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.