Tag: thyroid cancer

Keeping It Interesting

This one… he likes to keep it interesting, doesn’t he? We spent yesterday morning talking with his endocrine team after some really wild labs.

 
Chase’s numbers are suddenly kind of crazy and it could be for a lot of different reasons, but the most important and immediate concern is getting his levels back under control – and quickly. 


You see, the longer his levels are all over the place, the more likely his thyroid-free body is to create a favorable environment for thyroid cancer re-growth – in his lymph nodes, especially. [spoiler alert: we *super* don’t want that]


So for now, the plan is to make immediate changes to the medications that are helping his body regulate things, and then we re-test everything in a few weeks.

 
As a parent who walked into this childhood cancer world under the auspices of a brain tumor diagnosis, waiting to re-test is a terrifying prospect because brain tumors often grow incredibly quickly and hours to days can make a huge difference in the end result. But… as Chase’s [very patient] endocrine team has had to remind me many times over the last four years: thyroid cancer is a different cancer with its own unique schedule of growth – in that way, at least, it is a far more gentle cancer. 


So we sit for these weeks until the re-test and trust Chase’s weary body and his levels to the One who knows him best.

Moment by moment.

When Easy Is A Lie

Two years and a lifetime ago…

It was in the middle of a vortex of cold air sweeping through the January winter, the days dark and frigid, when we got the news. The results of the biopsy were in.

It was cancer. 

Again. 

In those first minutes, we reeled even though in a strange way, we had been expecting it. And in those first weeks, we heard one sentence stated a dozen ways and we believed it:

“This is the easy cancer”. 

In a way, this is a clinically supportable thought. The sheer number of days spent in the hospital, the number of moments we walked to the edge of life and back when Chase was two and fighting brain cancer – it doesn’t even compare. And yet…

Today is the second anniversary of Chase’s second cancer – a cancer that still sits in his body, making it outlast the actual time his brain cancer sat throughout his body by a good eight months. And these two years have been heartbreaking and complicated in so many unexpected ways.

You see, the problem with the word “easy” is that it is an immeasurable concept. There is no one-size-fits-all when it comes to the complicated complexities put before each of us. And the use of those types of words always end up pushing me down and hollowing me out. 

If it was supposed to be easy and it doesn’t feel that way, then there must be something wrong with me, right? 

And then I take those wrong, hard thoughts into the day with me and I walk into the processing, the tears and the pain not only unprepared, but feeling inadequate in all ways – because it wasn’t supposed to be this way. It was supposed to be “easy”.

And perhaps that’s the true cruelty of that word – “easy” – when life isn’t (and it almost never is), then my focus invariably turns to that second phrase:

“it wasn’t supposed to be this way”. 

But very few things from the start of the world were ever supposed to be this way .

“Easy” makes us sit with our doubts.

“Easy” is ripe ground for seeds of discontentment.

“Easy” is sorrow incarnate when it comes to the table of suffering.

There is no easy. 

Dear ones, I believe with my whole heart there is only ordained.

And it’s in relinquishing the “easy” word that I find peace. …not in this life, to be sure, but in hope. 

With hope, the hard melts and reshapes. It never disappears. Life is hard and broken and will be until I see Jesus with my own eyes. But hope is the banquet at the table of suffering.

Hope is rich and beautiful even when the tears are rolling down my face and my heart is crying out “two years of this that was supposed to be easy…?!” 

Hope holds me up when I weaken.

Hope comforts me when I weep. 

Hope means purpose even in cancer … and second cancers.

So throw out the thoughts of “easy” with all its frustration and futility and “What’s wrong with me?” questions.

And hold on to hope with all of it’s “God is good even here” truths. It won’t be easy, but then again, “easy” was never a part of the story. And what a story it is…

Moment by moment.

“Why am I discouraged? Why is my heart so sad? I will put my hope in God…”

“…each day the Lord pours his unfailing love upon me.”

