The One-Year Milestone

It's official: Teague has reached the one-year cancer-free milestone. Quinn and I have so looked forward to this day. So many times, we've said, "Won't it be great to hit the one-year?"

The MRI today was of Teague's brain and spine, and both are clean. We are growing used to good news. We expected good news. We had faith that the things he's been promised in priesthood blessings are still in effect and will continue. And I really do think of his cancer as something that happened to him in the past.

But every time we hear the actual results of an MRI, I realize how much anxiety lies just beneath the surface. After we got the results today I cried, said a prayer of thanks in my mind, and hugged my husband and my little boy. I said to Teague, "You are healthy. Your Heavenly Father is taking care of you."

Our trips to Primary Children's always bring up mixed emotions. As we were walking in, I said to Quinn, "I hate this place, but it's a love/hate thing." I always remember what it felt like to live there for 10 days. The stress of not knowing what was next, the sleeplessness, the recovering toddler, the constant intrusions for blood draws and vitals, all of it. That's the hate.

Then, when we were in the neurosurgery waiting room this afternoon, ready to see Dr. Kestle, I remembered the love and the gratitude. My mind went back to the first time we were there, just hours after finding out about the tumor. We were helpless and desperate, and we needed someone to help our baby. They saved his life, and I still can't put into words what that miracle in all of its aspects means. I will never forget.

We had a longer wait time today than we usually do, which gave us more of a chance to look around and notice the other families who were waiting. It was not hard to pick out the little neuro patients. Some kids had an uneven gait or eyes that didn't stay straight or a gigantic scar or a wheelchair. Others were like Teague, pretty much unaffected.

I was reminded how easy it is to think, "Of course the Lord has taken care of my little one." It's easy to marvel that none of the side effects we were warned of have happened. But they do happen to people. We just dodged it because that's what Teague's Heavenly Father has in store for him at this point in his life.

I guess I'm just saying that I'm well aware that there's nothing we've done to make us any more special than those with broken little bodies. I'm sure that our prayers were no more fervent and that our faith was no stronger. Maybe it has even been less so because we haven't been tested as hard or as constantly.

What I do know is this: the Lord loves us all more than we know, and he blesses us all individually. Nobody ever hits a quota of trials in this life; no one is immune to the harshness of mortality. But everyone who will can be sustained and carried, guided, directed, and refined by the power of God.

Still a good patient. Just a little flinch when the IV went in, then he said, "It's all better now."

Here come the sleepies. Precedex slows the heart and drains color out of the little face.

Out cold with a warmed blanket and ready for the scan.

It's hard to wake up, even for a popsicle.

The More You Ask...

OK, so I think I'm done asking the doctors questions. Maybe I don't want to know everything they know. I've kind of learned some things about how doctors run things when you're dealing with something serious.

First of all, they know how to avoid being the whipping boy for the wrath and anxieties of freaked-out parents. They tiptoe around words like "cancer" and "damage." You know, we've all experienced it: when it's going to hurt like crazy, they say it's going to "pinch" or that you'll "feel some discomfort." OK. I get that. Keep the patient (or the patient's parents) calm.

Second, and ironically out of the same mouth they softened the initial blow with, they tell you the prognosis is worse than it is. I'm sure in some cases, the worst is true. But they go ahead and tell everybody to expect the worst so that they can have at least a few happy patients (or parents) for whom it was better than they said. They totally get the under-promise, over-deliver concept.

Third, they only tell you enough about said scary prognosis to get you to let them treat you. And granted, we would have made no other choice but to have Teague's tumor removed, and we probably would have gone ahead and radiated, even knowing what we know now. And it does seem that, looking back, we did get quite a bit of info on that consultation with the oncologist before we began treatment.

But now that it's over, and we're just doing the checkups, little bits of ugly information are seeping through the cracks of the doctor/patient facade. The fourth and final thing I've found is that if you ask them, they will tell you. After they've had their go at treating your illness as they see fit.

Don't get me wrong, we didn't get any bad news. I just contacted Dr. Watson today for clarification on some things he's been saying, and he gave me the medical terminology and descriptions, and they kind of freak me out and make me want to squeeze my toddler and cry.

We've been told in the past that sometimes scar tissue will appear on an MRI, and the only way they know if that scar is not new cancer is to compare it to the next MRI and see if it grows. And they told us at Teague's last appointment that there is some scarring. So I asked today, for clarification, if they had seen that before, and they have. So the good news is, Teague's scar from having the tumor scraped away was identical on his November and February images.

Now for the creepy, I-wish-I-hadn't-asked-for words, straight from the oncologist's e-mail:

"He’s got something called encephalomalacia – which is scarring and some atrophy of the brain where the tumor was removed."

Whaaa? You shrunk his brain? I knew about the scarring, but ATROPHY? And the clarification, after I asked just where that atrophy is:

"Teague has cerebellar atrophy.... This has implications mostly for fine motor skills and balance. Ballet is probably not in his future, but most other activities should be do-able."

Now, granted, the child has not shown any signs of having balance problems. Not significant balance problems, anyway. He has to be hours-past-bedtime tired and trying to run, and then you see a tilt. I just don't like knowing about the atrophy. Freaks me out.

Now I know why our dear Watson always asks about his balance; he's just seen an image of a cerebellum that doesn't look like it could hold a child steady. But somehow Teague's does.

Ah, I should have known I'd find the miracle in there somewhere.

Best News Yet

Today was Teague's regularly scheduled follow-up MRI. Once again, he's clean. Both his neurosurgeon and his oncologist feel that we can loosen up his schedule now. Dr. Watson said that doing another MRI in three months would be overkill. So we don't have to take him back for six months.

Dr. Watson has also lightened up on the gloom-and-doom speeches. Today he told us that because the brain is still growing (it keeps developing until about age 13 or 14), new cells will develop and help compensate for the slight balance issues we've seen when Teague is tired. He said he doubts that Teague's IQ will be affected at all. He even said that Teague is a normal, healthy kid.

Every time we get through an MRI, I feel a little more free. I go along, thinking I'm over it and that we're past it, and then suddenly another burden gets lifted and I just feel lighter. Oh, was I carrying that?