A Great Day

Daddy:

Another Friday passes.  The weather outside is getting better and summer seems to be taking hold: today I went outside and it was hot and muggy, just how I like it.  I was instantly transported back in time, two years ago, to the streets of Granada, Nicaragua with my little guy on my shoulders.  It was a great day, full of family, exploration, good food and good times.  Playing with him on the streets of Granada I never imagined that I would find myself here - typing a blog and posting pictures of myself online.  I do not have a Facebook account because I consider it a gross invasion of privacy.  Look at me now! (I will still never sign up for one. EVER!)

Wandering the streets of Granada in 2010 with my Luisito on my back.

Today was a busy day for munchkin, he had his spinal tap and his second dose of chemotherapy.  He was a brave trooper throughout the entire affair.  No news yet about the presence of cancer in his bone marrow but we definitely expect some news Monday so the waiting continues.

In my last post I wrote about the chemotherapy drug Daunorubicin.  When the nurses came in to administer it I thought it would be a good idea to snap some pictures so you could see the process in action.  

The first item of note is the protective gear.  I asked one of our nurses if I could take a picture of her to show the masses just what is involved when you deliver chemo to a patient.  She agrees.  Eye protection, a fancy face mask, gloves and the apron all point to some really nasty chemical.

The first time I saw this outfit last week I couldn't help but ask, "So this stuff is so toxic you need to dress up like that and you are injecting it directly into my son's bloodstream?"  I have no questions this time and I merely sit back and observe them work.

 

Once they are finished with some quick preparations they hang the medicines on his pole and the setup looks like this...

 

The drip starts and the fluid makes its way into my son's vein.  The entire process takes about 30 to 45 minutes and while I am thinking of the poison/medicine coursing through my son's bloodstream, Luisito is calmly playing with one of his new toys oblivious to his daddy's concerns.  Just like it should be.

I find that the initial chaos and calamity of events here has given way to extended periods of calm.  I am reminded of a quote by someone who tried to explain what it felt like to be in a war.  "Vast stretches of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror."  In my mind I have no problems agreeing with that statement because we are now at war with cancer.

In one of these stretches of calm I find myself playing with my boys: hearing their laughter and watching them play in their youthful bliss makes me almost forget where I am.  Jen came up and snapped a picture of us playing in Luisito's bed.

Time marches forward and bedtime approaches: Jen and the grandparents leave and Luisito and I are left alone in our room.  As I tuck him in for the night I ask, "So Luisito, tell me what you think about everything that is going on".  He pauses briefly to think about his answer and finally looks up at me and says "I think...I think this is good because the doctors and medicines are trying to make me better".  I am surprised and uplifted by his response: he has endured so much in the last week that I expected him to say "I don't like it and want to go home".  He is my big brave boy and I am so proud of his courage and strength.

As I write this I recall a conversation I had with Jen during our first hours here, she was talking about the good days and bad days that lay in store.  I remember saying to her "How could any day with this disease be a good day?  There are no good days until this is gone." 

I realize I was wrong.  Today was a good day, a great day, and once again, I find myself grateful for the little things.  I also realize that although I want nothing short of victory over this disease, HOW we fight and play matters too: after all, we need something to do during those vast stretches of "boredom".