An Update For Those Fighting Sleep

I know there have been a flurry of questions regarding us today. Here is the skinny. We arrived here at 8am. I carried Andrew into the O.R. at 11:45. At 3:45 we went back to the Post-Anesthesia Care Unit. At 8:30pm we arrived in our room... finally. 

The surgery was a success. 90%-95% of Andrew's tumor was removed. The tumor that was left was the small piece that intruded the spinal canal and a small piece that was intruding the muscle tissue in the chest wall. Though it sounds strange, neuroblastoma does not all have to be removed. As long as over 50% of the tumor is removed the rest will shrivel up on its own. Apparently there was some tumor that was invading a rib as one broken while they were spreading them slightly for the surgery. The hypothesis is that the tumor softened the rib at that spot... not major news as far as the cancer goes, but it is one more thing that has to heal. This was a very invasive surgery but Andrew has come through it well. Truly the worst is over and recovery will begin tomorrow.

I am tired; probably more tired than I can remember being. Being back here, carrying my boy into the operating room and leaving him in the hands of strangers, waiting for news in a busy lobby and feeling my heart jump every time the phone rings, listening to a doctor nonchalantly say that they broke a rib as if they had only bumped his knee, hearing the bubbling of the vacuum that is running Andrew's chest tube; all of it just wears on me. I have underestimated this, as I have underestimated many things in this process, all dealing with me I think. This is a big deal... and it will always be a big deal. I am a cancer parent. i have heard those words most dread but never hear. I have asked the questions most wonder but never have to ask. I have cried those tears that I hope you all will never have to cry, they are bitter and cold. I have pleaded in a way that few can probably understand... and I am grateful for that. I feel as if I've been branded and even though our experience is, Lord willing, drawing to a close, I cannot remove the brand. I've tried and I've failed and I think I'm going to stop trying. I am learning to be ok with the brand, to embrace it as part of, not only Andrew's story, but my own. It is a testimony to my own fear and pride that I would seek to dissociate myself from this experience; afraid that others might wonder why I am not rejoicing more or moving on since things have been so "easy" and prideful that this won't debilitate me. I am and it has... though perhaps not that anyone can see. 

I will try to write more tomorrow. Words come with difficulty when my mind is so slow, like trying to put together a 1000 piece puzzle with no picture to look at. We are tired, yet at the same time we have our boy. That body of death, that mass of rebellion has been removed from his body. It did not go easily, it has left wounds both deep and shallow. All of them will take time to heal; but then no brokenness is healed in a day. At times we may even be tempted to think that the wounds that he has now, the incision, the chest tube, the broken rib, the irritated lung, the sore chest muscles, that these weren't worth it. But then, these wounds will heal... cancer doesn't. Without drastic intervention the rebellion in those cells will win, the body cannot fight it alone. The scars he will take away from this will be a reminder of a foiled enemy, a serious enemy, but a foiled one nonetheless. There's a metaphor there for those with ears to hear I think. 

Thank you for your prayers and your support. We need it... always.