d day. part three.

(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

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

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