2017-12-29

33) End of year donations

This is a partial re-hash of one of my previous posts, but I believe it is something worthwhile to post a second time.

There's only a few days left in 2017, which means there's only a few days to make donations that count against the 2017 tax year. I don't always donate to the same organizations year after year. In 2015 for instance, I recalled a few news items or stories that affected me throughout the year, and I donated to those causes. In 2016, I picked a local charity, a national charity, an international charity, and a health-related charity. This year, I still need to make a decision about my final donations of 2017.

If you're planning on making any donations before the calendar rolls over, and you're looking to make a donation that helps kids, or kids with cancer, please consider donating to one of the following wonderful organizations:

2017-12-26

32) Million Dollar Smiles

It's almost been 3 weeks since I wrote an update, but I haven't forgotten about this blog. More on that in a future post.

What I would first like to do is give recognition to an organization and one of its sponsor families. I'm talking about Million Dollar Smiles.
"Million Dollar Smiles was started with the simple goal of wanting to bring smiles to children facing life threatening illnesses. Million Dollar Smiles is a non-profit organization that provides support for families with children facing adversity from life threatening illnesses."
Two of their larger programs are: 1) the Summer Playground Build, where children have a special playground build in their backyard by volunteers, and 2) the Holiday Bear Drive, where giant teddy bears and gift cards are delivered to children. Million Dollar Smiles has hosted a Halloween Gala, and 2017 marked its 10th year. The past 3 galas have been located at Paradise Banquet Hall and Convention Centre in Vaughan, which co-incidentally is where my wife and I got married.

On Saturday December 16th, one of the Million Dollar Smiles sponsors families dropped off a big teddy bear for J, and a giant teddy bear for E. Also included was a gift card to Toys R Us. I took a few photos, but forgot to ask the family if they were okay with me posting the pics, or mentioning them by name, so I will not identify them. E was unfortunately not feeling very well that day, so the family did not get to see our regularly happy little guy. We had a brief, but charming conversation with them, and we learned that this was their 4th year of being involved with Million Dollar Smiles.

It was quite the heartwarming experience to have complete strangers make a donation that is personally delivered on their own time, all in the name of putting a smile on your sick child's face. All I can say is thank you from the bottom of my heart, but somehow that doesn't feel like it's enough.

E and J's teddy bears from Million Dollar Smiles

2017-12-08

31) #$%! You


On his behalf, I'd like to dedicate this Headstones tune to E's leukemia:

*WARNING* NSFW lyrics


I'll quite often listen to this song while I'm getting ready on the mornings where we have to take E to an appointment for chemotherapy. It's my angry/cheese off leukemia song, and as dumb as it may sound, I sing along and imagine myself or E singing it to all the cancerous cells in his body.

I'm not going to try to get deep and analytical about the lyrics in this song, but I'm going to give my quick interpretation. While at the most basic level, this might seem like a song about a bad breakup. The protagonist knows it's going to be difficult, but recognizes that ultimately, he's better off without the antagonist, and he will endure. Being a fan of the Headstones & knowing a bit about their singer Hugh Dillon, I'm convinced that yes, it is a breakup song, but this song is about his breakup with heroin.

Regardless of my interpretation, I find there's enough lyrical content that I find relevant to E's cancer and treatment. The song helps me to focus, and feel reassured that yes, the chemo treatments are challenging and demanding, but perseverance will be worth it in the end. Because leukemia, E will get over you. Plus, when you're stressed out because your son is dealing with a serious illness, a little bit of gratuitous vulgarity is good for blowing off some steam.

2017-12-06

30) Medals 4 Mettle

This post has been a long time coming. I've had several versions of it in my head, but I wanted to get it right, and there's been quite a bit going on that has prevented me from spending a bit of time to do it justice. Here goes:

One night in late October, I received a curious message from my friend C. I've known C since about 1995, meeting her when we worked together in retail. She was the one who introduced me to my wife, so in a way, this blog exists because of her. C's message included a YouTube link and a quick "Watch this video. I will explain when I see you guys on Saturday". The link was to the following:


I watched it and was perplexed.

Saturday rolled around, and C dropped by for a visit. During the visit, she explained that there was an organization known as Medals 4 Mettle. Their mission is as follows:

At Medals4Mettle we attach our branded ribbons (lanyards) to donated finishers’ medals (marathons, triathlons, half marathons and triathlons) and award them to children and adults for the mettle and courage they demonstrate battling cancer, chronic illness, trauma and other life challenges.
Unbeknownst to us, C had started a local chapter of Medals 4 Mettle, and was giving the first donated medal to our little E.

E's generously donated medal from Krista DuChene & Medals 4 Mettle.
C explained the connection between the video, and the medal:

Krista DuChene is a Canadian mother, dietician, and Olympian. In 2014, she fractured her femur defending her title at the Canadian Half Marathon Championships in Montreal. To fix the fracture, she required emergency surgery. In April 2015, after a mere 11.5 months of recovery and rehabilitation, Krista returned to the sport and raced in Rotterdam, Netherlands. Her time of 2:29:38 was her second fastest marathon, and qualified her as the first Canadian to race in the Olympic Women's Marathon in 20 years.

The medal you see above is the same medal that Krista won in Rotterdam, which qualified her for the Olympics. Krista included a wonderfully written note along with the medal, and we found the entire gesture to be thoroughly heartwarming.

My wife and I had contacted Krista privately to thank her for her generous donation, to let her know how this memento recognizes the difficulties associated with E's cancer and chemotherapy treatments. It was beautiful and selfless for her to donate something of such great personal value to a family and a little boy that she didn't even know. I want to now thank her publicly, and to let her know that this medal hangs on a wall in E's room where he can see it every day. When he is old enough to understand, we will tell him Krista's story, where the medal came from, and how it came to be in his possession. On behalf of E, thank you Krista.

Medals 4 Mettle
Medals 4 Mettle GTA Chapter
Krista DuChene 
Krista DuChene - Marathon Mom

2017-12-04

29) Where we stand (Delayed Intensification)

A couple of weeks ago E finished his last chemotherapy treatment in the Interim Maintenance phase.

Following an almost two week break, he had bloodwork done, and started the Delayed Intensification phase on Wednesday November 29th. Delayed Intensification is a bit similar to the first phase, Induction, where the treatment is a bit more intense with the aim of hitting the leukemia, and hitting it hard to knock down any of the little bastard cells that still might be lingering. Delayed intensification means another round of dexamethasone (a steroid) which makes E cranky, moody, hungry, and restless. Most of the steroid side effects are on his personality, so it can be quite difficult to keep your patience when they seem constantly unhappy, and won't let themselves or you sleep. Today we were at SickKids for more chemo, a drug referred to as PEG-asparaginase. Referred to as PEG, this is one of the more concerning drugs with scary side effects. Administering too much of this drug, or administering it too quickly can result in permanent hearing loss. There is also increased risk of stroke with this drug. It also has a nasty side effect of causing reactions in patients, ranging from hives all the way up to anaphylaxis. In fact, right before E was due to receive his dose, a child in a room beside us had some sort of reaction, and a number of nurses went running to help. The child ended up being fine, but it puts an extra knot in your stomach when your son is due to receive his chemo.

E double fisting cookies while receiving chemo.

Today was quite a day. It started overnight with E waking up and keeping us up for half the night. I swear he's purposely trying to sabotage things on the days when I have to drive downtown. We were supposed to be at SickKids for 9 AM, but didn't arrive until 10:15 because we slept in due to E having us awake, and also wrestling with the 3 year old to get him off to daycare. We weren't expecting today's drug to be the PEG, and given that this was only the second (and last) time he received it, we had forgotten that it was a process. The drug has an extremely short lifespan, and isn't made until we arrive at the hospital. The pharmacy must have been busy today, and we had to wait about 2 hours after arrival for the drug to be made. Administering the drug is an hour-and-a-half process, and because of the potential for allergic reaction, you have to stay an additional 2 hours after the PEG has been infused. We left the house this morning at 9 AM, and we were finally finished and cleared to leave by 5:30 PM. Sitting in rush hour traffic to get home, we walked through the door a few minutes after 7 PM. We had to contact my mother-in-law to collect J from daycare because we quickly realized that it wasn't a short visit, and there was no way we were going to make it home on time. Through this whole ordeal with E's diagnosis, I've learned to be more patient and tolerant of hospital visits and waiting. Today was something else though, 10 hours of sitting in traffic, and waiting around for chemo, including a 3.5 hour stretch when we had to keep a 19 month old amused and confined in a room while he was hooked up to an IV. Quite an exhausting day that pushed us to our limits, and tested our patience for patience.

