(3 of 3)
diagnosis day. part three.
I've struggled to write this final post until today. If you've been following my blog, you know I've written the story of dday part one and part two. I've also written about the moment the nightmare ended, which picks up the story after Brooklyn's biopsy.
The realization I came to today is that part three isn't over.
Part three of Brooklyn's diagnosis day story began the same day active treatment ended, by a stroke of gorgeous luck or perhaps with God's grace. The most unusual case of stage one neuroblastoma seen in ages, which still causes imaging technicians and doctors alike to proclaim how lucky we are.
Part three is everything that has happened since.
It is the first scare.
The unwanted guest.
The first since's.
The follow up scans.
It is all of these things and so much more.
Brooklyn will always be a child who had cancer.
Her diagnosis will not change.
The problem is, the outcome could.
NED now, but what if the next scan tells us otherwise?
The most profound transition, one which is shared by many cancer families I have met and spoken with this year, is the one which takes place once the child completes active treatment and begins after care.
This is the place where a singular hole in one's mental wellness can result in a fall out.
Where anxiety and depression loom.
Where each worry must be replaced with the very powerful statement:
"In this moment, right now, everything is ok."
And so, as Childhood Cancer Awareness Month comes to a close, I'd like to suggest this:
If you know a family who has been touched by cancer, reach out and check in.
Not so much on their physical health.
But on their mental health.
Honour survivors and angels alike through a commitment to ensuring that each family member is supported through their grief, anger, fear, anxiety and even survivor's guilt.
In many ways, this is the diagnosis day story they struggle to share.
<3 <3 <3
d day. part three.
January 20th, 2016.
#CCAM #WarriorPrincess #TeamBrookie #MorePreciousThanGold
This blog was created in 2011 to capture my very personal journey of leaving full time work to become a work-at-home mother of three beautiful children. Naturally, this space has morphed into a place of personal reflection, celebration and sometimes even sadness. I’ve written about childhood cancer, food allergy and anaphylaxis, grief, marriage, friendship, parenting and everything in between, all with a growing sense of mindfulness and gratitude. Please, grab a cup of tea and stay awhile.
Friday, September 30, 2016
Saturday, September 24, 2016
d day. part two.
(2 of 3)
diagnosis day. part two.
Immediately following the news of Brooklyn's cancer diagnosis, Jay and I agreed we should call a few people to update them. I offered to call our three sets of parents, and ask them to share with the rest of our family.
I remember the exact spot I sat in, a crumbled heap on the floor.
I was outside 3B2, where a mechanical penny machine sits in glass.
I sat down on the ledge beside it, unable to walk any further.
It was cold.
Hard.
Exposed.
I didn't know where else to go. I think, in a way, I needed to be in a public place, and as it turns out God blessed me with a McMaster mom angel who stopped not once, but twice to check in on me.
"I can see you are having a hard day. Please let me give you a hug." she said. I was so shocked by her kindness, yet so grateful for her in that moment.
I called my mother-in-laws. One at work. One at home.
I also called my parents, my dad picked up the phone.
Never in my life have a stuttered like that.
Never.
I couldn't string a sentence together.
I remember saying 'Brooklyn... has... cancer.... surgery... biopsy....'
But I don't remember being able to say much else besides a quiet request that they each contact our siblings and extended family to update them of this news.
For the first time as Brooklyn's mother, I was useless.
There wasn't a thing I could do to stop the train.
A train which derailed, earlier that morning, and was speeding.
Speeding down a hill so steep, I was breathless.
---
Because Brooklyn was on the 'add list' as a registered patient in surgical, hospital OR time was very fluid and changed in a heartbeat. We knew she would have surgery later that afternoon, a laparoscopic biopsy, to test the tumour inside her abdomen.
What we weren't prepared for was hearing the head of oncology tell us they'd like to insert a port-a-cath into our daughter's chest. This tool was vital for chemotherapy, a medical procedure they believed essential given the potential for an advanced stage cancer.
I remember sitting in the social room in 3B2, surrounded by families playing games, laughing and participating in craft time.
I remember our table was not laughing.
Not having fun.
Not even close.
The rest of that afternoon was like a hyperspeed episode of a hospital drama.
From the meeting, to a child life specialist racing down the hall to tell us she was being taken for surgery.
To the OR holding area, only to be bumped and forced to wait almost two more hours for surgery.
Into the OR, where my daughter begged to go home, then fought every doctor and nurse who attempted to touch her.
