We had to wait to see the oncologist, and it was only 9:30 when our ultrasound was done, so we had a diaper change and headed to the cafeteria. On a side note, CHOP has one of the most amazing, clean, delicious cafeterias I've ever been to. It was bistro like but still had hospital food prices. Pretty sweet. Jack had a bottle after, and we sat in the waiting room where they had this really cool, interactive sculpture. Jack is a bit small to press buttons and turn knobs, but he had a fun time watching the sculpture twitter and twitch. I don't have a picture because my iPhone camera is full.
We finally saw the oncologist at 11. I was relieved to have the results from radiology but still anxious. What if there was something radiology missed? What if it was just a fluke and he's not ok the radiologist just read too fast? We saw the fellow first, and then the attending. They gave us the great news that, not only is Jack cancer free; the cancer he could have had, the same as mine, is so fast growing we would have known by now. So, no more tests, no more poking and prodding. And as far as the liver, its not even elevated enough to be a concern.
Plus, the attending told me that he is familiar with all of my chemo agents, and to the best of his knowledge, they are all eliminated by my liver and other systems. The methotrexate is the only drug excreted in high amounts, and that's into my urine. What this means is I can go back to snuggling my baby, even after chemo. I can co-parent with my husband, instead of lying helplessly in bed at 3 am when Jack needs a change, a bottle, and a hug. I can be that hug. Sweet relief. I took that baby from Jim's arms when that doctor told me and just held him so tight. I'm surprised I let go long enough to blog.
When we got to the car, I burst into tears. It was like the floodgates of the last week finally just opened up. I cried for Jack, and I cried for my husband and I. I cried for my father and father in law and mother in law, who have all been with us, watching, waiting, fearful for a week. I cried for all of you, waiting to hear about my precious baby.
I had felt so strangely ever since I heard the liver results. It's like I was upset but not. I was worried why I was feeling so numb, unable to cry or react. I had an initial reaction of short lived anger and that was it. Call it mommy instinct, but I just knew my little baby was ok. But these tears surprised me. I think it was just relief.
More than anything, and without warning, I began to cry for all the babies I saw in that waiting room with no hair, and not because it just hasn't grown yet. I'm crying for them now, if you must know. To see those little tinies, hooked up to infusion and sitting in the waiting room just like I do .... Was gut wrenching. I've been on that situation and I wouldn't wish it on anyone, but I just can't imagine it happening to a child. Or a parent of that child. It just.... Slayed me. Jim just held my hand. He reminded me that they are being treated at the best hospital in the world for this.
But that's not enough to know that.
Let's take a moment to meditate, or pray, or send good juju. To honor our emotions and fully allow ourselves to feel whatever it is this horrible disease makes us (you!) feel. Let us collectively take a deep breath and spit it out: FUCK YOU CANCER and the horse you rode in on. There's no more room for you in my life, or Nitya's mom's. There's no more room for those little babies to have it anymore. So go away.
Tonight I'm praying, and I don't pray, ok? Tonight I'm just grateful cancer missed my son. But that will never ever be enough. Here's to a cure. For everyone touched by this illness I pray for a cure. You should, too.