2017-12-03

28) Not-so-fun facts about childhood leukemia

  1. Parents with babies or toddlers will need to wear gloves during diaper changes for 48 hours after a chemotherapy treatment so they are not exposed to the chemicals that are excreted through their child's urine and feces.
  2. A simple fever will mean a trip to SickKids or your satellite hospital with the potential of admission to determine the source of infection and whether it requires antibiotics.
  3. During the course of treatment, a 3 days per week dose of antibiotics is required to prevent a type of pneumonia to which oncology patients are susceptible.
  4. The drugs used to treat your child can have potential side effects including jaw pain, headache, mouth sores, dizziness, hair loss, nausea, and vomiting.
  5. Potential scarier side effects include bloody urine or stool, seizures, trouble breathing, blood clots, and stroke.
  6. Potential late term (down the road) effects include joint damage, weak bones, neurocognitive deficits, heart problems, and infertility.
  7.  Even when your child is in remission, there is an underlying fear of relapse or of secondary cancers.

2017-11-28

27) Giving Tuesday

If you're making any charitable donations on Giving Tuesday or this holiday season, please consider (in no particular order):


or any of the other great organizations that support children who have cancer and their families.

Thank you.

2017-11-26

26) Big ugly cry

I cried yesterday for probably the first time since E was diagnosed with leukemia.

My parents had driven out to watch J and E for us so that we could take a break for a few hours. We were in the car, on our way to lunch and a movie when it happened. It was a big, ugly cry, one where my wife asked if I needed to pull over. I managed to get my emotions back under control, and we continued on our way.

The last month has been pretty awful. It's been sickness after sickness for E, with his brother J also getting in on the action. J has been ramping up his antisocial behaviour at both daycare and at home. It has been going on for a little more than 2 years, and we're at our wit's end about what to do. Name an avenue, and we've probably tried it with J. Every day last week, he attacked one of his classmates, and Friday morning was the meltdown to end all meltdowns about not wanting to go to daycare. To say the least, we've been under quite a lot of stress that's over and above the stress you have when your child has cancer. I'm having problems both falling asleep and staying asleep; my overtiredness has done nothing to help my mental state. I've been experiencing heart palpitations, random chest pains, and generalized anxiety. When I wake up in the middle of the night, I lie in bed and my whole body vibrates, as if a physical manifestation of my stress. My wife and I are both concerned about J's almost daily outbursts and moodiness, but I can't begin to have an in-depth discussion about it. My head hurts, and my brain just shuts down. My plate is full, and I can't take on anything else.

I feel that my existence in the last 4 months has been a dichotomy. I've experienced unbelievable lows, but happy moments as well. There are times of unbearable stress, but also times of almost inner peace. I feel both empathetic, and detached: I'm bothered to see that E is screaming and upset while the nurses access his port, but I don't have an emotional response. I feel numb, and coldhearted.

My family doctor tells me that this is a normal response to a situation like ours. It's the brain's way of protecting itself so that you can move past the stress in order to survive get things done. I suppose her explanation alleviates some of my worries that I'm broken or that something is wrong with me, but it's difficult. I still can't help but think that I shouldn't feel so emotionally detached, or guilty over some of the dark thoughts that pop into my head.

Seemingly, I hit my breaking point on Saturday. My stressors got the best of me and the emotions and tears came flooding out. And yes, I did feel better afterward.

2017-11-16

25) Treatment versus the fight

You may have noticed that whenever I'm writing about E's leukemia, I abstain from using "the fight", or "the battle" type metaphors. When you have cancer, you undergo treatment, be it surgery, chemotherapy, immunotherapy, radiation, or some combination. Your outcome is affected by how well your cancer responds to treatment. There is no fighting going on, and in my humble opinion, I could argue that the body's cellular & DNA repair system has lost its battle given the fact of a cancer diagnosis.

So far, we have been lucky in that E's leukemia has responded well to his chemotherapy, and his doctors and oncologists have been happy with all of his bloodwork and tests. In terms eliminating the cancer from his body, E is not fighting: the chemo is doing all of the work. He receives his treatment, and the chemical concoction hopefully does its job and kills every Goddamn cancerous cell in his body.

That being said, there are still fights and battles going on, they are just happening on a personal and emotional level rather than at the cellular level. Some days I have to fight to get out of bed and face the day. Others, I need to battle for patience when J throws his dinner plate on the floor because he doesn't want cucumber today. It's about pushing yourself to smile for your kids when you don't feel like smiling. It's making them laugh and giggle when all you want to do is cry, or crawl back into bed and hide under the covers. It's having the energy and motivation to cook a fresh meal in order to stay healthy, when all you want is to buy takeout and stress eat burgers and poutine. It's recognizing the stress that your spouse is also shouldering, and giving them a break when they're too close to the tipping point. It's taking E to the hospital 5 times in 7 days when your household is overwhelmed by germs and you can't deal with going again, but you have no choice. It's trying to calm your unquiet mind and soothe your anxiety when your life feels reduced to waiting on test results. It's being stressed out because E can't tell you if he's in pain, or nauseous, or feeling unwell and the only way he can let you know something is bothering him is by crying. It's the unfairness of having your son diagnosed with this terrible disease at only 15 months of age. It's the worry that J may be feeling scared, anxious, jealous, or sad about E's diagnosis, and he doesn't yet have the skills to verbalize and deal with these emotions. It's the sick feeling in your stomach that (if/when) he's cured, the cancer could one day come back, and E will need to be tested yearly for the rest of his life. It's hoping that the side effects of the toxic chemotherapy drugs won't give E a chronic lifelong condition. It's knowing when you and your spouse have reached your limits, and you need to ask for help so you both can take a mental break. It's the guilt that his condition could be my fault because he has half of my DNA. It's the torment of worry that this disease could take our son. All of these things are fights and battles, and they will test you on a daily basis.

A cancer diagnosis requires: 1) treatments and 2) fights/battles. Treatments are for the disease, and battles are for living your life through the treatments. Intertwined yes, but it is important to separate the two.

2017-11-10

24) We make our way as best we can

It's November and the number of days left in 2017 grows short. It's been about 3.5 months since E's diagnosis. July 22nd feels as though it happened both yesterday and ages ago. Transporting myself back to that awful day, I could not picture my life 3.5 days out, let alone 3.5 months. I sometimes don't know how we've manged, but on the other hand, there is no other option, so we make our way as best we can.

Life has been unsettled, especially since Thanksgiving. E has been through so much with chemo, hand-foot-mouth, croup, a fever, a cold, a lumbar puncture, and more chemo. We've spent so much time at the hospital, it feels like we should have our own ID badges. It's difficult to watch your child constantly get knocked down. And yet, he still smiles and laughs, and wants to run around and play.

I've been feeling extra stress and anxiety as of late, and I've been having problems sleeping at night. E has us up 2 - 3 times in the overnight hours because he's hungry, or unsettled, but my insomnia problems are in addition to waking up with him. When I do sleep, at least this past week, I seem to be plagued by a recurring dream: I'm being stalked or harassed by a dangerous person or entity. I wake up to the inky blackness of late autumn, and the details seem unclear and evaporate quickly. It never seems to be exactly the same dream twice: the people and setting will change, but I'm always pursued by someone or something who is bad or evil. The dream stuck with me a bit more last night, and today I've had the resulting swirling thoughts in my head. My sleep has been terrible, and I honestly don't know how I got through this week since I feel like I can barely function. I cast a critical glare whenever I see my reflection; the dark circles under my eyes, or my sunken cheeks must give people pause when I approach. Don't worry, I might look and feel like a zombie, but I am most definitely not going to eat your brain.