I left my daughter in an OR.
Cancer in her stomach.
Her future resting on the results of a biospy only moments away.
I left her.
I couldn't help her.
I couldn't fix it.
I remember falling into Jay's arms, a heaping mess of exhaustion and anxiety.
I remember him forcing me upstairs to Brooklyn's room, to my waiting mother and aunt who, despite my best attempt to tell them to leave, stayed to care for us. Thank God.
I was completely numb.
I was shaking.
Thousands of pounds on my shoulders.
My head was exploding.
They made me a sandwich.
I sat in stunned silence.
d day. part two.
January 20th, 2016.
#CCAM #WarriorPrincess #TeamBrookie #MorePreciousThanGold
diagnosis day. part two.
Immediately following the news of Brooklyn's cancer diagnosis, Jay and I agreed we should call a few people to update them. I offered to call our three sets of parents, and ask them to share with the rest of our family.
I remember the exact spot I sat in, a crumbled heap on the floor.
I was outside 3B2, where a mechanical penny machine sits in glass.
I sat down on the ledge beside it, unable to walk any further.
It was cold.
Hard.
Exposed.
I didn't know where else to go. I think, in a way, I needed to be in a public place, and as it turns out God blessed me with a McMaster mom angel who stopped not once, but twice to check in on me.
"I can see you are having a hard day. Please let me give you a hug." she said. I was so shocked by her kindness, yet so grateful for her in that moment.
I called my mother-in-laws. One at work. One at home.
I also called my parents, my dad picked up the phone.
Never in my life have a stuttered like that.
Never.
I couldn't string a sentence together.
I remember saying 'Brooklyn... has... cancer.... surgery... biopsy....'
But I don't remember being able to say much else besides a quiet request that they each contact our siblings and extended family to update them of this news.
For the first time as Brooklyn's mother, I was useless.
There wasn't a thing I could do to stop the train.
A train which derailed, earlier that morning, and was speeding.
Speeding down a hill so steep, I was breathless.
---
Because Brooklyn was on the 'add list' as a registered patient in surgical, hospital OR time was very fluid and changed in a heartbeat. We knew she would have surgery later that afternoon, a laparoscopic biopsy, to test the tumour inside her abdomen.
What we weren't prepared for was hearing the head of oncology tell us they'd like to insert a port-a-cath into our daughter's chest. This tool was vital for chemotherapy, a medical procedure they believed essential given the potential for an advanced stage cancer.
I remember sitting in the social room in 3B2, surrounded by families playing games, laughing and participating in craft time.
I remember our table was not laughing.
Not having fun.
Not even close.
The rest of that afternoon was like a hyperspeed episode of a hospital drama.
From the meeting, to a child life specialist racing down the hall to tell us she was being taken for surgery.
To the OR holding area, only to be bumped and forced to wait almost two more hours for surgery.
Into the OR, where my daughter begged to go home, then fought every doctor and nurse who attempted to touch her.
I left my daughter in an OR.
Cancer in her stomach.
Her future resting on the results of a biospy only moments away.
I left her.
I couldn't help her.
I couldn't fix it.
I remember falling into Jay's arms, a heaping mess of exhaustion and anxiety.
I remember him forcing me upstairs to Brooklyn's room, to my waiting mother and aunt who, despite my best attempt to tell them to leave, stayed to care for us. Thank God.
I was completely numb.
I was shaking.
Thousands of pounds on my shoulders.
My head was exploding.
They made me a sandwich.
I sat in stunned silence.
d day. part two.
January 20th, 2016.
#CCAM #WarriorPrincess #TeamBrookie #MorePreciousThanGold
Monday, September 5, 2016
d day. part one.
(1 of 3)
In honour of Childhood Cancer Awareness Month, I've decided to write and share a few deeply personal stories about our childhood cancer journey. I hope that by posting them, they may inspire other cancer families to share as well, as a way to honour their grief, spread awareness and find healing in their own words.
Today I begin sharing the story of d day.
diagnosis day. part one
Day three of our Warrior Princess's first hospital stay.
The evening prior, Brooklyn had completed a CT scan under sedation. Doctors had been very deliberate in using the term mass to describe the fist-sized growth in her abdomen.
This morning it was different.
Jay and I knew that surgical rounds were early in the morning, 7am-ish, so he raced from our home in Niagara very early to make it up to McMaster in Hamilton, on time.
