All Good

Teague is out of surgery. He's conscious, he's forced his eyes open (he thought he had to get permission and asked if he could yet), and he's talking. He's had some ice chips and swallowed two Tylenol. And then he asked if he could rest a little, so now he's drifting in and out of sleep.

The morning began early; we entered a crowded waiting room at 5:45 a.m. All the first-on-the-list kids were lined up for whatever surgeries they were having. In our pre-op room, Teague had to wipe down with pre-treated cloths to get extra clean, then he got into his gown. 

Rockin' the gown. He did not love the open-back feeling and had me tie it tighter.

Dr. Cheshier showed us Teague's latest image, marked the right side of his head to indicate which side the procedure would be done on, and showed us where he'd make the incision, a four-inch opening just behind the hairline. 

Totally fine with Dr. Cheshier's choice of marking. I'm all about the boy who lived.

By 7:40 or so, Teague was down the hall with the anesthesiologist after hugs for Quinn and me at the big double doors. By 9, the OR nurse called to let us know that Teague had been safely sedated and that they had made the initial incision (kind of a gut-turning thing to hear because I imagined them doing it, and that was not a good image). 

Headed back.

We breakfasted in the hospital cafeteria. Not because we were hungry, but because we know this place, and that's seriously the only good meal they serve here. After that, hunger is better. We ate and talked with a good friend who came to spend time with us, and that really helped keep our minds off of the waiting and any thoughts of what they were doing in there. 

Teague was coming out of surgery a little before lunchtime, but we didn't get to see him just yet. He was headed to Imaging for a post-op MRI to confirm that they had gotten everything. Dr. Cheshier explained that the area with the growth looked like normal brain tissue, so he literally couldn't tell by looking straight at it where the abnormality was. He had to go by the image, so they needed to confirm that they had indeed gotten the lesion. If not, it would be a U-turn back to the OR to get it. Even though the surgeon would consider that the same surgery, I'm not sure I would. But it didn't end up mattering. Imaging came back with what we wanted to hear. The chunk they took out, a cube of brain tissue about the size of the end of my finger from the last knuckle, was the chunk that contained the tumor, and it's on its way to pathology now.

Groggy but awake, and surprised at all the things he's hooked up to. 

Teague is comfortable for now. He's resting but will respond when spoken to. He hasn't asked for food yet, and he was surprised to see all the lines he's still hooked up to. 

Teague will stay the night in the PICU. There's a recliner in here for me, and it lays flat, so that will be my bed tonight. I'm choosing that over a bed in the Ronald McDonald house, which may be more comfortable, but if I'm here for my kid, I'll just stay with my kid. Quinn will go home to be with the other kids for the night.

He says he feels OK. "There's just a little pain on the right side of my head." (Could he be funnier?)

Thank you to all who have prayed for Teague and for our family. Thank you to all who have carted our kids around, made food, brought treats and cards for Teague, and walked our dog. I know that when you watch stuff like this happen to other people, you feel like you can't help, but your love helps. We feel the impact of your prayers. And we love you back. 

T Minus 30

Teague’s surgery is scheduled for one month from today, September 19. He’ll have an MRI the day before to determine exactly where they’ll go in (read: where they’ll cut). Then we’ll know if it’ll be behind Teague’s hairline or in front of it, along it, on his forehead, or what.

Surgeons think in terms of the best way in. Moms think in terms of maiming. In my mind I just see this long red scar running down the side of his forehead because that’s where your mind goes when you’ve been stewing on it for the last few weeks and you still have a month to think about it. I believe it will go fine. But the truth is, it’ll be what it is. We won’t know the outcome until we get it.

I’m feeling OK about things generally, but I know I’m not normal. Like, I’m quickly trying to schedule family pictures before they mess up Teague’s face or ruin his brain or both, and that's kind of embarrassing. The cuckoo part of me has created this nasty program that runs in the background of my daily, we’re-all-good mindset. Its message is that we have one more month for things to be as they are.

Time is my enemy. Last time, there was no time. Decisions were made and carried out right then, and there wasn’t room for second-guessing. The worrying came after the fact, when it was all done. In a weird way, it’s easier to make battlefield “Did we just DO that??” decisions than methodical “Is this what we should do?” ones.

Not that any of it is easy. What a weird concept. That’s the word Dr. Cheshier used to describe this procedure. Easy. Because he’s a neurosurgeon, and it’s easy compared to the things he normally does. But it’s not easy compared to the things we normally do. I’m still hung up on the chunk of brain they’re going to remove. It makes me sick, and it scares me.

