A Dip in the Jordan

Yesterday was my mom's first day of chemo, and I think I was subconsciously really, really nervous about this. I wasn't here the last time she went through this two years ago; I was two hours away in another state, and while I was with her in the moment when I talked to her on the phone (like every day), I was able to hang up the phone after a while and get on with my life. I don't mean for that to sound crass -- it's just how it was. I could distance myself a bit; I didn't have to see what was going on, or feel the pain and heartache so acutely.

I'm so very glad I'm home this time around -- truly I am. But in all honesty it does make it a little more difficult and emotional for me, obviously. While my parents have always been a huge part of my life, they are even more so now. I see them every day, so I see the good and the bad ... and in this case, the "bad" is living with a disease, living with the side effects of the treatment to kill this disease. And we're all in it, lock, stock, and proverbial barrel.

But that's OK. I'm glad I'm here. I can help. I can cook, I can clean, I have two beautiful children who are Nature's Instant Distraction. But I'm not relishing the idea of seeing my mom sick, or bald, or weak ... yet it's all part of the journey. So I think that's why I was subconsciously feeling a little antsy yesterday, having no idea what this first day of chemo would be like. And then there are those little lurking doubts, that pesky "dark part of the soul" that is just waiting for the other shoe to drop, having come off of a beautiful, nearly perfect day before and wondering what's in store. So yes, I was feeling a little edgy as I started my day.

My mom left for the hospital a little before 9:00 a.m. I started my first of five (well, 4 and a half) loads of laundry. I had plenty to do to keep me -- and my thoughts -- occupied. Unfortunately, it wasn't a very good "kid day" -- maybe that would have been hoping for too much, those days when they play nicely and quietly for hours with nary a scream or a slap or a whine. I guess I can't have it all. Aidan was OK, but some bee flew into Grace's little bonnet and lodged there for the entire day. Both kids were listless, uninterested in any play idea I threw their way. Aidan asked me to help him set up an elaborate Thomas track system, which I did, only to find that he didn't feel like playing with it anymore. Thankfully, later on, prompted by an email from my dad which included some pictures of a space shuttle launching, he got into "outer space mode" and played for quite a long time with his little toy space shuttle that he got from the National Air and Space Museum a few months ago. I brought the kids outside and settled Aidan on their little plastic picnic table while I dragged out the Megablocks. While he dictated his vision, I constructed a rather cool launchpad (if I do say so myself) for the shuttle. Aidan was thrilled, but unfortunately bee-bonnet girl thought it would be great fun to be a pain in the butt, knocking over the launch pad countless times and sending her brother into fits of whining despair. For a good chunk of the afternoon, while I helped my dad transplant a few marigolds, I also played referee to my squabbling children.

Ooohhh, but the blessings ... My mom had hardly any side effects from the treatment yesterday! Oh, they'll come, but chalk up Day One as a great and unexpected success. Last time, as quoted in her well-kept journal, nausea hit with a vengeance around dinner time and laid her low for the rest of the evening. This time ... nothing. A sporadic twinge of queasiness, perhaps, but that's it. She ran a load of laundry while she took a nap (although I hung it on the line for her), she saw my kids, she had dinner with my dad. Then after the dishes were done, she came outside, arms laden with books, and read to Aidan in the back yard while Grace, who apparently lost the nasty bee after devouring a bowl of spaghetti, ran around the yard and oozed silliness from every pore. It was truly an incredible day. Thank you, God, for that unexpected blessing.

I'm not expecting today to be all that great, health-wise. This isn't stemming from pessimism; it's just reality. Every chemo treatment must be followed by a shot of Neulasta, a drug that boosts up the white blood cells. While chemo seeks out and kills any stray cancer cells, it also does a number on good cells, like those friendly white cells that fight infections, among other things. Hence the need for Neulasta, which will kick-start her bones to produce extra white cells to get that healthy number back up on the charts. This will most likely cause bone pain -- makes sense, since the bones are pulling the night shift and working overtime. I anticipate her feeling like crap today and tomorrow, but that's OK -- it won't be fun, for sure, but yesterday's grace-snack will tide us over.

Oh, and the other blessing I received yesterday, like extra trimming on a beautifully wrapped gift, was the news that, even though her "status" was bounced to Stage III (the knowledge of which, I think, added to my subconscious edginess), her scans are clear: bones, organs, etc. I mean, they're clear for certain. OK, well, at least as certain as a finite human being can be. Up until yesterday, I wasn't sure. The reason for the Stage III label is simply because, by definition, the cancer had gone outside of the original site, to the lymph nodes. But the site is gone, the lymph nodes are out, and so is the cancer. Sure, there might be a stray cell intent on its dastardly mission to spread, but that's the point of the chemo: a final process of cleansing, seven dips in the Jordan River, to not only annihilate any remaining cells, but also to dash any and all future plans of cells who might be getting the wrong idea. I'm sure an expert would scoff at my layman's understanding of all of this, but it works for me. And for the first time in a while, I have a renewed sense of hope.

I think somewhere along the line I got my own dip in the Jordan ...