Of Open Doors and Answers

Back in October – both a year and a lifetime ago – Chase’s bone marrow biopsy reported he had no cancer in his blood or bones. But his skin kept bruising, his tummy kept hurting, and he stayed very thin, unable to gain weight even as I watched him eat; even as I knew he was picking up enough calories. 

One night, I watched him have energy and hunger. It was the first time he’d had energy all day and I watched him systematically devour three slices of oven pizza over the course of family dinner and movie night. Three whole slices! And still he appeared near emaciated. Could this still be his endocrine system?

So, the following week, I called his endocrine team. And after the call, I wanted to laughed so I didn’t cry, because sometimes the name “Chase” feels like a synonym for “conundrum”. Some days, my boy seems born to a state of confusion and trouble with the inevitability of sparks flying upward in a dark sky. 

You see, Chase’s inability to gain weight, his exhaustion and even lack of energy might indeed be laid at the door of his non-existent thyroid. And it wouldn’t be that very hard to fix, but crouching at that same door are still a few small pieces of cancer, which means that opening the door for Chase to thrive – even just a little bit – might unwittingly be opening the door for Chase’s cancer to thrive. 

The decision -like so many we’ve made before- felt simple, and yet precarious and complicated. He couldn’t continue to waste and tire, but the thought of our helping him also helping his cancer…? It made my heart physically ache.

In November, we put our hand to the latch, lowering his doses just the tiniest bit and not even every day. And they took more blood to check.

And then in December, we turned the knob, lowering his doses just another tiny bit so that it was every day. And they took more blood to check. 

And then in January, in the middle of hospital-quiet weeks with less appointments, we pushed the door open just a tiny bit more because while he still has bruises and tires too easily, he has been able to gain a little weight and his stomach doesn’t hurt so much anymore. And they took more blood to check.

But this time, I got a notification on Friday night, just a day after they took his blood: it came back from the lab and one level went up and the other went down. And it seems that opposite directions are not good directions when it comes to things like thyroid cancer.

These numbers are out of bounds, and that means our quiet season is officially out of time. And the ones who decide – who sometimes move like grains of sand counting out time – seem to be moving much quicker now. We knew another full-body scan would come sometime, but now it needs to come soon.

So it will be one week to lay the foundation. And then another week to do the involved testing process – the one where he will lay still as death for hours on a table while they scan his entire body.

It all starts with the month of February – on the very first. 

It’s possible that all of this is a simple sign of hyperthyroidism.

It’s possible that this is just the life and times of a broken body that has endured almost a decade of treatments. 

And it’s also possible that those opposite numbers are a sign that the small pieces of cancer, crouched tight in the lymph nodes where his thyroid used to be… well, it’s possible they noticed that we opened the door a little and have decided to grow into the space we created and intended for his body to thrive. And if that’s possible, the doctors know they need to check his lungs too.  

I am worried. But I’m also not worried, if that makes any sense at all. Sometimes faith is an even bigger conundrum than the life of our fighter boy. It’s a heart space where both grief and peace live in equal measure. And they can coexist because cancer will never stop being wrong, but Chase will never stop belonging to Jesus.

Whether the results of these tests come to nothing, or something, or whether (as we have since the Fall) we are left with no answers and the command to keep watching and waiting, we do so with hope.

These are heartbreaking moments, yes. But they’re heartbreaking moments that are part of a much bigger, better story that that HE is writing. And I don’t know how many more awful chapters there will yet be, but I know the ending is good and perfect – forever. 

Choosing thankfulness. Moment by moment.