I have to find a word that makes sense to me that can get me to that “easy” place. Something that lets me be reasonable as I think about the risks. Something that lets me be real without the crazy. “Easy” is  not that word.

Life has hard things in it, all the time. It doesn’t stop. Sometimes you get little breathers, but there’s always a challenge, always a worry, always something beyond your control, always something you don’t feel quite prepared for.

There’s always a reason to have faith that you’re being refined. Faith that through the grace of God, you’ll get the help you need to get through it. Faith to learn better than ever before how to trust God more completely than ever before.

I don’t know where I am with that. All I’ve got right now is knowing that the decisions we’ve made up to this point are the right ones.

(First day of seventh grade was today.)

Craniotomy It Is

We’re doing the craniotomy, which is a procedure similar to the way you cut out the top of a pumpkin to carve it. Except on Teague’s head.

Originally I was pretty dead-set on the needle biopsy because please, let’s not mess with this kid any more than we have to. But we met again yesterday with Dr. Cheshier, and while this growth is small enough to be removed with a needle, it’s more complete if he takes a margin.

We’re all very sure that whatever this thing is, it's benign (everyone except Quinn, that is—he’s already 10 miles down the cancer road in his mind, living in all the stress that brings). But benign things can regrow if you leave some behind, and we don’t want to ever have to do this again.

So here it is. Tiny, little troublemaker. Image makes it look like it's on the left, but they tell us MRIs are that way, and it's on the right. 

The procedure will involve an incision of several inches, most likely along Teague’s hairline just above his temple. Dr. Cheshier will retract the flesh, saw out a patch of skull, then take out a cube of brain tissue where this growth is. He tore off a piece of measuring tape to show us the length of what he’ll take out, but said to imagine it like the end of a Slim Jim for full dimensions. To a surgeon, it’s small, but to a mom, it looks huge. Because we’re talking about a piece of my child’s brain.

 The size of the chunk to be removed. Kind of horrifying. This is also about the depth from the outside of Teague's head to where the growth is, roughly 2 cm. 

Dr. Cheshier will then put the piece of skull back and secure it with pieces of titanium. I asked if we have to have the plates because really? Plates in his head? He said yes. When Teague was two, his skull was soft and was still growing and forming new bone, so they just sutured the piece of skull back in place. It’s different now. If the doc doesn’t put the plates on, the bone won’t stay still enough to heal, and eventually an indentation will form. So titanium plates it is.

Teague will spend 8 – 12 hours in ICU so they can watch for bleeding. Brain bleeds are rare, but they happen. Because you can't tie off vessels in the brain, they have to cauterize, which causes little scabs that can loosen and bleed. That only happens in about 5% of patients, and it’s within the first few hours if it’s going to happen. Teague will stay a night or two on the floor, and they’ll do an MRI before we leave the hospital to double-check for bleeding.

Dr. Cheshier explained that while this area of the brain does do lots of things, the info is repeated in other places, kind of like having cloud backup. So any gaps should be filled. He expects Teague to be unaffected by the resection. Prayers for that to be the case.

Pathology will come back within a week. They won’t do an immediate frozen sample on this one because the lesion is so small that they’ll need the whole thing for pathology. If it comes back as anything more than a non-cancerous, stupid nothing, everyone but Quinn will be surprised.

I keep mom-guilting that we should have done Teague’s MRI earlier in the summer. Not like we didn’t have things going on, like a missionary coming home and moving into a new house. And we had honestly expected to just go up there that one day, check everything, and come home and forget about it. Now we’re headed back to the land of brain surgery with regular follow-up MRIs.

I’m not thrilled about Teague having surgery right as he starts junior high. He’ll probably miss a good week of school, and he’ll go back with a visible, healing incision. New school, new town, and this. Bleh. But he doesn’t seem too bothered about it. This kid has always been so much better than I am.

Bring It On

The meeting was Wednesday. Quinn and me and Teague, Dr. Cheshier (neurosurgeon), and our oncologist, Dr. Bruggers. Teague was a hard sell to even show up. Not because he was nervous, though that may have been part of it; he said he wasn’t up for a boring car ride. But since this meeting was all about whether we should have this thing removed, and because the thing in question is in Teague’s head, he had to be part of it.