2017-11-01

23) All Hallows' Eve

2017 was the first time in years that I did not carve a pumpkin for Halloween.

The month of October has been quite trying for our household. Our older son, J seemed to bring home from daycare every sickness and virus known to humankind. What J brings home, E will catch. Unfortunate how the older brother is so generous to share his germs, but not his toys. We've had at least 3 colds run through the house, as well as a bout of croup, and hand-foot-and-mouth disease. In the last 6 days, we've had to make 5 visits to the hospital. In my last post, we had returned from the hospital after E's chemo treatment.

E looking out the window of the 7th floor POGO lounge while waiting for his chemo treatment. Orange (for leukemia awareness) cape lovingly made by his godmother.
Not long after returning home, we had to turn around and head back because he had developed croup and needed to be checked out. A mask of atomized epinephrine, an oral dose of dexamethazone, and 6 hours later, we were finally discharged around 12:30 AM. The next morning was a follow-up visit to the hospital to check on his croup.

Poor E was plagued by vile diarrhea over the weekend, and Monday was another trip in to the hospital for a check-up because it had been going on for 3 days. Bloodwork was done, and a stool sample taken to culture. The blood came back fine, and the stool would probably be a 3 day wait for results.

Monday night, around 11:30 PM, E woke up, and he was feeling warm. An armpit reading taken by thermometer confirmed a fever, and we contacted SickKids to get an oncologist to call us. We stripped E down to just his diaper and brought him into our bed. By the time the oncologist contacted us, E's temperature had dropped a bit, and he was no longer registering a fever. It was determined that the best course of action would be to spend the rest of the night at home, with a trip to the hospital on Tuesday morning.

Tuesday at the hospital, more bloodwork was done, and a urine sample was taken. Surprisingly, the blood once again came back fine. The urine culture results would not be ready for a couple of days. After the hospital visit, we made a dash to my in-laws' house for Halloween. E was dressed up as a pumpkin, but we didn't take him out of the house. J was a vampire, and had a great time trick-or-treating with his cousins. That's what I like to see. This horrible disease is taking its toll on our family, but I still want J to do and experience regular kid things even though his brother is sick.

The POGO lounge door, decorated for Halloween
It's now Wednesday night, and there's been no hospital trips today. It's a suspected viral or bacterial infection, but likely more viral since E's nose is now running, he has a cough, and the diarrhea is starting to get under control.

October was a difficult month. Especially the last week. We couldn't even manage to carve a pumpkin due to the sicknesses and running around due to sicknesses. J was so excited for Halloween this year, and I'm glad that he was able to enjoy it, and I hope that he found it extra special because he was with family.

I can probably also speak for my wife when I say that the challenges of the previous month were enormous. We're anxious, we're frazzled, we're exhausted, and we're drained. But we made it through. Barely. Now it's a new month, and the calendar is flipped to a new page.

November, please take it easy on us.

2017-10-26

22) Ubuntu

Today was a chemo day for E. Instead of traveling to SickKids, we went to our satellite centre. While at SickKids, E receives care at the likely soon-to-be-renamed Sears cancer Clinic. POGO (Pediatric Oncology Group of Ontario) has a Provincial Pediatric Oncology Satellite Program where some treatment is provided at a hospital closer to home. Our satellite centre is Scarborough Centenary.

To document something that likely amuses me and only me, for the third straight visit, the LCD on the machine at the parking gate was displaying the GRUB bootloader. Yup, the hospital, or company that administers the parking at the hospital runs Ubuntu, and the machine that controls the information display at the parking gate is stuck at the bootloader, waiting for input. I find it amusing to see the different places where Linux and open source software pops up.

The view from the 7th floor POGO clinic, facing north.
 
E has been fighting both a cold and Hand-Foot-Mouth disease, so we were quite surprised when bloodwork came back within normal ranges. They decided to proceed with chemo, so a dose of vincristine as well as a dose of methotrexate were administered. Shortly afterward, we were on our way home.

2017-10-21

21) Gord

What more can I say about Gordon Edgar Downie that hasn't already been tweeted, written, or spoken in the past couple of days? Gord Downie died in the evening hours of Monday October 17th, 2017, and the news broke the next morning a little before 9 AM. I'm going to write a bit about what he, and his band meant to me.

I missed the first Tragically Hip EP, and their first two LPs. I recall becoming aware of the band when "Fully Completely" was released and "Locked in the Trunk of a Car" was getting radio airplay. I remember buying the album on cassette a while after it had been released. Those were the pre-internet days, and you would hear singles from the album on the radio, or MuchMusic if a video had been made, but really nothing else from the rest of the album. You had to either really like the band, or had heard and liked a couple of the album singles if you didn't want to chance on buying a stinker. By that time, I had liked enough of the the aforementioned "Locked ...", as well as "Courage", and "At the Hundredth Meridian" that I decided to buy "Fully Completely". For a young person, trying to find his place in the world, "Fully Completely" was an album that gave a sense of place. Singing songs with references to Jaques Cartier, the CBC, prime ministers, corduroy roads, the Leafs, etc., here was a band whose lyrics spoke of my country. Canada. This nation, with an inferiority complex, often looking for American or world validation. The Tragically Hip were telling our own stories for better, or for worse.

After a culture shock of a move from a small northern Ontario town of 1 200 to a bustling southern Ontario suburb of 500 000, one thing my peers still had in common was a love of The Hip. "Day For Night" through "Trouble at the Henhouse" through "Phantom Power", The Tragically Hip were at the height of their musical power, at least for me. Still having their moments, "Music @ Work", "In Violet Light", "In Between Evolution", "World Container", and "We Are The Same" were all very good albums, but to me at least, didn't quite equal the heights of "Fully Completely" through "Phantom Power". In my mind, The Hip made not one, but two perfect albums: "Fully Completely", and "Phantom Power". I can listen to those two LPs from start to finish, without skipping a single song, and I feel that any song off of either album could have been a potential single.

I also followed Gord's solo albums, from the quirky "Coke Machine Glow", to the more polished albums "Battle of the Nudes", and "The Grand Bounce". Around 2012, I had a bit of a falling out with The Hip. I heard "At Transformation" from their new album "Now For Plan A", and it just didn't grab me. Worse than that, after listening to the album on the band's Soundcloud page, I got such a been-there, done-that vibe that I fell out of love with The Hip. Suddenly, I felt as though I couldn't listen to the band anymore. This happens to me from time-to-time. I'll overplay an artist, and have to put them aside for a little while, but I will eventually come back to them. I was on the fence still, after hearing about "Man Machine Poem". The album title shares the name of a song included on the previous "Now For Plan A" which had not impressed me. But the first single "In a World Possessed by the Human Mind" really grabbed my attention, and I found myself falling for The Hip once again.

I was completely shocked on Tuesday May 24th, 2016, when I turned on the TV in the morning and saw the scrolling news ticker announce that Gord Downie had an incurable form of brain cancer. The Hip were a band that I had always just expected would be around, but now they had a definite end on the horizon. On the surprising side, Gord's illness be damned, they were going on tour! For the next few days and weeks, I played the hell out of every Hip album that I owned. I made a half-hearted attempt to get tickets to a show on the Man Machine Poem Tour, but with a 2 year old and a newborn at home, attending one of these shows was not going to be a reality for me. I made my peace with the fact that my last time seeing The Hip would be the Canada Day show I saw at the Budweiser Stage Molson Amphitheatre in 2004.

September 2017 came around, and my youngest was 2 months into his own cancer diagnosis. In the process of reading about my own son's illness, I had stumbled across an article about Gord and his cancer. I doubt that I'd be able to find it again, but the article spoke about Gord's treatment, and how the options that he chose would give him up to a 5 year life expectancy. Not even a full 4 weeks after reading this, would his disease come to take Gord from his loved ones.

This week has been a rough one. On top of both J, and E being sick with hand-foot-and-mouth disease, a hospital visit for E because of a fever, and consequently little sleep for us, Gord Downie passed away. It's not the same disease; E has leukemia, and Gord had gliboblastoma. Two very different cancers with two different prognoses. Comparing them would be like comparing apples and oranges, but at the base level, they are both cancers. I found myself alternately heartbroken for Gord's family & friends, and worrying about the mortality of my 17 month old. Nothing has happened or changed in E's diagnosis or prognosis, but hearing that this horrible abso-fucking-lutley terrible disease has taken someone away from their family, leaves you extra weary and worried for your own loved one.

