, never to return to the one we had known ’til then.

Within hours, we would learn that there was “a large mass” shoving one half of his brain into the other (causing the seizure) and that the hospital we had been taken to by the ambulance wasn’t equipped to deal with cases on this level.

By noon, Chase had been transferred downtown to the brand new Ann & Robert H. Lurie Children’s Hospital of Chicago facility. 

Within hours of the transfer, we had learned that he was having near constant invisible seizures and he was moved to the intensive care unit. 

By early Thursday morning, 48 hours later, we had signed papers, said goodbye, and handed our little boy to a team of neurosurgeons.

The surgery was mercifully short as brain surgeries go (under four hours), but the news was a worst case scenario: While the initial tumor had been successfully removed, Chase’s lead neurosurgeon gently explained that the pathology was not only deeply malignant, but also highly aggressive, and that he had actually visualized cancer cells all over the top of his brain…too numerous to be removed. The scans backed up the doctor’s assessment. There was cancer all over the brain, in the spinal fluid, and lining the spinal column. 

The plans were placed, the words were guarded, and nobody expected Chase to survive his third birthday. 

But he would…

The next nearly two years brought seemingly endless complications, procedures, and days spent living in the hospital. We moved in with my parents, who cared for our other three children. Chase went through so much chemo, so many days of radiation, and bag after bag of transfusions – so many interventions that Bob and I l have since lost count.

He finished treatment sixteen months to the day after starting and immediately began extensive therapies to improve his quality of life. 

He could speak, but he didn’t understand what words meant. 

He wasn’t growing.

He couldn’t hear well.

He couldn’t see well. 

He had almost no short term memory.

And we were informed that these would most likely be just the beginning of side effects. 

There were routine scans every few months.

A year later, the MRI picked up a small growth and we battled relapse fear – another MRI after six of the longest weeks of our lives showing what was most likely a radiation damage and he was diagnosed with benign tumors/cavernous malformations.

The next summer, he was officially diagnosed with significant hearing loss.

The following spring, he had two separate surgeries to remove cataracts and try to improve his vision. 

Three weeks after the first cataract surgery occurred in 2016, Tyndale House Publishers published my labor of love – “Chase Away Cancer” – the story of those first six years and some of the lessons we’d learned along the way.

We settled into post cancer complications and life.

A little over two years later (after the longest season of only routine appointments and few emergencies) an MRI pick up strange thyroid growths and in the last week of January, 2019, Chase was diagnosed with thyroid cancer and had his entire thyroid removed. 

A few months later, Chase had his first visible seizure in seven years. 

Only weeks later, his thyroid site showed cancer in a couple of surrounding lymph nodes and despite a full body scan showing the spread to be contained to the thyroid area, Chase was scheduled for radioactive iodine therapy two weeks before Thanksgiving. 

Since that time, despite frequent health anomalies that seem to require lots of appointments, tests, and even occasional surgeries and procedures, Chase continues with his two-cancer diagnosis – the primary never having relapsed, the secondary having been stopped from spreading. 

We have no idea what comes next. Although we will be meeting with a genetic specialist in September to try and better understand why Chase’s body succumbs to proliferating cells the way it does and if we can possibly protect him from ever having another diagnosis.

His story has been shared from teary hospital rooms to history-packed halls of the White House. And if we’ve learned one thing in ten years, it’s that Chase is a precious law unto himself, a broken, beautiful story that only God himself knows completely.

As always, thank you for coming on this journey with us. 

Moment by moment. 

[Chase’s family includes Dad (Bob), Mom (Ellie – who is the primary writer on CAC), older sister Darcy (16), older brother Aidan (13), and younger brother Karsten (10)] 

Blood, Tears, and Laughter

The tourniquet pinches tight and I can feel his body fight the uncomfortable feeling even as he sits as still as he can on my lap, couched as we both are in the extra large, padded chair with the wide arms. 

“Can you see a vein?” His voice is tremulous with worry.

There is a tense moment when the needle penetrates skin and he is still like death – we all hold our breath and pray for a straight line – because his poor, damaged veins all too often elude the draw and that way lies madness. I remember a time when he had to be physically restrained to do this kind of a hospital task. Now, while he still hates it and at times will whimper and flinch, he will not move away or fight the tech. And I’m so glad for this small mercy along the way.

The gauge is so small in his arm as the blood finally flows that we three, Chase, the tech, and I, all sit in a frozen sort of silence. I can hear Chase breathing loud and deep. Someone once told him that holding his breath can make the draw harder and so now he practices crazy deep breathing while the tech takes the blood out of his body like a present in bright colored tubes for his doctors.

