Yesterday I brought Brooklyn (and her brother) to visit their pediatrician.
Ethan's breathing has been problematic.
Brooklyn was having acute pain in her lower left abdomen, which made my mama instincts scream.
The doctor recommended we go to the hospital for xrays and an ultrasound.
We slowly walked out to the van, I buckled the kids in and shut the door.
My heart began to flutter.
I wanted to vomit.
Thank goodness for retired parents, as they (without hesitation) agreed to take E immediately so we could head to the hospital.
Now what?
What do I need to pack?
Who do I need to call?
How long will we be there?
We left the office and managed to get to my parents house within the half hour, with a stop at home and at the pharmacy in between the two. As I unbuckled E, the tears began streaming down his face.
He begged to go home.
He clutched my neck.
His entire body wrenched with heartache.
Guilt overcame me.
I could not comfort my son in his time of need.
I had to leave him behind, knowing he was struggling with great fear.
Will I tuck him in tonight?
Will I be home in my own bed tonight?
Brooklyn and I spent about six hours at our local hospital. I re-told Brooklyn's entire story from start to finish three separate times, each time feeling more and more anxiety. Brooklyn was so angry to be there, but thanks to some colouring supplies gifted to us during her illness she was distracted while I recounted hospital stays, pathology reports and the like.
I kept telling her it was going to be ok.
She was going to be ok.
Truth is, I had no freaking clue if I was right.
And that scared me to my core.
What if there was a pocket of infection left?
What if we needed to travel back to McMaster that night?
Then the list making...
I need gas, groceries for the boys, an overnight bag....
The spinning, circle of anxiety began.
Post traumatic stress and painful memories flooded my heart and mind.
-------
The good news is this:
Brooklyn has a couple of abdominal wall hematomas.
She is also thoroughly constipated.
Both are manageable, non-life threatening situations.
The bad news is this:
I can't stop crying.
I am so so sad.
My heart hurts full throttle again.
I cannot figure out a way to function today, other than to sing the song Brookie and I learned in family yoga class. Sung more than 100 times by now, this song is an invisible tie that will forever tether mother and daughter together.
Inhale (breath in).
Exhale (breath out).
I say thank you every day.
Inhale (breath in).
Exhale (breath out).
Namaste.
Sometimes we just need to honour our tears. <3
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.
Showing posts with label daughter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label daughter. Show all posts
Thursday, April 7, 2016
Friday, March 4, 2016
Warrior Princess - 1, Cancer - 0
Today Jay and I went up to McMaster to meet with Brooklyn's Oncologist, Dr. Portwine. Pathology confirmed the following:
Brooklyn had a stage 1 neuroblastoma tumour.
About 5% of it still contained 'hot' (active) neuroblastoma cells.
About 40% of it contained 'maturing' ganglioneuroma cells.
The last 55% of the tumour contained 'matured' ganglioneuroma calls.
The location of the tumour (in her abdomen, attached to the aorta) was such that they could not ensure a healthy margin between the end of the diseased tissue, and the beginning of the good tissue. As such, it is possible some cancer cells were left behind, though to the naked eye there was nothing left to see.
The tumour was 8.5 x 6.9 x 2.8cm.
What does this all mean?
Well the interesting thing about this cancer is that is actually works reverse to common knowledge about the disease. As the tumour matures, it moves from highly malignant to entirely benign. The concerns come when the neuroblastoma cells spread to other parts of the body, moving children from a stage 1 situation to something much more serious.
As far as unlucky goes, we are entirely blessed to be very, very lucky with a stage 1 scenario.
Brooklyn's oncologist is not requiring any further treatment, but she will be followed with regular MRIs (every three months) and urine tests (monthly) for the next year and beyond. Should something unusual arise, then additional tests will be ordered.
We've found two very good links to more information about this type of childhood cancer, read them here and here, should you desire.
Relapses for this type of cancer occur in 5-15% of low-moderate risk cases.
Brooklyn is not at a higher risk of a new cancer occurrence as a result of this one.
Brooklyn's wound is nearly healed, however she is still having some pain in her legs and numbness in her feet. They hope this nerve damage is only temporary. It is uncomfortable, but does not require meds for pain.
Oddly enough, Jay and I are mellow tonight. I will blog about our feelings once I have pinpointed them, but we think we just feel emotional and exhausted all over again.
Sad that pathology proved she had cancer.
Sad that she went through such trauma.
Sad that our new normal will leave us regularly worrying about a relapse.
I am sure our positive attitudes will return soon, but in the meantime we'll wait to celebrate until we feel good and ready.
xo
#TeamBrookie #WarriorPrincess
Brooklyn had a stage 1 neuroblastoma tumour.
