But How?

And just like that, Tate is super skinny again. Yesterday when we were doing his exercises – well, he exercises and I count reps while telling him mundane stories – he was noticeably bony. I asked him to step onto our bathroom scale, and somehow he weighs less than 140 pounds. But how? Not how did he lose so much weight, but how did I not catch it sooner? By the time I notice that his clothes are hanging off him, it’s too late. He’s going to hate this, but we need to keep track of it better, and weekly weigh-ins are now an official part of our schedule.

Tate and I had a frank conversation about adding appetite stimulants to his daily meds again, and I will respect his veto power unless his weight dips further.

One thing I know about Tate is that he cannot resist pretzel rolls, so I baked a mountain of them. He’ll grab one every time he leaves his room. Some of his other favorites are on the menu the next couple weeks, too: meat pockets, roast and potatoes, pork chops. Tate doesn’t want to eat; his skinny body is confused.

This weekend Tate and I got our first haircuts since February! Our friend Vee owns his own salon and takes social distancing, mask-wearing, and other precautions very seriously. Vee has lost seven family members to COVID; if anyone knows how dangerous this virus can be, it’s him. He’s not going to do anything to jeopardize his own health or that of his clients, so I was comfortable taking Tate to him for a cut.

Tate has an appointment this Friday for counts and a COVID text, and if everything looks good he will have a Lumbar Puncture and chemotherapy on Tuesday morning. He’ll be getting Vincristine through the port in his chest and a Methotrexate blast into his spine. We found out there is a new doctor working at the clinic, and she is a Leukemia specialist. Tate is down to less than a year of treatment left, but still, it feels reassuring to have a doctor like that join the team. Tate’s exam on Friday is with her.

Tate’s knee is not improving, and that is disheartening; the chemotherapy has just wrecked his body. When I told Tate I was sorry his knee hurts so much, he shrugged and said without any sadness at all, “It’s a small price to pay to save my life.”

I don’t know what I was expecting to hear, but I can tell you that wasn’t it.