Leukemia

52 Weeks

FullSizeRender (1)52 weeks from today, my little boy Cub will be sitting bare-chested in a vinyl therapy chair. He and I will put on little yellow masks as a clinic nurse opens a sterile packet containing gloves, cleanser, and a 3/4 inch needle with a tail made of narrow plastic tubing.

He’ll squirm while she wipes off the numbing cream I applied to his skin before we left home.

He’ll whimper as she scrubs his skin — skin chemo has left raw and neuropathic.

After the cleanser dries, he’ll straighten his back and jut out his chest while holding a raggedy little stuffed elephant in his lap. “Don’t count! Don’t count!” he’ll say anxiously as the nurse brings the needle close.

“Okay, I won’t count,” she’ll say, pushing the length of the access needle through his skin and into the silicone medium of his titanium port.

She’ll draw a tube of blood. Waste.

She’ll draw another tube of blood. Labs.

She’ll flush the line while Cub sucks apple juice through a straw because he can taste the saline rushing into his bloodstream. Taster.

We’ll spend a few hours waiting for his chemo to be prepared and delivered, and after another flush and more juice, the chemo will be introduced to Cub’s line, beginning its slow drip down and around several feet of tubing into his little body.

We’ve done this before.

On this day, my son will have been receiving chemotherapy for over 2 1/2 years.

It’s not his first chemotherapy treatment, but on this day 52 weeks from now, it will be his last. He will ring the bell victoriously, and we will spend the rest of our lives celebrating every little thing.

52 weeks from today, and my mommy heart can hardly wait.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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No Picking at Your Past

3863_1140532066489_4079474_nNight before last, I slept in a bed for the second time in two weeks. My son, Cub, whose leukemia is currently in remission, has been in the hospital for 13 days with a fever caused by a random spore that “thrives in the Mississippi and Ohio River Valleys.”

When I woke up, I felt refreshed, and hopeful. We had finally, after more than a week of spiking fevers, discovered the cause, and were applying the cure. Cub will get to come home soon, and things will get back to our new normal. But, something didn’t seem quite right with my idyllic musings. My face hurt. More accurately, my chin hurt.

My gingerly exploring fingertips were met with an angry hot protrusion. A blemish. A big blemish.

I groaned. What am I? Fourteen again? Sigh.

Before I even got out of bed, my mind was flooded with memories – awkward memories of braces and boys, misery and missed opportunities, layers of embarrassment over family secrets and a negative-on-the-number-line low self-esteem. Blemishes.

Have you noticed that your past seems to pick the most vulnerable times to pop up in your life? Like, when your child is sick, or you have money problems, or relationship issues?

God’s Word says, “Do not call to mind the former things, Or ponder things of the past. Behold, I will do something new, Now it will spring forth; Will you not be aware of it? I will even make a roadway in the wilderness, rivers in the desert.” Isaiah 43:18-19

When your past rises up and tries to drag you back to places you’ve outgrown and overcome, don’t go. Turn instead toward the new path. God promises to make your direction clear in the confusion of the wilderness, and to refresh and sustain you in the draining isolation of the desert.

Your now and your future need your full attention. Leave your past in the past. You don’t need it anymore, dear hearts. ❤

For my mother…

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My soon to be 80-years old mother has battled illness for most of my life. Even now, she is in a hospital several hours and miles of snow-covered road away from where I am.

Over the years, she has battled Diabetes, Congestive Heart Failure, Degenerative Disk Disease, Arthritis, Esophageal illness, and endured many, many surgeries. As if all these weren’t enough, just a couple of years ago, she was diagnosed with Leukemia. Thankfully, she has been in remission for  just over a year.

Her current condition is a result of a seemingly innocuous injury that, combined with the complexities of her other health challenges, has developed into a very painful and threatening situation. A hematoma developed on her leg and ruptured, broke through the skin, and despite immediate medical attention, is not healing properly. She has been transferred to a large, metropolitan hospital where her oncologist and other specialists are able to address the situation and, hopefully, produce a positive outcome.

If you know my mother, you know that she is a fighter. Even her name, Marcella, means female warrior in Latin.  I almost laugh out loud when people meet my mom for the first time and tell me what a quiet, sweet and soft person she is. Of course, she can be soft and quiet, and sweet, but she is also a she-bear in the shadows, prepared to protect and defend to the last claw, if necessary. Has she always been this way? I don’t know. As far back as I can remember? Yes.

In the face of all our family stories, funny, fantastic, or tragic, she has been there. The she-bear. Of course, she is human, too 🙂 There are weaknesses, as there are for all of us. But, they are all wrapped up in this vibrating ball of fur and claws, and her sheer will to survive always wins. Always.

I could tell you lots of stories about her. Stories of hard times, stories of heart ache, stories of victory, stories of making something out of nothing, and of making the best out of something, anything. And, one day, I will share some of those stories. But, for now, consider this a little introduction from me to you, of the most strong-willed woman I have ever known.

Now, today, as she fights, as she braces her will against the forces of nature that would seek to lay us all to waste in time, I imagine the fur bristling. Her Madeira Wine painted nails growing long and thin and sharp. Fight on, Mama. Fight on. I am there with you, in spirit. We will fight together, side by side.

Loving you…