Book - Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

           

            Within two days we noticed an improvement in Andrew.  The number of cancer cells in his peripheral blood (i.e. veins as opposed to bone marrow) had dropped by 50%.  He had a better appetite and had more energy.  He was not as frightened of hospital procedures at this age because we were able to explain things and he was able to understand.  I remembered him as a two year old, just after his diagnosis in the same hospital, shrieking for his coat

            "Coat!  Go home!"  he begged over and over again.  His vocabulary was limited but he made his desire clear.  Any stranger, whether it was a nurse or a visitor brought immediate terror to his frightened little heart.  Because the medical staff wore ordinary street clothes he learned to trust no one, never knowing when a friendly face was simply a visitor or a nurse ready to stick a needle into him.  Most nurses understood this and did not take his rebuffs personally.  However, his very first ward nurse fell in love with him and was so determined to win his trust that she refused to be present at any of his blood tests or I.V. insertions.  She would ask me to take him to the treatment rooms, hoping that he would associate me and not her with pain.  She pampered him to no avail—he refused to trust her.  I, on the other hand, did not have the option of absenting myself from his painful procedures, and hated the helpless feeling of standing by while Andrew's big brown eyes and frantic cries begged me to rescue him.  Still, I could not leave him alone with strangers as so many parents did--seeking relief and escape from the heartbreaking pain of watching one's child suffer over and over again.  Instead I learned to seek God's strength, and it was often in the hardest moments that I received the greatest strength.  What a friend we have in Jesus!   He never leaves or forsakes us.

            His presence gave me the determination to be cheerful,  and I would launch into my role of distractor—talking a blue streak about our house, our trail, our puppy, our cousins, our toys, our grandparents, our friends, our church—until I felt sure that the entire medical staff knew everything there was to know about us.  Whether my monologues had really helped two year old Andrew I didn't know, but I was confident that my presence was of utmost importance to him, and telling stories about our home life gave me purpose and resolve to face each ordeal with him.

            Andrew was three years older now, and able to talk things through.  When it came to shots and medicines, explanations could make the ordeal easier.  When it came to explaining why he was sick again, explanations were much harder.  We had the first of many similar conversations in the cancer ward that first day.  

            "Mommy, why did God make me sick again?" he asked.

            "I don't know, Andrew, but He has a purpose for you," I replied.

            "But I don't want to be sick.  I want to be like Ryan," was his complaint.

            "I know, honey.  But someday Ryan will have to suffer, too.  Everyone suffers at some time in their life."

            He paused for an instant, and then said, "Well, God must not love me very much to make me suffer when I'm little."  

            "Andrew, you know that God loves you very much," I insisted, wondering what to say next.  

            "Just think how much He loved you to send His Son to die for you," I went on.  Andrew grew quiet.  

            "When they put the nails in Jesus' hands, it must have felt like my pokes," he reflected.

            "I think it would have hurt more," I suggested gently.

            Andrew quietly nodded, then said, "He really suffered."  To my relief Andrew seemed satisfied with that thought and our discussion came to an end.

            The third day, Sunday, was our day of rest before the storm.  The only foreboding we experienced was an unannounced visit from a surgery technician who came to 'chat' with Andrew in the morning about his upcoming surgery.  Unfortunately, I was not in the room at the time and when I returned, the technician was gone and Andrew was in a somber frame of mind.  He was not inclined to talk and it took me the better part of an hour to uncover the reason for Andrew's melancholy. 

            Some man had come to talked to him about being "cut open" and now he worried over what that would feel like.  We had said very little to Andrew about his upcoming surgery since we knew very little about it ourselves.

            He was scheduled to have a Vascular Artery Device (V.A.D.) inserted under his chest.  A V.A.D. consisted of two plastic chambers, the size of pop bottle lids, sitting side by side in a hard  plastic case.   The top of each round 'lid' was not covered by the plastic but by a thick layer of rubber.  These two,  round, covered openings were called 'ports'.  Special needles were designed to puncture these ports and connect the V.A.D. with I.V. lines.  Inside the case, the two 'pop bottle lids' opened into a soft rubber tube which protruded from the plastic case.   In surgery, the doctor would cut open the patient's chest, insert the V.A.D., thread the rubber tube into an artery near the patient's neck and then close up the chest again.  

            Because Andrew's veins in his hands and feet would never be able to stand up to the rigorous chemotherapy, this device would be used for all intravenous medications.   The intravenous needle would be stuck through the chest into one of the V.A.D. ports and not need changing for up to ten days.  When not in use the V.A.D. could remain undisturbed and free from infection because it lay under the skin.   

            This was a great improvement over more commonly used 'central line' which protruded through the skin and needed daily flushing to prevent infection.    Although central lines were still being used in transplants, our oncologist had recommended a V.A.D. for Andrew.   Andrew had been looking forward to this great little invention that would eliminate the painful  intravenous needles in his hands and feet, but now his anticipation was changed to fearful anxiety.  

            As I was pondering how to ease his anxiety,  a nurse arrived to show Andrew the V.A.D. needles that would be inserted into his chest during surgery.  I put my foot down!

