Tag: waiting

What If I Go To Sleep And Don’t Wake Up?

Chase settled a little further into his pillow as I tucked the sheets up under his chin, just the way he liked it. He had been laughing a second earlier and it suddenly changed to a whimper. “I’m scared . . .”

I tousled the fuzzy hair on his smooth head, “It’s going to be okay, sweet boy.”

He twisted slightly in the sheets as if trying to physically escape a thought. “But Mom, what if I go to sleep and I don’t wake up?”

I hugged him close and promised him that wouldn’t happen – not because I knew it to be true, but because I desperately prayed it so. How the old soul questions from a young body twist at my heart and mind.

It takes four people to hold and distract Chase while the needle is placed in his arm.
It takes four people to hold and distract Chase while the needle is placed in his arm.

Twelve too short hours later, after fourteen hours of fasting and four attempts to place an IV in his under-hydrated veins, he fought the medication as it sought to take hold, pulling his head off the hospital bed to draw breath against the impending sleep even to the point that he nearly choked. His eyes closed and he fought them open once again. His voice was a hushed whisper as if even opening his lips to form words took too much energy. “Mom, I’m going to miss you. Will you come back to me?” The fear in his eyes was still visible in the blank glaze of the pre-anesthesia prescriptions.  And then his chest heaved in a gigantic sigh, and he surrendered.  And I stood in the bay next to Bob, watching nurses and doctors prepare to load his small body into the colossal machine until the automated entrance door closed, separating all of us once again.

We don't like needles . . .
We don’t like needles . . .

Yet another MRI . . .

Today marked Chase’s first MRI in four months and the first one since his diagnosis that I haven’t posted about before it occurred. It was traumatic as it always is and for a moment after the holidays and the busyness and burnout, I lost the ability and desire to put it into words. At some point, it feels like we run out of new ways to say “this is hard” and “please pray”. Every time he passes out and we’re left standing in a room, every last time we say goodbye, it tears at my heart and the weeping soul cry of it all is that we weren’t meant for these kind of things.

It’s hard now, and it’ll probably be equally difficult when we do it all again in three or four months or possibly sooner with an impending eye surgery. And wow, is my weakness and lack of faith on the surface in these moments when I stand separated from Chase and consider doing it all again. We never, ever outgrow the need for moment by moment grace, no matter the circumstance.

Sleeping off the medicines post-scan. He's awake, but was too tired to respond to anything - even a picture.
Sleeping off the medicines post-scan. He’s awake, but was too tired to respond to anything – even a picture.

Oh, but I’m so thankful to be able to bring you the hard and the good all in one, for within a few hours of the nearly two hour scan and recovery, we met with Chase’s neurosurgeon and learned that preliminary results showed negligible growth in the tumor site. Of course, we wait on the final consensus of the other teams and tumor board, but we are so blessed to share that at this point, Chase is stable. 

Moment by moment.

Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning. Psalm 30:5b

Post-procedure had Teddy Grahams - the best way to break a fast, of course :)
Post-procedure had Teddy Grahams – the best way to break a fast, of course 🙂

Of Breathing, Growing, And Being An Ambassador

Sometimes Chase remembers that things change as he grows and sometimes he doesn’t.  The last time he had a continuous EEG (the process of monitoring the working of his brain for hours on end), he was newly 4, six months off chemo, and his heart and body were both still deeply hospital weary.  He had to be wrapped and held and he screamed the whole time as the wires and goo covered his head, so when I told him on Monday that the time was coming again, he slumped down on the couch next to me.  “Mom, stop talking.  Please don’t say anything else.  I need to breathe.  No more talking… I need to breathe in and breathe out right now.”  And I sat half laughing and half broken that he’s 5 and yet he’s 107 for all of his experience.  

The awkward "can't-climb-into-the-hospital-bed-with-you" snuggle
The awkward “can’t-climb-into-the-hospital-bed-with-you” snuggle

In preparation, we wandered through Target last night and found a new movie and some popcorn because seizures can happen when you go from sleeping to waking and so he had to be able to sleep during the test, and as the kids sat on the old, blue leather couches and munched around giggles at WALL-E, there was another July EEG night on my heart.  One when Darcy and Aidan were still too young to stay up terribly late and Bob and I took turns napping and walking a two-year-old Chase around the block and at 10:30, when I simply couldn’t stand anymore Thomas the Tank Engine and decided to put him to bed, he lost his balance and fell, and my stomach turned, but many things can cause a fall and so we went to bed anyway…never knowing that it was less than 48 hours til we’d sleep in an ICU under the shadow of imminent surgery and tragic diagnosis.  I always think of that night come each July and it was my turn to breathe in and breathe out and remember that by the grace of God, that night wasn’t a minute past, but nearly three years ago.  

