The Hair Loss Begins

It has begun. Just at lunchtime today I noticed a horizontal bald strip across the back of Teague's head. I don't know when that happened. All in one morning? Did it happen that fast or has it been happening and I just didn't see it? I haven't cried about it yet, but I might.

I was talking to my sister Jessie, who is a runner. She said when she coached girls' track, she'd tell the milers to do a gut-check on lap three because that's the one that gets you. First lap, you're excited. Second lap, you still have energy. Fourth lap, you can see the end and you get a second wind. But on that third lap, you feel tired. You think you have to slow down or you're going to die. But if you do a gut-check, you'll pass the people who are resting.

We are halfway through the radiation treatments. Lap two, down. Lap three is tough. This week I've been extra weepy, extra cranky, extra tired (though I've found ways to nap and it's been miraculous), and I've cracked a couple of times. Just broken down and cried.

The release has felt good, but I don't have time for it. I have to be a mom. I have to take care of a cancer baby. I have to give attention to the older kids. And feed them. And scrub toilets and floors and fold laundry. Keep things running. I have to fill in the gaps. I have to find it from somewhere.

And now, the effects of radiation are starting to show on my little Teague. I don't know how much hair my baby is going to lose or what other signs of radiation will manifest. Maybe not much more than this. I can only hope.

Just three more weeks. Hang in there, buddy. We'll hang with you: Daddy, Mommy, Braiden, and Tate, and all the people who love you.

Gut check.

The Popular Kid

Teague is a favorite at the hospital. I didn't realize how much so until the registration clerk commented that when Teague leaves, it's like a parade. Everyone comes out of thier places and sees him off. He waves, shouts, "See ya," gives high fives, and sometimes even gives hugs and kisses. One nurse said she loves starting her day off that way.

It's hard to believe how well Little Mr. Goodwill is weathering his treatments so far. He still has his hair, his skin doesn't look irritated yet, he's still got his appetite, and his sleep/wake patterns are the same. Makes me wonder in a weird way if this radiation is working. Dr. Watson said that usually the sedation is what's hardest on the little kids, so maybe things will stay this good for my little one.

Side effects or not, it's still a game of wait and see and hope. That may be part of what's wearing me down. I'm fatigued physically and frayed emotionally. And I know it shows. I'm sporting that haggard look that makeup, a hairdo, and an outfit don't fix. Beauty rest is not a myth. Emotionally, I wouldn't necessarily say I'm a wreck, but I do cry at TV commercials and e-mail forwards. It's kind of like that postpartum feeling, but it's not hormonal; it's just constant, gnawing stress. No matter how good life is, having your toddler in cancer treatment takes a toll.

But I can count blessings. Probably the most obvious one right now is that Teague is happy and energetic. Really, he is pure joy. Excited about life. He is my example and my bright spot because he doesn't know what there is to be stressed about. He is refreshing.

I'm so glad that he enjoys going to treatment. Almost every time we get into the car, he says, "Doctor?" If we say no, he says, "Awwww," in a whiny voice.

It's also good that he knows the routine: he leads the anesthesiologist of the day by the finger into the radiation area, pats the huge machine ("Pat-pat," he says), sits on the table and leans against me, and helps push the "sleepy meds" into his own body. Once when it hadn't yet taken effect, he said, "More." The next thing he knows, he wakes up and asks for crackers. And he sings on the way home.

No pain and lots of attention--who wouldn't love going to the doctor?

The Scary Mask

Teague is not afraid of the Elmo mask. He doesn't even know he wears it. To me, it's still a bit freaky but I'm getting over it. The mask is form-fitted to Teague's face, and it attaches to the table underneath him to immobilize his head during treatment. He always has red marks on his chin and nose when he wakes up. Easy to see why he has to be sedated. That could make anyone crazy.

The medical staff is taken with Teague. They think it's cute that he hops on the scale when he's supposed to, cooperates with the blood pressure cuff, knows where the elevator is and which buttons to push, and loves to ride in and push the wheelchairs. And he says hi to everyone.

Dr. Child, the anesthesiologist we had today, said that lots of kids are freaked out from the first treatment to the last. But Teague doesn't mind. When it was time, Teague took Dr. Child's hand and mine and walked into the radiation area. He even pushes the syringe and essentially sedates himself. This morning in the car on the way up, he was saying, "Doctor. Meds. Push."

Happy baby makes treatment easier.

The Rad Kid

That's what they call the kids in radiation therapy. Rad kids. They get star treatment at LDS Hospital. When we got to the desk to check in, I said what we were there for, and the registration lady said, "Is this Teague?" and she already had his bracelet ready. No sign of "with you in a moment."

They had stickers for him, they spoke kindly to him, and when he was back in recovery and starting to wake up, they were asking us what kind of snacks he likes.

So the drill is, we check in, they check his oxygen saturation and weight, and we go down to radiation. Anesthesiologist hooks him up, Teague sleeps, they put the Elmo mask on, they line up their radiation machine with lasers, and then Quinn and I leave before they start shooting the radiation.

I was weepy while they were doing all of this. It's so industiral-looking, and they're aiming this big, huge drum at my baby's head. And he's unconscious, and he's got a freaky-looking Elmo mask on. Teague didn't think it was freaky, though. Before he sacked out, he said it was his Elmo hat. And they didn't put it on his face until he was under.

While Teague was getting his zaps, Dr. Watson took us into his office and showed us where they're radiating and at what strengths. I was amazed. Maybe I'm an idiot, but I'd had no idea you could radiate in whatever shape you want and at whatever concentration you need. Overlaying initial and current MRIs and CT scans, he's got Teague's brain mapped out according to what it looks like now and what the tumor looked like. Size, shape, and all.

The larger doses of radiation follow the exact outline of Teague's former tumor, and the concentrations drop off from there. Some are 90%, some are 75%, others are 25%. They've got about seven tumor-shaped ripples outlined. Those are the fields they're radiating. Dr. Watson has the lines curving so that they miss Teague's cochleas, optical nerves, and pituitary gland. It's amazing.

The first 25 treatments will be in the shape of the former tumor, and the last eight will be made to fit the current size of the 4th ventricle of Teague's brain (where the tumor used to be).

Teague did great today. We were in and out in about an hour and a half, and they told us today was the longest one because they did extra X-rays.

Quinn and I are both emotional today. This is the first time we've both had a hard day at the same time. It's big and scary. Most days, we're fine, but the last few days it's just hit me that we're trying to save my child's life and that we're exposing him to things he should be protected from. He trusts us completely, and we're jeopardizing his brain function and making him sick. Who does that to a kid? And although we have a good prognosis, we don't know exactly what the future holds.

All we know for sure is, one down, 32 to go.