            "No one talks to Andrew about any more medical procedures," I announced.  "He's not emotionally strong enough to process all the information and just ends up worrying himself into a quandary over the unknown."   The nurse looked at me doubtfully.  She tried to explain that  it was just a tiny needle.

            I put up my hand to stop her.  "He's had enough for now.  And please check with me before sending a medical professional in to talk to Andrew.   I would rather talk to them first and then filter the information back to him at the right time in the right way."  

            The nurse was reluctant to give up her pep talk on V.A.D. needles but seeing my determination on the matter she acquiesced.

            There was no more talk of the surgery and we were happily distracted by the arrival of Daddy and the boys.  They were excited because they had seen players from the Vancouver football team—the B.C. Lions—out in the hospital foyer.  Apparently they were making a visit to the Hospital with a special surprise for the sick children.  We waited to hear them arrive on our floor.  First a public relations agent came to our room to receive our written consent for film footage of Andrew.   Then suddenly the room was filled with two large football players and several camera men.   We shook hands all around and then everyone tried to make room as The Surprise got squeezed past the camera men and onto Andrew's bed.   It was the GREY CUP!  We looked in quiet awe at this football legend that spoke of great moments of triumph in the history of football. 

            It was worn and dented in places and the shine was dulled but it still had the power to call forth respect and awe from even the most naive and uninformed observer.  That night the evening news showed Harry proudly lifting the trophy while Andrew sat listlessly in the background.  How we hoped to have our moment of triumph, too, to hold up our son as a testimony of God's glory and power.  But it was still too soon, and we had many battles yet to fight.  

           

            "Lord, I have heard of your fame;

              I stand in awe of your deeds, O Lord.

              Renew them in our day,

              In our time make them known;

              In wrath remember mercy."         Habakkuk 3:2

             

            Monday morning brought butterflies to our stomaches.  It was no hardship for Andrew to skip breakfast before his surgery; he was far too nervous to eat.  I was nervous for him, too, and for Ari who was getting blood work done that morning to see if he could be a donor match for Andrew.  When Harry arrived with Ari I left Andrew to accompany them to the blood lab on the second floor.   Ari tried to be brave although pokes were a new experience for him.   He returned to Andrew's room proudly sporting a band-aid, and the two brothers commiserated with each other.    Harry couldn't stay, so promising Andrew that he would return before he woke up from the surgery he and Ari said goodbye.  

            The morning dragged on as we read book after book.   Every now and then Andrew needed reassurance that the operation would not hurt.    Then we would pray and I would ask God to go with him into the operating room to watch over him.  At 11:45 a.m. the hospital porter finally arrived.  Dressed in his housecoat and slippers Andrew padded downstairs with the porter, myself, and his every-present I.V. pole.  

            As we reached the O.R. the porter pressed a button and the double doors swung slowly open.   Another hallway stretched before us with a bend at the end revealing no hint of what was hidden behind its walls.  A nurse hurried around the bend and up the hallway towards us.   She wore a hair net and special O.R. 'booties' on her feet.  

            "Time for goodbye hugs and kisses," she said cheerily.  I drew Andrew close and kissed him tenderly.   Oh, how hard it was to let him go; to let him walk through those doors without me.   Always I had accompanied him to every medical procedure, held his hand, kissed him, talked him though it.  Now, in the face of an unknown and frightening experience, he would have to go without me.  With bent head and drooping shoulders he shuffled obediently after the porter, and was gone.  

            My chest tightened.   I could hardly breathe.  

            "Oh, Lord, watch over my sweet baby,"   I choked out noiselessly.

            Hurrying back to his room I collapsed into tears.     Crying and praying I wrestled with my feelings of fear and betrayal.  Just when I thought I had laid everything into the Master's hands, I was asked to give up yet one more thing.   Wasn't it enough that my son had to suffer?  Did he have to suffer alone as well?   How could a little five year old boy understand the presence of God?   He needed his mother!   

            I sensed already what God was trying to say, but at first I would have none of it.   Oh, that all this suffering would only go away.   In my turmoil I had to admit that if there were no suffering there would be no need for the Lord's strength.   And just the day before God had given me the lovely promise of his strength in Habakkuk 3:19,

           

            "The Sovereign LORD is my strength;  

              He makes my feet like the feet of a deer,

              He enables me to go on the heights."

           

            Two hours later, Harry returned to the hospital and we received the go-ahead to meet Andrew in the post-surgery recovery room.  He was already conscious and smiled sleepily.  His chest was covered with a large dressing and a thin plastic tube snaked from underneath the dressing to the I.V. pole.  I breathed a sigh of relief.  The worst was over and accessing his veins would no longer be a difficult ordeal.  Even getting dressed would be a cinch without having to undo his I.V. lines every time he wanted to change clothes. 

            The next morning proved us wrong, as the dressing was painfully peeled off and replaced.   The three inch cut in his chest was swollen and bruised.  Somewhere hidden under the puffy skin lay the V.A.D., evident only by the protruding needle that was buried deep within.  Andrew shrieked and cried as the blood-stained dressing was removed and I tried to keep from retching as I viewed the results of the surgeon's scalpel.   What a way to start this special day of the year--his 6th birthday!

