Take Off The Bag

Sixteen of Chase’s every twenty-four hours are spent attached to an IV bag. This bag, its carrying case and the pump weigh about as much as he does (when the bag is full) and he must drag it behind him everywhere he goes. In addition to the weight, the cord has a short range, so he can only walk about two feet before it pulls and strains; reminding him to pick up the burdensome piece again. The moment it beeps (a notification that the cycle is complete) is the happiest moment of his day and as soon as he’s detached, he immediately starts running and jumping…two things he really can’t do without causing harm when the bag is on.

However, there was a day last week when the IV pump notified it’s completion, and instead of the jubilant “My baggy’s done!!” that I usually hear, there was silence. I went to him and said “Chase, your bag is done! Do you want me to take it off for you?” He sighed and said “Not right now, Mom. I’m playing…maybe later.” He had become so engrossed in his play that he was no longer energized to remove that awful shackle of a bag.

And I suddenly saw myself in this encounter…

How often I struggle with fear and sin that -with God’s help- I could lay aside! I could find peace, find rest, and be free of whatever burden holds me. He comes to me, much as I came to Chase and says “It is finished, this can be removed…will you let me do that for you?” …yet in my foolishness, I am content to play while my worry and fear is attached to my very life vein because I am too preoccupied to see that He stands there -more able than I will ever be- ready to remove it.

“…let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God.” Hebrews 12:1b-2

Take off the bag. It is finished.

Moment by moment.

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Another Cancer Day

Last night, as I was putting on Chase’s IV bag, I mentioned his upcoming visit to the hospital and reminded him that he was going to have a “nap with the doctor” – our little phrase for when he’s under general anesthesia, in this case for another spinal tap.  Every time I’ve mentioned a “nap” in the last couple of weeks he’s whimpered and said he’s scared, but last night, as I put on his bag, he was able to articulate more.  As I asked him why he was scared, he told me that it was because the “nap” “hurt his body” and as I questioned what that meant (assuming some soreness from the tap), he clearly and lucidly said “It’s the two men, Mom. They hurt my body when they go like this [mimics pinching his cheeks together and covering his mouth and nose].  They scare me! Please don’t let them do that, okay?

As I heard my child describe a very vivid memory of what is most likely the three breaths of struggling consciousness against an anesthesia team from a previous procedure, my heart and stomach dropped as my ire rose.

How dare they let that happen? How on earth does he remember? Why?

I almost never find myself questioning the cancer as a whole – it is not in my nature to question the large and inevitable things, but these small moments sear into my conscious and unconscious thought and replay ad nauseum.  In those moments, I am angry and even despairing.  My desire to protect my children rages against the reality of not being able to shield them and being powerless to erase his mental image of men holding a mask over his face while nobody was there to save him.

Like a litany in my head, “I hate cancer, I hate cancer, I hate this!”  I want to fight something, someone – to lash out and change what is.

As we sit and pray together, I remind him (as I desperately remind myself) of our verse:  “Be strong and of good courage, for the Lord our God is with you.” (Joshua 1:9)

I know that I need to trust God and that the only way to remove the heaviness of this moment is to run to the Word for comfort, but how I hate the cancer and all that goes with it.  “The law of the Lord is perfect; reviving the soul…” (Psalm 19:7)

In that moment, I hate it with every fiber, but by God’s grace, I will press on to a restful and peaceful soul because this wretched disease is not the end, but the start.

“…for the Lord our God is with you.”

Moment by moment.

[I feel like I’ve written words and verses like this a hundred times, but today I had to write this out for the benefit of my own heart. I needed to write out and be reminded of why I do what I do and for Whom. So if you’ve heard these words and phrases from me before, bear with me today…I needed to hear them in my own head and heart again.]