And yeah the human tragedy consists in the necessity of living with the consequences under pressure, under pressure.

2017-10-10

20) The look

I noticed it for the first time today.

The look.

The look of pity when someone sees your child, and realizes that they are sick and dealing with a serious disease.

We had a few errands to run and were out in a store when I noticed a woman look over at my son. She didn't notice me watching, but her gaze didn't linger on E for very long. She cast her eyes downward and her mouth tightened up into a frown. This was the first time I've noticed someone flash a look of pity at my son, and I don't know how to feel. I'm not angry, or annoyed, or irritated, but I hadn't noticed a random person recognizing the seriousness of my son's illness before, and I'm not sure what to think.

E doesn't have any hair right now. It started falling out in mid to late August, and we shaved his head rather than watch it get patchy and disappear. Normally when we are out with him, he's wearing a hat. For most of September, and thus far into October, the weather in Southern Ontario has been fantastic. It was a warm day today, and we left his hat at home because we knew he wouldn't be cold. I've recently been wondering what people see when they look at him and see his bald head. Do they see him as a seriously ill little boy, or do they see him as a big-for-his-age infant who hasn't had his hair grow in yet? I may be biased because he's my son, but I genuinely think that he looks cute without his hair. I think it makes him look younger than his 17 months, and I almost don't recall what he looked like before his hair started falling out.

Seeing "the look" tells me that people recognize what our family is going through. I guess I don't have to have it all figured out in terms of what to think, or how to feel. He has cancer, and people recognize it as such. We're not trying to hide it, and we're not embarrassed by it. It is just a strange, almost out-of-body experience when you can see your own situation as observed through the eyes of another.

2017-10-09

19) Giving thanks

October 9th, 2017. Thanksgiving. At least here in Canada anyway. Despite having my second born diagnosed with leukemia on the day he turned 15 months old, I still feel like we are lucky. I feel that should give thanks and list a few of the great things in my life:

  • I have two wonderful boys, and a wife, all of whom love me unconditionally
  • I have a roof over my head, and food in my belly
  • I have a good support system which includes family through both blood & marriage, as well as friends
  • an overwhelming number of people reached out to offer support and kind words when the news of E's leukemia diagnosis broke
  • the same overwhelming number of people are all standing with us, optimistic for E's recovery
  • there is an entire team of doctors, nurses, and staff who are all working together to ensure that my little E receives the best treatment that he can receive
  • we have access to a world class children's hospital such as SickKids
  • I live in a country like Canada where we have universal healthcare so we do not have the additional burden of worrying about how to afford hospital bills

Happy Thanksgiving FVCKcancer readers!

2017-10-08

18) Applesauce

Anyone who may have found this blog who is also the parent of a cancer patient knows about Sulfamethoxazole/Trimethoprip a.k.a. Septra. Septra is an antibiotic which is prescribed to cancer patients to take 3 days per week as a preventative measure against pneumonia. These parents would also know that there is currently a shortage of the liquid version and that the drug, as of September/October 2017 is only available in pill form, at least in Southern Ontario. Not really a problem if you have an older child, but if you have a toddler, then it becomes a bit more difficult.

We bought a pill crusher to crush the Septra pill into a powder, and then we have to mix it in with E's food. The problem is that the pill is apparently quite bitter after being crushed and it causes the food to have an off-taste, which means he doesn't want to eat it. E still mostly eats baby food due to an aversion to textures, so we've tried sneaking it in to his pablum, his meats & veggies, and his fruit. Nothing has really worked so far. He always tastes the pill.

I recently found the secret to getting him to eat food with the crushed pill: applesauce. I don't know if it's the taste, the acidity, or whether it's just a little less processed than baby food fruit, but he eats it without problem. If anyone happens to be reading who is also the parent of a young cancer patient, I hope this advice can be of some help.

17) Third time's a charm & the end of the beginning

At SickKids, on Friday October 6th, E had his third complete blood count (CBC) test in 10 days. This time his neutrophil counts were good, and we were able to proceed to the Interim Maintenance phase. Neutrophils are the mature white blood cells that do most of the work fighting infection, so the oncologists want them to be above a certain level before beginning a new phase of chemotherapy. The chemo will attack the leukemia cells, but it will also indiscriminately attack the neutrophils, which will bring his immune system down. A low immune system means a trip to and likely a brief hospital stay should E come down with a fever.

His counts were good, so we had to wait around for the pharmacy to make the vincristine and methotrexate. After a long 1.5 hour wait for blood results followed by a 3.5 hour wait for pharmacy to make E's chemo, we were finally called to the IV room. E was given his chemo through his port and was actually quite relaxed during. Normally he despises the IV room, since it is the room he is poked with a needle to access his port. Since we were downtown and didn't get finished up until around 4 PM, we were worried that we might not be able to make it home to pick up J from daycare before it closed due to rush hour traffic. Luckily, my mother-in-law was able to help us out and pick him up. All in all, a successful but exhausting day.

One other interesting thing we found out about on Friday was the end of maintenance. The oncologist we saw on Friday, a really nice doctor who originally hails from Tennessee, told us that E's last day of Maintenance will be 3 years from today, assuming his bloodwork was fine and that he started Interim Maintenance. The bloodwork was fine, and chemotherapy was started, so October 6th, 2020, a Tuesday, will be E's last day of Maintenance, and after that he will hopefully be cancer-free.

Three more trips around the sun. 2020 seems quite a long way off. There's undoubtedly going to be plenty of ups and downs along the way. Progress, setbacks. Laughs, tears. Stress. But it does sort of feel like a new chapter. Like the end of the beginning.

2017-09-30

16) Exercise in positivity

We've been through quite a bit in the last 9 weeks since E's diagnosis. There's a lot going on including exhaustion, worry, heartache, stress, and E waking us up 2 - 3 times a night because he is generally restless from dusk to dawn. There is plenty of uncertainty and negativity in our lives right now, so I thought I would try a small exercise in positivity and list a few things about my boys that make me smile.

J:
  1. how he waves, and yells goodbye to his friends when he's picked up from daycare
  2. how he is starting to understand humour and gets a look of pride on his face when he's done or said something funny to make us laugh
  3. how he always wants to help out whether we need it or not
  4. how he loves to hug and kiss his little brother
  5. how he spontaneously will hand a toy to E which makes us think that maybe he's starting to get the hang of this whole sharing thing
  6. how he will use a big word in the proper context when we didn't even know he understood what it meant

E:
  1. how he loves animals so much and lets out a little squeal and points when he spots one outside.
  2. how he smiles and his whole face just beams and lights up the entire room
  3. how he starts barking whenever he sees a dog
  4. how he is just soaking up language when he'll try to parrot words we say to him
  5. how he starts dancing when my wife has her boom-boom-boom radio stations playing
  6. how he is so emotive with his little face

2017-09-28

15) Stumble #3

In a previous post I had written about E coming down with a fever, and having to stay in the hospital for 2 nights. Stumble #1. A couple of days after that incident, we wound up in emerg in the wee hours of the morning because we were concerned about him having an intussusception. That was stumble #2. This is the story of stumble #3.

We were told at the beginning that there would be some stumbles along the way. Bloodwork would reveal counts that weren't quite right, and treatment would have to be delayed until levels balanced themselves out.

On Tuesday, we were sent in to check E's blood at our satellite hospital, Scarborough Centenary. It was a quick trip: park, blood drawn, leave. They called us later to say that E's results had come back and everything was fine. We could proceed to SickKids on Wednesday for our scheduled appointment, and the beginning of the Interim Maintenance 1 phase. SickKids will send you to your satellite hospital the day before beginning a new phase of treatment to save you a trip all the way downtown if bloodwork shows that one of the markers they watch is not at the correct level.