Psalm 43:5a, 42:8a

Lessons From The Second First Anniversary

You think I would know by now that another shoe drops with each piece of news… I have debated writing this all down because it feels like I’m being a drama mama, and yet, it feels dramatic because everything is traumatic when there’s been a terminal fight. So, it’s true that Chase’s brain and spine are in the clear for now, but it was next-hospital-day news that revealed there is something growing in Chase’s thyroid. We have been told that it’s probably not a big deal, and I want to believe that with my whole heart, even though I know IT’S CHASE. All the necessary teams are getting onboard and there will be more tests and more days spent in the hospital. So it’s probably nothing. But it could be something. But we pray it’s not. Welcome to the roller coaster. The only thing we can do is buckle up and cling even more and ever more to hope in the moment by moment. ❤️

Chase Away Cancer Facebook page, January 11, 2019

It’s cancer. And the total mind-twisting news is that it’s actually a good cancer. (Yes, the term “good cancer” exists.) But it’s still another cancer and it’s somehow inconceivable to me that in nine short years, this sweet boy is facing a second battle. In this wind-knocked-out-of-us moment, there is so much to weigh us down and break us, but there is so much to be thankful for – so much blessing too. So, we choose thankfulness…and throw ourselves into the cancerous moment by moment again.

Chase Away Cancer Facebook page, January 29, 2019

It feels like I wrote these words seconds ago. I remember the pit in my stomach and the way it felt hard to breath. But it was a year ago now, and as I reflect on this crazy year of a second cancer, as we approach the second first anniversary of a diagnosis, there are three things that stay close to my heart, and so in honor of the struggle, I share them with you now. I hope you see yourself, see encouragement, and see hope in these words, for we are all in a fight of one kind or another:

  • At no point does pain reach a saturation point. In our experiences this last year, there has never been a moment when we thought, nor have we met anyone else who thought or said: “Oh, I have already experienced several years of pain and suffering, so it does not phase me as it once did. It is easier now.” Every pain is new like water on a parched ground, soaking deep and fast, and sometimes things hurt worse simply for the misplaced conviction that they should not hurt at all.
  • There is no modifier in a cancer journey. It isn’t “just” thyroid cancer, “just” stage one. There isn’t an “easy” cancer. Some are more complicated than others, some come with a higher mortality rate than others, but there is no easy cancer. Each comes with its complications, both physical and emotional. And in a disease where there is no justice, there can be no “just”. This is the broken world manifest in our broken bodies.
  • Make every moment count. I sign off every piece with the phrase ‘moment by moment’ and it stems from the edge-of-the-knife times when everything changes and the ground shifts beneath you. If I could take one thing from those first seconds of knowing, when the heart beats hard and everything in you falls and screams, it would be this: make the time count. Sometimes, I forget and am lulled, yet, how I long to keep it close even when my heart beats slow and all is well. Only the necessary. Only as needed. Always with grace. …moment by moment.

Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.

Lamentations 3:22-23
Friday, February 22, 2019 ~ one day after surgery

**On this past Tuesday evening, January 14th, Chase had another seizure, his first in six months. It was under five minutes long and he came out of it well and quickly, but he will be facing additional tests and labs, including another overnight stay in the hospital – all in the next month.**

Of Second Times And Separations

It’s been two months to plan the course. 

It’s been two weeks to prepare his body. 

And now, this morning, there are zero days left to wait. 

Today, for the second time in his fast, yet long nine years, my precious boy will start treatment for a cancer.

The second cancer. 

The second time this second cancer has showed up in his body in these last ten months.

The first time Chase fought cancer, passage was was measured in months and marked with the times we nearly lost him. 

This second time Chase will fight is measured in mere days, but it is marked already with a profound separation.

There have been so many tears – of grief, anger, frustration, fear, pain, and sometimes even joy. But the thing with the tears is that after they rain down, they dry up.

And then hope comes again.

BECAUSE CANCER IS NEVER THE END OF THE STORY.

This is not what we would choose, but we move into it, knowing that even in our separation, we are never alone. 