**Chase can often be given a kind of forgetting drug so that he’s “gone” before he ever physically seperates from us, but on occasion, that drug is deemed unwise (for a variety of reasons). His oncology team is amazing and as soon as I informed them of what he remembered, changes were put in place to ensure he is more comfortable in future. My writing is about my reaction to his experience – not a current issue with Chase’s care.**

Healing In The Tears

The last couple weeks have been such a blessed break in many ways.  Although Chase had chemo, it was so light that he didn’t need a single transfusion!  These more “normal” days with no hospital are full of nothing and everything.  I find myself actively being a wife and mother, nurturer and teacher in a way that I haven’t in months, but I’m also finding myself often in last summer.
I’m so thankful that I was cautioned by another cancer parent or this preoccupation would have taken me completely by surprise.  The first days and months with cancer have been so intense and involve the daily fight to live and breathe on such a level that its only when I stop that I have the luxury to reflect…and feel.  The misleading thing in all of this is that I truly believe that I have felt and thought and processed as we’ve lived each second, but it’s somehow different…even more traumatic at times.  Flashes of memory often tear into my daily moments…

…that summer moment in our front entry way when I first saw Chase’s hand tremble uncontrollably

…the change in the brash ER doctor as he (with tears in his eyes) said “It isn’t good. There’s a very large mass.”

…watching the city street disappear out the door window of the ambulance as we pulled into the bay at the children’s hospital and thinking “I’m on the inside now…never on the outside of this life again”

…Bob calling me from the EEG room: “Chase is seizing almost constantly. They’re moving us to ICU. Somebody is coming to get you.”

…drawing my knees up and wanting to curl into a ball in the tiny, dim conference room as the neurosurgeon ripped our breath away with words like “malignant” and “tumor cells everywhere

…seeing my baby again for the first time after surgery and hurting for him as he -bloodied, swollen and covered in monitors- rose to his knees in the bed and angrily screamed “I want my Mommy! I want my Daddy!” and the doctors and nurses sighed in relief that he could move and speak and know and I swallowed the guilt of not knowing how to touch him and comfort him with bloody stitches covering the head I had kissed every day…

Hours after surgery
Hours after surgery

These and many others are the litany of pictures and sounds and feelings in my brain that I believe will smooth and gentle with years, but know will remain imprinted until I draw my last breath in this broken world.

This is my daily battle: to acknowledge what has been while breathing in whatever normal is now, and still entrusting to God that which is yet to come.

I will never be able to leave these traumas, but I can control how they shape what is ahead…

“I wonder too…if the rent in the canvas of our life backdrop, the losses that puncture our world, our own emptiness, might actually become places to see. To see through to God. That which tears open our souls, those holes that splatter our sight, may actually become the thing, open places to see through the mess of this place to the heart-aching beauty beyond. To Him. To the God whom we endlessly crave.” Anne Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts

Yes.

This.

My hurt memories push at it, but my soul cries for that Grace and Peace that is the only answer in all the broken.  This that I see even in the pain…at times more clearly in the pain.

And so, I move forward…

Moment by moment.

The night before surgery: monitoring the seizures
The night before surgery: monitoring the seizures

Of Blood and Hearts and Snowflakes

In the hours following Chase’s surgery, scans showed that there were some areas of fluid around his brains – pockets, if you will. I regularly flash back to those uncertain hours and the sick, tight feeling in my stomach as we waited and wondered if he would need to go back into surgery.
Those hours resolved in the same day with a second scan that showed no change and it was determined that the fluid could be watched and waited on as Chase moved forward in stable condition.
Chase -as we well know- continues in stable condition, but the January scans (when we received such good news) revealed that these pockets of fluid have changed: now, there is blood in them.
I won’t even begin to write on a technical level about things like “hematoma” that I don’t even completely understand, but I will reiterate this: Chase is stable. If there was an immediate or emergent quality to this issue, we would see marked changes in him.
Chase will, however, be having a repeat scan in a couple of weeks and will be meeting with his neurosurgeon to determine a plan of action. …a plan that I pray will in no way involve booking an operating room.
The wondering and the waiting. The watching anxiously and exchanging worried looks over his head any time he slurs a word or loses his balance. All of it tempts me to despair and curse the cancer…to throw up my hands and scream “This will never be done! This will never be better! There is no end to this awful disease!”
And yet…
In the middle of this past week, we learned that a little girl who shares our hospital lost her battle with cancer. Her name is Anna. She was 11. Somewhere, her family sits forever changed – doubtlessly reliving the awful moments when they were told that the chemo had done irreparable damage and the very hours were numbered.
I grieve for Anna’s family, yet I am truly thankful for her life’s reminder that I still hold a living and breathing child in my arms and that each second of life is a precious gift.
The day Anna died, I stood looking out the window over the bleak landscape and as I stood, snow began to fall. As I watched the flakes in the air, I was reminded that there is a sovereign God who crafted and knows each design of each flake that touches the earth and he knows Anna’s heart and Chase’s brain and all the whys and wherefores that I don’t and may never know or understand.
I want to tie this all together neatly… The blood pockets in a damaged brain, the chemo-ridden heart that stopped a too short life, the snow that fell and the insight with it. I don’t believe there is a neat or tidy way to wrap these hideous and beautiful things, but this …

