June 25
The day is etched into my memory, the details I wish I could forget. We have so much to be thankful for now. But I will never forget the sorrow of that day.
On June 24, 2003, Colin had his first MRI. I was told it appears there is a cyst around the base of his brain and further examination is needed. Colin is scheduled to come back the next day for more MRI views with and without contrast. Our pediatrician reassured us that cysts were rare but it may go away on its own or could be drained with a needle.
On June 25, I held him again as he received the sedation anesthesia through the IV in his hand and his body went limp into a deep sleep. Our nurse helped me lay him down and strap him onto the MRI table. I cried and kissed his cheek. I went to the waiting room until it was over. Pacing, praying, crying, I called Ted and couldn’t reach him. I called my mom and we talked for awhile. We hung up and I paced, prayed and cried some more. The MRI was taking too long, fifteen minutes longer than it was supposed to take. I sensed something was wrong. They must be getting more pictures, different views of his brain. I was thankful there was no one else in the waiting room but I also didn’t want to be alone. I called mom for reassurance again. We hung up and I tried to reason with myself that this wasn’t brain surgery we were facing. Even if this cyst did need to be drained, he will be okay. It’s not a major operation and he will be fine. The door finally opened and our nurse was wheeling him out. He was still asleep on the bed. I studied her face for any news. I asked her if she knows anything; she didn’t. The radiology tech has to send the films to the radiologist to read them. He will call if there is anything concerning to him.
We go back to our room on the pediatric floor while Colin recovers. An hour passes and no one has called with any news. Colin is happy, eating dry cereal and watching cartoons. Our nurse reassures me that they usually will call by now if there is anything wrong. She calls the radiology department to see if the scans have been seen yet. They will check with the radiologist and call back. Another hour passes with no phone call. Then our nurse tells us our pediatrician is coming to the hospital, that sometimes they will want to see the scans even if it is alright. I assumed everything was okay. I was anxious to leave and forget all of this.
Our pediatrician comes to our room. I thanked her for coming over to check on us and asked if she got to see his scans. She had no expression but sat down beside the bed where I was holding Colin. She takes a deep breath and tells me slowly, “There is no easy way to tell you this….there is a tumor…and it involves the brainstem. I’m so sorry”. I remember going numb, shaking, crying. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think straight. All I could do was cry and hold onto Colin. She offered to call Ted for me and I was so grateful. I couldn't imagine saying those words to him. Colin hardly noticed anything going on. He sat in front of me, content with his cereal and cartoons. This was the only time I could ever be thankful for his hearing loss in his right ear. We found out later that the tumor was growing against the right auditory nerve, resulting in a profound hearing loss on his right side. Then our pediatrician offered to have the pediatric oncologist come and talk with me. A cancer doctor? I had never put a tumor and a cyst together in the same thought. I figured it would be obvious on the first scan whether it was a tumor or a cyst. It was supposed to be a cyst they were examining.
The oncologist sat down beside me and asked if I had any questions. I tried to stop crying and focus on what we needed to do next. I couldn’t think of anything I should ask her. All my nursing education left me. I asked her stupid questions. I asked her “Is a tumor there compatible with life? Can he live with this?” The look on her face was pity. Her answers were vague and cautious. I couldn’t process much of what she told me anyway, only parts of it. “Sometimes…with treatment there is some hope…we need a biopsy…surgery may be possible...there may be options of chemotherapy…radiation…”
Colin and I left the hospital and headed home to relieve my babysitter. Ted was in Indiana starting his new job. All our family was in Ohio. And we were scheduled to move in two days from our home there in North Carolina to Indiana. I sobbed all night by myself. I kept checking on Colin while he slept. He looked so healthy and peaceful. It didn't seem possible that what I was told could be true. My heart seared with pain.
As I watched the movers pack our belongings, I thought how it symbolized packing up all of our life that we once knew. We were so happy. Our perfect life was now a mess, thrown into boxes and abruptly taken away. I thought how ridiculous it was if the movers thought I was so solemn and tearful from being stressed about moving. We would never sweat the small stuff again. I don’t know what we ever got stressed about before June 25.
I sensed God holding us up from the beginning, but it wasn’t until later that I could see how God would bless us and show us His love in so many ways, or that we would have opportunities to serve Him, in our circumstances. He has held us close to Him these past four years. I have never been so aware of His presence in my life. I am sure that I wouldn’t otherwise know Him and trust Him like I do now. Colin tells me about his love for Jesus too. He has shared with me some spiritual insights that are wise beyond his years.
