August has been …interesting. I actually find it very hard to define. Chase has been in the hospital more than he’s been out of it and there have been what feel like many complications to an already difficult chemo plan. I’ve had very little time to blog, but I have had moments to post brief Facebook updates from my phone.
August 3: “Its another ‘How many hours were we home?’ day as we made it four hours out of finishing the final dose of chemo for this cycle before Chase spiked a fever. As I write, we are sitting in the ER waiting for lab results and a plan of action. Chase is doing so, so well right now. Despite a ridiculously long week of chemo, he’s being so kind and sweet spirited. That in and of itself is a huge answer to prayer. More updates soon.”
Within a few hours of this post, we were able to come home as Chase’s vitals and labs were stable, but it didn’t last long…
August 4:“Chase managed to stay out of the ER for only about 24 hours this time. We got a call yesterday evening (Saturday) that the blood drawn from Friday night had grown a bacteria. He was finally admitted to the hospital around midnight last night to pursue a course of treatment. In addition to the medicine that runs over two hours of every six, they did a peripheral blood draw (not from his port) to try and determine if the port is the problem – which could mean surgery to remove/replace the port this week. Please pray for Chase and for Bob and I as well. Chase is weak and we are weary.”
August 5: “As of about noon today, the cultures taken in the ER last night had yet to grow anything, so they are keeping Chase tonight to see how things unfold. If a bacteria grows, there is a very strong possibility that he will go through surgery to remove the port. We were exhausted today, but were so blessed through some unexpected visits: Chase’s Aunt Meg, baby Matthew’s family, dear friends from church (who brought prayer and chocolate), and Zeke’s family (another cancer friend), who brought us a wonderful homemade dinner! Being admitted has been discouraging, but we have seen some amazing protections in it…for instance: labs showed that Chase’s hemoglobin was quite low and he received a transfusion overnight. If Chase hadn’t come to the ER, we wouldn’t have had labs until Monday and his hemoglobin would have been very (maybe even dangerously) low. God is good. Please continue to pray…for Chase; also for darling Matthew.”
Pre-op exam
“A consensus has been reached and it looks like Chase is facing surgery in the morning (pending surgical clearance and his ECHO results). For Chase this will be the 7th access surgery and the 15th placement, removal or repair to an access line. Incredibly, he has never purposefully pulled out a line! Slightly overwhelmed by yet another line (as they intend to place a PICC in his arm) and another surgery on this little boy, but Chase just informed me that Grammie, Mommy, Daddy, and Jesus will all be with him and that he will be so brave.”
Saying that we were “slightly overwhelmed” may have been a slight understatement. As we went Chase into surgery, I wept. This was absolutely the right decision to remove the infected port, yet somehow, each time I watch our wide-eyed child being wheeled out and hear the words “Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of him.“, it gets harder, not easier. Regardless of our emotions in the moment, on Tuesday, August 6, Chase went into surgery and the infected port was removed.
August 7:“This boy is a force to be reckoned with! He has been up and very active this morning despite post-surgery soreness, one hand bound in an IV, very low counts, and exhaustion. I wish I had a picture of Chase, wrapped in his tiger surgery gown, peddling a big wheel tricycle (me pushing the IV pole behind him) bursting through a circle of doctors on rounds and yelling: “Gentlemen, start your engines!!” As of right now, the IV needs to stay in his hand for at least another day while he continues antibiotics and hopefully recovers from chemo. As early as tomorrow afternoon or sometime Friday, he may go back into surgery to place a PICC line in his arm – which would allow us to go home while he more fully recovers. One of the hardest moments this morning was his lab draw. Without a port or central line, they had to stick him with a needle. This will happen again tomorrow and every other time they need blood until he has another PICC or port. A necessary evil, but so painful to watch. He is being so brave and Bob and I watch him growing and maturing in so many ways around all these circumstances.”
This is what Chase’s lab draw looks like without a central line. For many kids, blood has to be drawn every day and for some, many times a day. This is why we love central lines.
During the few days without a central line, Chase couldn’t have his regular nutrition and we could see him becoming increasingly gaunt. This was hard to watch, but the doctors did everything they could to “boost” him and Chase continued to be so sweet, despite rough days and nights.
Smiling despite the surgery and weariness
On Friday, August 9, Chase was taken into surgery again for a PICC line. He was thrilled to be losing the IV in his hand, but scared to be going for another “nap”. I wished in those moments that I could just tear him out of his bed and carry him far away from all the pain and sadness, but again, felt peace in the moment that we were indeed doing the right thing for him and were so thankful for our friend Jen being in the operating room with him.
August 10: “We first met Jen through mutual friends after Chase’s initial surgery. She has become an incredibly special person to us – often caring for Chase through some of his hardest days/procedures. We were so thankful to be with her yesterday! Chase was very sad about going back under anesthesia, but informed me (with tears in his eyes): ‘Mom, do not worry for me, because I will be so brave, okay?’ There are no words to describe the heart of this child. Blessed by him at every turn. Thank you all for your continued prayer. A PICC line was successfully placed and after several hours of post-procedure observation, we were able to come home! #nomoreneedles“
Chase with surgical nurse Jen in pre-op for his second line procedure in a week.