“Oh, how great are God’s riches and wisdom and knowledge! How impossible it is for us to understand his decisions and his ways! For who can know the Lord’s thoughts? Who knows enough to give him advice? And who has given him so much that he needs to pay it back? For everything comes from him and exists by his power and is intended for his glory. All glory to him forever! Amen.” Romans 11:33-36 (New Living Translation)

Moment by moment.

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Answering Questions

Since Chase’s most recent evaluation, we have received quite a few inquiries which have led us to compile a list of frequently asked questions.  Feel free to tack on other questions in the comment section at the end of this post.  Our hope is that this assists in both the understanding of Chase’s treatment and gives a small window into the life of a pediatric cancer patient (a world in which Chase is one of way too many).

1. Why does Chase still need chemo if the cancer is gone?
This is probably the question we hear most often, and here’s the answer.  The scans showed that the tumor deposits are gone and while they don’t see any more tumor or cancer cells, he isn’t considered “cancer free” because there could be more cancer cells free-floating that just haven’t manifested themselves at this time.  And even if his body was completely cancer-free at the moment, this is a vicious, virulent cancer known to recur in the first 18-20 weeks after diagnosis.  Think of it like a weed in your garden or yard: not only would you pull out the weed that you see, but you would also desire to make the ground (via a weed killer or the like) as inhospitable an environment as possible for the growth of any further weeds.  Think of this stage of chemo as both an errant weed killer and a future weed deterrent.

2. How much more chemo does Chase need?
The chemo schedule (or “protocol“) that Chase is on calls for a total of 51-54 weeks of chemo.  At this point, he has completed 17 weeks or cycles (it’s actually been closer to 20 actual weeks that have passed as his earlier chemo dates were often slightly delayed by his fevers and low counts).  He will probably complete his chemo regimen around the first anniversary of his surgery and diagnosis.

3. Why does Chase still get fevers and need blood and platelets if the cancer is potentially gone?
Chase still gets fevers and needs transfusions because those are side effects from the chemo, not the cancer.  And yes, it is harsh… but dying of brain cancer would be more harsh.

4. Can this kind of cancer spread?
In a manner of speaking, yes.  For more technical information on this, I’d highly recommend checking Wikipedia’s AT/RT link.  In laymen’s terms, I can tell you that AT/RT has rarely been seen to spread beyond the brain and spine.  On occasion, it does move to the kidneys, but that usually only occurs with the genetic form of the disease.  Hence our flying Chase’s tumor to Boston to be studied by a geneticist and having his kidneys checked (it was concluded that Chase does NOT have the genetic form of AT/RT).  Could he possibly be at a heightened risk for more cancer and other cancers in his lifetime because of his AT/RT?  Very probably.  But it’s not happening today, so we’re not going there today.

5. Chemotherapy vs. Radiation?
In Chase’s case, he needed both.  His protocol calls for a chemo induction, then a reduced chemo schedule during radiation, and pending a good evaluation, a slightly reduced chemo schedule for the duration of the 51-54 weeks.  Evidence suggests that they have not had success curing AT/RT without some form of radiation.

