It has finally arrived. After all of the time at the hospital, all of the pokes, all of the blood draw, and the bone marrow aspirates. After all the chemo, the zofran, the bactrum, the biotine, and the cephepim. After the line repairs and dressing changes. After all of the watching and waiting, helplessly, it has finally arrived.
By which I mean the day that Jayne is officially cancer free and no longer a bionic baby. His last MRD following his final round of chemo came back negative and we were given the go ahead to have his broviac taken out. We arrived at the hospital this morning at 7, checked in, and waited until about quarter to 10 before the actual procedure started. We went over all of the risks inherent in a procedure as low key as this one (which were minimal) and signed all of the paperwork involved (also minimal). We put Jayne in his hospital gown, emblazoned with marsupials and rocket ships, and waved goodbye to him as the nurses took him back to his designated OR.
About 15 minutes later, we were called out of the waiting room for a consultation, where we were told that Jayne's broviac had come out with no difficulties and the hole in his chest, which has been an ever-present reminder of just how closely the beginning of our little guy's life has resembled a roller coaster designed by a sadist, would scab over in a few days, and then scar over. After the consultation with the doctor, we were taken back to the recovery room where Jayne was already sitting up and biting a hole in his oxygen mask. He was smiling and happy, as he always is. He could have just awoken from a three hour nap on our couch. He had a small bandage on his chest where the tube had entered his artery, a small patch of blood staining the otherwise snow white gauze.
And that's it. What has been such an interminably long time, at least to the three of us, ended not so much with a bang but with a giggle.
From now until he's about five or so, we will be travelling down to Phoenix so that Jayne can get a check up and blood test to ensure that the leukemia is not coming back and that his immune system is recovering and stabilizing like that of any other normal, healthy baby. Depending on how all of those tests turn out we may or may not have to continue getting yearly checks every year until he's a bit older, but the diagnosis of the day is normality.
I know it has been hard for people who know us, and who knew Jayne for the brief period of time before he was an inmate at Phoenix Children's Hospital. After receiving the news that Jayne was declared to be cancer free, it much have felt like they were able to finally breathe again or coming into the sun after what seemed like an eternity within a pitch black tunnel. I'll admit that knowing that this chapter of our lives is coming to a close causes me to be washed over with relief and an eagerness to move beyond and back to our lives. But, if we're being honest (and I have no reason to think that the opposite would be true), I never thought that any other course of events would happen. Even after the initial diagnosis and confirmation that my son had AML, I didn't accept anything other than this outcome. This feeling of certainty wasn't blind hope or a reliance on some invisible higher power but trust in the people who we had decided to trust with our son's health, his very life. There is a reason that PCH has received such high praise for the competence of it's staff and the treatment of it's patients and their families. Every person that Shay and I came into contact with was incredibly competent, caring, and determined to get Jayne back to fighting strength. Over the course of the 5+ months that we spent in and out of the hospital, I really do feel that the techs, the nurses, and the doctors all were extremely passionate about their work and were very dedicated to doing everything in their power to help out my son and to comfort my wife and I.
Indeed it wasn't just the staff of PCH which had fully procured my trust with my son's life. The tireless research that has been put into treating cancer, specifically childhood cancer, has done wonders for the prospects of parents facing such a daunting, seemingly bleak, future for their family. In 40 years, the overall survivor rate for childhood cancer has risen from a terrifying 10% to around 90% today. That is phenomenal, even with the reality that incidences of childhood cancer have also increased within that time. But the fact that a child who is diagnosed and treated for cancer is overwhelmingly likely to live rather not makes trust in the medical professionals, and the machinery behind them, incredibly easy to rely upon whenever a parent's mood turns dark. And it would really be a disservice to all of the people that Jayne, Shay, and I met during the course of treatment and recovery to heap the praise anywhere but at the feet of all those wonderful people.
I do appreciate everyone who helped us along the way, who shed tears, sent support, worked tirelessly to set up the gofundme, the several fundraisers, and every effort to assist Shay and I in this indescribably surreal turn of events. Know that my family loves each and every one of you for all that you did. For following along with the blog, for melting over the pictures of Jayne on Facebook and Twitter, and for letting your heart bleed as Jayne went through the ups and downs inherent in chemo therapy and surviving cancer at such a young age. You've seen him crawl and watched him tumble. You've heard him laugh and you've borne his tears. You've witnessed him overcome the spider's web of IV lines and you've seen him struggle with very real, very scary life-threatening situations. He has grown up from a small, immobile baby into a walking, talking, flirting machine. He's grown teeth, lost hair, and, finally, waved bye-bye to what we hope is the last hospital room he will ever be in as a patient.
Thank you all, once again, it's been a wild ride. May the Force be with you.
