It's been a few days since I've been able to writing to you. Maybe that's been a blessing; it has been a challenge for us to accept some of the developments that the last few days have brought. It is very easy to develop a sort of tunnel vision right now, but I know that these are but bumps in the long road we're travelling.
On Monday, Mom and I found out that your cancer had been re-staged and that you would need some radiation treatment on top of the chemotherapy. At least we also learned that the lead for your had been officially given over to the oncology team from the surgical team.
On Tuesday, we met with the radiation oncology staff to discuss what treatment would entail and learning that you would need any number of treatments greater than 1 left us feeling a little deflated. Later on that day, we also sat down with oncology to talk about the treatment plan (28 weeks of chemotherapy), the chemotherapy drugs, research and more. We also talked about potential side effects. I don't think I want to dwell on those. Mom and I can talk with you about them one day when you're older. These days, it's enough for us to know that all of this treatment is designed to save your life. Tuesday was a heady day, almost surreal, and I don't ever wish to experience a repeat if that day.
On Wednesday, you spent a few sedated hours in the morning with radiation oncology staff to have CT scan that would be used to map everything out in advance of starting your relatively short run of radiation treatment, and on late evening rounds, the oncologists told us that they wanted to start you on chemo the next day. I can't explain why I felt so unprepared to hear that. I just somehow envisioned that we'd have this ramp-up to everything and instead it's like we're being shot out of a cannon. Maybe some of it had to do with the fact that I planned to make a run into the office to sort out a few things would let me stay by your side and provide care and that it now seemed unlikely that I would be able to be by Mom's side as the chemo was administered.
What a miserable day yesterday was. It poured down rain all day long, and appropriately so. Your mom called me in the morning to let me know that the radiation simulation yielded some difficult news: that the radiation treatments would almost certainly have an impact on your ovaries and throw into question whether you would ever be able to have children of your own one day. We weren't told you would never be able to have children, just that you might struggle to do so. That news was a tried and true sucker punch to your old man's hopes and dreams for you. Yet, I can only handle one crisis at a time right now. And knowing that all of this, this suffering, this seemingly endless stream of bumps in the road, will end up saving your life... well, it's about as much as I get to hold on to. I'm so thankful that your survival is all but assured. We can deal with everything else together, in the future, and with 20+ years of advancement in medical science on our side.
Today was... well, it just was. Sweet pea, I'm so sorry we had to mark your 8th month of life by:
- initiating your chemotherapy at 1 AM;
- replacing the needle in your infusaport at 2 AM;
- getting your vitals checked at 5 AM; and
- sedating you and initiating your radiation treatments at 8 AM
You are my hero, Madeline, and a true inspiration. I love you sweet pea.
Always,
Daddy
No comments:
Post a Comment