6. Does Chase understand cancer and his diagnosis?
Chase understands that he doesn’t feel well and that there are all sorts of things that have to happen to him, but he has no paradigm for words like “terminal” and “malignant.”  Not only is he just three, but he’s probably suffered some memory damage, so it’s actually a little unclear on how much of his life he even recalls before his diagnosis.  To him, being in and out of hospitals is just a way of life.  In fact, he loves his hospital because he’s a bit of a big deal. 🙂

7. What does Chase eat?
Nothing.  Many of the chemo drugs give him nausea and a couple of them give him painful sores that can go anywhere from his mouth to his esophagus and even intestines.  Early on in his treatment, Chase was put on an IV nutrition system to ensure that his body maintained nutrition, weight, electrolytes, sugars… all the essentials needed to survive.  As of today, Chase is attached to a bag for 16 hours of every day.  He does at times put a bite of food in his mouth, but usually spits it back out. 

**Sidenote: Chase “attaches” to the bag through his central line – what is basically a surgically inserted tube into an arterial vein in his chest.  The tube splits on the outside of his skin so that there are two lumen (or small hoses) through which he can be “accessed.”  When he is not accessed (meaning the tubes are not in use), they fold up neatly into an ace wrap that covers his chest.  This is the site that needs the dressing change every week.  Because of this, Chase is at increased risk for things like infection and pulmonary embolism.  However, the benefit is that he is virtually “needle free.”  All labs, chemo infusions, and most medications can be administered in his line which is such a blessing!  For this, we are more than happy to figure out the no swimming, no bathing, “carry a crash kit everywhere you go” lifestyle of a small child with (in his own word) “tubies.

8. Does Chase sleep?
The answer to this question is multi-faceted and best-answered “at times.”  The chemo and (especially) radiation have highly affected his sleep patterns so he suffers from disturbed sleep.  Every night is not created equal.  Some nights, he’s up only a couple of times, and others, it’s every 20-30 minutes all night long.  For now, there are two things we know about this issue: it’s almost guaranteed to happen every night and, per a word with his attending oncologist, doctors have seen sleep improve greatly when chemo is done. 

9. What are the long-term effects of this cancer and the treatment on Chase?
This is a question we don’t have verbalized to us very often, but I think it’s one that everybody considers, so I’d like to try and address it a little even though it’s hard to define at this particular moment.  We know that due to the tumor placement and size, there was most likely some brain damage, especially in his memory center.  Not so much like amnesia; more as in damage that will cause him to struggle to make memories in the future.  We also know that a couple of the chemo drugs Chase is taking could likely damage his heart and his hearing.  This is why he gets (and will get for the rest of his life) scheduled EKGs and hearing tests.  In fact, we have already seen small evidences that his hearing is changing.  Lastly, we know that the radiation (even proton radiation) is known to cause brain damage and stunted spinal growth (not in all cases, but Chase had his whole brain and whole spine radiated).  This is at times hard to discuss because many of these potential difficulties to overcome are based on our treatment decisions and are (at this moment) hypothetical.  What we know right now regarding Chase’s future is what we’ve always known to be true: our hope and joy come from God alone.  I so love the phrase coined by the mother of another brain cancer patient: “Defined by God, not by cancer.”  So we will meet and undertake each new facet of Chase as it becomes apparent… moment by moment.

I believe that it is very easy to get overwhelmed by all these definitions and descriptions.  In fact, I get a tightness in my chest every time I list all these things we do in a single day and all the life-time implications they hold.  With this in mind, let me end these questions and answers with a reminder–to myself and to any and all who read: Chase was designed this way by God.  God has–in His all-knowing, perfect and loving mind–designated cancer as the awful yet awesome refining for Chase and, by extension, our family.  We will consider it joy then, because we will someday see Jesus, and be perfect and complete (James 1).  And in whatever life God has for Chase, we see promise because we know that he has been fearfully and wonderfully created by a God who loves him more than we can fathom (Psalm 139).

Moment by moment.