Peach has one more week of treatment. Well, one more week of primary treatment plus two years of maintenance, or "chemo light," as the nurses call it. Somehow, almost eight months have flown by, and my girl has kicked serious ass nearly every single day. Besides (almost) feeling relief, I am consumed with pride. Peach has amazed us with her strength and humbled us with her grace. And Olive? I can't even tell you how incredible she's been - so brave, so empathetic, so on top of it all.
So now, like most survivors and their families, I'll take my place atop the razor's edge and pray like hell (um ...) that when she's done, she's really done. For good. I am not a pessimist, but I am a huge worrier, and I'm quite sure I'll never rest completely until there's an absolute, bona fide cure for this evil. Because the only thing that scares me more than having to go through all of this is having to go through it all again. The chances of a recurrence are small, but so are the chances of getting childhood cancer in the first place. So because of the worrying thing, and the fact that I am very superstitious, I shy away from grand, all-encompassing words like "last" and "forever." Everything is qualified with some grey-area BS, if only in my head. Even the night before Peach was diagnosed, the night before her birthday, when we had NO idea what was to come the next day, she started to say something like,"This is the last night I'll sleep in my bed ..." and I actually knocked on wood and said, "As a nine year old." Turns out, it was the last night she slept in her bed for nearly eight months. And counting.
I am confident that Peach has received, and will continue to receive, the best care possible. Again, the fact that there was a proven treatment plan ready for her, one that has worked so well for her, is a HUGE source of comfort. But when the answer to most of my (many) questions about any of this is "it depends," it's hard to be completely comfortable. For now, however, I'm stepping back and marveling at our family's journey and feeling grateful for the love and support we've been shown. We will continue to take it day by day and keep on fighting, raising money, and celebrating Peach's victories because, thankfully, there are many.
August 16, 2010
June 20, 2010
Father's Day
When this whole thing started, when we were on our way from the pediatrician's office to the hospital for an actual diagnosis, I called my dad. I was in the car by myself, trying to process what just happened, and what was about to happen, and when he answered, all I could get out was, "Dad. We're on our way to the hospital, they want ...," and he cut me off with, "I'm coming." The more I tried to get the words out, he just kept calmly saying, "I'm coming. I'm coming. I'm on my way right now." And he did come. And he was there with us every minute, even when we went to "the little room" where the doctor gave us "the news." As a father, and a grandfather, I know it was one of the most important, most difficult moments of his life, and I still haven't found the words to thank him for being there. I love him, and I'm so lucky he's mine.
As for T-Bone, y'all know how I feel about him. And so does he. Honestly, they broke the mold.
As for T-Bone, y'all know how I feel about him. And so does he. Honestly, they broke the mold.
May 9, 2010
Mother's Love
About a year ago, I wrote this post. The irony, I know. So today, Mother's Day, I find myself thinking about Stacey waking up without a mother and Amy waking up without a daughter, and my heart is heavy for them.
When Peach was diagnosed, I was encouraged to reach out to these people, and I didn't (still haven't) because I knew, even in the first confused moments of this nightmare, that Peach's journey would have a different outcome. And I felt incredibly guilty about that. I thought it was too soon for these people to be supporting anyone but their own families and how selfish it would be to drag them back into this world when they've barely begun to crawl out of it themselves.
From Day One, we were given a plan, a proven, successful plan, and all we've had to do is follow it. We haven't had to experiment or "best guess" anything, and the clinical trial Peach is enrolled in just tests the administration options for a certain medicine, not its success or effectiveness. There are no Hail Marys here. Not medical ones anyway. Truly, the only surprise we've had is that Peach was ever diagnosed in the first place. How lucky we are.
I am in NO WAY diminishing what Peach is going through, but every time we visit the clinic or the hospital, we see families with much harder rows to hoe. Some have little hope for recovery or they have life-long, life-altering effects and disabilities to manage. Many have few resources and no support outside of their treatment team, and just to get their child to appointments is a monumental feat. These families are fighting just as hard as we are, even with the deck stacked against them in one way or another, because what else can they do? No one will ever care for their child as much and as well as they do, and somewhere inside, they know that, and so they press on. And on and on. It's inspiring and gut-wrenching at the same time.
Of course, nobody wants to do any of this. You do it because you have to. You watch as your child gets pumped with medicines with "toxin" in the name because what choice do you have? You consent to procedures with page after page of risks and potential side effects (some that won't surface for YEARS) because how can you not? You focus on the here-and-now or you will come undone. And still, I am thankful. I know Peach will get better and this is what we do to make that happen.
