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