            I had been determined to make it a good day and had invited six little guests from home to help him celebrate, but now I wondered whether we would be able to coax Andrew out of bed.   He was severely traumatized and wanted only to be left alone.

            At noon Linda arrived with his little friends and I ushered them to the playroom which had been especially reserved for this occasion.  There were balloons and cake that Harry's sister, Ruth, had provided, as well as pizza which I had ordered, but no birthday boy!  

            Halfway through the party Harry finally persuaded Andrew to come and so with his hands clutching the lines coming from his swollen little chest he listlessly entered the playroom.  It nearly broke my heart to see his white, strained face next to the smiling faces of his friends as they handed him their gifts.  We played pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, opened gifts, and sang "Happy Birthday" as he blew out the candles half-heartedly. 

 Andrew is in the white t-shirt sitting right in front of me.

 I wished I'd waited for another time to celebrate, I wished I could have given him the cowboy party that he had been anticipating with real pony rides on Uncle Ed's horse.  Most of all I wished for the nightmare to end.  Instead, the party ended and Andrew crawled exhaustedly back into bed.

            The following day he was discharged with a bag of medication, extra dressings for his V.A.D. site, and a list of instructions for me.  Besides the schedule of medications, the list contained a gamut of reactions that his body might or might not undergo in response to the drugs.  Since he was beginning an intense protocol of chemotherapy to put his cancer back into remission, we were informed to expect more than the usual side effects.  Fever, mouth sores, low blood counts, increased infections, and chemical imbalances were a few of the results we could expect.  Daunting as the information seemed, we were going home, and that helped ease the anxiety all around.  This was evident that first night back home, when Andrew prayed, "Dear Lord, please help me not to have any more pokes; please help me not to stay in the hospital again, and please help me to be able to play with my toys.  Thank you, Lord, for helping me get better.  I love you, Lord.  Amen."

            Coming home always refreshed and renewed our courage and being away from the hospital filled us with a sense of relief.  Life actually felt a little more normal until the next night.  Andrew chose the bedtime story.   It happened to be the very last story in our children's Bible and the theme was--Heaven!  I read it with a lump in my throat while Andrew's eyes shone.  His childish heart was embracing heaven with its absence of pain and tears, while my heart became once again heavy and anxious. 

            Later, Harry reminded me of the promise he had claimed on the very first day of relapse:

            "Whatever you ask in my name I will give it you."    (John 14:14)

            I longed for the assurance that Harry seemed to have but I was uncertain.  Part of me wanted to pray for healing but part of me wondered if that was God’s ‘perfect will’.  This confusion was partly due to an event that happened years ago when a tragic accident made my friend's husband a helpless quadriplegic.  Her panicked prayer had been, "Dear God, let him live!  Just let him live!"

            He did survive the accident but the devastating results of it produced doubts and regrets in my friend's mind about her prayer.  I feared the similar possibility of facing future regrets over our prayers for Andrew.  And so, I began the search for God's will.

            Since Andrew's birth, I had established a routine of allowing the Lord to wake me in the early morning hours (usually between 4 and 5 a.m.) to read my One Year Bible.  I loved the daily readings which always included a passage from the Old Testament, one from the New Testament, a Psalm and a Proverb.  Because a chronological order was followed, one could easily read through the entire Bible in one year using this system.

            Now my thirst for God's Word had intensified one-hundred-fold and I spent every spare minute reading my Bible.

            As I read the passages for December 22, I came across Psalm 141:8  "But my eyes are fixed on you, O Sovereign Lord;  in you I take refuge--do not give me over to death."  The words stirred up a poignant memory of three years ago, when Andrew was first diagnosed with leukemia.  It was our first day in the hospital and he was about to have his first bone marrow test.  Trembling with fear I picked him up out of the hospital bed and held him close to my heart.   Slowly I walked down the hall to the treatment room, carrying him in my arms.  As my feet moved mechanically forward I groaned, "God, are you there?"  The silence of the empty hallway echoed back mockingly.  When I reached the door of the treatment room I stopped and closed my eyes.  I wanted to feel God's presence but seemed unable to pray.  In that instant of downcast eyes I saw His hands.  They were the hands of a Father, stretched out toward His child with the full intent of giving comfort and love.  The wonder of it all was that I was that child.

            My heart immediately quieted itself and as I opened my eyes I remembered something else about His hands.   They had a word written across them, "Mercy."  The word comforted me in an unexplainable way.  The explanation came to me later in the evening after the tests had been completed and the diagnosis had been pronounced and the tears had been shed.  

            Sitting beside my sleeping son with the lights turned low, I opened my Bible to the daily reading.  It was Psalm 123:1,2.

           

            "I lift up my eyes to you, to you whose throne is  in heaven. 

            As the eyes of slaves look to the hand of their  master,

            As the eyes of a maid look to the hand of her mistress,

            So our eyes look to the Lord our God, till He shows us His mercy."