Today, we spent a few hours at the hospital, where Peach was getting the last two of 12 shots she's had over the last 12 days (two, every other day). The shots take only a few minutes, but we have to stay for observation for two hours in case she has an allergic reaction. While we waited, we snuggled up in the hospital bed together, watching the rain outside. I held her close and kissed her fuzzy head, and we decided that this was the best Mother's Day gift ever. And it was.
When Peach was diagnosed, I was encouraged to reach out to these people, and I didn't (still haven't) because I knew, even in the first confused moments of this nightmare, that Peach's journey would have a different outcome. And I felt incredibly guilty about that. I thought it was too soon for these people to be supporting anyone but their own families and how selfish it would be to drag them back into this world when they've barely begun to crawl out of it themselves.
From Day One, we were given a plan, a proven, successful plan, and all we've had to do is follow it. We haven't had to experiment or "best guess" anything, and the clinical trial Peach is enrolled in just tests the administration options for a certain medicine, not its success or effectiveness. There are no Hail Marys here. Not medical ones anyway. Truly, the only surprise we've had is that Peach was ever diagnosed in the first place. How lucky we are.
I am in NO WAY diminishing what Peach is going through, but every time we visit the clinic or the hospital, we see families with much harder rows to hoe. Some have little hope for recovery or they have life-long, life-altering effects and disabilities to manage. Many have few resources and no support outside of their treatment team, and just to get their child to appointments is a monumental feat. These families are fighting just as hard as we are, even with the deck stacked against them in one way or another, because what else can they do? No one will ever care for their child as much and as well as they do, and somewhere inside, they know that, and so they press on. And on and on. It's inspiring and gut-wrenching at the same time.
Of course, nobody wants to do any of this. You do it because you have to. You watch as your child gets pumped with medicines with "toxin" in the name because what choice do you have? You consent to procedures with page after page of risks and potential side effects (some that won't surface for YEARS) because how can you not? You focus on the here-and-now or you will come undone. And still, I am thankful. I know Peach will get better and this is what we do to make that happen.
Today, we spent a few hours at the hospital, where Peach was getting the last two of 12 shots she's had over the last 12 days (two, every other day). The shots take only a few minutes, but we have to stay for observation for two hours in case she has an allergic reaction. While we waited, we snuggled up in the hospital bed together, watching the rain outside. I held her close and kissed her fuzzy head, and we decided that this was the best Mother's Day gift ever. And it was.
April 20, 2010
Born Again
This experience feels so much like having a newborn. So very much like that. When we were first leaving the hospital, I was so glad to be going home but so scared to be leaving the people who actually know how to do all of this. Since then, there's been a constant reporting of All Things Peach: Did she sleep? Did she eat? Did she poop? Is she cold? Is she hot? Wash your hands! Wash your hands! Wash your hands! And now, I can't believe how it feels like we just started everything but also like we've been doing it forever.
Little by little, we're making our way along - always learning. And Peach is just the champion of all champions. This past month or so has been the hardest so far, and she has 10 pounds less of herself to show for it. She had a severe allergic reaction that required a night in the hospital a couple of weeks ago, but other than that pretty big hiccup, she's progressing as expected for this protocol (which I've been told by those in the know is as highly successful as it is highly miserable). She is still engaged and interested, and I know her cooperation makes it so much easier for the treatment team. They often practically fight to get to her first because she's such a joy to work with. Her hair has started to grow back (for now - will likely come in and out several more times), and it has that peach fuzz texture I remember from the first time I watched it come in. I am, again, amazed by and enamored with this beautiful creature.
A lot of people have told me a lot of things about a lot of stuff recently, and just like with a newborn, you have to filter through all the "advice" and find what works for you and yours and just do that. Of course everyone means well, and I know it's hard to find the right thing to say, and I am the MOST guilty of saying things that don't come out right at the worst possible moment. That said, the other day, a friend was tearfully talking about Peach's "character" and how this experience will "really build her character," and the whole conversation just didn't sit right with me. I understand what my friend was trying to say, but I thought, NO. Just NO.
Addressing that fucking monster in her blood, I thought, this child already has more character than any grown person could ever dream of having. Any 100 grown people. She didn't need this experience to build character, she's there. She's been there since the day she was born. Will this nightmare impact her life going forward? Yes, unfortunately forever. But it will not change who she is and what she's made of because that is what's getting her through it right now. It's what's getting us ALL through it.