But then something strikes him sideways and he cackles – actually laughs a little in his weird, quick, infectious way. And the tech and I fight smiles because, after all, who laughs in a blood draw? I can literally hear a child crying across the hall even now. 

And then he looks down at his arm: “When I laugh, does the blood come out faster?” He asks with wonder.

The tech smiles and says she isn’t sure, but perhaps he should try again. 

She barely gets the words out before he giggles again and then looks down curious and bright at the length of tube coming out of his arm.

“Did it help?” He asks her with a smile.

And she smiles back and says it can’t hurt. 

So Chase laughed his way through the rest of the draw. 

And here’s the truth of it, dear ones: even if Chase’s laughter didn’t help his blood, it helped him. He began to relax, to breathe easier, and the time passed much more quickly for him. 

He found joy in the middle of blood and tears.

And in the end, perhaps it helped on a scientific level. Perhaps the blood moved faster with the vibrations of his laughter echoing through his frame. Or maybe it didn’t change the outcome one iota.

But in that moment, I realized that often times, finding the joy is less about the actual circumstances and more about changing us within the circumstances.

Isn’t life wild?

Joy doesn’t always make it better.

Blood and tears are everywhere.

But true joy can always find us…even in the worst of it.

Choosing that joy tonight.

Moment by moment.

“[God,] You make known to me the path of life; in your presence there is fullness of joy; at your right hand are pleasures forevermore.”

Psalm 16:11 [ESV]

Chase’s lab numbers were off and so changes will be made and hopefully he will feel better for it soon. There are more scans in just a few weeks and a small surgery question that needs answering in just a few months, but for now, we hold steady and look forward to celebrating the end of his sixth grade school year.

Chase walks the oncology floor hallway with his endocrinology nurse

Of Needles And Being Known

There is a hand on my shoulder. “I am just going to give you a little something to help you feel more calm.” 

Slowly, I angle my head in its blue fibrous hair net up, just enough to see the anesthesiologist with his red surgical cap and mask behind me. “Please…” I say. “I don’t want to be dizzy afterwards.”

He grew up in Nebraska and is a Huskers fan. “It’ll be okay…” his voice is calm as another nurse holds my hand, stretching out my arm on a board to the side of the table, letting the cording on the IV run without tangles.

There are surgical lights like something from a space movie crowded over me and then a terrible wave of dizziness hits me.

“Ugh…I feel really dizzy.” I speak the obvious into my oxygen mask. 

“You do?” The doctor says from behind me.

“It’s okay…” says the nurse. “The dizziness will pass in a second. Just close your eyes.”

My brain begins to formulate the thought that I can’t stand this, that I can’t do this, even as I close my eyes… and remember no more for a long while.

This isn’t Chase’s experience. 

No, this time, it’s mine. Chase’s mom. And truly, it isn’t much of a story as stories go, but just recently (so recently that I’m still convalescing as I’m writing), I had to go through a very minor surgery for myself. But the small surgery isn’t the heart of the story – other than that I’ve never had one before. The heart of the story is about being known.

It started on the morning of my surgery, the appointment time wasn’t until quite late in the day and so I spent hour after hour, first cutting out all food, and then all liquid too, following the instructions ever so carefully. My mouth was dry even as my churning stomach wanted nothing so much as a call saying “We made a mistake – you don’t need to do this after all! Have a big cup of coffee to celebrate!” And as each hour went by, I felt the weight of the day settling around me like a cloud. How on earth does Chase do this…and so often too?

Meanwhile, Chase wasn’t worried for me. Chase was excited. He was honestly energized to almost a giddy level. He woke up and came running downstairs, jumping onto my bed with the words “Let’s see how you like it, Mom!”

When those words first passed his lips, I was shocked. I had been worried about him being scared, about his being triggered. I never expected him to be energized – even …happy?

Then, as he sat down, stroking my hand and giving me his “tips” for the day – how to breath when they start the IV, how the medicine will feel when it enters my body, what to think about when I felt scared…and of course, Matt Redman’s ‘10,000 Reasons’ full blast at least twice – then and only then did it hit me:

THIS was connection to Chase. 

THIS was being known to Chase.

He wasn’t on the bed with me at his side; telling him all would be well and holding his hand. No, I was on the bed and he was at my side, and for the first time in his young life someone else in his immediate family was going to understand a moment of what it was like to be him: to fear, to feel pain, to slip dizzy and unconscious into a dark place and not quite know what was next. 

He was giddy not for my hardship, but for our connection in it.

And dear ones, seeing this moment unfold knocked me over because I realized again how often I let life take its course and sometimes forget how incredibly precious the thread of connection is when we step into someone else’s fire for even a moment.