            Now, like a sweet refrain those words had returned to remind me to keep my eyes fixed on Jesus, and to wait for His mercy.

            Of course, the mercy I desired most was healing for Andrew, and so in my next Bible reading I began to express my desires through Scripture.

           

            "I cry aloud to the Lord

            I lift up my voice for mercy

            I pour out my complaint...

            Before Him I tell my trouble,

            It is you who knows my way.

            [Andrew is in desperate need.]

            Rescue him!

            Set him free, that he may praise your name.

            Then the righteous will gather about us because of your goodness to us."

                                                            (Psalm 142:1-7)

            But before healing would come, our heavenly Father had other ways of showing His mercy that he also wanted us to experience.

           

Book- Ch. 1

Chapter1

 Christmas carols hummed their way into my supper clatter, intertwining my thoughts with melodic strains and savory smells.  As I was trying to decide between peas or corn my 5:00 routine was brought to a grinding halt by the ringing of the phone.  It was our family doctor.

            "Marilyn, I'm afraid I've got some bad news.  Andrew's blood test shows that the cancer is back."

            Andrew was our 5 year old son who had been diagnosed with Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia at the age of 2.  Fortunately, 3 years of chemotherapy had put him into remission and we had promised Andrew that the pokes were over.  To prove it we had even thrown an 'End-of-Chemo' party.   Over forty friends and family members came to celebrate with us. 

            Five year old Andrew reveled in the exhilarating joy of having all his little friends and cousins together to play with at the same time.  Too young to remember when his cancer had first started he had been living with pokes and medications as an unpleasant, but unavoidable way of life.  To be told that he would now become a normal little boy with no more pills to swallow, no more baldness to cover, and no more I.V. needles to terrorize his damaged veins seemed unbelievable.  With a bursting heart he thanked the Lord in his bedtime prayers for making him well.  Pouring out his affection on us he hugged and kissed us many times a day as he joyfully began a new chapter in his life.

            How could I tell him that someone had turned back the pages and we were starting all over again.   Even as the contents of my stomach kept threatening to rise, I managed to take note of what Dr. Pauls was saying as he mapped out the steps that would be taken in

the next 24 hours.  I was even able to thank him as he expressed his deepest sympathy and, saying goodbye, I was once again alone in my kitchen with the Christmas

music playing on cheerily.  I waited for someone to turn it off, until my aloneness reminded me that I would have to somehow move my feet of lead into the next room and

find the ‘Off’ button myself.

            With the music off, silence reigned and began to wring out my heavy heart until it ached.  I tried calling my husband, Harry, on his cell phone but received no answer.  Feeling even more alone I knew that at that moment the burden would crush my very breath if I could not share it with someone.  And so I clumsily picked up the phone again and called the one person who had always been there for me from the first day of my life—my mother.  

            As soon as she answered the phone, I felt the lump in my throat dissolving into great heaving tears.  I barely cracked out, "Mom," before the flood of emotion rolled up and out from my broken heart.  

            "What's wrong, Marilyn?"  mom's persistent voice pulled me together.  

            "It's Andrew. His cancer's back," I sobbed.

            "Dad and I will come over as soon as we can.  We just have to attend a brief meeting where Dad has to give a short devotional.  We'll leave as soon as his talk is over," Mom said.

            "Okay, and please pray for us,"  I pleaded.

            "I already have been," Mom replied.

            "What do you mean?  You were praying before I called you?"  I questioned.

            "Yes.  You see Dr. Pauls was uncertain whether to call you himself tonight since he couldn't reach Andrew's pediatrician, or to wait till morning and let Dr. Traverse give you the news.  So he asked Auntie Betty for her opinion."

            Aunt Betty, one of my favorite aunts, was also my doctor's receptionist.  She suggested that they first contact my mother and get her advice.  Mom in turn urged them to call me immediately.  So it came to be that as I received my heartbreaking call my mother was already supporting me in prayer.

            Mom and I hung up and I resigned myself to finishing supper while waiting for Harry to come home.  Fortunately our three boys, Ryan, Andrew, and Ari, were still happily playing upstairs when Harry walked in the back door.

            "Honey, I've got some bad news," I said.  He set down the mail and his lunchbox quietly, with his eyes fixed on me.  

            "The blood test Andrew had done yesterday showed that the cancer is back," I said softly.  

            "Oh, no," he whispered, "Poor Andrew."  Our thoughts rode tandem as we silently visualized the renewed onslaught of chemotherapy and radiation on Andrew's body.

            "I don't think we should tell him yet," I said.  "Let's wait till we actually are preparing to go to the hospital."  Harry was in full agreement and so we called the boys down for supper   The boys chattered at the table without noticing our sober mood until with relief we finished the meal.

            Harry sank into his easy chair while I quickly tidied up the kitchen.  My churning thoughts were wearing me out and I desperately felt a need for release.  I wanted something to fill in the long evening ahead of us and my thoughts went immediately to our friends, Stan and Tilly, whose two boys would be great company for ours.

