HOPE - Reprised

Doctors, nurses, and other hospital personnel, many not from our unit, hurried briskly past our room. When I stepped into the hall, I could hear an alarm sounding at the nurses’ desks, and I could see they were crowding into the room at the end of the hall.  I knew who was in that room.  It was a sixteen-year-old boy who had been fighting a long, losing battle with osteo sarcoma.  We had been in neighboring rooms during an earlier hospital stay, and I had heard him cry out in pain that could not be entirely controlled with medications.  I had talked with his mother who walked with a cane and usually wore very dark sunglasses indoors. I wondered if she was hiding her eyes so we could not see her pain.  I spoke with her a few times and learned that her husband had died suddenly within the last two years while her only child was fighting cancer.  She told me the doctors had told her there was nothing more they could do for him, and they were just trying to keep him as comfortable as possible until, … well, this. 

Nurses could not confirm my suspicions because of confidentiality laws, so I did not even ask. But I knew what had happened.  His battle was over. The doctors left, and the oncology nurses began filing into his room.  A deep pain welled up inside my chest, making it difficult to get a full breath of air.  It was pain for the mother who had lost so much, pain for the nurses who had worked with him for several years and the one who was his nurse tonight, and pain for our 15-year-old roommate who, unaware of the situation down the hall, had recently received the same diagnosis.  I wept silently, wishing I had the privacy to weep openly.  It was all so real; our mortality, the roommate’s mortality, Derek’s mortality.  Life on this planet is so fragile and filled with such pain and heartache.  The previous night I had written the blog post about hope.  Now this.  Where was the hope now? It was over.  Hopes dashed.  Fears realized. A widow now left childless.  Another son of another mother just entering upon a similar battle.  What hope has he?

A little later, as I ventured out to the restroom, I found her sitting in the parents’ tiny lounge.  She wore no sunglasses now.  As I entered the room, she said softly, “He is at rest now. No more pain.  He is at peace.”  In her eyes, I could see she was at peace now, too.  Her battle as a cancer mom was also over.  She told me her son knew it was the end that afternoon and had told her to take care of their friend at the Ronald McDonald House.  She told me he had gone peacefully just after she had stepped out for a little while.  I told her she reminded me of Job. She replied, “Oh no! I am not that strong. Not that strong,” but her black T-shirt was emblazoned with the words, “God has been so good 2 me.”  Sounds like strength to me, and hope; hope that has been realized.

On my way back to our room, I encountered a favorite nurse. I hugged her, and both of us cried.  I told her that she and all the other nurses, doctors, and personnel on this unit are the bravest people I know.  Knowing the end result of some cancer cases, they still work their hardest to make life as pleasant and painless as possible.  They are masters at making kids feel special and loved, bringing laughter and smiles, building each one up to face the battles ahead.  She admitted that nights like this one are difficult, but her voice trailed off as she said, “But we have to keep going, because all of these…,” and she waved her arm around, indicating the children in all the rooms on the unit. “They are still so full of life.  We have to keep going, for them,” she added. 

It is as inescapable as death, and even realized in death.  A taste of the ultimate triumph over death is HOPE.

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Derek had to be transfused on Sunday because of low hemoglobin.  He finally cleared his chemo and came home on Tuesday afternoon. His energy level is still lower than usual, but he is doing alright.  A visit to the clinic today (Friday, March 30) indicated his ANC is good (1200) but his liver enzymes are very high (which is typical following HD MTX.) If his enzyme levels comes down by Monday, he will begin Phase 4 - Delayed Intensification with four different chemo meds, a lumbar puncture for spinal chemo, and an echo cardiogram.

Because we were still in the hospital on Monday, we celebrated Kristen's birthday in the cafeteria. I will post pictures later.