God’s faithfulness – Page 12

Facing A Fear

Chase’s doctor once told us that most parents know it’s time for more chemo when they see their child looking better, eating more, and having more energy. Proving this theory, Chase’s Thursday lab results were really encouraging which means we are scheduled to go back to the hospital on Monday. It’s time. This particular round of chemo includes several days of being admitted to the hospital as well as a spinal tap under anesthesia.

You may remember that I wrote at one time about Chase’s vivid anesthesia memories. Since that time, we have had really good experiences because he has been given a “forgetting” medicine in pre=op -while still with us- that relaxes him and saves him the memory of a sterile operating room and a mask over his face all without the comfort of mom or dad.

Because of some aspects of his new central line, Chase’s nurse will be removing the needle from his chest a couple of hours before he is scheduled for the spinal tap. It’s a little tragic as there will be no shower or swimming pool to jump in and celebrate [children with the type of central lines he’s had until now can’t really bathe or swim], but mostly awesome as he has never officially been without his “tubie”. However, there is a direct impact on the procedure. The lack of needle in his chest means that there is no good way to administer medicine in pre-op, which means that Chase will go into the operating room by himself and be put under anesthesia while fully concious.

We have been talking about it every day. How he will be a brave boy, and how he will take a deep breath and fall asleep, and even how -if he can be still- the doctors won’t have to hold him while they put the mask on his face. He dialogues with us, and understands what he needs to do, but he is still very frightened.

Please pray for Chase on Monday, that he would be anxious for nothing and that God’s perfect peace would surpass and even confound all of our understanding about how Chase would most likely respond in that operating room. (Philippians 4:6-7)

This will be a big step for him and for all of us…but our God is much bigger.

Learning to let go… Moment by moment.

That Time We Went To The Hospital…

These last two weeks have seemed a little like a single long day that wouldn’t quit! As parents of a child with cancer, we have been carefully prepared to be ready at a moments’ notice to pack and run…and pack and run again, but this has been extraordinary even for us. When I think through “moment by moment“, I never expect each new moment to be totally different from the last, but that’s exactly what this two-week day seemed to hold.

It all started as we commuted to the hospital for five straight days of all-day chemo infusions [insert comments and mutterings about traffic here] . We were mercifully able to be home on Saturday, but on Sunday, our best layed plans for “normal” and “rest” were blown to smithereens as soon as I heard the words “Come quick! Chase is bleeding!” and realized that one lumen on his central line had torn. …so, back to the hospital we went.

A lumen repair kit...aka: needle salvation — A lumen repair kit…aka: needle salvation

Sidenote: we often tell hospital staff “It’s Chase.”…as in “Yes, we know this rarely ever happens, but….it’s Chase.”

Back to the story… in true “It’s Chase” form, Chase’s line tear was in an area for which they had no repair parts, so after hours in the ER and the vascular access team weaving what can only be described as a sterile burrito (comprised of alcohol wipes, gauze and tegaderms) around the line -to protect from the errant bacteria-, we were discharged. Until Tuesday. When we went back in for blood and platelet transfusions and the line repair. We left that same night and managed to stay out until…Wednesday night. A whole 24 hours. At which point, Chase hit his chemo nadir (when the chemo is at it’s strongest point), spiked a fever, and after sitting in the ER until 2:30AM, were re-admitted to the hospital.

We were hoping to go home fever-free sometime on Thursday when the newly repaired central line malfunctioned (see: more blood everywhere) and so we didn’t leave until Friday night. I should also note that we’ve become very close with the vascular access team. On Friday night, the stability of the line was still somewhat in question, but with nobody finding anything decisively wrong, Thursday’s blood experience was chalked up to a freakish incident of nature and we were discharged with the niggling thought that the line would only ever show it’s cards once we left the hospital…and got home…and tried to rest. …which did indeed turn out to be the case.

On Saturday night, about an hour into Chase’s infusion, I realized his IV fluids were running down the front of his shirt, so after a brief moment of parental freak-out, I calmly put my eyeballs back into their sockets and we went back to the hospital. Triage in the emergency room lasted so long that by the time the doctors came to look at the line, they declared everything dry and in need of testing. After an hour or more of testing, it turned out that the line was leaking, so around our favorite admitting hour (2:30am, for those of you just joining us), we were again given a room with the promise of surgery consults in the morning.

Without a doubt, the worst part of the loss of a central line is the need for peripheral IVs (the kind they stick in your hand or arm). For Chase, that usually means three to five people holding him down and the collapse of at least one vein from his terrifying struggle to escape the needle. If you were questioning why we’d put up with a central line and all it’s drama in the first place, don’t miss this… The reason we put up with and even love the central line is because it saves Chase from needles. Medical staff can draw blood and administer any medication or chemo through this line – without ever touching his body.

Proudly displaying his IV - "You should see the other guy!" — Proudly displaying his IV – “You should see the other guys!”