            "I'm going to call Stan and Tilly, and ask them to come down,"  I blurted out to Harry.  "I don't want Andrew to notice how down we are.  If the boys have someone to play with the evening will be easier, don't you think?"  Harry shrugged apathetically, and then shook his head.

            "I don't want to see anyone," he said despondently.

            "But think how well distracted the boys will be, and we both could use the support of our friends," I pleaded.   Harry shrugged again resignedly and I picked up the phone.  

            Tilly was shocked to hear the news, and immediately agreed to spend the evening with us.  Hearing her comforting voice so boosted my flagging spirits that I impulsively decided to phone another friend.  Two hours later ten of our closest friends were sitting in our family room ready and willing to carry our burden with us.  As we talked and shared Scripture, and prayed together I felt the weight lift a little.

            The next morning we wondered when Andrew's pediatrician would call to confirm the lab results that we had already been informed about the night before.  By 8:15 a.m. I could wait no longer and dialed the pediatrician's home number.  He was speechless at my news and promised to call me as soon as he had studied the lab results of Andrew's blood work himself.  Forty-five minutes later he phoned from the Hospital laboratory to say that he could not spot any cancer cells in the specimen slides but wanted me to meet him at his office where the pathology report would be waiting for him.

            My heart lightened with this reprieve and I entertained the possibility that we had become disheartened prematurely.  I made arrangements to leave Ryan and Aaron at my mom's and took Andrew with me to meet Harry at Dr. Traverse's office.  We left Andrew in the lobby while we conferred with the doctor.  He greeted us with a grave face and held out the documents from the pathology lab.

            Because the blood specimens were somewhat nebulous, our local pathologist had sent them to another hospital 40 miles away where two other pathologists had studied them and concurred that indeed, blast cells were present.  One more step could be taken to confirm that the cancer had relapsed and that was to do a bone marrow test on Andrew.  As we waited, Dr. Traverse called our oncologist in Vancouver and set up an appointment for the following day.

            With heavy hearts we drove away.  Andrew seemed not to suspect anything and wanted to play "I Spy".  Forcing a smile I suggested he start the game.  

            "I spy something that begins with J," he shouted.  Harry and I began guessing.  

            Jeep?

            No.

            Jalopy?

            No.

            We scoured the passing scenery but had to admit we were stumped.  The answer?

            "Jesus!" he gleefully responded.  The game continued with Andrew happily taking turn after turn. The next letter was "G" for "God", and then "A" for "Angel".  We mused over the unusual turn this age-old game had taken and felt inexplicably comforted.  In our darkest moment our young son had turned our eyes to Jesus.

            As we packed in preparation for a lengthy hospital stay we chose not to say anything to the boys.  We wanted to prolong Andrew's carefree thoughts for as long as possible, even if only for one more night.  Furthermore, we weren't sure how to prepare him for the next few days, as we ourselves didn't yet know what lay ahead.  The only definite river to cross was the Bone Marrow test which I knew would throw Andrew into a panic.  

            The last bone marrow test had been six months before and we had promised him that it was the last one.  Andrew did not hold broken promises lightly, and I was already imagining his hurt and dismay when he discovered that he had been betrayed.

            We decided to drive into Vancouver that evening and spend the night with Harry's parents, whom the children called "Oma" and "Opa".  They greeted us warmly, hugging Andrew tenderly.  Oma had already prepared the bedroom for the boys where they liked to 'camp' on the floor, and as I tucked the children into their cozy blankets,  Andrew asked hesitantly, "Mom, am I getting my bone 'n arrow shot tomorrow?"

            I caught my breath.  How had he known?  Why did it have to come out now—just before bedtime when his melancholy nature would so quickly weep and worry.  Inwardly I breathed a prayer, "Give me the right words, dear God."

            Out loud I said, "Yes, Andrew, you're having a bone marrow test."

            "I wish I didn't have to have any more pokes,"  he sighed.

            "So do I," I agreed wholeheartedly.

            "What kind will it be?"  he asked next.

            "One poke in your hand.  That's the only one you'll feel.  You won't feel anything else."

            "Don't forget to put Emmla cream on," he reminded me.  I gladly promised him that,  and after his bedtime prayer and a goodnight kiss he fell soundly asleep.  I thanked the Lord that there had been no tears.

            Realizing that God had been preparing the way for us throughout the last 24 hours, I suddenly hungered for His Word.  Opening my One Year Bible I found that the reading for that day was Jonah 1-4.  With a growing sense of awe I read the prayer of Jonah in the belly of the whale:

            "In my distress I called to the Lord and he answered me.  From the depths of the grave I called for help and you listened to my cry."  Although I had not yet verbalized my feelings to the Lord, my spirit resonated with these words of Jonah.

             "You hurled me into the deep, into the very heart of the sea, and the currents swirled about me, all your waves and breakers swept over me."

            I could fully relate to deep waters and swirling currents as my emotions and thoughts consistently threatened to overwhelm me.  I was fearful about what lay ahead but I knew that God would be with us.

            In the morning I asked the Lord to give me good news that day.  I did not expect a happy diagnosis, but I was hoping for another reassuring sign of God's presence.