On Wednesday, we packed up for the drive to SickKids. 1 hour and 50 minutes after pulling out of our driveway, we were in the SickKids parking garage. We made our way up to the 8th floor and had more blood drawn. After blood, we had a brief sit in the waiting room of the Sears Cancer Clinic before we were called in to see our nurse and oncologist. Our nurse measured E's height and weight, and our oncologist talked to us about the Interim Maintenance 1 phase, examined E, and asked us if there were any concerns. Once that was done, we had another sit in the waiting room until we were called to have a dose of chemotherapy administered to our son. Instead of being called to the treatment room, we were called back to reception. Here, our oncologist told us that one of the markers they measure in E's blood (neutrophils) was fine yesterday, but by today had dropped to a level where it is not recommended to start him in the next phase. They suspect that he may have picked up a cold or some other virus.

I completely understand. I want E to be fully ready to start a phase of treatment. I don't want him to start anything if his counts are too low. But I do want things to progress. I want to know that E will be okay. I want our lives to return to some semblance of normalcy. I want to worry about regular parental worries rather than the results of his bloodwork, or how well his leukemia is responding to the chemotherapy. I want.... I suppose that I just feel frustrated. Frustrated that we wasted not one, but two trips to 2 separate hospitals only to be postponed. It's not anyone's fault, it's just one of those stumbles they told us about back at the beginning. E has a few days for his immune system to rev up, and we're going to try again next week to see if he's ready for Interim Maintenance 1. What else can you do but try and move forward?

2017-09-21

13) Brain of J

I started writing not long after coming home from our stay at SickKids with E. It felt therapeutic to be able put words down and to write about how the experience was making me feel. For the most part, the focus of my writing is about E, and myself. My wife, and eldest son, J are both referenced, but so far, they seem to be minor characters. E's condition doesn't just affect me, it affects the whole family. I thought I would take a moment to write about J, and reflect upon my thoughts and fears about how his 3.5 year old brain is processing his brother's leukemia diagnosis.

J knows that E is sick. We haven't come out and used the words "cancer", or "leukemia" to him, but we've explained to him that his brother is sick and we need to go to the hospital so that E can get special medicine so that he can get better. It is mentally and physically exhausting to care for E. I try to keep spirits up, and will act silly, or look like a fool just to make my kids laugh or smile. After a while, the insomnia, stress, worry, nighttime wake ups with E, hospital trips, etc. just drag you down. I find that on my bad days, I don't have as much patience for J and E that I would have before this ordeal. I just want for the both of them to have as normal and as happy childhoods as they possibly can. I worry that they'll grow up and harbour some sort of resentment or animosity toward me. I'm trying to find the strength. I'm trying to keep life normal for them. I'm trying to keep smiles on their little faces and laughter coming out of their little mouths. I'm trying, but this is unfamiliar territory and I don't know if I'm doing a good job. Ultimately, my biggest fear is that I'll fail them.

I really feel for J during this ordeal. He's at an age where he probably understands more than what we think he does, but he's also at an age where he doesn't have the vocabulary to effectively communicate his thoughts, fears, and stresses. During our initial 9 day stay at SickKids, J was cared for alternately by both sets of grandparents. He missed a whole week of daycare. During the induction phase, we had two weekly trips to SickKids. A couple of times, we needed to get my mother-in-law to pick him up from daycare because we wouldn't be back in time. During this month's consolidation phase, we had three weeks in a row where E was required to have a lumbar puncture, which required us to be at SickKids for 8:30 AM. 8:30 in the morning doesn't seem too bad, but it is very tricky when 1) you have a 3.5 year old to drop off at daycare and the earliest you can drop him off is at 6:30 AM, and 2) your route takes you on highway 401 and the Don Valley Parkway, both notorious traffic hellholes. Something had to give, so we asked family for help. My mother, my mother-in-law, and my visiting-from-BC sister were able to help us out by sleeping over to care for J in the morning, and to get him to daycare. You can only imagine how heartbreaking it was to return from the first scheduled lumbar puncture and hear J say "mommy, you left me" in reference to our early morning exit before he was awake. He seemed to be regressing in some of his behaviours, and he was also trying to sleep in our bed most nights, something he hadn't done in several months. We guessed that he wanted to sleep in our bed so that he would notice us wake up and go with us.

J is a great kid, but he does have some behavioural issues. Similar to myself, he seems to have issues with anxiety and stress. Daycare can be difficult for him, particularly when we drop him off, and during playtime. He seems to have issues when other kids invade what he considers his personal space, and he becomes overly possessive of toys. In both instances he'll physically lash out at the other kids, or scream, or both. At the time of E's diagnosis, we initially thought we may want or have to pull J out of daycare in order to minimize germ exposure to his immunocompromized brother. Staff at SickKids encouraged us to keep J's life and routines as normal as possible, and to keep him in daycare if he was already enrolled. He's been at his daycare for a little more than 2 years, and we love the facility and staff. It may be difficult for him at times, but overall, we feel that attendance and socialization with other children are beneficial to him. There's been a number of recent changes for him at daycare, which I worry is exacerbating some of his behaviours. J is a boy of routine, and he doesn't like it when life deviates from his normal. He has a new teacher in his class, and a number of friends recently graduated and started attending junior kindergarten. On top of that, a new crop of kids has arrived, and I think he feels a little out of sorts due to things being fluid rather than solid. One good thing for him has been his best friend, a little girl, whom I not going to give an initial of her name to respect her and her family's privacy. They have been friends since the beginning, back when he started in the toddler room as 18 month old. They play together every day, and he is very protective of her. Sadly, just yesterday we found out that she will be leaving J's daycare at the end of September. He doesn't know that she is leaving yet, and it breaks my heart to think of him being there without his best friend. I worry if he will understand what it means. Will he think that she's sick or on vacation? Will he start looking or asking for her when she's been gone for a couple of weeks? Will he be sad and upset when he realizes that she's not coming back? Or will the memory of her just fade away until it's as if they had never met? I just want him to be happy, but I also want to protect him from unnecessary hardship. I realize that you cannot control everything in life, and you can't shield your children from each and every encounter they may have with discomfort and adversity in their lives. With our family's recent struggles with E's leukemia, and all of the changes and upheavals in J's routine, his best friend leaving daycare was a life lesson that I had hoped could have been left for another time.

2017-09-15

12) Adaptation

They say that there's no guarantees in life, and I guess that's true, but I never imagined that I would be the father of a child with cancer. Nothing ever really prepares you to hear that your child has a prognosis, even if that prognosis is a good one.

We spent 9 days at SickKids and had a revolving door of doctors & nurses coming in and out of our room during our stay. Needles, bloodwork, and checks of vitals were done on E at all hours. Meals were usually based on "I should probably eat something", rather than "I'm hungry". Sleep was a rarity, and when it did come, it happened in fits & spurts, and was usually light. Since I have given up regular coffee, the initial few weeks after E's diagnosis were powered by sheer adrenaline. When our 9 days in the hospital came to an end, I was more nervous bringing E home as a cancer patient than I was bringing him home as a newborn. We returned home and spent a night all together as a family under one roof. I woke up the next morning and remarked to my wife that I felt like no time had passed since we were all together. If felt like the last 9 days had been a collective bad dream, but then reality set in.

Upon returning home, I find that some of the most difficult things to do are mundane tasks. For example, I remember my first trip to the grocery store. I recall navigating the aisles when all I could think of was my son. The words cancer and leukemia were rattling around in my head. Walking around the store felt like an out of body experience, like I was watching myself but not actually there. I became aware of all the other shoppers going about their errands. For them, nothing had changed; for me, everything had changed. I had all of this stress, anxiety, and upset bubbling up inside of me, and here I was in the grocery store, buying food to eat, with no one aware of the upheaval that had happened in my life. At the checkout, I felt hollow when replying "Good thanks, how are you?" to a cashier's inquiry of "Hi, how are you today?". How could I be okay right now? How would I ever be able to be okay again? But the "Hi, how are you today?" is just a social nicety. It's polite to ask, but no one really wants to hear the truth if the truth is less than happy.