Teague only had two questions for the surgeon: 1. Have you done this before? and 2. I’m going to be asleep the whole time and won’t feel it, right? With satisfactory answers to both of those, Teague was on board.

Here are the details.

The “thing” is on the top portion of his brain, nowhere near the former tumor site. If you take your right hand and just set it on top of that side of your head, it’s under there. Right middle frontal gyrus.

It’s tiny, like a tic-tac, if tic-tacs were round, and it’s not deep in there; just sitting kind of on top of his brain. I realize now that I don’t actually know how deep. Another question for the surgeon.

Seeing it on the scan was an experience for me. Up until that point, I had thought of it as small and superficial and I could easily lean toward leaving my child the heck alone. We had gone in there knowing, though, that we should have it taken out—we don’t want to later wish we had. Looking at my son’s beautiful, normal brain and then seeing a bright white spot on it solidified that decision. It took me to a “get that out of my kid’s head” place.

Dr. Cheshier said the procedure will be “easy” and that he may be able to get it with a biopsy needle and leave a minimal scar. Just one or two nights in the hospital, no ICU.

Here’s the “but.” There’s a chance he may see fit to do a craniotomy (cutting a little jack-o-lantern plug in Teague’s skull) so he can take a bit of a margin—I didn’t know you could do that in a brain, but evidently you can. Then if pathology comes back with something surprising, like if it is some weird low-grade cancer of some sort, they’ll already have a margin and they’ll know more.

Personally, I’m not expecting this to be cancer. No one is. It’s just some stupid growth. It’s a ball of hair and fingernails or something benign. It didn't enhance with the contrast on the MRI, and cancer usually does. So that's encouraging.

A craniotomy would require an incision of several inches so he could peel back skin and make room to get in there. He would do that along Teague’s hairline so that it would be able to hide better when it heals. It’s definitely a plan B.

Oh, and there’s risk of brain bleed with either procedure because evidently this growth is in a rather vascular area.

Either way, it’s another freaking brain surgery for Teague. I might not be done being upset about that. I go back and forth between being horrified about it and being OK. In my OK moments, I wonder if I’m crazy. This is brain surgery, but because I can compare it to what we did 10 years ago, it seems minor.

In my not-OK moments, it feels at worst like we’re back in that place where our kid could die and at best I realize that they’re going to open his head and dig in his brain. It’s kind of terrifying.

When I allow all the similarities in, like getting calls from the neurosurgery department or talking about hospital stays and cutting my kid’s head open and sutures and scars and recovery, it brings back the old cancer-world feelings, and I get edgy.

But it really is different this time.

The first time, everything was immediate. We found the tumor on a Friday, and Teague was in surgery first thing Saturday morning. This time, they’re just scheduling us like a normal appointment. It'll either be on Wednesday or Friday of next week.

The first time, they opened up the back of Teague’s head, pushed apart the lobes of his cerebellum, removed a cancer that was almost as big as a ping-pong ball, and scraped bits of tumor off of his brain stem. This time, they may be able to get it with a biopsy needle.

The first time, Teague had a 10-day stay in the hospital followed by a couple of months of radiation and all that came with that. This time, we’re looking at one or two nights and then rest up at home.

It’s still pretty scary. I know I’m carrying stress somewhere because my jaw is knotted. And sometimes I feel heavy-hearted and can’t place why until I think about it.

But the kid is OK. He still has that gift he got long before he came into our family—something God gave him when created him that I hope he never loses. I don’t know exactly what it is. There’s a purity and a calmness to it. Maybe it’s trust or faith or bravery or love or all of it.

It showed every day when he was fighting cancer and many more times and in many more situations as he’s grown from a toddler to a preteen. And it showed in his reply to my sister when she messaged to see how he was doing with the decision to go under the knife. He said, “I’m feeling really good about this. Bring it on!!!!”

