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Dedicated to Dr. Peter Phillips
without whose unwavering support, caring and guidance I would have been lost It was no ordinary clinic day. This one had the chance to be really special—it might be the day of really making that momentous move to the end of treatment! Actually, we had been off chemotherapy for over nine months but an unusual complication had kept us coming to the hospital even more frequently than when we were on treatment.
Twenty months earlier, my nearly perfect pre-schooler came out of surgery for a malignant brain tumor completely devastated neurologically. My girl was blind, mute, paralyzed in both arms and right leg, unable to eat or do any voluntary movement. Rehabilitation, radiation, and chemotherapy each produced an inordinate amount of angst. I had counted down the days to off treatment. I guess I had a child-like belief that the magical status would somehow be different. Unfortunately, the time we went off
It had been inconceivable to me that anything could be more anxiety provoking than her brain tumor treatment. My girl inexplicably developed recurrent occipital skin ulcers that eventually reached to the depth of the bone. For several months the etiology of these wounds was elusive and the treatment unclear. My frustration grew exponentially with the appearance of two new lesions. Confidence eroded as we bounced from place to place in the hospital without having a clue what was causing this problem. After sixty hyperbarics treatments, a month of IV antibiotics and an operation that left a gaping hole in the flesh at the back of her head – the culprit was definitely exposed. Tori had osteomyelitis of the skull—an infection of the bone. Now, the wound was healing and I could see an end to this chapter of our story coming to an end. As Tori and I waited in the exam room, my anticipation could barely be contained. When the doc came in, I excitedly untied the ribbons holding the dressing together. Displaying the healing surgical site, I announced I thought we didn’t need to come back for a month. When I wasn’t overruled, I knew we were done. If there was any question, the next statement dispelled any doubt. The doc said, "I have been thinking about what could have been done differently." Being a physician myself, I know that often we wait to see what the outcome is, before second guessing at the "better course". Although I was thrilled by the seeming confirmation of our new off-treatment status, I really did not want to go there. I had come to terms with the course of events so I tried to change the subject. I said, " I really OK with all of this. In fact, I think that I am happier now than I was before Tori was diagnosed." "You know what that is—it’s Alchemy", he responded. Withdrawing from the world, I watched memories of the last two years stream through my mind like movie clips. As my mind raced back, I could see my child giggling as Kevin threw her over his shoulder and carried her away into the hyperbarics chamber. My little girl making friends with patients more than six decades older than herself. She was the darling of the chamber. Other patients could not help but give her toys—each one with a special memory. I remembered Walt Disney World and the way the characters went out of their way to make every moment special for my little girl. The Mad Hatter who was making a mad dash to the teacups stopped and spent five minutes just with Tori talking about her tea in the bottle. My father says, it was at Disney World when my daughter learned to lift her chin again. She knew she was special.
I remember radiation. I decided we would have a parade and she would be the float. Her stretcher was decorated with balloons. We would play taped music. As her abilities improved she moved from waving to people in the halls to blowing bubbles to playing an a recorder. She adored being the princess waving to those who stopped to admire our fun. I remembered playing soccer in the hall and syringe water battles in the bathroom. I remembered bath sponge battles, tea parties, and even our sandbox in the room. I couldn’t forget our friends, our family, and our coworkers who stood by us no matter what. Suddenly, I was brought back from reminiscing to this tiny room. The doctor said, "You know what alchemy is. It is turning lead into gold. That is what makes the difference between those who survive and thrive and those that don’t." Without a doubt, the lead of childhood cancer was transformed into priceless treasures of precious memories. But even more than that—it has changed our attitudes that we can be alchemist all our life
It’s truly is alchemy.
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chemotherapy was more like my sixth birthday when I expected to wake up taller. More than thirty years earlier my hopes were dashed as I excitedly jumped out of bed to stand in the doorframe. I was crushed to see the pencil mark was no further away from the floor than the day before. At the end of chemo, my spirit bruised in much the same way as I had hoped for some special moment—a graduation so too speak. But it was not to be. 
I remembered all those times in the hospital. We had more wheeled vehicles than any other child. There were so many times Tori raced down the hall on her bicycle or roller racer. The thrill of accelerating speed down the ramps made her laugh with joy. The attention from all the passersby helped her confidence. She loved being in the hospital.
The next week, we celebrated by traveling out west. On a Sunday late in September, we took the narrow gauge railroad from Durango to Silverton. We were about seven miles outside Silverton when the train stopped. Just as with childhood cancer, it is something that doesn’t happen often and no one could predict when life would get back on track. Many others seemed frustrated and angry but my Tori looked up and said, "Well, this gives us more time to make friends."