There will never come a moment where we say, "Remember that time you had leukemia?" But as much as we search for and drain every drop of positivity out of all of this, Peach will not be defined by it, not now, not ever.
From the moment we got the diagnosis, I told the doctor that we have to fix this. That Peach is a special, special girl and anyone that knows her will tell you that. That she has many great things to do and that we just have to fix this. And we are. So as I feed her and bathe her and watch her sleep, I think about how far my baby has come, and I'm confident that this is all leading to the greatness she was already destined for.
Little by little, we're making our way along - always learning. And Peach is just the champion of all champions. This past month or so has been the hardest so far, and she has 10 pounds less of herself to show for it. She had a severe allergic reaction that required a night in the hospital a couple of weeks ago, but other than that pretty big hiccup, she's progressing as expected for this protocol (which I've been told by those in the know is as highly successful as it is highly miserable). She is still engaged and interested, and I know her cooperation makes it so much easier for the treatment team. They often practically fight to get to her first because she's such a joy to work with. Her hair has started to grow back (for now - will likely come in and out several more times), and it has that peach fuzz texture I remember from the first time I watched it come in. I am, again, amazed by and enamored with this beautiful creature.
A lot of people have told me a lot of things about a lot of stuff recently, and just like with a newborn, you have to filter through all the "advice" and find what works for you and yours and just do that. Of course everyone means well, and I know it's hard to find the right thing to say, and I am the MOST guilty of saying things that don't come out right at the worst possible moment. That said, the other day, a friend was tearfully talking about Peach's "character" and how this experience will "really build her character," and the whole conversation just didn't sit right with me. I understand what my friend was trying to say, but I thought, NO. Just NO.
Addressing that fucking monster in her blood, I thought, this child already has more character than any grown person could ever dream of having. Any 100 grown people. She didn't need this experience to build character, she's there. She's been there since the day she was born. Will this nightmare impact her life going forward? Yes, unfortunately forever. But it will not change who she is and what she's made of because that is what's getting her through it right now. It's what's getting us ALL through it.
There will never come a moment where we say, "Remember that time you had leukemia?" But as much as we search for and drain every drop of positivity out of all of this, Peach will not be defined by it, not now, not ever.
From the moment we got the diagnosis, I told the doctor that we have to fix this. That Peach is a special, special girl and anyone that knows her will tell you that. That she has many great things to do and that we just have to fix this. And we are. So as I feed her and bathe her and watch her sleep, I think about how far my baby has come, and I'm confident that this is all leading to the greatness she was already destined for.
March 16, 2010
Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow
I'm shaving my head tomorrow. On live television. Holy hell.
We've been fundraising for St. Baldrick's, an amazing organization, and the big event is this Saturday. Individuals and teams volunteer to shave their heads to support childhood cancer research, and one of the local organizers contacted us about doing an interview/live shave as a promotion. Ever the drama queen, I said YES, so off it comes tomorrow morning.
Compared to everything else she's been through, losing her hair hasn't really bothered Peach in the slightest. When she first heard that it would happen, not having any experience or even a passing knowledge about cancer, she got a little upset. But when I explained that her hair would grow back, and that Daddy's hair would never grow back, she laughed and hasn't given it a second thought since.
I'm excited to see what it looks like when it grows back - maybe the Shirley Temple ringlets of her babydom. As for mine, I'm confident that the silver mini-fro will be the next big thing in coiffure.
Also, somehow my FOUR year bloggiversary was in February. The hell?
We've been fundraising for St. Baldrick's, an amazing organization, and the big event is this Saturday. Individuals and teams volunteer to shave their heads to support childhood cancer research, and one of the local organizers contacted us about doing an interview/live shave as a promotion. Ever the drama queen, I said YES, so off it comes tomorrow morning.
Compared to everything else she's been through, losing her hair hasn't really bothered Peach in the slightest. When she first heard that it would happen, not having any experience or even a passing knowledge about cancer, she got a little upset. But when I explained that her hair would grow back, and that Daddy's hair would never grow back, she laughed and hasn't given it a second thought since.
I'm excited to see what it looks like when it grows back - maybe the Shirley Temple ringlets of her babydom. As for mine, I'm confident that the silver mini-fro will be the next big thing in coiffure.
Also, somehow my FOUR year bloggiversary was in February. The hell?
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