About 5% of it still contained 'hot' (active) neuroblastoma cells.
About 40% of it contained 'maturing' ganglioneuroma cells.
The last 55% of the tumour contained 'matured' ganglioneuroma calls.
The location of the tumour (in her abdomen, attached to the aorta) was such that they could not ensure a healthy margin between the end of the diseased tissue, and the beginning of the good tissue. As such, it is possible some cancer cells were left behind, though to the naked eye there was nothing left to see.
The tumour was 8.5 x 6.9 x 2.8cm.
What does this all mean?
Well the interesting thing about this cancer is that is actually works reverse to common knowledge about the disease. As the tumour matures, it moves from highly malignant to entirely benign. The concerns come when the neuroblastoma cells spread to other parts of the body, moving children from a stage 1 situation to something much more serious.
As far as unlucky goes, we are entirely blessed to be very, very lucky with a stage 1 scenario.
Brooklyn's oncologist is not requiring any further treatment, but she will be followed with regular MRIs (every three months) and urine tests (monthly) for the next year and beyond. Should something unusual arise, then additional tests will be ordered.
We've found two very good links to more information about this type of childhood cancer, read them here and here, should you desire.
Relapses for this type of cancer occur in 5-15% of low-moderate risk cases.
Brooklyn is not at a higher risk of a new cancer occurrence as a result of this one.
Brooklyn's wound is nearly healed, however she is still having some pain in her legs and numbness in her feet. They hope this nerve damage is only temporary. It is uncomfortable, but does not require meds for pain.
Oddly enough, Jay and I are mellow tonight. I will blog about our feelings once I have pinpointed them, but we think we just feel emotional and exhausted all over again.
Sad that pathology proved she had cancer.
Sad that she went through such trauma.
Sad that our new normal will leave us regularly worrying about a relapse.
I am sure our positive attitudes will return soon, but in the meantime we'll wait to celebrate until we feel good and ready.
xo
#TeamBrookie #WarriorPrincess
Wednesday, January 27, 2016
Any other day
It began like any other day.
My focus was on getting my kids dressed, packing lunches and loading them into the van in time to make the first bell. Nolan, age 7, and Brooklyn, age 5, love to play for a few minutes with their friends before classes officially begin.
Drop off. Check.
Coffee run. Check.
Morning visit with my wee man Ethan, age 2, to our local early years centre. Check.
Around 11 o'clock that morning E and I headed home. Thursday is our special day together, one I so cherish. I put his favourite show on TV and headed upstairs to make him some eggs for lunch.
Cue the phone.
I always check my call display before answering, and when I did, my heart dropped.
It was my kids' pediatrician's office calling.
In the three seconds or so that it took to pick up the receiver, my mind raced.
B had just gone the previous day for an ultrasound on her abdomen, specifically looking at her bladder. After recurrent UTIs, random unexplained constipation and complaints of it hurting to sit on the toilet, I asked her doctor to consider more testing.
I couldn't take her to that appointment as I was just beginning to teach my first week of the winter term, thank goodness my amazing parents jumped at the chance to spend time with B. The technician had told my mother it would be about 5 business days before results would be available to our doctor.
But the pediatrician's office was on the phone now, on this very normal, average day.
Asking me to come in regarding the results of the ultrasound.
I hung up the phone and my chest hurt.
Not 15 minutes later, the office was calling again.
This time, our pediatrician was on the other end.
"I've reviewed the results and referred you up to McMaster Children's Hospital. There is a mass in her abdomen which requires further investigation. I have spoken directly to the surgeon, he is aware of your case."
That day, two weeks ago, was just like any other day.
The same arguments.
The same requests for cooperation.
The same snacks in my kids' lunch bags.
Never, in my wildest dreams, would I have guessed our very busy pediatrician would call me at home. That McMaster would call the next day and tell us to come in three days later, promptly at 9am.
To be admitted.
To begin a very, very difficult two weeks.
CT scans.
IV drips.
Blood work.
Urine samples.
Biopsies.
Hearing and eye tests.
Echos.
Bone marrow biopsy.
Bone scan.
MIBG scan.
Days so long, tears flowing uncontrollably and questions nearly impossible to answer:
"Why do they keep touching me? They make me feel worser Mom! Make it stop!"
"How many more tests mommy, I hate tests!"
"Why can't I eat, mommy? They never let me eat here!"
"Mommy I am not sick. I am fine. Take me home?"
