And Now We Wait

Today’s appointment went smoothly and quickly despite how much was packed into it.  Tate had a 7am check-in time, and he was the only patient in the procedure wing of the clinic.  It was very calm; I don’t remember another time when he was the only patient.

Not long ago Tate’s pain level was so high he would been unable able to sit unsupported like this.  He has fought so hard to regain his strength; this picture has a lot of meaning to me.

Tate gave a little laugh as the Propofol knocked him out.  Tate had a Lumbar Puncture, a bone marrow aspiration, intrathecal chemotherapy, and two types of IV chemotherapy before Greg and I were allowed into recovery to see him.

I don’t care if the number of times Tate has been put under general anesthesia since May is now in the teens, I hate the helpless feeling I get walking away from him.  I am doing a much better job of coping while in the waiting area, which is important.  I know I will never get used to this, but I concede that draining the energy of everyone around me is not helpful, nor is spreading my fear to family living out-of-state.  Now I set the stopwatch on my phone or Fitbit, and I do not permit myself to worry until 30 minutes have passed.  It has really helped curtail my more negative emotions in a healthy way.  The Lumbar Punctures are 20-minute procedures, and if the nurse has not popped her head into the waiting room to tell us Tate is okay after 30, I feel free to pace, cry, and be as twitchy as I want.  That is the deal I have made with myself, and so far it has been pretty effective.

Tate got moved to the super-bright room for his final chemotherapy dose of the day, which is why he is hiding under the blanket.

The second series (of three) Erwinase injections began today.  This morning was kind of funny because Tate accused the nurses of wiping off the numbing cream and then forgetting where it was when giving him the shots.  His nurse drew circles around the areas treated with Lidocaine, and there was a lot of discussion as to the accuracy of the outlines.  The nurses do as much as they can to make cancer treatment bearable for the kids they treat.  I am grateful for them every day.

After the shots Tate has to stay at the clinic for an hour in the event he has a reaction.  So far so good, and after watching him go into anaphylactic shock when he got PEG, we understand why they do not take any chances.

By the end of the appointment we figured out a way to shield Tate from the floodlight that cannot be turned off or dimmed.  In this picture Tate is going through the bag of snacks, settling on a “weird cookie,” and I am checking the status of the plumbing part I ordered on Amazon.  (It should be delivered tomorrow if you’re wondering, and the bathtub spout will finally be fixed.  Nothing that simple should be so annoying or take so long, but somehow I have managed it.)

Tate said it was definitely a corn dog day, so we stopped at Sonic on the way home.  He was in a really good mood, so his face in this picture is cracking me up.

It is very hard for me to reconcile cancer treatment and junk food, but I have been told to stand down several times by more than one doctor.  On the other hand, I have fed my kids hefty amounts of organic food their entire lives and one is battling cancer so maybe I don’t know as much as I think I do.  Maybe Sonic corn dogs are the answer, and I can throw the leafy greens away.

Dwayne gets treats on chemo days, too.  That seems logical.

Tate has been asleep most of the afternoon.  We will wake him so he can take his meds as they are on a schedule, and we cannot let them lag.  Fighting cancer and the side effects of the treatment takes all his energy every day.  Often I will go into his room to to hang out with him only to find him sleeping soundly.  In the evenings I curl up on his window seat and fall asleep, too.  It just feels good to be near him.

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And now we wait.  The results of today’s bone marrow aspiration are so important; they will indicate whether everything Tate has been subjected to is working.  Greg spent some time going over Tate’s projected treatment plan with Tate’s nurse Michelle, and even if there are no detectable cancer cells in his bone marrow, the next four months of treatment will still be brutal.

Thank you all for the love, good vibes, prayers, and support you are sending our way.  We feel it, and it is helping us stay strong.

S.