R.O.C.K. Ride - Little Bios

Chez

I'm sitting here in almost complete darkness, marveling at how my life has changed so fast. Memories unfold like a nightmare--a nightmare that never ends. ’Pauline, you'd better come here as soon as you can.’ It was the voice of the nurse from our small-town Ontario clinic. Something must be very wrong if I'm getting a call at work.

I called my husband, Phil, who was at home with are youngest son, Chesley, who had just had some blood tests done. All I could tell him was to meet me at the clinic. I notified my co-workers that I had to leave, and five minutes later, I reached the doctor's office. I had assumed that one of my other five children had suffered a school accident, or that someone had had a seizure, something our two older children had already experienced.

I asked the nurse who that had been awaiting my arrival for some information, but she only led me into a room and told me that my family doctor wished to speak to me. At that point, my husband walked in with our three year-old child. When I asked who the emergency was about, the nurse pointed at our son, Chesley, lying in his Dad's arms. We waited. How could anything be wrong? His blood had been taken just an hour ago in a nearby city.

My son jumped out of his Dad's arms, ran over to ”Mommy”, and hopped onto my lap to give me a huge hug. He had been feeling lousy every so often, lately-perhaps because of the swollen glands in his neck we had noticed, or because of the migraine headaches that made him sick to his stomach. On these occasions, he could only be calmed by being rocked in a chair and soothed. Some daily bruising had begun-mostly on his legs-- which was worrisome. ”Chez” was already scheduled to undergo a medical procedure: his testicle was to be operated on for a Hydrocele, a condition that could cause a hernia if not looked after. Unsetting, but necessary, and reasonably straight-forward.

Two days ago, the same doctor , had put him on antibiotics for the swollen glands, booked an appointment for the testicle procedure, and sent us home with an order to have blood tests done. Immunization for the much-anticipated JR. Kindergarten in the fall would wait until Chez was feeling better. All I could think about was how serious this must be, and what the Doctor was preparing himself to tell us. Under these circumstances, frightening thoughts jumped to mind with an imagined conversation punctuated by fragments like ”I'm sorry”… ”no chance”… ”we can try”… and finally, once more, ”I'm sorry” It seemed like a lifetime waiting.

When our Doctor finally arrived solemnly, to break the horrifying news, his calm demeanor made things sound more hopeful than I might have expected: ”Chesley has leukemia, but they really know what they are doing at the hospital that I am sending you to. More children live through this form of cancer than they have in the past.”

The word, ”Cancer” echoed in my ears.

My husband cried out loud and I tried to fight the tears that welled up; they were burning my eyes. I held tightly to my son with one arm, leaned down and kissed his golden locks at the top of his head. I pulled my husband closer to me, and held him as well. My heart was burning and the tears poured out, but I kept silent. I didn't wish to upset the sweet, confused little boy on my knee.

The trip home was difficult with Chesley beside me in the passenger's seat. I remember telling Chesley that ”Mommy is just sad right now”, when he asked me why I was crying. This sweet, sensitive child was sad for ME. He was singing ”You Are My Sunshine” to make his Mom feel better. How ironic, I thought. He didn't even know that he could be dying! The pain that he will experience, I can't protect him from--and he was singing to make ME feel better! My tears continued to flow for his innocence.

We have learned, in our time at the London Hospital, that symptoms of what we thought were other ailments, were caused by cancer which had invaded 83% of his body, and that, one day, he ”would've just fallen over dead”. How could we have known...aside from his migraine episodes, he was an energetic, normal three year-old. We never suspected this.

I stay awake most nights watching him breathe- just seeing his chest rise and fall is a relief. I fear that if I fall asleep, I may wake to find that he will never awaken again. And so, I don't want to miss holding him, letting him know that I am with him. I think how horrible this must be for him: endless tears of fear and pain my child experiences every day; the constant rounds of medical procedures: poking at tiny veins, changes in medication, chemotherapy, radiation, nausea. Sympathetic, compassionate nurses try to comfort him but he looks to his Dad and me to protect him. And we can only try to soothe him. Explanations and reasons are the realm of adults. Those pleading eyes… I just want to grab him and run! How do you tell a screaming, terrified child that it's in his best interest, that the people causing the pain are trying to save his life. I can no longer watch, so I leave at these times. Phil stays, and I return when the nurses leave. I feel so guilty, so helpless. I still don't know where he finds the strength.

My overwhelming sense of guilt extends to my other children as well. Cancer affects the whole family. They are in the care of my Mother-in-law, and are having daily difficulties-as children do. Juggling parental responsibilities is very difficult; you feel torn by the needs of the sick and the healthy. We had the children stay overnight at the hospital for weekends, a few at a time, and made it home for a few days to be with them while my Dad and my Mother-in-law have taken over the duties of staying with Chez.

The reality of it all is that Chez will undertake a multitude of tests, probable set-backs, radiation on his testicles to render him sterile for life, and years of chemotherapy which may leave his organs weakened for life, terrifying needles and many pints of replacement blood products. If that is not enough, he may have to endure the horrors of a bone marrow operation. I don't even try to imagine that yet! None of this guarantees his survival. Will any of this be worth it?

I hear the news almost everyday, here: another of these precious children has succumbed to this disease.

I use these nights to do all my thinking. I can escape for a few minutes outside to cry aloud, and have a cigarette so that I can be better prepared to deal with issues that need my attention during the day. I can gather my strength and emotional control by allowing myself the luxury of falling apart at these times.

I know that, as I lie here in a small cot beside his bed, my fears will never quite end. I watch my son fussing and crying out in his sleep: ”No more pokes, please!” He sits up, so I comfort him and lay his pallid, young body on the bed. I comfort myself with the knowledge that, whatever the next days bring, at least right now, in this quiet, dark night-- he is still a lucky one.

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