Brooklyn was tired and groggy, I was beyond exhausted.
The first two days had been painfully long, wrought with fear and anxiety.
This morning, the surgical fellow assigned to Brooklyn's case, a man not much older than myself and who I instantly came to trust, leaned into B's room stone-faced and serious.
"We need to talk about Brooklyn's tumour."
I could feel the heat rising in my chest.
We took a slow walk down the hall, into a room which we later discovered was the staff lunchroom.
We sat down.
Jay and I on one side.
Dr. Flageole and Dr. Amar on the other.
My hands shook.
Jay was white as a ghost.
In the minutes that followed, the surgical team explained the size of her tumour, the location and the concern regarding her aortic vessel. Over and over again they spoke, drawing pictures and asking for us to confirm we understood. Finally, they asked if we had any questions.
In a whisper, with my eyes full of tears, I asked,
"Is this cancer? Does Brooklyn have cancer?"
His answer broke me in a way I was never prepared for and still have not recovered from just yet.
"We need to do a biopsy to find out, but yes, we believe this is cancer."
A
MILLION
P
I
E
C
E
S
My heart broke into a million pieces.
I lost my breath.
I gripped Jay's hand, afraid to look at him.
The doctors excused themselves, offering us a few minutes alone. The sound of the door sliding closed was deafening, I couldn't take my eyes off the paper image drawn of this beast, called cancer, inside my baby girl's stomach.
We fell apart.
Heavy tears.
Shattered hearts.
Parenting soulmates.
Broken.
There were no words.
There was only numbness.
Burning in my soul.
Ringing in my ears.
Cold skin and hands.
Grief.
Painful, breath-taking, instant.
After five minutes, we dried our eyes, stood up and did the only thing we could.
We walked back down the hall to our beautiful daughter's room, and we smiled at her.
d day. part one.
January 20th, 2016.
#CCAM #WarriorPrincess #TeamBrookie #MorePreciousThanGold
In honour of Childhood Cancer Awareness Month, I've decided to write and share a few deeply personal stories about our childhood cancer journey. I hope that by posting them, they may inspire other cancer families to share as well, as a way to honour their grief, spread awareness and find healing in their own words.
Today I begin sharing the story of d day.
diagnosis day. part one
Day three of our Warrior Princess's first hospital stay.
The evening prior, Brooklyn had completed a CT scan under sedation. Doctors had been very deliberate in using the term mass to describe the fist-sized growth in her abdomen.
This morning it was different.
Jay and I knew that surgical rounds were early in the morning, 7am-ish, so he raced from our home in Niagara very early to make it up to McMaster in Hamilton, on time.
Brooklyn was tired and groggy, I was beyond exhausted.
The first two days had been painfully long, wrought with fear and anxiety.
This morning, the surgical fellow assigned to Brooklyn's case, a man not much older than myself and who I instantly came to trust, leaned into B's room stone-faced and serious.
"We need to talk about Brooklyn's tumour."
I could feel the heat rising in my chest.
We took a slow walk down the hall, into a room which we later discovered was the staff lunchroom.
We sat down.
Jay and I on one side.
Dr. Flageole and Dr. Amar on the other.
My hands shook.
Jay was white as a ghost.
In the minutes that followed, the surgical team explained the size of her tumour, the location and the concern regarding her aortic vessel. Over and over again they spoke, drawing pictures and asking for us to confirm we understood. Finally, they asked if we had any questions.
In a whisper, with my eyes full of tears, I asked,
"Is this cancer? Does Brooklyn have cancer?"
His answer broke me in a way I was never prepared for and still have not recovered from just yet.
"We need to do a biopsy to find out, but yes, we believe this is cancer."
A
MILLION
P
I
E
C
E
S
My heart broke into a million pieces.
I lost my breath.
I gripped Jay's hand, afraid to look at him.
 |
| scrappy imagery from the doctors |
We fell apart.
Heavy tears.
Shattered hearts.
Parenting soulmates.
Broken.
There were no words.
There was only numbness.
Burning in my soul.
Ringing in my ears.
Cold skin and hands.
Grief.
Painful, breath-taking, instant.
After five minutes, we dried our eyes, stood up and did the only thing we could.
We walked back down the hall to our beautiful daughter's room, and we smiled at her.
d day. part one.
January 20th, 2016.
#CCAM #WarriorPrincess #TeamBrookie #MorePreciousThanGold
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