Is this the new normal?

Dear Madeline,

Do you remember how I told you that, before your diagnosis, you managed to humble your old man on a daily basis? I had delusionally hoped all that would be just a memory. Instead, it looks like the fun will continue into your toddler years.

Yesterday afternoon, you cried seemingly without end. There was a great deal of drama last night trying to get you to go to sleep. Your Mom and Dad, well, we were at our wits ends, and dare I say almost at each others throats blinded by the frustration and our own sleep deprivation. We were finally able to get you to sleep about about 9:45 last night. True to your previous routine, you demanded our attention with agonizing regularity thereafter.

I was roused from my all too brief slumber at about 7 this morning to get you to go back to sleep as soon as possible start the day off with your ceaseless screaming beautiful smile and spent the next hour trying to figure out why you wouldn't stop crying enjoy the special alone time we were blessed to share. Once mom woke up, I tried to head back to bed to get a few extra winks. You apparently decided to voice your objections to this. Once again, the house filled with drama.

Mom spent the next hour trying to calm you down. She tried feeding you, she tried pain meds, she tried diaper changes, she tried soothing you. Nothing worked. She was almost ready to call the hospital when I remembered one of the most important lessons we learned during your stay there: many of your screams and howls are not born of pain but frustration and insistence. I suggested to Mom that rather than rush you to the hospital, we simply stand you up and carry you around. Like a true stinker, you smiled and stuck your tongue out at her! I'm here to tell you that this will get you nowhere fast when your are an adolescent but, for this morning, all Mom and I could do was laugh.

And so it goes. We try our humble best to keep you happy and to quell your cries and whines with mixed results.  You cat nap, but refuse to fall into a deep sleep (just when we think the coast is clear to resume normal activities, you "wake up" crying). We are captives, and are adjusting to our fate. But be warned, a rebellion could be brewing.  When you head to your chemotherapy appointment next week, we might just ask the doctors to prescribe Ativan as your next anti-nausea medication.  Maybe that way we could all have some sweet dreams.

Love,
   Daddy