A Long Exhale

For the majority of my childhood during the summers I spent more time in the water than I did on dry ground. From early in the morning till my parents dragged me out in the evening I existed in the muddy waters of a central Virginia lake. Of the many games that filled those summer days, the one I could always play, as it was a solitary competition, was how long I could hold my breath. There were two main ways of playing this. The first was attempting to sit on the bottom while holding my breath... never very long since too much effort was expended staying on the bottom. The second was simply floating on the surface of the water. Though these two methods differed in execution they both ended in the same way, with an explosive release of air held captive for countless... uh... seconds. That feeling was unmistakable; relief and exhilaration commingled into those precious moments when your head breaks the surface and cool air rushes back into your lungs. That is a feeling I was reacquainted with this evening.

Many of you probably know that there was one last test that we were waiting on. The actual description of it is more than I can really explain; if it had something to do with hermeneutical method or Greek verb forms I would be better off but it deals with details of two chromosomes that simply makes little sense to me. The "brass tacks" of it all really comes down to this, if everything looks normal our treatment plan is four cycles long. If something looks abnormal the treatment is double that.

Though he is a pleasant man Dr. Waldron rarely enters the room with a smile on his face. I suppose that is the years of dealing with pediatric oncology patients... either that or med students. His demeanor is normally one of quiet calm and steady resolve. He is careful, weighing his words and judging reactions to balance disclosure to the parents of his patients with the reality that too much information... or too complicated a description... can quickly overwhelm couples whose minds are already spinning with the stark reality of their situation. This evening though Peter Waldron entered our room with a grin.

As it turns out the tests show that the chromosomes they were looking for in this tumor were normal and so Andrew's treatment plan is four cycles of chemo and a probable surgery. That sound you hear... that is the air rushing back into our lungs. You see what we're looking at is four cycles total, not four additional. Andrew just finished receiving his chemo for round two, that means we're half way there. Instead of thinking about chemo for the length of an academic year, we're talking about a semester in which we're already at midterms.

I would imagine that good news... or even slightly good news... is something that oncology doctors rarely get to give. If not rarely at least not often enough; that is the hard reality of this broken world. In that light Dr. Waldron's sly grin makes perfect sense, here was an opportunity to give great news to parents that only a month ago were crying while he told them about what was happening in their son's body.

Tonight we will sleep easier, but not at ease. It isn't like this story has ended, it hasn't. There is still poison pumping through the veins of my boy making him "well". There will be days and nights ahead where Andrew will be sick and grumpy and tired. We will probably have to bring him back to the hospital at some point because of fever or too few or not enough hemoglobin or... well you get the picture. We will still have to cancel our 10th anniversary trip, the first vacation we've taken without kids since Madi was born. We will still watch our boy deteriorate, our girls struggle with insecurity, our marriage suffer from too little energy and too little time to be alone. Yet, at the same time we have a semblance of predictability added into the mix. There is a plan with a (more or less) clear finish line. Sure, anything can happen in the next few months but we'll take what we can get at this point. When you're driving in a fog even the smallest break to see the road ahead is a welcome one.

I guess I should be excited but honestly I feel exhausted. Holding your breath is a tiring business and I'm feeling a good bit of it right now. At the same time, as I reflect on the events of today I know that I should feel more drained than I do, more uncomfortable here in this hospital, and more scared of what is still to come. The fact that I don't could mean that I'm numb... a good possibility... or it could mean that there are lots of people praying for us. I know the latter to be true even if I don't have the perspective yet to discern the former. For any Christian prayer is a problem. If you lean heavily on the side of God's sovereignty then you find yourself wondering why you should pray if God's will cannot be frustrated. If you lean heavily on the side of human responsibility then you should find yourself wondering why you should pray since God is too much of a gentleman to actually overcome any creature's "free" will. I'm not going to attempt to parse the complexities of the way God rules the universe, I have not the intellect nor the wisdom, I will say only this; many of you are praying and God is working to calm our hearts, strengthen our faith, and tame the rebellious cells in my son's body. You decide how to work the spiritual calculus of causality; I have an opinion but not the heart to engage the debate right now. All that is really to say, thank you. The care that our family is being shown, both from near and from afar, is more than I could have imagined. And for those who struggle because "all they can do is pray," I cannot thank you enough.