Diagnoseversary

When I sit down to write a blog post, I often wonder how much of our lives to put out there. How much do you really want to know? What parts of my life should I share?

What may seem trivial and mundane to a reader might be a momentous occasion in our household. Do I bother to chronicle the lemonade ice cream, courtesy of President’s Choice, we tried for the first time this weekend? (It was heavenly—pink and creamy and so tart that your cheeks suck in and your eyes squint at the mere thought of swallowing it. Mmmm.)

Do I mention that the adorable baby Crocs Hubby snatched up at the Dollarama keep falling off Avie’s feet. As tiny as those shoes are, they are still too big for her!


Should I mention that we have already had a record strawberry haul, in that this week alone, Monique and the girls have picked (and then proceeded to eat!) three mixing bowls worth of berries?


Do you really want to know about Brooke’s sniffling the other night that kept both her and I awake until 1:30 a.m.—or how I’ve lost my maternity leave paperwork amidst a growing pile of bills and invoices and other things that are on ‘to be filed’ list? (Aw, man....I was supposed to look up that Service Canada access code again today. Ah, crap!)

I guess that’s what’s great about blogging. I can keep track of what’s important to me and you can choose whether or not you want to hop along for the journey.

You may have noticed that this is my 100th post. I’ve really been toying with what I should write for this post, as I thought it should be a reflection of who I am or what this blog is supposed to represent, what it has become and what it will come to be in the future—but, let’s face it, I just don’t have the introspective quality or the energy to be that philosophical. It’s a pretty shallow pool o’er here.

But, fittingly enough, today is her diagnoseversary. (I did not coin the phrase myself, I stole that word from someone on the DisBoards. I'm adding that to my personal dictionary, for sure.) A year ago today, Hubby and I were faced with our worst fear—our child was sick. She had cancer. She would need to undergo major surgery and an intense chemo treatment schedule. Her hair would fall out. She would lose weight. Turn pale. Feel tired. Catch every illness under the sun. She would have to make weekly trips to the hospital. She would need to take nasty meds that would make her puke.

I won’t lie to you. The thought of that day still makes my stomach queasy. I hope that the vividness of the day will begin to face, but I don't think I'll ever really get rid of the fear that the cancer could come back. Although each passing scan makes the next more bearable, I know I will never be able to put that notion completely out of mind.

It was a year ago, but I remember it as clearly as if it had just happened. I remember catching "My Sister's Keeper" on the movie channel a few days before, and crying uncontrollably as I watched one sister battle renal cancer and the other insisting she would give up her own kidney if her sister would just continue to fight. The tears were many more than is typical for me in watching a movie. It seemed an omen, to me. A sign I could not shake.

I remember bathing the girls with Hubby one night before the tests began and telling him "You know, this might be the last time we have healthy kids," as he poured bubbles over their heads to laughter. He told me I was being paranoid--and blamed it on that movie I'd just seen and some residual post-partum emotions.

It wasn't. It was mother's intutition. I see that now.

I knew something was wrong. That's why I called the doctors to begin with. And, I knew it was more than just a UTI. I'm glad I followed my gut and went to the ER that night rather than wait until September for an ultrasound. It didn't let me down, although it sure as hell gave me the scare of my life.

No, I won't ever be able to forget that early Wednesday morning, when I received the call. An ultrasound spot was available at noon at CHEO. Could I make it?

Well, I wasn't about to miss it.

I had just bought popsicles at Wal-Mart, when I got the phone call. We had gone out after Avie's immunizations to buy party hats for the twins' party that weekend. We were about to go home, but as the appointment was in an hour and a half, I just decided to go straight to CHEO.

I remember thinking that my popsicles would never make it in the heat and I would come back to a gooey, melted bag of groceries if I didn't act quick, so Brooke and I sat in the parking lot and devoured as many popsicles as we could. I threw the rest of the box out when we got to the hospital.

I can still smell that scent of hospital cleanser and Purell that permeates the halls of CHEO, as we entered 'the train room' (radiology) for the ultrasound test. I can still envision the discoloured Sesame Street characters peeling off the wall of the ultrasound room, the crooked bird mobile swaying lazily over Brooke on the table. I can remember thinking that I should go to the dollar store and buy some new vinyl stickers and give them to reception to brighten up this fading room.

Time seemed to stand still in that dark, quiet room. Just the sounds of jelly being squirted, quiet giggles from Brooke, noisy snoring from Avery and the clicks of the machinery as the tech twisted knobs and tapped keys. I can still see the surreal flash in Hubby's eyes as his darted over to mine and we communicated silently our daughters' slumbering bodies.

This is taking too long. What is he looking for? Something's wrong, isn't it?

I can remember swallowing hard when Jerry, the ultrasound tech turned to us and told us to go back to ER and wait for "someone to come talk to you about the results there." That didn't seem like normal procedure to us. If there hadn't been anything, it would have been a "You'll get results next week. Have a good day" instead.

I can still feel my pulse quickening as we fairly flew to ER, anxious to find out anything. I can still see the nurse at reception shake her head at me. With a newborn who had just been immunized that morning, she wouldn't let me into the ER waiting room where we might pick up an infectious disease. I went around to the front entrance of the hospital with Avery, while Hubby and Brooke stayed behind.

I can still feel the knots in my stomach, the plastic handle of Avie's carrier cutting into the flesh of my upper arm, the plushy fur between my fingers of the monkey I bought in the gift shop, just knowing that this monkey would be hanging from a hospital bed.

It couldn't have been more than 20 minutes. I had time to pick up a magazine and a granola bar, trying to force myself to read and eat to keep from staring at the numbers tick by on my cell phone. I remember the wild look in my husband's eyes when he came looking for me. The breathlessness of his words, the way he cradled my eldest in his arms as if he would never let her go.

I can still hear the sounds of the rolling office chair scratching around on the floor as we wheeled around the waiting room trying to keep a bored two-and-a-half year-old busy, while waiting in agonized impatience for the doctor to arrive. The way the door opened and he slipped in and closed it quietly behind him. His young face, pained with the thought of having to tell us that news. The hesitation in his voice.

I wonder if we are the first family he has ever had to say that to?

I can still feel the prick of the tears that began welling in my eyes as he spoke. I remember trying desperately to suck back the tears, while Brooke wiggled in my lap. And, most of all, I hear her little voice, as she turned around to pat my cheeks with her tiny, warm baby hands and told me "Don't cry, Mommy. Don't be sad."

Those memories won't ever go away. But, they needn't be the only ones that are tied to this diagnoseversary.

This day also marks the day when we started to cure my daughter's illness. When we found and removed the tumour that would have eventually killed her. This day was the beginning of a completely different perspective on life for us. I like to think that this day changed our lives in a good way--we are better people for having undergone the dark days that followed the diagnosis.

And it has just been a year. We are very fortunate--some cancer patients are on treatment for years. Leukemia treatment plans, for example, can last as long as three years--that's an insane amount of time for families to carry such burdens. Three years? Can you imagine how financially, emotionally, physically draining that must be for everyone involved? I can't even fathom it.

Brooke only underwent chemo for six months. She never had radiation. She never had any blood transfusions. She never had any hospital admissions. She never caught any of the illnesses that are typical with low-immunity systems. Overall, she had it easy.

And, the biggest blessing of all? She has graduated into the post-treatment clinic just after New Year's. The hospital visits are fewer and farther in between. Brooke is beginning to forget the nurses' faces. Today, she is cancer-free.

I think I'll toast to that.