As everyone knows, Jayne started his chemotherapy yesterday. It didn't really start until much later than anticipated, around 10:30 last night. That meant that were constant checks on his vitals, an array of oral medicines for him to take, eye drops (which he disliked greatly), and a mouth scrub (which he hated). This is going to be our norm for the next six months or so. Late nights, fitful sleep, administrations of medicine upon medicine, all the ensure that, eventually, our baby boy will come out the other end with a clean bill of health and the love and admiration of the entire seventh floor of PCH.
There is one aspect to the treatment that, while discussed briefly, didn't really hit home until he had actually begun receiving his injections. His system is coursing with drugs that attack rapidly reproducing cells, cancer cells being the foremost among these, and as he continues on this path, every aspect of him will be fighting the cancer at full force. This great news, despite the toll it is eventually going to take on our champ, but it also has a very devastating side effect: Jayne is a volatile substance. As Shay is feeding him, she needs to wear a plastic shield so that his saliva won't get onto her skin, particularly her nipple, and seep the chemo drugs into her system, which would in turn make her begin to feel sick. When we change his diaper, we need to use gloves. Even his urine is to be treated with care. No longer can he jam our fingers in his mouth at will. As anyone who has ever had an infant to take care of knows, nearly every aspect of taking care of one includes, eventually, some form of bodily fluid being transferred to the adult. It's a law of nature. And so we are forced to cut off some, if not all, of the bond that we currently share with our son.
It's alien, in a way.
Because his urine, saliva, and poop could be potentially damaging to one of us, we need to have a layer between our son and ourselves. Granted, this is not an extreme such as an iron lung or, if you grew up in the 20th century, a giant bubble, but there is still that limitation of contact between son and mother and father. That may be the most difficult tribulation to endure. I can accept that he's going to get visibly more affected by the chemo and that he will lose his energy (but never his smile) for the duration. But being forced to treat your child almost as a rod from a nuclear reactor is a bit different, a bit more difficult.
I suppose the only way to look at it, to get beyond it, is to realize that, yes, we may be restricted in our contact with Jayne for the next six months; but we will be able to see so much more of his life and be involved in it (until he's a teenager, at least) in far greater ways than changing his diaper. I know I sound a bit like a broken record (y'all remember what those are, right?) but in the end, he will be fine. And, due to this treatment, he will our healthy little boy again and he will have the chance to live a long and prosperous life. So it's just a matter of strength and will.
Thank you, one and all, for everything you do.
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