It's remarkable how quickly we can adapt to various situations. A short 6 weeks later, and I can now wear my "Good thanks, how are you" mask in public without feelings of guilt that my words are betraying my inner thoughts. I'm not happy about it, but I no longer feel like I'm betraying my son by maintaining a calm disposition. Early on, we were told that we would have to find strength. We would need strength to support E, but also strength to make his and J's lives as normal as possible. And I try. It's incredibly difficult, draining, and exhausting, but I do my best to act silly, and to keep my boys smiling and giggling. A fly on the wall observing our family for short periods may never guess the hell that we have been through. But it's always there. Always scratching at the back of your mind, waiting for the dark & tired times to bring uncertainty and undermine your thoughts. Fvck you leukemia.

2017-09-06

11) Yellow submarine

We're now in phase II of chemotherapy, known as consolidation. Phase II for E involves 3 weeks of lumbar punctures, followed by a week of rest, followed by one more lumbar puncture.

We were at SickKids today, back in Cujo's Kids for the procedure. The day got off to a slow start. My wife was up with E at 4:20 AM this morning. I got to sleep in until about 5 AM since I was the driver, but I overslept & my wife had to wake me up. This was our first trip to SickKids in regular rush hour, and it was about what I had expected. Up until today, all trips had been in summer rush hour, which is significantly lighter than what you see from September to June.

Before going into Cujo's Kids, oncology patients get to choose a toy from a treasure box, and this is what E picked out all on his own:


Anyone who knows me, knows that I absolutely adore The Beatles. The Beatles had long been broken up when I was born, but they're a band whose music has always spoken to me. I was quite proud when E chose a Hot Wheels Yellow Submarine! My wife asked me if I wanted to keep it in the packaging as a collector's item. I shook my head, ripped it open, and handed the die-cast sub to E so that he could play. I carried him into the room and held him while the anesthesiologist put E under, then I left him in the good care of the doctors to get his lumbar puncture.

For the second week in a row, the wake-up from the anesthetic was not good. Last week, he cried and screamed. This week, he screamed and cried, and also woke up earlier than he did last week. Patients are supposed to remain lying flat for an hour after the lumbar puncture procedure so that the chemotherapy drug injected into the spinal fluid can disperse properly. He woke up after only 28 minutes, so holding a 16 month old down for 32 minutes while they're bawling and upset is quite the task. Bravo to my wife for climbing onto the stretcher with him to try and calm him down.

2017-09-05

10) Bathtime

I have a couple of other posts half-written in my head. I know what I want to say, but they're more about things that happened earlier on, or are more technical in terms of informational content. Lately, I've been thinking a bit more about the here and now, and I've been less inclined to write about the other older things.

Tonight was the first night in a little over 6 weeks that E didn't scream his head off in the bath.

E was always a little guy who loved the bath. He would splash, or play with his bath toys, or just enjoy the warm water.

Something changed after his leukemia diagnosis, and those 9 days in the hospital. I'm not sure whether it was being poked and prodded by needles and nurses, or whether the chemotherapy made his little bum burn, and the bathwater exacerbated the pain. All I know is that after we brought him home from SickKids, he wasn't our little E who loved the water anymore.

Tonight, he was back to his happy, smiling, splashing little self, and it was wonderful to see that side of him again.

2017-09-03

9) Goddamn superheroes

One of my first social media posts (a Tweet) after E's diagnosis read:

"The nurses, doctors, staff, and volunteers who work at Sick Kids are goddamn superheroes, and I'll fight anyone who says otherwise."

I also quoted it in an earlier post on this blog.

The nine days spent at SickKids were difficult. Not just from the point of view of wrapping your head around the fact that your child has cancer, but also from seeing countless other children in the hospital receiving various forms of treatment. Up on the 8th floor, all the patients you see are either hematology/oncology patients, or burn unit patients. In our section, hematology/oncology, E was one of the younger ones there, but I do recall seeing (and shedding some tears) a baby who couldn't have been more than 2 months old. Most of our time was spent in our room, but when the both of us were at the hospital, we would trade off taking breaks to get out. This helped us keep our sanity, and gave us a chance to get a bit of food even though neither of us felt overly hungry in that initial period. My heart would break on these daily excursions because you would inevitably see children hooked up to IVs or being strolled around in wheelchairs, afflicted by various illnesses or maladies.

I remarked to my wife that the staff, nurses, and doctors must be some extra special people to come in to work on a daily basis and see the things that they see. It's great that a hospital such as SickKids exists, but it's a shame that it HAS to exist in the first place. Later on during our stay, we were chatting with one of our nurses. I was telling her how I have the utmost respect for her profession, having 12 hour shifts, having to switch from day to night, and having to see all these poor babies, kids, teenagers, and families at their absolute worst. She turned the thought around on me and said she is driven by the strength and resolve she sees in so many patients and families, and said that helping us and hearing our story was inspirational. It's......I'm not even sure what is the right word to go here, maybe heartwarming? It's heartwarming to hear that someone finds your story inspirational, when on the inside, you feel like you're using chewing gum and dental floss to barely hold things together.

Goddamn superheroes I tell you.

2017-08-30

8) Coffee

Those who know me, know that I like coffee. Those who know me well, know that I arrived late to the coffee game, not actually really drinking it until 2009 when I traveled to Italy with my girlfriend (now wife), and her family. I guess that I had always tried bad, low quality coffee, so I thought that I didn't like it. Across the pond, I tried good, high quality Italian coffee and loved it. Because of that trip, I became a regular coffee drinker.

Those who know me well also know that I deal with anxiety issues. Too much caffeine & anxiety don't mix, so I've always walked that line between enjoying a cup and getting the coffee jitters.

To say the least, my stress and anxiety have been through the roof since E's leukemia diagnosis, and since this happened, I haven't had a single drop of regular coffee. I do enjoy my daily cup, and I find it comforting, almost like a warm hug in a mug without sounding too cheesy. I've switched to decaf so that I can keep up with my familiar daily routine.

2017-08-27

7) A step foward, a step back, a jump ahead, and a stumble (celebrate the small victories!)

Hm. It's been an interesting week.

On Monday, E finished the induction phase of his treatment. The 29 day course of dexamethasone was complete, so his insatiable appetite would start to taper, and his steroid-induced mood swings would start to go away.

On Tuesday, we were told that the preliminary results of his blood work tested negative for leukemia cells which is a good thing. Further results were still forthcoming, and this would determine whether E remained in the standard risk classification, or whether he would be bumped up to high risk. The prognosis is the same regardless of standard risk or high risk, but high risk is a more intensive treatment plan to beat back the leukemia.

On Wednesday, E woke up with an elevated temperature. 37.2°C. 37.5°C. Then 37.8°C, which is the magic number for a fever. Fever can be a serious condition for cancer patients, so we were told to call SickKids if E gets a fever. We called & were told to bring him in. We had a slow drive down the DVP, so we didn't arrive until about noon. We checked in to emergency, where we were fast tracked into a room. Nurses arrived to do vitals, and to draw some blood. Almost right away, we were told that they were going to admit us, and we should only be in emerg for 1.5 - 2 hours. I guess things were unfortunately busy up on the 8th floor, and all of the rooms were full, so they did not have a place for us. We waited in emerg until about 6 PM, when transport arrived to bring us upstairs. There was no room in 8A, so we were placed into a room in 8B, which is typically the ward for patients undergoing bone marrow transplants. My mother-in-law picked up J from daycare, and I returned home later in the evening. My wife stayed over at the hospital and had a difficult night, due to E's feeding schedule and the nurses' vitals schedule not meshing. She didn't get much sleep at all.

On Thursday, I had to arrange daycare pick-up coverage for J, and a ride home for my wife. My parents were able to help out. My mom came down on the train, and I had a few errands to run, so I didn't make it in to the hospital until almost 2 PM. Later in the day, we were called by E's oncologist to let us know that the minimum disease residual (MDR) test had come back negative. This was wonderful news, and it allows E to continue in the standard risk bracket in the consolidation phase of treatment. This news does not mean that E's cancer is gone, but it does mean that the number of leukemia cells in his body is below our ability to detect them. Induction had achieved its goal! Blow it out your ass, leukemia!