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Being perfectly still

This movie night lasted until 11:00 and the EEG day started at 5:00 and in moments like this, grace and coffee are my best friends.  By a mile down the road, it was time to find the nearest bathroom just because that’s what happens with 5-year-olds, and as we sat on the Eisenhower in the long lines of traffic, as soon as he saw the top of the Willis Tower, Chase pulled out his iPad and turned on 10,000 Reasons, because sighting the tower means he’s almost there.  Three years have nearly passed and this is still how he prepares for a hospital day.

Within minutes, we were there in the familiar rooms again and then came the moment he knew things had changed for he sat completely still while they put 21 brightly colored electrodes all over his skull and the only time he ever got cross was when I tried to make him laugh. IMG_1250  And I got to hold his hand and not hold him still.

Chase never relinquishes a fight and it took him until 5 hours into the test to fall asleep and that was 5…long…hours… of sitting in a bed with virtually no radius of movement unless a bathroom was absolutely necessary.

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Sleep finally wins

 

When the test was done, having mercifully lasted only 6.5 hours, he pulled some St. Baldrick’s brochures out of his pack.  They had his picture inside, his and Dr. Lulla’s, and to anyone who would stop, he gave a brochure and said “I’m an ambassador.”  And even though he doesn’t always give Dr. Lulla the time of day during clinic visits, to any and all who would listen, he would explain and point, saying “This is Dr. Lulla and he’s my favorite doctor in the whole world.”  He even stopped a security guard and somehow managed to encourage him to shave his head next year, and it was a precious moment of conversation and meeting, because if I’ve said it once, I’ve said it here a dozen times…this is how Chase rolls.  And I wish you could have seen the tall security guard fold down and give tiny Chase a big hug.  Those are the good moments to breathe in.

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Chase and his “favorite doctor in the whole world”

And now Chase has learned that things change as he grows and what was hard a year ago wasn’t very hard at all anymore, though the sitting still and his mom trying to make him laugh at inopportune moments will probably remain trials for many years to come.  

For now we await results.  No matter what comes of this, we’ll breathe in, breathe out, and take it…

Moment by moment.

Today

Today, I walked into a huge medical facility bay and stared down a gigantic white truck structure.  The MRI.   

Today, I watched my loving husband carry my darling son up into the structure as he spoke calmly and quietly, and Chase, red-faced and teary, clung to him and cried that he couldn’t…just couldn’t…do this right now.

Today, I stood in the bay as only one parent could go inside with Chase, and my heart ripped just a tiny bit at the sound of his screams and then it was silent but for the pounding of the machine.  And I would learn later that though he screamed in the room, the minute the scan started, he became peaceful and still and stayed still for the whole test.

Today, as I held my breath and prayed for Chase in the sound of the machine, a man came up and introduced himself – the husband of a beloved proton radiation nurse who had cared for Chase nearly two years prior – what a small, beautiful world it is some days.

Today, I watched Chun, the camera man (because yes, we have a camera crew here with us now – so much more on that some day soon) peer around the corner of the machine and flash me the “thumbs up” – Chase was okay and he was done.  He did it!

Today, Chase descended out of the gigantic white structure, held his arms out to me and shouted “Mom!  You came back to me!  I did it and I was SO brave!!”

Today, we – Bob, Chase, the camera crew, a friend from the hospital, and me – we all waited in quiet anticipation to talk to the neurosurgeon.

Today, we all stood in the small exam room to hear that the growths, though changed and grown a little more, are considered stable.

Today, we talked of movies, and keeping up with small children and their energy as Chase went through the paces of touching his nose and myriad of other normal things that may not always come easily to him and Dr. Alden knows this and watches out for him.

Today, we heard that we get to wait to look again until January and enjoy our holidays and that we don’t need to think about biopsies or treatments right now.

Today, we heard that January is most certainly a necessity and that at least one of the growing places on the MRI is still a concern.

Today, we talked about nobody having all the answers and how frustrating it is when we ask and the doctors long to reassure with decades of concrete research and can’t.

Today, we were reminded that if we see any, absolutely any changes in Chase, we need to report them immediately.

Today, we chafed against the wait again and found our spirits wanting.

Today, we were given the day, and we’ll take it…

…moment by moment.

“We were made to run through fields of forever, singing songs to our Savior and King.
So let us remember this life we’re living is just the beginning of this glorious unfolding.
We will watch and see and we will be amazed if we just keep on believing the story is so far from over and hold on to every promise God has made to us…
We’ll see the glorious unfolding.”

Steven Curtis Chapman

Waiting for the neurosurgeon and mildly questioning Dad's ability to assemble a Transformer...
Waiting for the neurosurgeon and mildly questioning Dad’s ability to assemble a Transformer…

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