Three Years, Cancer Free

He's older now; five and a half. And that means he asks more questions about procedures. So while Quinn and I are just happy that IVs and sedation are the things we worry about instead of life and death, Teague is just now starting to question what's happening. So this MRI, even though we expected good news, was one of the harder ones for me as a mother. I got Teague up early, before six. As soon as he was awake, he declared, "I am not going to be scared of this thing today." Mustering bravery to hide his nerves. And that is how he handled it. Stoic-like. Not even a twitch as the IV went in, but he did say, "Ow, ow!" and that was all. He was also nervous to be sedated. He asked questions about the sleepy meds. The MRI tech picked up on his nerves and took him into the room to show him the machine and what it does. He put a cylinder of cleaning wipes in the headrest to show Teague where his head would go, and did a little MRI on the wipes. I loved the effort, but Teague hung back, not amused. As he got the meds, instead of collapsing into me, he swayed and said, "Whoa!" a few times. So for me, there were tears today. It's just not OK when your kid is scared. The good thing about today was that there was a radiologist readily available, and he read the scan immediately. He came to the recovery room before Teague was even awake and told us that all was well. Again, tears from a grateful mother. I was overcome with a mix of emotions: gratitude, relief, and all those old feelings from when he was sick, blended together. And the new bit of wisdom from today about what else radiation kills besides cancer: bone marrow. We learned that the radiated areas of Teague's skull don't have red marrow anymore, at least not as much as he should have at his age. His is more like an older person's, with fat in there. It's always kind of a bummer to discover yet another thing they damaged, but it also always brings more reasons to thank my Father in Heaven. If they have to tell me what's damaged, it's not a big enough deal to worry about in my daily life. Teague has been protected, and he is a normal, healthy kid.

Zero Worry

This post has been months in the making. For simplicity's sake, I'll say it started last August, when Quinn gave the kids priesthood blessings at the start of the school year. I always love that time of year because it reminds me of how individual each kid is; there's never a repeated phrase in any of their blessings. I also received a blessing. I was expecting it to be simple. Just a little help being mindful of the children and their needs and being able to support them in their learning and activities. All the mom stuff.

But there was something else. I was blessed that I would no longer worry about Teague. I was told, regarding all the tests he is yet to have, "You already know the outcome." And it's true. I do. I heard with my own ears Teague being told in a blessing that this cancer would cease.

Still, somehow, I always worry. I always think that I don't because between MRIs, we live in cancer-free land. But every time I call to set up his next appointment, it shakes me. I think about what we have planned in our lives and when would be a good time to test in case we get bad news and need to schedule a surgery or treatment. And I always cry when I hang up the phone. Then I'm fine again until a few days leading up to the scan, when I get tense again. And I always cry again when they tell me my child is still healthy.

So when Quinn said those words in the blessing, into my mind came and image of Peter walking on the water. His faith was strong. He was experiencing a miracle. But then he started to look around at the world he knew, at the nature he grew up with. The storm around him and the water beneath him. He probably realized that people don't walk on water. And at that moment, he began to sink.

I realized that I, too, am facing a miracle. I am in the middle of it. And my storms are statistics and doctors who want to keep an eye on Teague and keep checking for regrowth. Nurses who refer to him as a "tumor kid" when they think I'm not necessarily listening. And just plain not knowing for scientific certainty because I can't personally see inside his head. And that is where the stress comes in.

So after that blessing, I decided that my new goal was to get through an MRI, from scheduling to completion, with unshakable faith. And for this one, I was almost there. Probably more than 90 percent.

It started with a declaration of testimony that I know my child is healed. I did it in front of my entire ward congregation. Saying something out loud always increases faith. I also prayed for stronger faith and the ability to believe what we've been blessed with.

And here's what I experienced. Teague was scheduled for an MRI in October. I had probably scheduled that one sometime in July, and it shook me. Just the phone call alone took me back to cancer land, and it's a scary place. We ended up rescheduling that particular MRI for insurance purposes. I called about a month ago to get it scheduled, and did not worry about what we had going on, and I did not cry when I got off the phone. Not totally unaffected, but almost not upset.

Quinn asked me the night before how nervous I was about the procedure. Scale of one to ten. I said, "Zero." And maybe it wasn't exactly zero, but it was close enough that that's what came out of my mouth. I actually kept forgetting that our appointment was the next day. I just didn't feel any trepidation.

I am at the point where I'm able to say confidently that Teague has been healed. I know that he has. I was not surprised that yesterday's MRI came back clean. But I did get giddy-excited when I got the call. And I am working on that last little sliver of doubt.