UNDERSTANDING is the binding where we can look into each others’ eyes and say “I KNOW”. And out of that moment can flow such healing joy even when not a single circumstance changes:

You are KNOWN!

You are UNDERSTOOD!

And dear ones, these words are a gift to us amongst ourselves. But even more beautifully, they are threaded and scarred forever into the heart of the One who loves us best: No matter how it feels, how it seems; God is not out of touch with our reality [Hebrews 4:14-16].

Now we see things imperfectly, like puzzling reflections in a mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity. All that I know now is partial and incomplete, but then I will know everything completely, just as God now knows me completely.

1 Corinthians 13:12 NLT

I hope you know this connection, dear ones, even as you are known. You are understood, and best of all, you are loved.

Moment by moment.

Steady On

The wind was just enough to throw the large snow flakes into a mesmerizing swirl as they fell, fluffy and quick, through the winter storm sky. When they fall like that, the headlights don’t cut far enough and even my depth perception changes. I watch the light on the dashboard flash orange, warning me of something I was already feeling beneath me: my car’s traction is slipping…

That’s what it’s like to drive in the winter storms. 

Have you ever been there? …tried it? I bet you know exactly what I’m talking about.

Traction is a concept that changes minute to minute and seemingly, the only way to hold on to it is to keep a pace that is so slow a snail could keep up with you, a pace that is half boredom and half terror as soon as you feel it all sort of slide out from under you, as you feel control ceded to something much bigger.

And it hit me in that moment when I couldn’t see and the warning light flashed on: snow driving is a lot like life-living in the wintery, hard moments. 

The way ahead is often obscure and some days it feels like there’s little between boredom and terror. You doubt the light will be enough to cut through it. Oh, and the storm that started it all, you know how it goes… the storm only ever seems to show up on that one day that you have someplace to be, something else to do, too much going on to think about slipping, sliding and black ice moments, right?

But with life, as with the storm moments, the only way out is to push through it, not like a battering ram, but slow – so slow. I want to get to my destination. In the storm moments, the speed that should be possible on the road and the speed that I can go are two very different things and oh, it’s almost laughable how even on a silly suburban road in the middle of January, it’s the “should” that knocks at the very door of my identity. 

But no, the only thing I can do is go ever so slowly forward and pray that the tires with their grooves – the very grooves that were carved into them when they were made – grab the road and hold it fast just as they are supposed to do. 

Do you see it like I did in that road moment, dear ones?

All the ways we move forward, there were things carved into the heart of us when we were made – before we were made, truly. And it is this that hold us to the road, that pulls us back when we slip, keeps us slow and true when the way ahead feels obscured, that keeps us from losing patience and grace when it feels like the very sky is falling around us.

So don’t chafe in the storm when the going is slow and frustrating. There’s more to the storm that you can see. And perhaps you were designed to hold steady – for this very day.

Moment by moment. 

You saw me before I was born. Every day of my life was recorded in your book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed.

Psalm 139:16

Peace and Joy

Chase with the vascular access team in pre-procedure

On Tuesday, Chase had his big scans. The wait for news has felt endlessly long this week, but the call came yesterday afternoon…

Dear ones… in an unprecedented move, Chase’s body appears to be healing itself from a significant iron overload, his liver looking better now on the MRI than it did two years ago. 

Chase and Dad in pre-procedure

We laughed on the phone, his nurse and I, because we both know Chase and the absolute rarity of a moment like this.

In addition, the growth near his kidney appears to be an enlarged lymph node – which is even more good news.

The radiology team did note that there seems to be a proliferation of swollen lymph nodes (and new lymph nodes since the last scan) in his abdomen. However, none of them show a mass or signs of being cancerous at this point.

As a mama who worries, I asked his oncology team about these new lymph nodes, the growing and enlarging pieces. I used words like ‘lymphedema‘ and ‘lymphoma‘ because it’s Chase and I think about these things for him.

But in the most perfect Advent moment, I was told this…: “Not now… We’ll check again when he has his brain/spine scan in the spring, and if there’s no change, we will know that our assessment now holds true.” 

Sometimes, the endless Chase waiting feels like a weight, but this particular time feels poignant and beautiful because in its own little way, our wait is a heart reflection of The Wait, this season… Advent: like mute Zechariah, like awestruck Mary, like a nation in silence and a world in pain, we wait for the things we hold close in wonder to prove true.

…so we wait with Chase once again – the same as usual, but not the same. And we celebrate these gifts of a scan where –miraculously – Chase’s body is doing something helpful for itself, and there are no immediate follow ups or treatment or next steps needed.

And we’ll know the rest in time, yes?

Merry Christmas, dear ones.

Moment by moment.

[The next appointment will be January 5th, 2022 to scan for thyroid cancer growth]