New Tears

I had just gotten my laptop and books unpacked unto the cafeteria table and had begun the futile attempt at working again. 7pm is a strange time to work on a sermon for me but in this strange world you take the minutes you can get. Tonight however it was not to be. The call came rather unexpectedly. On the other end, my beautiful and strangely chipper wife. "Doctor Waldron is here," she said. "He says he has news." I don't remember what my response was, something like, "I'm on my way," and I folded up my phone, chuckled to myself at the ridiculousness of carting my Greek New Testament and three commentaries around a hospital cafeteria, packed them all up, and darted for the elevator. This was news we had been waiting all day, if not all week, for.

I arrived to find that Dr. Waldron had left to see another patient to give me time to return... once again hurry up and wait. Ten minutes later he walked back into our room, looked squarely at us... or at least as squarely as one can look at two people sitting three yards apart... and in the most understated way possible said, "Andrew's bone scan came back completely normal." I say understated since this was the last of the tests, the final piece of the puzzle that we had spent the last NINE DAYS in the hospital trying to put together, and yet his delivery of this particular piece of news came with all the flair of limp trout. We would later find that Dr. Waldron had had this information for some time and had forgotten that we were not aware of this critical piece of data. Perhaps it would be best if I further explain the gravity of this night for us.

When we woke up this morning we knew that Andrew had, at least, a stage 3 neuroblastoma. This cancer so far was contained in the tumor that resides on the right side of my son's chest running from right below his collar bone to the beginning of his diaphragm. The MRI had confirmed that all his organs were normal, the bone marrow biopsy had confirmed that his marrow was clean, there was just one last place that the cancer could have spread... his bones. To further complicate matters, after Andrew had his chest tube removed he came down from his Fortress of Solitude, also known as his hospital crib, with a roaring vengeance. He ran, he jumped, he did all those things that for five days had been denied him by his parents and his pain. The problem was shortly after coming down he began complaining of pain in his left leg. For the last two nights the pain has been enough to keep him... and us... awake off and on all night. The hospital staff could not find a cause for this pain; two year olds apparently don't pull muscles or tweak ligaments. The nagging shadow of doubt for everyone involved was that it was possible that the cancer had spread to his leg and was now presenting itself.

We dropped Andrew off at his bone scan around 2:30pm (when it was scheduled for 12:30pm) with much fear and trembling. If the cancer had spread to his bones this would not be a stage 3 cancer any more but a stage 4 and high risk. High risk neuroblastoma does not have a good survival rate and the treatments would be longer and more difficult. Thankfully that will not be our road.

Andrew's cancer is a stage 3 but it is in the intermediate risk category which has a close to 90% survival rate. What's more is that Andrew qualifies to take part in a Children's Oncology Group study. Apparently there is a whole lot that we have yet to learn about this particular type of cancer since it was discovered relatively recently. One of the realities is that oncologists believe that they have been over-treating some patients, especially in this intermediate risk category. Being a part of this study means that, instead of going through 8 cycles of chemo (roughly 8 month's worth) Andrew will have 4. At two months they will evaluate to see if surgery is an option and then operate and then go through with the rest of the cycles. If it isn't an option yet they will finish the cycles and then operate. Either way we just saw our boy's chemo time cut in half! The last phantom had been revealed. The last shadow had finally been dissolved in the light of knowledge.

When Dr. Waldron left I grabbed my wife and began to weep. These were different tears than before though; they were tears of joy, tears of relief, tears of thankfulness. These were the first happy tears I had shed since this whole terror began. As my shoulders shook and my arms automatically clung desperately to my wife I felt so much of the stress of the last week work its way down my cheek and onto the floor. the only words I could muster, "Thank you."

That is a "thank you" I'd ask that you all share with us. It isn't a thank you to some nameless vacuum or faceless force, but a thank you to the Lord and Giver of Life, the One who rules over heaven, and earth, and the grave. This is a thank you for sparing us... for sparing my boy... the full weight of this disease. I know in my head and even in my heart that no matter what the outcome had been to this test, God is good. I can tell you though that tonight I want to shout that truth from the mountaintops! I feel like Christmas has finally arrived... or better, like Spring has finally come to Narnia. We have been given a gift, one that we didn't deserve and one that others did not receive. I don't know why, and quite frankly I don't care. When you have been given such a gift you don't sit around and wonder whence it comes and why to you; you simply fall to your knees, open your empty hands, and say "thank you Lord."

This is not all to say that our road from here will be easy, it will not. We will still wrestle with the weight of this "medicine" we call chemo and its effects on our son. We will still have to make sudden trips to the hospital because he has spiked a fever. We will still have to rearrange our lives around a disease that should never have been a part of God's good creation. Tonight however we were given the gift of hope. The hope of less struggle, less pain... more... the hope that there is Another who fights for us. That is a gift whose worth is beyond imagining and one that I will relish for some time.