Our Merciful and faithful Lord, “Because of your great love we are not consumed, for your compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. I say to myself, The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for him." (Lamentations 3:22-25)
"...yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will be joyful in God my Savior." (Habakkuk 3:17-18)
...And in the end may we "come forth as gold" (Job 23:9-12)
On June 24, 2003, Colin had his first MRI. I was told it appears there is a cyst around the base of his brain and further examination is needed. Colin is scheduled to come back the next day for more MRI views with and without contrast. Our pediatrician reassured us that cysts were rare but it may go away on its own or could be drained with a needle.
On June 25, I held him again as he received the sedation anesthesia through the IV in his hand and his body went limp into a deep sleep. Our nurse helped me lay him down and strap him onto the MRI table. I cried and kissed his cheek. I went to the waiting room until it was over. Pacing, praying, crying, I called Ted and couldn’t reach him. I called my mom and we talked for awhile. We hung up and I paced, prayed and cried some more. The MRI was taking too long, fifteen minutes longer than it was supposed to take. I sensed something was wrong. They must be getting more pictures, different views of his brain. I was thankful there was no one else in the waiting room but I also didn’t want to be alone. I called mom for reassurance again. We hung up and I tried to reason with myself that this wasn’t brain surgery we were facing. Even if this cyst did need to be drained, he will be okay. It’s not a major operation and he will be fine. The door finally opened and our nurse was wheeling him out. He was still asleep on the bed. I studied her face for any news. I asked her if she knows anything; she didn’t. The radiology tech has to send the films to the radiologist to read them. He will call if there is anything concerning to him.
We go back to our room on the pediatric floor while Colin recovers. An hour passes and no one has called with any news. Colin is happy, eating dry cereal and watching cartoons. Our nurse reassures me that they usually will call by now if there is anything wrong. She calls the radiology department to see if the scans have been seen yet. They will check with the radiologist and call back. Another hour passes with no phone call. Then our nurse tells us our pediatrician is coming to the hospital, that sometimes they will want to see the scans even if it is alright. I assumed everything was okay. I was anxious to leave and forget all of this.
Our pediatrician comes to our room. I thanked her for coming over to check on us and asked if she got to see his scans. She had no expression but sat down beside the bed where I was holding Colin. She takes a deep breath and tells me slowly, “There is no easy way to tell you this….there is a tumor…and it involves the brainstem. I’m so sorry”. I remember going numb, shaking, crying. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think straight. All I could do was cry and hold onto Colin. She offered to call Ted for me and I was so grateful. I couldn't imagine saying those words to him. Colin hardly noticed anything going on. He sat in front of me, content with his cereal and cartoons. This was the only time I could ever be thankful for his hearing loss in his right ear. We found out later that the tumor was growing against the right auditory nerve, resulting in a profound hearing loss on his right side. Then our pediatrician offered to have the pediatric oncologist come and talk with me. A cancer doctor? I had never put a tumor and a cyst together in the same thought. I figured it would be obvious on the first scan whether it was a tumor or a cyst. It was supposed to be a cyst they were examining.
The oncologist sat down beside me and asked if I had any questions. I tried to stop crying and focus on what we needed to do next. I couldn’t think of anything I should ask her. All my nursing education left me. I asked her stupid questions. I asked her “Is a tumor there compatible with life? Can he live with this?” The look on her face was pity. Her answers were vague and cautious. I couldn’t process much of what she told me anyway, only parts of it. “Sometimes…with treatment there is some hope…we need a biopsy…surgery may be possible...there may be options of chemotherapy…radiation…”
Colin and I left the hospital and headed home to relieve my babysitter. Ted was in Indiana starting his new job. All our family was in Ohio. And we were scheduled to move in two days from our home there in North Carolina to Indiana. I sobbed all night by myself. I kept checking on Colin while he slept. He looked so healthy and peaceful. It didn't seem possible that what I was told could be true. My heart seared with pain.
As I watched the movers pack our belongings, I thought how it symbolized packing up all of our life that we once knew. We were so happy. Our perfect life was now a mess, thrown into boxes and abruptly taken away. I thought how ridiculous it was if the movers thought I was so solemn and tearful from being stressed about moving. We would never sweat the small stuff again. I don’t know what we ever got stressed about before June 25.
I sensed God holding us up from the beginning, but it wasn’t until later that I could see how God would bless us and show us His love in so many ways, or that we would have opportunities to serve Him, in our circumstances. He has held us close to Him these past four years. I have never been so aware of His presence in my life. I am sure that I wouldn’t otherwise know Him and trust Him like I do now. Colin tells me about his love for Jesus too. He has shared with me some spiritual insights that are wise beyond his years.
Our Merciful and faithful Lord, “Because of your great love we are not consumed, for your compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. I say to myself, The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for him." (Lamentations 3:22-25)
"...yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will be joyful in God my Savior." (Habakkuk 3:17-18)
...And in the end may we "come forth as gold" (Job 23:9-12)
posted by Amy (Colin's mom) at
12:02 PM
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