Gratitude Wins

A few days before Teague's MRI, I was asking him if he remembers when he had cancer. He doesn't. But he mentioned something he had heard me say. "You didn't want to give me to that doctor." True. He knows about my moment of doubt and fear on diagnosis day, when I wondered if we should have someone we had just met cut our toddler's head open. But a nearly audible voice prompted me to hand him over, and I never had a moment of doubt after that. I was sure, and I felt peace about it from that moment on.

So Teague and I talked about that experience. We talked about how the Holy Ghost can guide and comfort us. I told him, "That doctor saved your life." Teague was quiet a moment and then said, "I should thank him."

We haven't seen Dr. Kestle in years. Haven't needed to. The neurosurgery part is over. But when we were there yesterday for all of Teague's checkups, he kept wanting to know which doctor of the many we were seeing had performed his surgery. He said, "Remember I'm going to thank him?" So there was no leaving the hospital without stopping at the neurosurgery clinic to see if Dr. Kestle was in.

He was in the O.R., just finishing up a surgery and still needed to talk to the family. He would be about another half hour. So Teague wrote him a note, and Dr. Kestle's assistant snapped a picture of Teague to go with it.

I would say I don't know where Teague gets this way he has with people, but that would be a lie. There's no question it is a gift from God, and he arrived here with it. That stuff can't be taught.

Like always, every appointment we went to, at every office, someone commented on what a good patient Teague is. He has a calmness about him that can change the spirit in a room. He was called a poster child several times. And as always, he was given extra prizes for it. People are drawn to him.

The peace Teague chooses to have in his life blesses him as much as it does others. When we first checked in at Primary Children's, we realized he had to have an IV for his MRI. Although there would be no sedation (yay!), they had to do contrast. Teague wanted the J tip, that magic procedure that makes you not feel it when they place the IV. But that requires the IV team, and there wasn't time to get them over to imaging to do it before Teague needed to be on the table. So we told him he just had to do it. He switched into brave zone without a word and said it tickled, which we knew it didn't, but that's how he gets where he needs to be, and it works for him. He becomes mountain-lake serene.

Teague lay perfectly still, watching a movie during his MRI, which is SO MUCH LESS COMPLICATED without sedation! Holy cow, it simplified his day so much. He was literally in and out in 45 minutes, where it's usually hours when you add in the prep time and the wake-up time (he's usually waking up around noon with a 7 a.m. check-in), and then he's still kind of drunk and sleepy the rest of the day. The physician wrote in his chart that he did very well and should be complimented.

On to the audiogram, which is an easy test: Push the button when you hear a beep. No big deal unless you get bad news. Teague's hearing has been declining over the last few years. Not all of it. Most frequencies are in the normal range and are staying there, but those ones that were on the border last year have now crossed it. Right ear has moderate to mild hearing loss on two frequencies, left has moderate on one. He doesn't need intervention, but the hearing loss is enough that we need to notify the school, and the audiologist wants to test him again in six months. This causes me tears, in small part because it's not OK for anything, no matter how seemingly small, to be wrong with my kid, and in much larger part because this progression screams at me, "This is not over! I can still hurt him!" I hate it. In so many ways I can leave his cancer behind because it's gone. All he has left of it is a scar. But the effects of radiation continue, and they are progressive, and it makes me ache and bleed from a place that only my children can touch.

Teague had to access his calm again when we got to oncology and realized that imaging hadn't gotten the memo that the oncologist needed a blood panel on him and had removed the IV. So he had to have a new needle-stick. He asked all the questions: "I have to get blood taken?" Yes. "Why?" We explained. He decided that was OK and went to brave zone. No complaints. No fear.

Dr. Bruggers, his oncologist, tested his balance and coordination, which was all normal. His blood showed normal organ function. And his scan was clean.

Despite all the conflicting emotions that days like this bring, and despite the stress that steals my sleep in the days prior, I do still marvel that we got to keep our kid here with us. He is OK. He is healthy. And while without as much as a second thought I would have kept this trial from him, saving him from all he's been through and all that may yet lie ahead, I know that I would then have to give back all the ways it has changed us for the good.