On Friday, I woke up for the third time around 8am, and I had a much better overnight than my wife had the previous evening. E had his vitals checked at midnight, 4 AM, and 8 AM. His feedings lined up perfectly with his vital checks, and he went back to sleep easily. One of the oncologists arrived to examine E, and he found that there was some tenderness in E's right side. We were scheduled to go have an ultrasound at 1:45 PM to check things out. The ultrasound came and went, and we returned to our room to wait. And wait. And wait. At this point, my brain had become my own enemy, and I was feeling numb and sick to my stomach, having convinced myself that the reason for the long wait to hear results was that they had found another type of cancer in E. Finally, around 5:30 PM, we were told that E had something called an intussusception, where part of the intestine folds into another section of intestine that is next to it. It can be potentially dangerous condition that can ultimately lead to an intestinal tear and infection of the lining of the abdominal cavity. The doctor told us that E's intussusception had resolved, and that we would be discharged, but we needed to watch for a number of symptoms like vomiting, "jelly stool", bloody stool, or intermittent crying. We were also told that we would have to bring him back to SickKids if the pain had not subsided in 24 hours.

On Saturday, E had not exhibited any of the symptoms, but he still had tenderness in his right side. We called SickKids & spoke to an oncologist. We were told not to worry about the tenderness, but that we should call back if he experienced any of the intussusception symptoms.

On Sunday, E woke us up at 12:30 AM. He was crying intermittently, and did not want to seem to settle down. We again called SickKids and decided to bring him in to emerg. We gathered up overnight bags for ourselves, as well as food, clothes, and the general diaper bag contents for E. Because it was the middle of the night, we also packed things for our older son J, because he would have to come with us. We loaded everything and two kids into the car, and by 1:15 AM, we were off, and arrived at SickKids near 2:00 AM. Now, when you're an oncology patient, you get the five star VIP treatment in the ER. The oncology doctor speaks to ER to let them know we are on our way, and we get to skip any lines, and are fast tracked into a room. Another ultrasound was done, along with blood and urine tests. The ultrasound showed no intussusception, but it did indicate some inflammation in the cecum, likely caused by the harsh chemotherapy drugs during the 29 days of induction. We were again discharged, and were told that he just might need a bit more time for the inflammation to subside.

All in all, quite a week with much more time spent in the hospital than we had originally anticipated. A positive takeaway includes E's appetite and demeanour returning to normal after stopping the steroid. He is much more happy and smiley, and we're quite happy to see his wonderful personality shining through. The absolute best though, is the MDR test coming back negative, showing that the level of cancer cells in his blood are below detectable levels. Early on, one of the oncologists told us that we needed to celebrate the small victories, and this is one that definitely deserves a hurrah!

2017-08-24

6) Astrology & destiny

I've always liked astrology and horoscopes. I don't believe them, and I don't see how the positioning of the sun, stars, and planets at the time of your birth has a determination on your personality, but I do find them interesting.

I'm also not the type of person who thinks things happen for a reason. Especially now. There is no possible reason why a 15 month old, or any other child would get cancer. Sometimes good things happen, sometimes bad things happen. Things happen because they happen.

How does this all fit together? Why am I talking about astrology & destiny when my son has leukemia? My thoughts were racing and swirling as they often do these days, and I noticed that E's cancer diagnosis was on July 22nd, the last day of astrological Cancer. I'm not hung up on this, nor am I reading too much into this. I don't believe that the forces of the universe, or the alignment of the sun and stars conspired to cause E to get leukemia. I don't believe there's any significance behind it, but I do find a cancer diagnosis on the last day of Cancer to be weird conincidence.

2017-08-22

5) SickKids Part II

The door to Cujo's Kids where the lumbar puncture procedure takes place

The hospital stay was awful for E, and equally, if not more awful for us. The first few days, E needed to have his blood drawn and tested three times a day. There was a revolving door of doctors, nurses, and support staff coming and going from our room. There is an incredible amount of information thrown at you in the first 48 hours. Between names, faces, drugs, side effects, tests, etc., there is little chance to keep everything straight and filed into memory. We were given a binder, the "Children's Oncology Group Family Handbook" that has everything we need to know about leukemia, tests, treatments, procedures, drugs, etc. Basically a "Leukemia For Dummies" book if I may be so blunt. Our nurses, who were amazing, checked E's vitals every 4 hours: temperature, blood pressure, and heart rate. He hated it, and screamed every single time. We also had to keep track of input/output. We had to record everything we fed him, and our nurses came in to check and weigh all of his soiled or wet diapers. They needed to make sure that he was excreting a certain percentage of everything he ate and drank. If he fell below a certain threshold, he needed to be administered a drug that would increase urine output.

During his stay, he had to have an IV. The problem with an IV and babies is that they tend not to mix very well. This proved true for E, who had to have IV his done five times. 5 times, the IV team had to come up to our room. 5 times we had to help hold him down. 5 times we had to try to soothe him while they poked his skin with a needle to look for a vein. 5 times where we had to listen to his screams and wish that we could do this in his place. The last time he broke his IV was a Friday, and the nurses said that he could just go the weekend without it as long as he maintained a certain level of fluid intake. That proved to be a blessing in disguise since the doctors allowed us to break quarantine and take him outside the hospital for a walk in his stroller on a day pass. On Saturday July 29th, we walked up to Queen's Park. On Sunday July 30th, we walked down University to Queen Street and back. Both trips would have been much more difficult, if not impossible if we had to drag an IV machine along with us.

We were told that at some point during our stay, E would be taken down to the operating room for surgery so that he could get a "port". The port is a device that sits underneath the skin of his right shoulder, and has a tube that connects to the jugular vein in his neck. A special needle punctures the skin and goes into the port. This way, cancer patients can have blood drawn, and chemotherapy administered without the need of having an IV insertion. Twice we were scheduled to have the port surgery, and twice we were bumped. I absolutely completely wholeheartedly understand being bumped so that another child who has a greater need for surgery can have access to the OR. That being said, it is frustrating to have your child bumped after a period of fasting when they're hungry and upset, and they're too little to understand why they can't have food.

On day 1 of chemotherapy (Monday July 24th), E was taken to Cujo's Kids and was put under general anesthetic for a lumbar puncture. I was allowed to carry him into the room and put him down on the stretcher. At this point, E was screaming because he knew that something was about to happen. I'm sure it's terrifying to look around and see a room full of complete strangers wearing surgical gowns and masks. They put a little non-rebreather mask over his face and turned on some sort of gas, and after a couple of breaths, he had relaxed and slipped into unconsciousness. I gave him a kiss on the cheek, and made a teary eyed exit to join my wife in the waiting area. Bone marrow was taken so that it could be tested to determine E's specific type of leukemia. The procedure drew some spinal fluid to test for evidence of leukemia infiltration. They also administered a dose of Intrathecal Cytarabine (chemotherapy drug) to the fluid in the spinal column and surrounding the brain to treat or prevent leukemia depending on whether it was present or not. The results took a couple of days to come back, but E tested negative for leukemia in the spinal fluid which is a good thing. The test on the bone marrow extracted from the lumbar puncture also took a couple of days, and it revealed that E has "standard risk B-cell acute lymphocytic leukemia", also known as B-ALL. This is the most common type of childhood leukemia, and also the easiest to treat. Later in the day, also on day 1, E received a dose of Vincristine through his IV drip. Day 1 was one of the days where both my wife and I stayed at the hospital with E instead of just one of us.

E was also given Dexamethasone, a steroid, on a daily basis to help counter some of the negative side-effects of the other chemotherapy drugs he is taking. I will address chemotherapy and the drugs in a future post.

On day 4 of chemotherapy (Thursday July 28th), E was given a dose of Pegasparagase. Day 4 was another day where both my wife and I stayed at the hospital with E instead of just one of us.

On day 8 of chemotherapy (Monday July 31st), E finally made his way to the OR. He had his port installed, had another lumbar puncture, and was given a dose of Intrathecal Methotrexate into his spinal fluid. The spinal fluid was once again checked for the presence of leukemia, and once again, leukemia cells were not detected. Later in the day, he had another dose of Vincristine, and then we were discharged to go home.

I was more scared going home with my son as a cancer patient than I was bringing him home for the first time as an infant.