We are heartbroken, yet peaceful.

It is time.

We are ready.

Moment by moment. 

Weeping may last through the night, but joy comes with the morning.

Psalm 30:5b

He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain.

Revelation 21:4b

**After ten months of diagnosis and fifteen days of preparation, while the rest of the 4th graders round out their last few hours in their corner classroom, Chase will lay in a corner hospital room and swallow radioactive iodine, thereby rendering him a radioactive danger to those he loves – for the sake of cancer eradication. For the next 5-7 days, Chase and anything he touches will be living in a prolonged state of separation (both in the hospital and at another location) in which he must remain at least six feet from all other people – until such time as he is officially “cleared”. Please pray for Chase and our family as we walk into the unknown.**

Credit: Margaret Henry Photography

When Everything Changes

“Relying on God has to begin all over again every day as if nothing had yet been done.”

C. S. Lewis (Collected Letters)

It’s funny how a single day can change everything. 

I was sitting in the top of a football stadium along the river separating Ohio from Kentucky, the sun warming the still air all around us when I saw a new message on my phone. 

And everything changed.

For eight months now, the anchor in in the harbor has been a “wait” word. Wait and see if the cancer grows back. Wait and see if it grows into other new, breathing lung places. Wait to even look with an ultrasound because these kind of cancers grow so slow. And these doctors who see the worst and the harshest…? Well, can you blame them if they don’t want to over-cut thin skin, over-treat weary souls, over-anything these precious littles? I certainly can’t. 

But the scared places in my heart wanted to blame and scream to stop the wait and start the fight. The cancer is slow in other bodies, but cancers seem to like Chase’s body too much, and the last one grew fast like a wild fire in the wind. 

Four to six whole months to even peek inside… the pictures and news would come right before Christmas and his tenth birthday. Four to six unchecked months for the cancer to go and do anything, anywhere. And of course, it might not go anywhere. But this is Chase we’re talking about and he tends to have the outlier story; the road less traveled journey.

But then, a message read against the sun’s glare on my phone at the top of a football stadium changed everything just a bit. 

For, you see, sometimes doctors change their minds. They talk to each other and pour over the charts and histories and results like a holy grail of sorts, and then they turn to each other and question why they should stick to the idea of four to six months when Chase is a blink-of-the-eye kind of boy. And so, instead of waiting for cold weather and holidays, the message said we do it now, in just a few days at the peak of the pre-Fall warmth.

And yesterday, with a simple phone call, everything changed again. 

Because it’s not just the scan that comes in a few days, dear ones. Sometimes doctors change their minds about treatment too. They chart and think and test and then they turn to each other and question the wisdom of leaving cancer to grow in Chase’s body where it grows too well despite official prognoses and data. And so, while treatment may not be easy for Chase, it is a precaution that has gone from a distant possibility to an imminent reality.

For the first time since October of 2013, our sweet boy will officially go back into treatment. 

It’s silly and crazy, because we’ve known to expect this since we heard the words “It’s cancer” back in January. But it feels different now that it’s here, and it feels urgent in the speed of a changed decision. And I think at the end of the day, the best way to describe our hearts in this is ‘joyful grief’. We are so deeply thankful that the wait is over for now, and that the doctors looked to each other and came up with the answers that were heavy on our hearts. We did not have to fight them for these changes. They came to our conclusions on their own and that’s a blessing of the best kind when doctors have to be like family members on the regular. So there is joy in that oneness of mind, but there is grief too. Once again, we push into pain for the long term benefit and willingly subject our precious son to incredibly hard things for the sake of his future quality of life. 

We have been told that we will hopefully know more by the end of next week. And it could all change again in a second. But until that time when the results are known, through that time of tests and procedures, and beyond – whatever may come – as long as breath remains – we cry out for grace and strength in the …

…moment by moment.

[All pictures are from this past weekend; fulfilling Chase’s dream to finally see his friend Robbie Gould play in real time. All our love and thanks to the Gould family for making this dream a reality for Chase.]

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