Ugly Deja Vu

I keep telling myself I’m OK, and I’m just not. It’s not that I think my child is in anywhere near the danger he was in 10 years ago. It’s that I don’t want him in any danger at all. I don’t like that the neurosurgeons are interested in talking to us. You never want a neurosurgeon to want to talk to you. I don’t like that we have a meeting next week with a neurosurgeon and an oncologist. We haven't been to the neurosurgery department since like 2012, maybe 2013, and oncology had become the place we go to hear that our child does not have cancer anymore. Now it’s the place where they don’t know if he has cancer. I don’t think that whatever this thing is in Teague’s brain is cancer. But I don’t like that the oncologist said it’s possible. I don’t like what happens when you meet with doctors who want to do procedures on your child. You end up realizing that there was a reason they wanted to meet with you and then you realize that you agree with them, and you end up handing your child to them so they can cut his head open. I don’t like that what I thought was in the past, isn’t. I liked leaving all those things I felt in 2009, in 2009. I didn’t realize how much I had forgotten about how all of that felt. Now it’s all rushing back, and it feels different than it had come to feel as a memory. This is what remembering really is because it’s no longer the memory of having felt it. It’s feeling it again, in all its ugly realness. I know it shouldn’t feel the same, but it does. If we hadn’t been through what we went through, my emotions would be a lot more in the caution camp than the sound-the-alarms camp. But that archived File of Valuable Learning Experiences has been opened. And now I'm thumbing back through it in my mind. Sometimes, like right now, my chest feels tight and my gut is in knots. Sometimes brief tears will come out of nowhere. Like earlier today when I got off the phone with the neurosurgery department after they called to schedule our consultation. It all feels the same, and I had thought I would never have to feel these things again. I thought we were done. I wanted to be done.

A breath mint, cut down to about the size of the "thing," showing how little it takes to send me into orbit.

Hold on the Victory Lap

I don’t think I knew how badly I needed to be done. Teague’s 10-year MRI was something we had looked forward to, of course. It was something that would mark the end of our cancer road. As time passed, his sickness got that much further behind us, and we had settled into knowing that the news on follow-up day would always be good, and we wouldn’t have to think about cancer again for another year.

I used to be tense in the weeks leading up to a scan (probably why they call it “scanxiety”). I would have knots in my jaw, and I would stay up late, especially the night before, unable to unwind and sleep. And then after all the testing, when they’d tell us Teague was clear, tears would release and flow, even when I thought I hadn’t been “that” stressed.

That tension eased with time, faith, and prayer. It took years, but the last several follow-ups were pretty breezy for us. It wouldn’t hit me until we were on site that we were doing this because Teague is a cancer survivor and they’re making sure there’s still no evidence of residual disease.

Year 10 felt almost like a formality. Teague has gotten to where he thinks these scans are a pain in the butt, and we had assured him that this was for sure his last one. We walked in, ready to get it over with, making off-handed comments all day about how we never have to do this again.

But when they went over the results with us this time, they told us that there’s a tiny spot they’ve been keeping an eye on for the last five years. It’s a nodule or lesion or “focus of non-enhancing flair,” as it says in his chart. Pick a euphemism. It’s in the front right of his brain, 1mm in 2014, 2mm in 2016, 3mm in 2017, and 4mm now.

(But he rocked the audiogram. Stable for the last several years!)

Whatever it is, it’s tiny, but it’s growing, so they’re putting Teague’s images in front of the tumor board. That’s the team of neurosurgeons, oncologists, and radiologists—all the people who work with kids who have neuro tumors. They have a weekly meeting to review cases, collaborate perspectives, and decide what, if anything, to do.

As far as science goes, this is probably nothing to worry about. While we don’t know what it is, it’s probably not cancer. And if it is, it’s the least aggressive one I’ve ever heard of. But to have anything growing in Teague’s brain, however small and however slowly, and whether it’s cancer or not, is not great news, and it’s not something to ignore.

This growth is not near the old tumor site. Maybe that means it’s unrelated. Or maybe it’s a result of the radiation they shot through the top of his head, down toward the tumor site. Or maybe it’s a recurrence that just picked another spot because ependymoma can come back anywhere that spinal fluid flows. (Just felt a twinge of nausea to type that word.)

I don’t know what the worst part is. Maybe it was the moment Teague asked me, “What if I die?” I don’t think I'd ever before imagined how it feels to have your child ask you that and then look at you sideways when you tell him that’s not likely. So we talked more about how horrible and scary it would be if he died, and we went into detail about how low the risk is with this growth, and that they’re not even likely to want to do another surgery. I’m kind of big on my kids knowing I’m not lying to them. I don’t tell them something won’t hurt if it’s going to, so we had a pretty honest conversation.

That was over lunch. Quinn gave Teague a blessing of comfort when we got home. It’s always hard to tell with Teague if something is still bothering him. He just doesn’t complain about anything, and he accepts things and moves on. So I have no idea if he’s still scared, just rolling with it, or completely at peace. He says he’s good, no matter what I ask him. It's only when he asks the questions that you know he's stressing.