Seeing my little angel, my precious baby girl, in pain. Suffering at the hands of the people who were put in place to help her. Feeling entirely helpless, hopeless and trembling at the thought of one more wheelchair ride, one more gurney trip around the hospital.
Watching her little eyes close, body full of drugs, knocking her into a deep sleep over and over again for the sake of something that did not exist a few weeks ago.
Trusting strangers to care for my baby as they would their own, and begging them to do everything in their power to make her well again.
...
The day began like any other day.
Two weeks ago tomorrow.
Yet the following 14 days have been the furthest from that day.
And while these have been the single most difficult two weeks of my life as a mom, wife and woman, I can see with very clear eyes how lucky we are.
Yup.
Its only taken two weeks to complete all the tests necessary for a proper diagnosis.
The hospital is only one hour from our home.
We are surrounded by family, friends and even perfect strangers who continue to fuel us with kind words, meals, gifts and hugs.
Love is plentiful.
Hope is visible.
Faith, while being tested, is a strong and capable companion.
Please pray, for Brooklyn and all children who's lives have been anything but any other day.
#TeamBrookie #WarriorPrincess
My focus was on getting my kids dressed, packing lunches and loading them into the van in time to make the first bell. Nolan, age 7, and Brooklyn, age 5, love to play for a few minutes with their friends before classes officially begin.
Drop off. Check.
Coffee run. Check.
Morning visit with my wee man Ethan, age 2, to our local early years centre. Check.
Around 11 o'clock that morning E and I headed home. Thursday is our special day together, one I so cherish. I put his favourite show on TV and headed upstairs to make him some eggs for lunch.
Cue the phone.
I always check my call display before answering, and when I did, my heart dropped.
It was my kids' pediatrician's office calling.
In the three seconds or so that it took to pick up the receiver, my mind raced.
B had just gone the previous day for an ultrasound on her abdomen, specifically looking at her bladder. After recurrent UTIs, random unexplained constipation and complaints of it hurting to sit on the toilet, I asked her doctor to consider more testing.
I couldn't take her to that appointment as I was just beginning to teach my first week of the winter term, thank goodness my amazing parents jumped at the chance to spend time with B. The technician had told my mother it would be about 5 business days before results would be available to our doctor.
But the pediatrician's office was on the phone now, on this very normal, average day.
Asking me to come in regarding the results of the ultrasound.
I hung up the phone and my chest hurt.
Not 15 minutes later, the office was calling again.
This time, our pediatrician was on the other end.
"I've reviewed the results and referred you up to McMaster Children's Hospital. There is a mass in her abdomen which requires further investigation. I have spoken directly to the surgeon, he is aware of your case."
That day, two weeks ago, was just like any other day.
The same arguments.
The same requests for cooperation.
The same snacks in my kids' lunch bags.
Never, in my wildest dreams, would I have guessed our very busy pediatrician would call me at home. That McMaster would call the next day and tell us to come in three days later, promptly at 9am.
To be admitted.
To begin a very, very difficult two weeks.
CT scans.
IV drips.
Blood work.
Urine samples.
Biopsies.
Hearing and eye tests.
Echos.
Bone marrow biopsy.
Bone scan.
MIBG scan.
Days so long, tears flowing uncontrollably and questions nearly impossible to answer:
"Why do they keep touching me? They make me feel worser Mom! Make it stop!"
"How many more tests mommy, I hate tests!"
"Why can't I eat, mommy? They never let me eat here!"
"Mommy I am not sick. I am fine. Take me home?"
Seeing my little angel, my precious baby girl, in pain. Suffering at the hands of the people who were put in place to help her. Feeling entirely helpless, hopeless and trembling at the thought of one more wheelchair ride, one more gurney trip around the hospital.
Watching her little eyes close, body full of drugs, knocking her into a deep sleep over and over again for the sake of something that did not exist a few weeks ago.
Trusting strangers to care for my baby as they would their own, and begging them to do everything in their power to make her well again.
...
The day began like any other day.
Two weeks ago tomorrow.
Yet the following 14 days have been the furthest from that day.
And while these have been the single most difficult two weeks of my life as a mom, wife and woman, I can see with very clear eyes how lucky we are.
Yup.
Its only taken two weeks to complete all the tests necessary for a proper diagnosis.
The hospital is only one hour from our home.
We are surrounded by family, friends and even perfect strangers who continue to fuel us with kind words, meals, gifts and hugs.
Love is plentiful.
Hope is visible.
Faith, while being tested, is a strong and capable companion.
Please pray, for Brooklyn and all children who's lives have been anything but any other day.
#TeamBrookie #WarriorPrincess
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
Snuggles with my baby girl
We're a few weeks into the new school year.
