Ending the Year with a Bang - No Mo' Chemo!

Friday, December 28, 2012 (two days ago) was downright surreal.  Although Stacey has handled most of the medical transport these last three and a half years, Friday I joined her and Bradley for his VERY LAST intravenous chemotherapy treatment.  We now know all about vincristine, PEG-L-asparaginase, daunorubicin, mercaptopurine,  methotrexate, Bactrim, cytarabine and a host of other medicines I hope you will never hear of again.  We know all about treatment for lung failure, kidney failure, neural failure, vascular failure, gastro/intestinal failure, liver failure, bedsores and most anything else you can imagine.  We know all about blood transfusions (over fifty pints), chemo/dialysis port surgeries (five) and intrathecal lumbar delivery of chemo.  Although Brad technically has five more days of oral chemo to complete, for all intents and purposes he is through with treatment for his leukemia and the host of complications from the initial staph-induced septic shock that should have taken his life.  This day had been so long in coming, it has been hard for us to realize it is actually here.

Nov. 24, 2009 - Leaving Kosair Hospital after 3 Months

I think back to some of our lowest points during these last few years: shortly after first arriving at the ER when we were told Brad would not live, when we were told he was likely brain dead, when we were told he actually had leukemia, when a blood clot blocked his breathing tube and he almost coded again, when we were told his lungs would never recover (“they look like a house a hurricane has blown through”), when we almost lost him to secondary infections, when his kidneys weren’t recovering and he had to stay on dialysis for months, when he lost down to sixty-six pounds and was still falling in weight.  I remember when the nurse couldn't get the lipids IV to feed into an artery and we thought he was going to have to go without critical nourishment.

I think back to Brad's first chemotherapy treatment.  I remember the two HemOnc (hematology/oncology) nurses who came in and performed the intricate checkoff procedure to assure they were using the appropriate drug.  I remember seeing the administering nurse put on a sterile gown, a plastic face shield and nitrile gloves to make certain that not one drop of the chemo touched her.  The chemo is highly poisonous and corrosive, yet they were about to inject it into our son who was already struggling to live.  This was the first of many such treatments he was to endure.

I remember when Brad came home and struggled for months to walk again and regain his strength.   I remember carrying him up the steps to his bedroom each night where we hooked up the feeding pump that kept him alive.  I remember moving to the guest bedroom next door so that we could care for him during the night.  I remember the 21 medications and five specific times each day we administered them - it actually never stopped.  There were many, many other bumps along the road that are beginning to fade now with the passage of time.  Many of you remember them as well because many of you were there with us.

As thankful as I am to put all of this behind us, I don’t want to forget.  I don’t want to lose sight of what God has taught us about ourselves, others and Himself.  I don’t want to forget what true friendship and compassion feel like.  I don’t want to forget what the comfort that God still cares feels like.  I don’t want to forget that I am not in control and that there are things far more important than what we typically value as significant in this life.  I especially don't want to forget the miracle God worked in saving Brad's life and the impact it has had on us and others as well.

God opened my eyes to the pain of others in ways I never understood before.  He taught me contentment in a way I had never experienced before.  He taught again and again that it is not foolishness to put my trust in Him.  He taught me to take courage from the strength of a thirteen year-old boy racked with pain, weak from disease, gaunt and yellow who trusted God himself, kept an unbelievable attitude and never gave up.  God taught me to value the things that matter and not to worry about the things that don’t.  What things matter?  Family, friends, others in need and my relationship with God through Christ.  Things that don't? Just about everything else.

We don’t know what God has in store for Bradley’s future.  God both allowed Brad’s illness and spared his life for a reason, and none of us knows exactly what that reason is.  We don’t presume upon tomorrow, and we aren’t speculating as to why we’ve been through what we have, but we see God’s hand in it, and we are grateful.  Knowing what I know now, I have often reflected on whether I would have accepted this journey if God had given me a choice.  I’d like to think I would have said yes, but I’m not sure I could have ever chosen this.  I can say on this side of our ordeal that God knows what He’s doing, even when the circumstances make no sense.

The day we’ve waited for is here – join with us as we celebrate the end of Bradley’s treatment for cancer!  Brad is a young man now - no longer the boy this disease originally preyed upon.  He is wise beyond his years with a perspective few of us have at any age.  Pray with us as we ask God to assure the cancer is gone forever.  Thank God with us that He knows best what we need, even when we can’t see it.  And once again, from the bottoms of our hearts, Stacey, Bradley, Matthew and I want to thank all of you who have walked through this with us.  This chapter of our life is finally and mercifully closing – we look forward to the next chapter with great expectation!

Dec. 16, 2012 (Mark, Brad, Matt, Stacey)