So now we wait for the tumor board. They meet today. And we pray for them to look closely and make the right call on what to do.

Waiting to hear from doctors has its own brand of suck. And it accesses old terrors that I thought were gone. This particular terror comes from that time, after Teague’s first surgery, when they told us that was all they needed to do. No chemotherapy. No radiation. And then the tumor board met, and we ended up in radiation treatment all summer. So while in my mind, I know this is probably nothing they’re going to act on, my heart says, “Yeah, they’ve tricked you before. Watch your back!”

At the very least, we know we have another MRI at year 11. Teague’s oncologist was clear about that. So we don’t get to be done yet. We didn’t get to walk out of Primary Children’s yesterday, freed. We’re still prisoners to this risk that’s always going to be lurking, it seems.

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.

The Big Five

Five years ago today, our two-year-old rang the bell in radiation therapy on his final cancer treatment. Yesterday was MRI day, and Teague is still clean.

The Big Five. The milestone we put all our stock into. The one that means freedom or a cancer-free future or something like that. I could hardly imagine it when this all started. I had a toddler, still in diapers, not even speaking in complete sentences yet, who had just been diagnosed with a brain tumor.

And then he had surgery and a 10-day stay in the hospital, and they told us they wouldn't need to treat him any further, and then a few weeks later they changed their minds and placed a central line for sedation and gave him 33 radiation treatments and he lost half his hair.

My head kept spinning for a few months after that. I couldn't think past his next MRI, much less five years down the road. He'll be seven before we get there, I thought, and it seemed far away and unattainable.

Then we did get there, and strangely, it wasn't all that magic. This amazing milestone didn't make it feel like all of that hadn't happened.

The reality: Teague's cancer will never be long enough ago for me.

In practice, I hardly think about it day to day. Actually that's not true. I do; I just don't live in fear. I'll see the scar up the back of Teague's head or his old radiation mask (still not sure why we kept that creepy thing) or the little scar on his chest where a tube used to be, and I'll remember and feel gratitude to my Father in Heaven and pride for how heroic and amazing Teague is. He won.

It's sobering to be raising a kid who has clearly been rescued. He has a great work to do with the gifts he's been given; his potential is far greater than mine.

That kid has taught me more about life and God than I could have ever found out with such certainty on my own. I can never, ever deny the divine role and mission of Jesus Christ without flat-out lying. I know He lives.

There are still hard days. Sometimes when we go back for scans, it hits me that even though we know we are fine, we are in that place on that day because Teague once had cancer in his brain that very well could have killed him. We are making sure it's not back.

And sometimes it strikes me, even though yesterday was the fifty-second time by my count that Teague has been sedated (and I've watched it nearly every time), how eerily lifeless he looks as the color drains from his face and he slips into some unconscious place. It slaps me with the reality of why we have to do it to him.

So yesterday I cried. More than 50 sedates later, and I still cried.

Teague's oncologist seemed to be kind of amazed by him. She said that with what he's been through, she would expect to be seeing more effects. All she found was that when he follows her finger with his eyes and gets as far as he can go to the right, there's a little movement.

It's common for kids who have been radiated in the back of the head to have eyes that skip all the way across. The cerebellum is not only for balance (Teague's balance is normal), but it's also responsible for the way the muscles work together. When you bend your arm, for example, the triceps relax as the biceps contract. If the cerebellum is damaged, the triceps won't get the signal to relax until the biceps pull, so the movement is jerky. And all Teague got was a little tremor in his eye when he looks all the way to one side.

They've also found some hearing changes in the last year. Overall, his hearing is fine, but there's one pitch on each ear that's now pushed over the border of normal range. Nothing he should notice, but something they'll keep an eye on because it is a change.

All his blood work was good. Normal organ function on everything: liver, kidneys, thyroid, all of it.

So I cried again at the end of the day. Not because we have to go back once a year for a few more years. I can accept that the cancer experience will always be with us and that once in a while, we will have to go to a place where it might feel a little too real. I can do that.

Mostly I am overcome with gratitude to God and relief for all that's good. Five years later is actually a pretty good place to be.

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

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.

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?

Still Clean

Teague had his second post-treatment MRI on Monday, November 2. Brain and spine, still clean. We are happy and relieved.

Dr. Watson said that this counts as 3 1/2 months on the cancer-free calendar. Quinn likes to count from the day of surgery, which would put us closer to 7 months, but you have to go from the end of treatment, which was July 17. I don't really care how they count it.