It appears that all of us are suffering, adjusting perhaps, a more appropriate term. The kids come home tired. Exhausted really. Their baby brother won't sleep through the night or nap during the day. I'm back to class and working on two contra projects (in addition to my latest freelance contract).
Seems so pop culture-cool to suggest we're zombies. All five of us. But we are.
It's difficult to be a good mom when I'm tired. When I'm exhausted, I feel like the worst mom in the world (so I'm also more dramatic when I hit the wall). But seriously, I thought losing two kids to full day learning would make my life easier. Turns out, not so much.
Tonight, after a VERY LONG afternoon, and after multiple requests to go to bed early, I found myself in Brooklyn's room. She chose her 'favourite' books, two oldie board style toddler reads for us to snuggle into bed with and read together. We took our time, I asked plenty of questions to practice her new speech therapy goals and when we were all done, I turned her light off and stepped back to her bed to tuck her in.
Then something fabulous happened.
'Mom, stay and snuggle with me.'
Oh, snuggles. I love me some snuggles. Especially with my girl, my built-in friend for life. My immediate reaction was to smile and hop in, but as I found my way to her extra pillow I realized I hadn't snuggled in some time. In fact, I don't remember the last time she and I snuggled at bed time.
The last two and a half weeks had been so busy, I forgot to snuggle.
I'd been racing. From project to project, from meeting to meeting, from school to home and back again. And I'd forgotten how much I needed a snuggle, how important they were to my relationship with my daughter.
The two of us got all comfy, closed our eyes and then she jumped.
'Wait! I have to kiss you!' she said.
Ok, now she's scoring major bonus points. She proceeded to grab my hand. One by one, she separated my fingers and kissed them. Gently. Carefully. Then she asked for my other hand and repeated her pattern of kisses.
I was in such awe of her perfection. My four year old little princess. I could feel the tears warming my eyes but I was speechless.
When she was done, she grabbed my face. Kissed my nose, forehead, chin and each cheek. Then she smiled brightly, and laid a giant one on my lips.
She has a way of knowing exactly what mommy needs. And I love her to pieces for it.
I am smitten with this little girl. Her gentle soul. Her crazy laugh. And most of all, her ability to remind me that nothing - not a bad day, week or month - is ever more important than taking time for her snuggles.
It appears that all of us are suffering, adjusting perhaps, a more appropriate term. The kids come home tired. Exhausted really. Their baby brother won't sleep through the night or nap during the day. I'm back to class and working on two contra projects (in addition to my latest freelance contract).
Seems so pop culture-cool to suggest we're zombies. All five of us. But we are.
It's difficult to be a good mom when I'm tired. When I'm exhausted, I feel like the worst mom in the world (so I'm also more dramatic when I hit the wall). But seriously, I thought losing two kids to full day learning would make my life easier. Turns out, not so much.
Tonight, after a VERY LONG afternoon, and after multiple requests to go to bed early, I found myself in Brooklyn's room. She chose her 'favourite' books, two oldie board style toddler reads for us to snuggle into bed with and read together. We took our time, I asked plenty of questions to practice her new speech therapy goals and when we were all done, I turned her light off and stepped back to her bed to tuck her in.
Then something fabulous happened.
'Mom, stay and snuggle with me.'
Oh, snuggles. I love me some snuggles. Especially with my girl, my built-in friend for life. My immediate reaction was to smile and hop in, but as I found my way to her extra pillow I realized I hadn't snuggled in some time. In fact, I don't remember the last time she and I snuggled at bed time.
The last two and a half weeks had been so busy, I forgot to snuggle.
I'd been racing. From project to project, from meeting to meeting, from school to home and back again. And I'd forgotten how much I needed a snuggle, how important they were to my relationship with my daughter.
The two of us got all comfy, closed our eyes and then she jumped.
'Wait! I have to kiss you!' she said.
Ok, now she's scoring major bonus points. She proceeded to grab my hand. One by one, she separated my fingers and kissed them. Gently. Carefully. Then she asked for my other hand and repeated her pattern of kisses.
I was in such awe of her perfection. My four year old little princess. I could feel the tears warming my eyes but I was speechless.
When she was done, she grabbed my face. Kissed my nose, forehead, chin and each cheek. Then she smiled brightly, and laid a giant one on my lips.
She has a way of knowing exactly what mommy needs. And I love her to pieces for it.
I am smitten with this little girl. Her gentle soul. Her crazy laugh. And most of all, her ability to remind me that nothing - not a bad day, week or month - is ever more important than taking time for her snuggles.
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