Looks Like We Got Some Imminent Violence.

As all of you may know, today is the day that Jayne will (eventually) begin his chemotherapy.  Despite the impression I gave earlier, it didn't start in the morning.  It likely won't start until six this evening.  That is a mixed bag for my wife and me.  On one hand, sure, we want to expel the cancer quickly and as soon as humanly possible.  On the other, we don't want to start with what is surely to be Jayne's descent into weakness and vulnerability.  Regardless, it is a delay, and to some, any sort of delay is difficult to endure, even if it's just an extra five minutes waiting for your table at Chili's.  But, after some thought on the subject, I've come to the reality that I can't possibly fill this particular blog with comments akin to a forty-something who has no idea just exactly what table rotation is.  The truth of it is much grimmer and much more nuanced.

As some, or all, of you know Jayne is currently receiving treatment at the Phoenix Children's Hospital.  So far, every member of the staff we've come in to contact has been fantastic.  They all fall in love with Jayne, almost instantly, and they do everything they can to make us, and him, comfortable for the duration.  It's just about everything a parent could ask for.  But when things like this happen, the delays, the wait, the lack of surety, it can dig at some people, especially within this society.  To them I say:

"Calm down."

It strikes me that we need to examine where we are a bit more.  Sure, Phoenix, so everyone working here is a bad driver almost instantaneously.  Then there is Hospital, meaning that there is a building filled with doctors, nurses, techs, and administrators whose day to day goal is the health of their patients.
The word that should stick the most in your throat is the middle word: Children's.

We are sitting on the seventh of eleven floors of sick children.

And their parents.

Maybe not every one has cancer, a serious infection, or even jungle fever.  But the fact remains, there are hundreds upon hundreds of kids in this hospital, fighting something.  And beside each and everyone is a scared parent, grandmother, aunt, sister, or even just friend.  We cannot ignore the implications of Jayne being in a children's hospital.  Every person who has to sit in a waiting room, who has to hold an unconscious hand, who has to watch IV's be inserted, blood drawn, and nurses lead these tiny people into room where they will be photographed, scanned, poked, and cut into is, for the most part, sitting in fear.  "What if" becomes their favorite, if not exactly by choice, game.  Scenarios flash in their mind, pictures waft across their consciousness, doctors and nurses bandy large, scientific words that they have no hope of understanding; it's a nightmare to each of these people except when they look down, they are still wearing pants.

I know I've been ranting and railing on people to do something for Jayne by donating your time, your money, or even just sharing something on facebook, but I'd like to amend that: Don't just do it for my son, much as I'd like you to.  Do whatever you will, in whatever capacity, for the parents in waiting rooms right now.  For the brothers and sisters who can't see their immune-compromised sibling, for the grandparents, for the uncles and aunts.  For the nurses and doctors, who have to watch each and every tiny will fight of such an immense foe, be it cancer, failing organs, or congenital diseases.  I fight for Jayne with everything I have, but I fight for each and ever kid here; the bald kids, the chair-bound kids, the kids on dialysis, the kids who need a donor, the kids with an unknown infection, and each kid whose parent is lost in the dark since their shining light has been dimmed by illness.

To you, Jayne is them, to someone else they are Jayne.  He is the Eggman, they are the Eggman, I am the Walrus.