2017-08-14

4) Haircut

Today is August 14th, and day 22 of induction. We were at Sick Kids again today for blood work, and chemotherapy as long as the blood results came back okay. The doctors were happy with E's white blood cell, hemoglobin, neutrophil, and platelet counts, so the chemotherapy went ahead. Later on in the day, we had a dental consult for E which also took place at Sick Kids.

Lately, E has been pulling at his hair. The doctors tell us that it is normal, and older kids who can speak, tell them that their scalp tingles. Tonight, after returning home from our appointments, E was again pulling at his hair, and it started coming out in clumps. I thought I would be more upset when he ultimately started to lose his hair, but surprisingly, I felt nothing. My wife said that it's time to shave his head, so we got the clippers, attached the #2 guard, and gave haircuts to both E, and his brother J. I was hesitant to clip it, but not because of an emotional attachment to his hair. He had a rough day today with plenty of crying and unhappy moments, so I partially wanted to spare him more grief. I was also worried that he would get so worked up that we would have to stop, leaving his hair in a partially cut mess. Things went well, and both E, and J look pretty cute with their new hairdos.

2017-08-13

3) SickKids

I don't have enough good things to say about SickKids and everyone that works there. I've said this before, and I'll say it again:

"The nurses, doctors, staff, and volunteers who work at SickKids are goddamn superheroes, and I'll fight anyone who says otherwise."

E was in the hospital from July 22nd, 2017 to July 31st, 2017. The first doctor we saw after being admitted reiterated a number of things to us:

1) this wasn't our fault; there was nothing we did, or neglected to do that caused E.'s leukemia
2) there's no way we could have guessed he had leukemia, so don't feel like we should have known or brought him in earlier
3) this is a very treatable disease, and their goal is to cure him

My wife stayed in the hospital with E on the first night. I returned home with my father to stay with my son J who was being taken care of that initial day by my mother. My mom & dad graciously took some clothes & supplies to my wife, dropping them off at SickKids on their way home. My parents returned the next day to watch J so that I could return to the hospital to be with my wife, and E. I no longer recall the exact sequence of who did what, but J was cared for by my in-laws and parents over the next 9 days. My wife and I alternated spending nights at the hospital with E, but we both stayed on the 24th, and 27th because they were days where E received chemotherapy.

On the second day we were there, our nurse informed us that we would unfortunately have to be quarantined in our room because E had a runny nose. They drew blood to culture for bacterial infection, but it eventually came back negative. They swabbed his nostrils and later confirmed that he had rhinovirus. We both began to feel a little squirrely being confined to the room, and we swapped turns taking breaks to try and retain some normalcy. There was a playroom on the 8th floor that E had loved being in before we were quarantined. We grabbed some books and toys to bring to our room so that E would have something to keep entertained. There was also a TV that had more channels than I pay for at home, and there is often something on Treehouse that will catch baby E's attention. Failing that, the hospital provides free Wi-Fi, so we could always cue up Go Jetters, or something else that E likes on YouTube.


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Time at the hospital moved both slowly and quickly if that makes any sense. In our time at the hospital, I felt quite emotional; tears, or a full on cry were never very far away. I also felt numb, withdrawn, and detached. On my way to get some food that I knew I needed, but did not want, I recall walking down the corridors to the elevator and feeling in a daze. Our lives had just been completely upended, and reality seemed off kilter. The entire time spent at SickKids was surreal. I felt as though i was watching a movie about my life. The story kept getting worse and worse, and I was powerless to fix or change anything. My son's leukemia was the first thing I thought about in the morning, and the last thing I thought about before falling asleep at night. It also preoccupied my thoughts during the day. Meals usually came from the hospital cafeteria, or more often, the onsite Subway. My mother made & sent some stew, and my mother-in-law sent some pasta & crusty bread.

2017-08-04

2) Context

Allow me to rewind so that I can frame this waking nightmare with a bit of context.

For several months, our infant son, E, had problems swallowing. Puréed foods were okay, but anything with a bit of texture, or lumps caused him to gag and sometimes vomit. Our family doctor referred us to a pediatrician. We visited the pediatrician at the end of June, and she referred us to another specialist who ran a pediatric chewing and swallowing clinic at a nearby hospital. On July 21st, we visited the pediatric specialist who thought E looked a little pale and suspected that he might be anemic, so he ordered some blood work. We also mentioned E's colouring. For a little while, we had noticed that E was starting to have a slight yellow tinge to his skin, but we attributed the colour to the sweet potato, squash, and carrots that he usually had mixed in with his lunches and dinners, so we didn't think too much of it. Before we left the clinic, we stopped at the lab with a requisition and got some blood work done.

The next morning, July 22nd, a Saturday, our pediatrician and the pediatric specialist both called our house before 9:00 AM, telling us that there had been some anomalies found in E's blood work, and that we should get to SickKids right away for further testing. Our pediatrician was the first to call, and I remember her talking about blasts in the blood, but when pressed, she would not outright say what she thought it might be. Knowing that blasts usually means cancer, I started to experience the dizziness, and muffled hearing that comes on when I'm having a panic attack, so I finished the conversation sitting on the floor.

At that point in time, my wife and I were both anxiety ridden messes, so I called my parents who live about an hour's drive away to ask if they could come out so my mom could watch our older son J, and so my dad could drive us to SickKids. Waiting for my parents was agony, and in the meantime, we received a second phone call, this one from the pediatric specialist. My wife took that call, and he was a little more open with us than the pediatrician was. He did not tell us what it was with absolute certainty, but he said in cases like this, it could be cancer, and that we needed to get to SickKids right away for further testing. I started crying, and my wife suggested that I leave the room so as to not upset our older son, J. While composing myself in our room, I overheard J asking my wife "what's wrong with daddy?", to which she replied "oh, it's okay, he's just not feeling well".

My parents arrived, and my mom stayed with J My father, my wife, E, and I set out for SickKids. We turned onto Elm St. to get to the parking garage, and I recall thinking to myself that this was a real life nightmare on Elm St. In the ER, we were fast tracked, but first went to a room so a nurse could weigh E, and get some other vitals. We then proceeded to registration, and were then led down a hallway to an observation room where we would wait to see the doctor. We were put into room 15, and I remember thinking it was good luck because E was exactly 15 months old that very day. Surely being exactly 15 months old and being put in room 15 was a sign that there had been something wrong with the initial test, and that everything was going to work out fine, right? We had a revolving door of doctors and nurses come into the room. They were asking us a number of questions such as "is there a family history of cancer?", and "has he had a persistent fever that would not go away?". More blood work was done, and we sat there waiting.

A few hours later, a doctor, with 3 or 4 of his colleagues, entered our room to break the news to us that our little man had cancer. I remember getting a quick hug from my dad, then hugging my wife. The both of us held each other and cried. I recall sobbing "What the fuck? What the fuck?" over and over.

Shock. Horror. Numb. Broken. Devastated. This came out of nowhere. He seemed to be a normal, happy kid. Sure, his skin was a little bit yellow as of late, but that must have been due the carotenoids from all the squash, sweet potatoes, and carrots he loves to eat. Sure, he had been a little bit more fussy in the past 3 weeks, but must have been due to the fact he was cutting all four of his incisor teeth at the same time. Who wouldn't be a bit extra grumpy? He had boundless energy, was always on the go, we hadn't seen a persistent fever, and no one in either of our families had leukemia or any other blood disorders.

A wonderful social worker came in to speak to us, and he brought a few toys for E. He assured us that childhood leukemia is not our fault. It wasn't something that we did, or something that we didn't do. They're not sure how, or even why it happens in some individuals, but it seem to just be random and a case of shit luck. An oncologist stopped by to examine E, and speak to us. I believe E's prognosis and course of treatment was discussed, but due to the shock of the diagnosis, I only recall bits and flashes of what transpired.

Not long after speaking with the oncologist, a different oncologist arrived with transport, and took us up to the 8th floor where we would be spending the next number of days.

2017-08-02

1) The worst day of my life

"Your son has leukemia."

I don't even remember if that was the exact phrase used by the doctor, who, flanked by 3 or 4 of his colleagues broke the news to us in the emergency room at Sick Kids. After those words, everything was a blur, and time seemed to stand still for the next 10 days.