            After a pancake breakfast with Oma and Opa, we made our familiar trek to the B.C. Children's Hospital.  It  was a long hallway to the Oncology Clinic and Andrew held my hand tightly.  I glanced down at his hands which sported large Emmla patches over his much-used veins.  The Emmla was a topical freezing medication that slightly dulled the pain of the I.V. needles.  Soberly we opened the heavy door with its warning sign:

"Do not enter this clinic if you have an infectious disease or have been exposed to one."

We were well aware of the dangers that infection posed for the children inside.  Their immune systems were being suppressed by rigorous medical treatments and an infectious disease could be life-threatening.  Andrew had been one of those children for three years and now, after an all-too-short reprieve, he was back.

            I checked off his name on the big chalkboard and looked around.  We were one of the first patients of the day, so hopefully our wait would not be long.

            Andrew had just sat down at the play table when a nurse called him away to take his height and weight measurements.  Quietly he pulled off his shoes and backed up against the meter stick.  The nurse tried to make conversation but he remained unresponsive.  Next, his weight was recorded and then it was time for the big needle.  Harry joined us in the tiny treatment room and we watched in silence as the nurse laid out her sterile tray.  Andrew wanted to sit on my lap as he customarily did, and after a quick hug he held out his hand for her.

            "I'll count to three," she said.

            "Please don't count," we interrupted.  Experience had taught us that distracting Andrew with a book worked better than letting him focus on the needle.  Harry held up a Where's Waldo book, and as Andrew looked for Waldo, the needle found its mark.  A few measured breaths helped Andrew over the initial pain and then the needle and hand were bandaged up together and connected to an I.V. pole.

            Back to the play table we went where others waited for their turn to be 'hooked up'.  Immeasurably  sad to me were the little bald heads around the table that day.  Most of them were under the age of five.  Their usual childish curiosity was replaced by wary looks.  I could understand their perplexity at being in a place made for children with its abundance of color and toys and at the same time designed for torture.  The occasional loud cries and screams were unsettling, but even more heartbreaking were the pathetic little sobs of the children who tried to be brave.

            Andrew had always been a brave one.  Even when he had been first diagnosed at the age of two, he had never needed any restraining during the pokes.  It was as though he feared causing more pain by  accidentally moving the hand or foot that was being accessed.  On two occasions the chemotherapy drugs had leaked into surrounding tissues causing burns under the skin.  Even then he made little fuss, only whimpering softly.    Near the end of the three years of chemotherapy his veins had become more and more difficult to enter due to the tremendous amount of scarring, not to mention the complete destruction of the two veins that were chemically burned.  I tried not to imagine the anxiety we would experience in the next few days but gained hope from the fact that today's poke had gone smoothly.

            Then it was time for the bone marrow test.  This was done in a large room where Andrew lay on his side while a nurse helped curl him into a tight ball so that his spine and hip was properly exposed to the doctor on the other side of the bed.  Beside the doctor stood a sterile metal cart with the various instruments used in the procedure.  At the bottom of the bed stood two technicians who would immediately prepare microscopic slides of the extracted  bone  marrow which would  be studied later in the Lab.    

            Harry and I stood at the head of the bed where we held his hand and kept up a steady stream of stories.  Before starting the procedure, the nurse wrapped a tiny Velcro device around Andrew's thumb which would monitor his blood pressure on a nearby machine.

            Next she injected a mild sedative into his I.V. tube.  Within two minutes Andrew started smiling lopsidedly.  His eyes drooped as he got downright giggly.  We were used to this reaction to the sedative and ironically, I loved that moment because it was usually the only time we would see Andrew smile all day.  After waiting a full five minutes, the Doctor injected a local anesthetic into his lower back.  Once that took effect, it was time to carefully insert a long, thin, stainless steel tube into his hip bone.   

            The nurse supporting Andrew on one side of the bed had to brace herself as the doctor on the other side used all his strength to drive the tube into his hip.  A small moan came from Andrew as he struggled to escape the pressure. The nurse only held him tighter.  The bone marrow was drawn into the tube with a corkscrew contraption and then removed from his body.  Both a

chip of bone as well as the pulpy bone marrow juice were aspirated and sent to the lab.

            They also did a spinal tap which meant inserting a long hollow needle into the spinal area from which several vials of cerebral fluid were extracted.  It was not a pleasant sight to see the needle sticking out of his back and watching the fluid slowly drip from the needle into the vials that were held by the doctor just beneath the opening of the needle.   This test would indicate whether the cancer had spread into the spine which then automatically raised the prognosis of the patient to "high risk".  

            Finally all needles were withdrawn and Andrew was allowed to rest.  Today he seemed unusually passive.   As a rule he would be trying to get off the bed in spite of his sedated condition.  In the early days we had once allowed him his determination to 'get up—go home' only to have him drunkenly weaving his way through the hospital hallway until he finally crumpled into my arms.  

            Today he was content to stay on the bed while Harry read on.  I followed the nurse to her station where we booked a return appointment for the next day.  At that time we would receive the test results and a course of treatment would begin.  Thankful to have one more night away from the Hospital, we returned to Oma and Opa's house.  

