Aug. 16, 2015, 8:38 a.m.
I can honestly say that I almost never thought about cancer in relationship to my own life before the end of June this year, which was when we learned from my mother’s autopsy that she had in fact died from metastatic ovarian cancer. Of course, she’d also died from Alzheimer’s, which we had long suspected was the real diagnosis, but what finally killed her was cancer. Our amazing 10-year-old dog, Trinidad, was also diagnosed with anal sac adenocarcinoma around the same time. While shocking by some measure, both my mother and Trinidad had lived lives by the time of their diagnoses. Perhaps their lives hadn’t reached the longevity that we were hoping for, but they had each lived.
Aila is two years and six months old. She has only recently learned how to say her own beautiful name. Cancer? Really?
She should be playing in the sandbox and frolicking in the park. Not teaching her parents about PICC lines and ports, not living in a hospital room for a month. In my darker moments, which I only allow myself to entertain for a moment, it’s hard not to ask “why us?” Why Aila? According to the CDC in 2011, 8 children of every 100,000 in the US are diagnosed with leukemia each year. Aila had a 0.00088% chance of being diagnosed with leukemia. Really? I wish I believed in a God. I was raised in the Catholic church, but the moment that my cousin Brian died when I was 22, I stopped thinking God was even a possibility, and I was strongly leaning in that direction before. If I believed in a God, then I would say that my mother’s death served as a warning of what was to come…a way to help us prepare. But, I don’t, and I instead believe that it’s a lot of bad things happening with coincidence at the same time. And I simply hope that we don’t drown in the horror.
Today, Aila had Day 8 of her chemotherapy treatment. She endured general anesthesia for the third time in a week and had her second lumbar puncture, receiving a new chemotherapy, methotrexate, in her spine. She later received intravenous vincristine, which caused a 5-day constipation during the first round. And still later she sat in the red LPCH wagon, first with her younger brother and then with her older brother, as we wagoned around the hospital in search of pet therapy and later Mom’s departure to put the boys to bed at home.
I don’t see a silver lining yet. I’m truthfully hoping I will at some point down the road. Right now, this is all just lousy. I’ve got no other words to describe it. Our family is split, with half of us at the hospital each night and half of us at home. Brian and I are overwhelmed beyond our wildest beliefs, with work and family and kids. And although I know that we’ll hold it together with a strength that in our past lives led us to win endurance races, I desperately mourn the loss of my children’s innocence.
Fight, my baby girl, fight with all your heart.
Love, Mom
Comments
vk 9 years, 2 months ago
This is one hell of an endurance race. I'm thinking of ways to achieve respite here & there for you all. Have you found the handbook yet? You know, the one that tells you exactly what to expect & how to navigate all of this? :-( Thank you for the blog.
Link | ReplyTheresa Little 9 years, 2 months ago
Hey, Vicki! You may not remember me. I was Theresa Rindfleisch back in school. I'm so sorry to hear this about your precious little girl. Please know that I'll be praying for her and for you. *HUG*
Link | ReplyBecky 9 years, 2 months ago
Christ, Vic. I just logged on to FB for the first time in months and found your blog. I am so, so sorry you are going through this and I know it doesn't help, but I am thinking about you and your family. Our time in DC together feels like a lifetime ago, but somehow at the same time I know we would pick right up again where we left off...much love, Becky
Link | ReplyNew Comment