Death stalks these halls; we fight back
Thursday, June 05, 2014
We knew, from the look in the doctor's eyes as he came through the door.
But really, we knew before that. We knew from the way the anesthesiology doc who oversaw the MRI made sure that we were going to talk to the oncologist before we left the hospital. We knew from Rebecca's slow fading away from the world. We knew, in spite of the CT scan that had promised false hope. (I remember hearing the results of the scan and feeling depressed and a little angry with them. I wondered what the hell was wrong with me. It wasn't me; it was knowing in my gut that we were being lied to, no matter how innocently.)
Mike from Child Life came in to take Rebecca down the hall to the playroom while the doctor gave us the news. The genetic treatment had been ineffective. The tumor had grown considerably, and two of the flare sites were now larger and clearly emerging tumors. There was no point in continuing treatment, and with the metastisization, no other treatment options.
It was time to take Rebecca home and make the best of the time she has left.
The doctor asked if Kat and Eric wanted to tell Rebecca, and if they wanted him to help. They said yes. Ferrett and I left the room to give them the space they needed as a family. We didn't need to witness so private a moment. We were adrift in the hall, and Mike from Child Life offered to let us use the playroom, now deserted for the evening, to have a space to ourselves.
It's where I found myself with my hands over my mouth, my head pressed against the window, sobbing "No no no no no!" over and over again. And even as I cried, I wondered how many of the children who played with these toys are now buried in tiny graves. How many parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, siblings, friends have cried out their despair in that room? How often had hope died here? How do they go on? How do we?
The bravery of the doctors and nurses and other staff that work in pediatric oncology is lightyears beyond my ken. When the doctor came out of the room, Ferrett and I were back in the hallway. Ferrett thanked him for what he was doing, and tears welled up in the doctor's eyes. As we left the ward, all the nurses and staff who knew Rebecca came to say goodbye, knowing that they would not be seeing her again. Their caring and compassion made me both grateful and awestruck. They see this so many times. Childhood cancer steals away so many bright futures. And yet they continue to open their hearts to these children, to care. It's a humbling thing to watch so much dedication where success is so small a commodity.
Back in the fall when we did the CureSearch walk, I was amazed by the involvement of the organizers, because their daughter had died. I thought, "if we lost Rebecca, I don't think I would have the heart to continue doing something like this." And yet, even though I know that she will not be there to run and chase and laugh next fall, I *will* be doing the CureSearch walk. Because no one should ever have to go through this. And I want to do everything I can so that those toys are played with by children who go on living.