            My heart still felt burdened, but it was a comfort to hold Andrew and cuddle him.  It was a comfort also to have my two other boys.   I loved to feast my eyes on their boyish enthusiasm and their expressive, rosy faces.  I clung to the fact that I had two healthy children who would hopefully never have to experience Andrew's suffering.  It also assuaged my guilt that this invasion of cancer in our family was not my fault.  Before I fell asleep that night I again prayed for good news the next day.

            Grey clouds blanketed the morning sky, but my heart was already looking for the silver lining.  I was sure that the day would hold a blessing for us somewhere.  We had a relaxed breakfast with Oma and Opa who did their best to cheer us but their strained faces belied their outward calm.  

            Knowing from experience how quickly Andrew could be admitted to the Hospital, I decided to take along a suitcase for him and myself.  Harry felt my precautions were premature but I had spent enough unexpected nights at the Hospital without a toothbrush and extra clothes. 

            At 1:00 we were ready to leave for the hospital and kissed Ryan and Ari goodbye.  Ari refused to be left behind and so, sensing that his sunny nature would perhaps be of benefit to us we let him hop in the car next to Andrew.  True to form, Ari immediately began chattering about the passing scenery while Andrew listened half-heartedly.   At the clinic the boys sat down to watch a movie, while we were called into a consultation office to meet with our doctor.  With a heavy sense of foreboding we took stock of the

medical staff crowded into the tiny room.  There was our oncologist, Dr. Ron Anderson, who was still very new to us and seemed far too young to be a cancer specialist.  Next to him was a doctor who was training to become a specialist, and an oncology nurse.  Dr. Anderson greeted us with a warm handshake, introduced us to the other two and then picked up Andrew's medical file.  

            "I'm so sorry," he said sympathetically, "But the bone marrow test shows that Andrew has relapsed.  His bone marrow is already 80% full of cancer cells."  We looked at him numbly.

            "Now we have a choice of two types of treatment.  Either we try chemotherapy again for another two years, or we try a bone marrow transplant.  You don't have to decide right away, but we will need to admit Andrew today and begin chemotherapy immediately to put him back into remission."  

            "What if we chose chemotherapy again?" Harry asked. "How effective would that be seeing as how it didn't prevent Andrew from relapsing?"  Dr. Anderson nodded understandingly.  

            "The chemotherapy we would use this time would be much stronger, however, you're right—there would be no guarantee.   You should also realize that in either case Andrew would definitely require radiation to his testicles since the cancer recurred there as well."  

            "Can you explain to us what a bone marrow transplant would involve?"  I asked.

            "It would mean he would have to undergo radiation to kill off all his blood cells and then receive the bone marrow cells of a healthy person.  These cells would take root in his bone marrow and start manufacturing normal healthy cells," the doctor replied.  "Do you know if any of you match his bone marrow?"

            I shook my head.  "Three of us were tested when Andrew was first diagnosed with leukemia, but our youngest son, Ari, was born later and has never been blood-typed so we don't know if he matches or not."

            "There's a slim chance that he might," the doctor said.  "We'll have to check that out before we make any decisions.  Andrew's case will also be reviewed by the entire team of oncologists here at the hospital and they will submit a proposal for treatment as well."

            We talked for about an hour trying to fully grasp the pro's and con's of the options that lay before us.  We were beginning to feel overwhelmed with all the information when Dr. Anderson wisely drew the consultation to a close.  As the medical staff rose to go he asked our permission to begin chemotherapy that day.  On the verge of tears I nodded but couldn't speak.  Harry nodded as well.  Dr. Anderson ushered the others out

and then quietly closed the door, leaving us alone.  Like a lost child I went into Harry's arms, and together we wept.

            Then Harry pulled a chair over, and sitting down with me in his lap he told me of the promise he had received from God's Word that day.  

            "Whatever you ask in my name I will give it to you."  (John 14:13, 14)  With firm hope in his voice he insisted that the same phrase had come up over and over again in his reading.  He was convinced that God would grant us healing if we asked for it.  Comforted, but not wholly convinced, I dried my tears.  As we prayed, huddled together, I felt the familiar shadow loom over us again.  It hurt to think that we were being forced once again to enter the 'Valley of the Shadow of Death'.  Even as I mentally cringed at the thought something made me catch my breath.  A warm peace came over me as I realized that I had been wrong in thinking that the shadow of death loomed over us.  It was not death at all, but rather a pair of Almighty Wings that were overshadowing us.  We were as safe as any sparrow could ever be!

            I was glad for that peace when it came time to tell Andrew what was happening.  With as few words as possible we told him that he was going to have to stay in the hospital for some more pokes.

            "Why?"  he cried.

            "Well, Andrew, your cancer has come back and the doctors need to make it go away again," Harry tried to explain.  

            "Why did it come back?"  he asked.   "I thought you said it was gone, and I would not have to have anymore pokes."  

            "We don't know why it came back, Honey," I began.

            "I thought I was healed," he interrupted.   