After surgery, we had a few days off from the hospital. Chase’s labs remained stable, but Bob and I asked for a one week extension on chemo for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was that Chase just didn’t seem as physically recovered as he should be despite his good lab numbers…
Moment by moment.
[Watch for part II of our August blog coming later this week…]
A slight introduction: I thought about calling this blog “What’s Next?“. I also thought about calling this blog “Hey! The Light At the End Of the Tunnel Isn’t A Freight Train!” I ultimately settled on “The State Of Chase,” as we look to cover both the present and the future in this post. If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask! Message us, or post questions in the comments – we are always happy to answer.
A year ago this month, we knew so little of malignant spread, the low percentage of survivors and the collateral damages of surgeries, radiation and the cancer itself. Now, we are a year older and wiser (I hope) in this cancer path. We know where we’ve been, but where are we going? Where is Chase now in his treatment plan, and what is still ahead for him? This subject is a mixture of speculation and fact, and will likely come out looking like Jell-O I tried to nail to a wall (i.e. there is still much we don’t know, but here are a few things we’re reasonably sure are ahead for him)…
Chase is well over halfway done with his 54-week protocol. He has about 3 chemo cycles left. Each chemo cycle is approximately 3 weeks apart, but the ability to start the next cycle is dependent on a Chase’s recovery from the previous cycle… hence, our one-year protocol* is likely to last about a year-and-a-half. Our highly-uneducated guess is that, should Chase stay on schedule, he will finish towards the end of the fall, hopefully by Thanksgiving**. What a great day that will be!
*protocol: the fancy word they use for a specific chemo schedule of treatment (which drugs the patient takes on x-numbered weeks for x-numbered months/years)
**I cringe over putting a potential end date in writing because it’s a lot like posting when a baby is due. There is such a small chance things will actually happen on/by that exact date. So please, please don’t quote me as fact on this!
It will most likely take some weeks (if not months) for his immune system to recover to the point where he can sustainably feed himself (instead of the 14-hour IV nutrition bag he currently gets every day). This is the unknown bit: how long will it take his body to recover from over a year of aggressive cancer-killing? We have no idea, but we can tell from small things we observe even now that this will not happen overnight. I do know that he will need to undergo speech therapy, occupational therapy and physical therapy. He will also need to keep up with his ENT regarding his hearing (or lack thereof) with the possibility of hearing aids, and he will also begin working with endocrinologists (to deal with some other effects of treatment). He will continue to have full brain and spine MRIs every three months, keeping up with his neuro-oncology team, have yearly ECHOs to check his heart, and some other minor things that will have him visiting the hospital. As I recite this list, my idea of “back to normal” grows more dim and more silly all the time. And over all of this is the shadow…
The shadow of relapse. What if the cancer comes back?
ATRT is vicious and is known to come back, and even if, by a miracle, his ATRT doesn’t relapse, Chase is still at higher risk for secondary cancers because of his treatment. The tasks and appointments are endless, and the possibilities are choking.
Why pursue or continue in this treatment when it’s so harsh? Because Bob and I have complete peace in following our doctors’ recommendations for Chase in this. Because, with a cancer where survival is often measured in days and months, Chase has been here a full year. Because of his current state.
So, what is Chase’s state?
The truth is that in this moment, he is great. He’s a statistic-defying, bald miracle who (as I mentioned at the beginning) is sleeping soundly in the other room. This is why I sign every post “moment by moment“–because the cancer journey is a path riddled with crippling “what-ifs” and the worst-case scenario is often the norm. Tomorrow, and the day after, and the next treatment, and the next round will come in their own time, but in this moment, the state of Chase is a state of grace in which he informs me: “Mom! Everything is under control!” It’s a state in which he screams over blood draws one minute, and teases with residents on rounds in the next. It’s a state in which he sees doctors almost every week, but spends the large part of his clinic time running up and down the clinic hall flirting with nurses. It’s a state in which he informed me on the way into surgery that I should not be worried for him because he will be brave.
Chase amazes us at every turn, and in this moment, God has ordained joyous (yes, I said it was filled with joy) life for him. So we will prayerfully take these other things in stride as they come to us, all the while begging God for the continued perspective that this is just a season of life, but our true joy and is found in Him who promised that one day none of this cancer pain will exist ever again.
Moment by moment.
“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away. And he who was seated on the throne said ‘Behold, I am making all things new.’ Also he said, ‘Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true.” Revelations 21:4-5
Chase with surgical nurse Jen in pre-op for his second line procedure in a week.
“Dad, Chasey is crying in his bed and he won’t stop moving.”
With these words of a frightened child a year ago came the unheard sound of life forever changed. A season of watchful anxiety with no answers silently became a parent’s worst nightmare as we were thrown into a path on which there is no escape, no turning back, and no foreseeable end in sight.
