How His Brave Got Big

I'm learning more and more that what we say to ourselves is powerful enough to influence the way we perform. My living, breathing example is my six-year-old boy.

Teague has always been kind of a marvel in the way he's taken his lumps as he's beaten his cancer. He learned quickly to just roll with all the poking and prodding that came with treatment. By the time he was being radiated every day at age two, he loved his hospital visits. Or seemed to, anyway. He was a smiley little gift to everyone he saw, giving hugs and pats, holding his little arm out for the blood pressure cuff, and hopping up onto the scale. And since that time, I have never seen him so much as flinch at an IV placement.

But as Teague has grown, he has gotten to where he expresses dread at the MRIs that happen every six months. Turns out he's not some anomaly. He really doesn't like to be jabbed with a needle.

So now there's a little more discussion when it's doctor time. He says he doesn't want to go, then he'll ask a few questions about the IV, and he'll say he doesn't want it to hurt. Then all of a sudden, he'll be OK with it.

That pattern unfolded in the car on the way to the hospital this morning (today's visit marks four-and-a-half years cancer free). I asked him how he does it. He said, "I just tell myself it's fun... but it still hurts."

Wow. A six-year-old who can self-talk better than I can. That's all he does to put on his brave face. And it explains why he says he likes it and that it's fun and why he won't sit on my lap or let me pat him while they're placing the line. He can't have me mothering him out of his brave zone.

I saw him get into that brave zone once last summer when I made him miss karate for deliberately peeing on the carpet. But it wasn't a simple skipped class. His task was to go to class and tell his instructor why he had to sit out. For two days he fretted. "Is it karate day?" I would tell him when it was. He would say he didn't want to go. But ultimately when the day came and we got into the van and headed to class, I heard him state resolutely, "OK. I can do this." His gaze was straight ahead; he was not saying it to me.

Has my son been doing this since he was two? Has he been telling himself, without anyone even suggesting it, that he can do this? How I would love to see a transcript of what went through his mind as a toddler as he developed this thing he just switches on when he needs it. I am absolutely fascinated that a little boy could and did teach himself a skill that adults go to seminars, buy books, and consult therapists to acquire.

And a little child shall lead them.

The Little Things

I don't live in cancer world. At all. I just visit a couple times a year for checkups. But having spent a little time there adds a flavor to the rest of my life that I might not otherwise taste. Teague just finished his first soccer season, and he loved it. He's just like the other six-year-olds. All of them cluster around the ball like it's a magnet, all of them want to kick it so badly that they'll steal it from a teammate to do so, all of them come off the field with sweaty heads and pink cheeks. And I didn't sit there at the games thinking about when Teague was sick. That would have been crazy. I just watched the games, cheered like the other parents, and jumped out of my seat with excitement when my kid scored a goal. (That was its own kind of awesome.)

But somehow, knowing that Teague has had his head cut open and that his brain has been radiated, and that those things should give him trouble balancing but don't, made the soccer moments just a little sweeter. I thank the Lord for these little things. And I'm a little hesitant in saying that because I don't want it to sound trite. I know we got off easy. Our kid beat his cancer in a matter of months. I'm ever-aware of many whose battles are longer or cause more damage or are even lost. But in my small way, I recognize that big mouthfuls of bitter, in whatever form, make way for a subtle kind of sweet that there's no other way to notice.

Easier with Time (Usually)

I believe I have an emotional hangover. Yesterday was MRI (and other testing) day for Teague. Everything went well, and the results were good. But there's something about watching your child be Guinea-pigged that kills a mother's soul just a little. Teague wasn't looking forward to it. He dreaded the IV hurting. The day before, he kept saying he didn't want an MRI. So Quinn gave him a blessing before bed, and it really took a load off of Teague. I probably should have gotten one too because I could not sleep. I was up past 1 a.m., folding laundry and stewing, stewing, stewing. Not that I was afraid of results. I just knew it was going to be a long day. And it was. We left home before the sun was up and got home at dinnertime. On the way, Teague asked, "Are they going to pull out my brain?" He couldn't think of how else they would take a picture of it. I was glad we could clear that up for him. The IV and blood draw came first. We had hoped for one poke, but it turned into two because the vein wasn't cooperating. His skin would blanch when they flushed the line, and it didn't look like it was going to hold for the day. So they switched to his other hand. Teague, as always, didn't flinch. He is a man in a little boy's body; he was happy to be on my lap, but if I patted him, he would bravely shrug me off. It makes me proud and breaks my heart at the same time. He had a hearing test to see if the radiation is affecting his inner ear. All normal. Then to imaging to wait to be sedated. Long wait because everything else had run ahead of schedule. Teague wanted to go home, and he wanted to have some breakfast. It was hard to have to tell him he couldn't do either. It was 11 before it was his turn. Sedation still gets to me, even though they've done it to him close to the 50 times now. I guess it's a good thing, though, when sedation, not cancer, is the worry. This time I didn't hold him in my lap. He just got up on the table and let them start the meds. He got groggy, the color drained from his face and lips, and he drifted off. I only cried a little. The MRI took an hour and a half. Brain and spine, and a tough wake-up. I don't even like to wake up from natural sleep. I can't imagine trying to come out of sedation. Can't blame him for not being interested in the popsicle! We met with Dr. Bruggers, the oncologist at Primary Children's who will follow Teague from this point forward. It was all good news. No evidence of anything scary returning, blood work all normal, no concerns. WE also met with Dr. Colte, the neuropsychologist, who said we do not need his services. Good, good, good. Grandma Karen brought dinner for us. Homemade spaghetti (her sauce is amazing), salad, and bread. Godsend. But I still made pancakes for Teague. That's what he wanted. The man finally got his breakfast. Now I'm just drained. Verge of tears last night, a little edgy today, and wishing I had nothing to do but have a pajama day. Looking at all that's around me, and seeing what doesn't get done when you take yourself out of your life for a day. I think I sound bratty. My child is well, and I'm stressed about how hard it is to find that out. Really? Is that a complaint? In truth, I'm always grateful that there's nothing wrong with Teague. He shows no evidence of what he's been through except for an almost-invisible scar up the back of his head. Blessings abound. I'm also grateful these "crash" days only have to happen twice a year. The rest of the time, we don't think much about cancer. Because no one in this house has it.

The waiting room game

Ready for the big scan

Sleeping it off in recovery