We got that good news Tuesday morning after a long Monday. If Teague's MRI had stayed on track, as scheduled, we would have had it all in one day, but we were delayed because he ate ONE fruit snack. A clear, gelled, gummy snack, which I thought was probably more like Jell-O than solid food, but no. They refused to sedate him. After a 7:15 a.m. check-in at PCMC, we were sent away.


So we took Teague to the zoo to kill time. Six hours, to be precise. And all he could have was Jell-O until noon, then nothing. He was so good. He'd only ask for food about once an hour: "I need soup!" he would declare.


He napped in the car on the way to the new hospital in Riverton (they had no more MRI availability at Primary Children's). It was opening day there, and everything smelled and looked as new as it was. And they were able to do his brain and spine, whereas PCMC only had him scheduled for brain.

Still no complaints from my tired, hungry toddler. Even when they put the IV in his little hand, he sat perfectly still on my lap, facing me, with his hand resting on my arm. They had to move the needle around in there, and he didn't even flinch. Not even a twitch. Brave, brave, brave. Only later did he say it "really hurts," and put his head down on me.


Then the usual drill. Sedation and the waiting. He was brought to the recovery room at 4:30 p.m., far too late in the day to hope to have the results read. But Dr. Kestle called first thing the next morning, and we met with Dr. Watson. Both doctors had good things to say.

Then Dr. Watson told us more of the scary crap that could manifest down the road because of whatever brain cells may have been killed by the radiation and therefore may not grow with the rest of Teague's brain. That weighed heavily on my mind for a few days until I remembered that almost none of the scary scenarios they've warned us about thus far have happened. Hair loss was really the only thing we've seen come true.

Teague always fares better than they say he will, which is evidence of the blessing Quinn gave him before he was even diagnosed. Teague was told that his brain would function properly. We've seen that over and over again.

Coif Comeback

Teague's hair is all filled in in back, and once again, his results are better than we were told to expect. I thought he'd be bald for another month and that when it came back it would be thinner. It's not. I can't tell any difference between the comeback hair and the original. I gave him one final buzz a few weeks ago to even out the hairline where the bald spot had been. Now his hairline is at his neck, not his ears. On top, he has one thinner spot where one of the radiation fields had been, but it's not noticeable. I'm with his Grandma Karen: if it's hard to notice, it doesn't count.

We have a spunky, cancer-free boy. His next checkup MRI is in a month. As of now, I'm not even nervous. Just happy and so, so grateful.

Hoping for Hair

Teague actually doesn't care (or know) that he is still very bald in the back, from the tip of one ear, around to the tip of the other. So I'm keeping him buzzed pretty short. He'll rub his head and say, "Haycut." Radiation keeps working for a while after you stop treatments, so his summer buzz might last until Halloween. I know it's a picky detail, and I really do know what's important here. Teague is alive. He doesn't have cancer. He is happy. I still can't count all of our blessings. But little reminders make it hard to put the horror down and walk away from it, and his hair loss is the last visible thing that screams the C word at me. I'm ready for it to start growing in. And although it will be thin, maybe it will help cover up that scar.

Clean

Today was Teague's first follow-up MRI of his brain and spinal cord. He's clean. There's nothing in there that shouldn't be. I don't even think I know how relieved I am.

It was a long day. We checked in at Primary Children's for the MRI at 9 a.m., and Teague was waking from sedation by about noon. Then we met with his neurosurgeon, Dr. Kestle. Walking into that office made me glad to be on the follow-up end this time. They had us check our info. I looked at the very paper I had filled out the first time we were there. Date: April 17. Reason for visit: tumor detected on an MRI. Eegh. Glad we're not back on that day.

From there we went over to LDS Hospital to meet with Dr. Watson, our oncologist. He also said Teague's brain looked good and that he hadn't expected anything to have grown because we started with a total resection and Teague has been in radiation all summer. So if there had been new growth, it would have been a bad, nasty, aggressive thing to deal with.

Teague was cute in the radiation office. He wanted to pat the machine. I overheard Dr. Watson checking with the therapists to see if the room was empty. It was funny to hear him say, "Teague wants to do a pat-pat for old time's sake." They all happily escorted him in and let him get his little hand up there.