            "We thought so too.  But God can heal you again," I pleaded with him.

            He was devastated and refused to be comforted.  He cried all the way from the clinic to the cancer ward on the third floor of the hospital.  Fortunately we were given one of the few private rooms, and tried to distract Andrew with T.V.  He eventually stopped crying and gathered together his courage for a new I.V. needle to be inserted.   Chemotherapy was administered as well as anti-nausea drugs.  

Once the pokes and pills were over we cuddled together on the bed enjoying the view of the helicopter landing pad from our room.  

            Andrew perked up a bit when company arrived in the form of both sets of grandparents plus my brother, Ed, and his family.    Harry had gone for supper too, and returned shortly with both boys.  It was like a family reunion with everyone wanting to talk at once while the children spilled out into the hallway with their romping.  Harry finally took the children to the playroom while I updated the adults on Andrew's prognosis. 

            After discussing his medical situation we wondered how the relapse was affecting him emotionally.   I don't think he's coping very well with the relapse,"  I said,  "But its going to get a whole lot worse when he finds out he's spending his birthday in the hospital."   His 6th birthday was just two days away and I was at a loss how to remedy the situation.

            "Couldn't you have the party at the hospital?"  my sister-in-law, Linda asked.

            "How would I get all his friends here from Abbotsford?"  I wondered.

            "I don't mind bringing a van full,"  Linda replied.    And so we made plans to throw a surprise party at the Hospital.

            Later when everyone was gone and Andrew had been tucked in for the night, I sat down on my hospital cot and opened my One Year Bible.  Two passages leaped out at me from that day's scripture.  Psalm 136 issued the phrase "His love endures forever" twenty-six times.  The convincing repetitiousness was hard to ignore.  Nahum 1:7 read, "The Lord is good, a refuge in times of trouble."  This reminder to take refuge under the Almighty wings was so appropriate for a day when death had once again beckoned us.

            Just then Andrew sat up and whimpered.  By the time I realized what he wanted and was scrambling for a vomit tray, he was heaving violently.  Forceful explosions rocketed up from his stomach, splattering the walls, the bedding, and himself.  My heart so at peace the moment before, instantly plummeted.  Visions of other sick children I had seen flashed through my mind.  It was routine to see cancer children throwing up, but Andrew had not once vomited in all his years of chemotherapy.   This seemed like an ominous foreboding of the new chapter he was beginning in his life.

            After ten minutes of ongoing eruptions, an exhausted Andrew had finally emptied the entire contents of his stomach and it was safe to begin cleaning up.  How I blessed the capable hospital laundry that would wash up my son's bedding without a complaint.  All I had to do was strip off the sheets and throw them in the hall hamper.  Bathing Andrew with a connected I.V. pole was a little more challenging, but a helpful nurse showed me her trick of pulling off pajamas without unhooking the tubes.  Once he was clean again a fresh pair of p.j.'s without buttons were put on and then it was back into bed for Andrew.

            Tired and strained I slipped into my cot shortly thereafter hoping to fall asleep quickly.  Every movement by Andrew startled me, and I worried whether this would be a busy night for both of us.  Then the words of a kind nurse came back to me, "You're going to go through your own, unique story with Andrew, so don't worry that the stories you hear from other patients will necessarily happen to Andrew."  

            At midnight Andrew was given one more dose of anti-nausea pills, after which we both went to sleep and slept soundly until morning..

Honey from the Rock

 The following posts are chapters from my book called, Honey from the Rock.  It is my account of our journey with God through the valley of cancer with our 6 year old son, Andrew.  May it encourage everyone who reads it.

Week 13 - Children Arrive

My youngest brother decided to take a week of holidays at the lake and help us with our project.

His children, Mattea and Nathanael, bring along their bikes and their enthusiasm.

While their dad paints, they 'try out' our new shower.

Another exciting discovery is a bright green Praying Mantis.

When daddy's work is done, its time for a swim!

One afternoon we take the kids to a playground.

On our last evening we have our traditional marshmallow roast.

Shannon is a healthy, non-sweets kind of person. She believes in feeding her kids healthy meals and snacks. So it is surprising to see her having a 'smore. Its even more astonishing to hear her say to Nathanael in the video below, "So you want some candy?"

I think Nathanel knows the secret to getting candy, but he's not telling!

Building our Cottage - Week 9 - 12

The weeks are flying by and my blog is being neglected, so I'm condensing a few weeks at a time.

A lost kitten cries for help two nights in a row and on the 3rd night we finally find it. Everyone falls in love with it, but no one wants the responsibility, so for one day we feed it and play with it and then leave it with the farmer who gives it to a willing family.

Our plywood house slowly gets dressed. The wrapping begins. It is becoming one big birthday present!

The 'wrappers' are happy to take a break. But, sadly, they do not know how to rap or break-dance.

Towards the end of the week Herb's daughter arrives with her new husband. The newlyweds get to sleep in the 'Prayer Loft' (our room with the cross) and we all think it is very romantic.

Our last supper this week consists of twelve of us--friends, relatives, and even strangers.

And, as always, the unseen guest...Jesus!