It took four people and two tries, but they finally got an IV in Chase’s hand. And that concludes the events that led to Chase going into surgery on Sunday afternoon and getting a new central line.

Which summarily ended our two-week long day.

You can’t make this stuff up.

Moment by ever-changing moment.

The heart of man plans his ways, but the Lord establishes his steps. Proverbs 16:9

Sleeping peacefully in pre-op moments before he was taken back to the OR

Under the Miraculous Scar

Sitting in the sound-proof room for the hearing test, I repeatedly glanced at the vent on the wall to remind me that there really was air flowing into the room. With a ceiling just over six feet tall and a floor space of not much more, it didn’t take imagination to feel like the room was closing in.

Having finally submitted (after a long struggle) to wearing headphones, Chase sat on my lap, waiting as he had been instructed to put a piece of the puzzle into place every time he heard a sound.

A high-pitched noise rose muted from the headphones – as loud as a scream in the quiet room.

Chase sat unmoving. He heard nothing.

The sound came again – this time, louder.

Still…nothing.

It’s hard to describe the sadness…sitting there, hearing a noise that he should hear and letting the knowledge sink in that he did not hear it. There are moments that I fight guilt for feeling this sadness. After all, my child is alive. Seven months post diagnosis and he lives and breathes! How dare I feel sad? But I do. Observing these “collateral damages” of the cancer and treatment are intense and challenging even though we fully acknowledged the risks involved many months ago.

Finally, the tenor and volume of the sound changed and Chase immediately sat to attention with a gasp and practically threw the puzzle piece onto the board. He had been waiting a long time for the sound.

After the test was complete, they showed us a paper with a graph – a gray bar along the top of the chart. Pointing to the gray, the tech explained “This area here is considered ‘normal’ range…” and as she continued on, I studied the graphed lines – not a single part of which were in the gray. I answered the questions as they came: yes, we had noticed his hearing was bad, yes, he does struggle to form words…

Yesterday, we met with more doctors and confirmed that there is most likely damage from tumor and treatment, but there is also a lot of fluid (a common problem from radiation). It was decided that it would be in Chase’s best interest to have a minor surgery to drain the fluid and put in tubes. It may not restore his hearing, but it will hopefully improve it and at least give the doctors a more true idea of what his hearing range is.

As admittedly silly as it sounds, I had hoped and prayed the the solution might be non-surgical, but that wasn’t meant to be. As we processed this news yesterday, the words to a favorite song came to mind: “Whatever my God ordains is right, in His love I am abiding. I will be still in all He does, and follow where He is guiding…” conluding “He holds me that I shall not fall, and so to Him I leave it all”.

With these words fresh in our minds, reminding ourselves of God’s perfect plan for Chase and clinging to the promise that we will not fall, we press through these sad side effects. After all, as I was lovingly reminded by a dear friend:

“Chase does not need perfect hearing to hear the voice of God.”

Moment by moment.

[Surgery date is set for Monday, March 25th as Chase will be in the operating room already for a lumbar puncture and chemo]

The unhearing ear under the miraculous scar

Shadows And Love

During the Christmas season, I attended the most wonderful wedding – it was just what such a celebration at the holidays should be, yet as I sat in the dimly lit auditorium, I felt out of place. Weddings are joyous occasions and even as I truly entered into the happiness of the bride and groom I couldn’t completely escape the shadow of Chase’s cancer. …and so I sat, taking in the beauty and feeling vaguely guilty lest my shadow burden be apparent to anybody but myself.

Words broke through my distracted thoughts as a woman in a beautiful gray dress stood to do a reading. As she spoke, my shadow seemed to grow stronger. I couldn’t hear the words she spoke with anything other than cancer ears…even though I knew that they had been chosen to reflect this marriage love at the moment of commitment, but as she spoke the familiar words, my heart was soothed by the fresh reminder of the Gracious Provider…and then she began to cry…and I cried too because I had needed to hear those words.

Much later in the evening, Providence ordained that I meet the woman who read the verses: a divine appointment if ever there was one. I learned that she too carries a horrific cancer shadow. I, my baby boy…she, the spouse ’til death do they part. We talked and cried and felt helpless together in the middle of the beautiful reception and though I had never met her before and may not see her again for some time, she is my sister because of that night.

Many times since then, I’ve pondered the strange mixing of the celebration and the sadness, and the family relationship with a complete stranger because of the pain. In my mind, pain and joy belong in different universes, yet from birth to death we cannot separate them any more than we can separate ourselves from the Sovereign One who created us.

Here is an excerpt of the words she read that night…

For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. Romans 8:38-39

Of this I am sure, there is a mercy in the shadows of pain – a severe, but present one nonetheless. I do not even pretend to know what it is, but I know it is there because I, and she, and all who walk a painful road walk it next to the Everlasting Love who has known us always and will know us still and what is a dim shadow now will be crystal clear when we see Him face to face. Even so, come soon, Lord Jesus, come soon.

Moment by moment.

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.