Not everyone knows this about Terese, but she’s a great question-asker. So yesterday while we were on a walk at our friendly, neighborhood forest preserve I was not surprised by this question: What have you learned from this weekend?
To be honest, we’re both still processing the events of the weekend. I’ll list what we’re learning a little later. But first,
HERE’S WHAT HAPPENED:
[Note: This portion was written on Saturday afternoon.]
Small-Fry was admitted to Lurie Children’s Hospital on Thursday and diagnosed with ITP. As we understand it (and no, we did not stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night––just at the children’s hospital) ITP is a condition where the spleen destroys the platelets faster than the marrow can create it. It seems to be triggered by a virus––any virus will do, maybe even one from a routine vaccination. The low normal count for platelets is 150K and Smalls was down to 3K.
The treatment for ITP in little ones is pretty straightforward. Treatment is 2 doses by IV within 24 hours of one another. Smalls had his first treatment last night with no complications or allergic reactions. The prognosis for little ones if the treatment is effective [which it almost always is], then the platelet count rebounds within several weeks and they’re fine. It doesn’t typically recur in children. In the meantime, we wait and monitor him by taking blood-work every couple of weeks.
Here’s our story of ITP. Sometime on Tuesday or Wednesday we began noticing bruising on Smalls. Mostly on his head/forehead, but in other places, too. Within a couple of days, we began noticing (what we now know are called) petechiae around his diaper and sock line, on the backs of his knees, and even on his face and tongue. So we took him to the Dr. who rushed blood work to the hospital. Her immediate concern (and worst-case scenario) was the possibility of leukemia.
It’s amazing how one word can sit with you. And so we went on about our Thursday carrying around that one word: leukemia. In those couple of hours while we waited for the blood work to return, Terese resumed work and I went to class. At work, T met with her good friend who offered to take Than indefinitely. I lectured in my doctoral seminar. Showing up just as class was beginning, I shared with my colleagues (and friends!) who opened the class in prayer for us. I was able to present my lecture––in huge part thanks to the support that I felt in the room.
As I was finishing my lecture, Terese called me. Our doctor was sending us to Children’s downtown.
HERE’S WHAT WE’RE LEARNING
So, in answer to Terese’s question, we’re currently processing on a couple of levels.
First, our community––our family in Christ––were just that: family. We had a meal waiting on us when we arrived home, a safe place for Than to crash, and untold prayers––prayers that sustained us and through which the peace of Christ met us.
Second, we were placed on the oncology and hematology floor at the hospital. This was the hardest part of the whole weekend––even harder than sitting with that word and not knowing if it were something that described our Smalls. Over the course of the weekend, we sat in the playroom with little W, who’s Small’s age and has cancer in his abdomen. W has been in and out of the oncology wing for several months for his chemo treatments. W has a big brother who’s Than’s age who loves visiting his brother at the hospital (not least because he gets “chocolate-milk-ice-cream!).
As we left on Saturday afternoon, another little boy who was obviously receiving treatment was playing in the play room. His mom watched us as we walked down the hallway––carrying our bags and our boy. Our eyes met and locked halfway down the hall. That was a long and heartbreaking walk. I felt a tinge of guilt that she had to watch us leave. And I felt the weight of that word again––a word we were too close to owning ourselves.
Our hearts break for these children and their families.
But it’s in the broken places that good news is the Gospel. This past Sunday, before we knew of any problems with Smalls, a church member (and member of our small group) shared her story of miscarriage. Through her grief she was reminded that our children are not our own. We are only stewards of God’s good gifts. How we have clung to these words. These are the same words that our friend’s parents said upon losing LJ a year ago. Now these words have brought us a deep peace.
We’ve also been reminded that every day is a day we’ll not get back. Even if we’re blessed to care for these guys until they’re adults, I’ll not get back this season. We are stewards of these little ones every day.
These words are good news! Even the bleakest vision that we had painted for ourselves––a vision where we had to walk our Smalls through terminal cancer––is a vision where the slain Lamb reigns victorious. This Lamb––who was slaughtered––will come and make all things new.
