The First Step

It’s a surreal experience, finding out that your child has cancer.  It can happen when you’ve had them around for years, getting to know them, their quirks, their personalities, their hearts and then, before you know, you can watch that child of yours fade and weaken, like a shadow cast in bright lights.  For me, for us, it happened when my son, Jayne, was four months old.  Our only experience with him was watching him grow, laugh, and find his toes.  Our days were filled with eating, pooping, sleeping and then repeating in no particular order.  We played with him, he played with us, he studied his surrounds, memorized faces of people he met, and liked to lay down and talk to the little sun hanging above his play mat.  

Now he’s lying in a hospital crib with several tubes and lines protruding from his body.  He’s had two surgical procedures so far, two IV lines placed, ten blood draws for lab work, three blood transfusion, two plasma transfusions, and a spinal tap.  He’s spent more time in the hospital at this point than when he was born.  And yet, he’s still our happy little baby.  He makes noises, he flirts with the nurses, he stands and stomps, and stares at everyone in turn.  He’s still our baby boy, even in this strange, surely alien environment.  He’s met more people here than he had previously in four months.  

The hardest part is yet to come.  We were informed that he had leukemia on Friday (2/5/16) and they were able to narrow it down to AML on the following Monday (2/8/16).  His immune system is compromised, so any medical staff who comes in needs to wear a mask.  He’s on a very stringent visitor restriction regimen.  If one of us goes to get lunch, we have to wear a mask, so that we don’t inadvertently bring something back and get him sick.  And he hasn’t even started his chemotherapy yet. In the coming months he will lose his hair, his appetite, and, his vitality, but he will still be our son.  He’s a fighter, he’s proved that already, and as difficult as this will be on him, and on his parents, family, and friends, he’s cunning enough to look the cancer in the face and spit in it’s eye.  Mostly because his only offensive weapon consists of spit, but the gesture will speak volumes.  And lying in our bed, many years from now, we’ll be able to take our little boy in our arms, kiss his cheeks, and tell him the story of the boy they call Jayne.