We have about an 80% chance that this cancer is licked. The next two years present the greatest cancer comeback probability. I can hold my breath that long, I think. And Teague's hair should start growing back in about three months, but it will probably always be thinner. Some hair follicles had to be sacrificed. I know that shouldn't be a big deal, but I wouldn't be a mom if it didn't bug me.

So now we wait. No more doctor appointments for three months. But it doesn't feel as liberating as I expected. My sister Jessie summed it up. When I said that we have nothing more to do for a while, she replied, "Nothing but worry."

I will have to learn to not let the what-if stress take over. It's time to start believing that Teague does not have cancer. That's how it is right now, our doctors have said so, and I have to let that good news sink in. Right now I'm just a tangled ball of crazy emotions and fears that I have to sort out and settle. There's been too much to take in, but I will get there.


Cry it out and focus on the blessings. Focus on the blessings. Focus on the blessings.

Empty Buckets

I've known for months that Tatum needs more from me. Braiden, too, but to a lesser extent because he's been a little more shielded from the craziness of the summer and because he's at a more independent age. But he has felt the crazy.

This last week since we've been out of radiation, I've been spending more equal time with the big kids. Just trying to get back to how things were and fill up their buckets as much as I can. Tatum still has extra sass and a bit of a defiance to her. And a paper-thin temper. She gets mad at minor things, hits and screams, and cries more than usual. So I discipline the behavior, try to get her more play time than she's had, and cry over it privately. I have a tender spot for it because I know it's from a deficit on my part. I also know I can help her get it under control over time.

I'm realizing that Quinn's bucket and mine might be the emptiest. Yesterday we were in Teague's room and Quinn picked up the radiation mask. It's been sitting on the dresser for the past week. He said, "Let's put this where we don't have to look at it," and I replied, "Yeah. We're done with that." I was starting to add, "I hope," but was already crying.

Today I was cleaning and found a piece of clear film from one of Teague's sterile dressings under the bed. The words, "That was so hard," ran through my mind with images of that film covering a tube that went right into the little chest, and I cried again.

I threw away the Sharps container with all the line flush syringes in it, and as it went into the bin, I felt hate for it. I don't think I've ever hated an object.

I didn't have time during radiation to think about it being hard. I knew it was, but I couldn't let it affect me, and I couldn't be scared. Now I can, and the emotions are coming out any way they can. It's all the shoved-aside emotion from what we've been through and all the what-if fear of it not being over. I can't stand to think of the possibility (however slim) that Teague will have to do this all again.

Functionally, we are improving every day. We can feel the upswing. We're more rested, and our schedule is more normal. We're doing more fun things. This last week we've been swimming, fishing, four-wheeling, and to a parade. We're making the most of our one-month summer. I had no idea how bad the funk was until we started to climb out.

Red-Letter Day

There must be very few situations in life that can make you realize what a privilege it is to take a bath. I know that ours has not been the hardest among those situations, but it has opened our eyes to the pure joy that exists in the simplest everyday things.

We played in the hose yesterday, and we went swimming today. Teague cares about the hose way more than the pool. And he doesn't mind that last year's swimsuits are tight on his belly. I never even bought the poor child a 2T.

Regardless, happiness.

Free at Last

Even though Teague's last radiation treatment happened on Friday, today is the day that I finally feel free. We had the central line removed. He has no equipment coming out of him anymore. I am surprised at how much this feels like a jail break. I can finally relax.

Teague had grown attached to his line. It never bothered him. He'd run up to a swing and hop on, belly first. No big deal. Now it's no big deal to me, either. Just a bandage. Teague doesn't mind that it's out. He held it on the way home. It's in a bag, so don't go thinking that's disgusting.

I can hardly describe the euphoria of not having ANY equipment on my child. My mind went back to when he first came out of surgery. He was hooked up to so many things. A central line going into the side of his neck, an arterial line in his wrist, a catheter, a saturation monitor, and those little stickers on his chest with leads on them. It was a mess to try to hold him. You move one thing the wrong way and the monitors go off. Over the course of our stay, he had fewer and fewer gadgets. Ugh, and even just walking into Primary Children's today brought back a flood of dreadful memories. How did we get through that?

Then came the permanent central line. For two months, it's been a constant. Change the dressing. Flush the line. Don't get Teague wet. I didn't realize how much the equipment was getting me down.

On our way home today, we were briefly behind a home healthcare equipment truck. I was so happy that it wasn't going to our house!

In two days, Teague can have a bath. Splash away, little man. And when the site is totally healed over, we're heading to the pool. It's time to play, people!