The path is dim and lined with shadows: of lost dreams and old lives, of malignancy and pain, of a terminal condition always a breath away. And yet, God’s grace and goodness to us is woven into this tapestry of pain in ten thousand reasons for our heart to find.
Truly, there is no better sum for the year than this…
“I stand upon the mount of God with sunlight in my soul; I hear the storms and vales beneath, I hear the thunders role. But I am calm with Thee, my God, beneath these glorious skies; and to the height on which I stand, no storms, no clouds can rise. O, this is life! O this is joy, my God to find Thee so: Thy face to see, Thy voice to hear, and all Thy love to know.”Horatious Bonar
Thank you for walking this first year with us, moment by moment.
[As many of you know, Chase’s favorite song is Matt Redman’s “10,000 Reasons.” I hope this very slight picture of the year blesses you as it does us. Trace the faithfulness and joy with us… God is good.
During Chase’s chemo stay this week, the Stanley Cup visited the hospital!
Two years ago, Coach Quenneville brought the Cup to the old hospital and vowed that he would bring it back again, and on Tuesday, he did just that.
It was an honor to be part of such a special promise-keeping as the coach and other significant members of the Blackhawks’ organization poured 219 small pieces of paper, for the 219 children staying in the hospital that day, into the Cup to make the kids part of the win.
We were allowed to have a picture with the Cup, but after a long night of chemo, Chase lay exhausted in his stroller. Undaunted by the surgery scar, the white skin or the IVs protruding from his tiny body, Coach Q hoisted the cup and brought it down to Chase, all the while, talking kindly and softly to him and encouraging him that it was okay to touch the trophy. Chase doesn’t always respond well to strangers and especially not in a crowd (and this crowd had a lot of flashing cameras too), but he responded to the Coach and touched the Cup…and then, even though he didn’t take his thumb out of his mouth, he gave a big smile.
[We later learned that Chase thought he had been going to view the “Piston Cup” from the Cars movie…which also explains some of his initial hesitation.]
As we thanked the Coach and moved to make room for the next family, he stopped us and asked how Chase was doing in his fight against cancer. He absolutely didn’t have to do that, and yet, he took the time. In that moment, we caught a glimpse of the humble leader. No wonder these guys brought the Cup home again.
[for more pictures of Chase and the Stanley Cup’s visit to the hospital, please visit Chase Away Cancer, Chicago Blackhawks, or Ann and Robert H. Lurie Children’s Hospital of Chicago on Facebook]
Because of Chase’s second line infection, “the powers that be” decided to hold all chemo until the antibiotic finished, thereby giving Chase his largest break from chemo since March. Almost four whole weeks in-between cycles!
We were able to do some fun things with him and we also had a new experience: his blood counts dropped significantly after he’d recovered from chemo. They bumped back to “normal” after a transfusion, but it made us realize that our dream -that he will finish his chemo, grow his hair back, pink his skin up, and never again be in the hospital except for scans- may be slightly…okay, very flawed. Having his counts drop was just a momentary reiteration that Chase is sick and he’s been through hell and back in treatments and that is not going to go away overnight…and possibly not ever. God, give us strength to handle that time when we get there.
Playing with Grandma during the transfusion – before meeting “Girl”
A comical sidenote from his transfusion: I am becoming more and more convinced that central line pieces were not designed for active three-year olds. In typical Chase fashion, he was so active as he was receiving his packed red blood cells that the pressure cap on the end of his line loosened, dousing his shirt, shorts, and the bed in bright red blood. He saw it and started screaming “Blood! Blood!” which, of course, brought almost every nurse in the infusion center running into his room. He was completely fine. In fact, he went on to make friends with a little girl in the playroom who he named “Girl“, and when he was discharged, he went to find her, crossed his ankles, put his hands on his hips and said: “Girl? Girl! I have a problem. I have to go home now, but you will be alright. Okay?” Just a couple of the many, many moments in which we find ourselves shrugging, smiling, and saying “It’s Chase” when we’re at the hospital.
Playing with his friend Lucas (also on chemo for Leukemia) in the inpatient playroom
With his counts finally recovered and antibiotics complete, he restarted chemo on Monday and was in the hospital for three days, in which time, he managed to stay central line issue-free, but felt the need to allocate world-class neuro specialists for things other than cancer…like taking a header out of the hospital bed. He was deemed “stable” enough to be brought home, but he has a large “squishy” section to his head (he calls it his “squishy baseball“) and we are to call his doctors immediately if there is the slightest change to his condition. So, we watch, above and beyond, almost bordering on stalking him, and actively resist the urge to bubble wrap him as he attempts to play with his siblings in the backyard.
The “squishy baseball” – the view hardly does justice to his bruised cranium appearing to blow a large bubble, but it’s the general idea
At this moment, our hope and prayer is to get him through the weekend without needing to run to the ER for any reason. And as these stories show, we often go from weeping to laughing to feeling overwhelmed and back again…sometimes all three at once, which is why we are taking the days…
