Oh, it’s never fucking enough. Somehow, every time, no matter what we do, no matter what Austin does, it is never fucking enough.
We got the pathology reports yesterday and, if you were to rank the four possible outcomes from best to worst, this is the third one down. Which, you know, is sort of like a failing grade.
It is a classic Wilms’ tumor, not the rhabdomyomatous kind he’s had in the past. And a classic, official recurrence at Stage 3, not the residual cancer we found in April. Which means, unless this one pathologist in Seattle comes back with a miraculously different interpretation in the next few days, we are going to go back inside and remove that remarkable kidney, the little kidney that could.
And then two years of dialysis. Along with radiation. And maybe (only maybe, my one thing to hope for) a year of high-dose chemotherapy using drugs considerably more toxic than we used the first time.
It’s all very ugly. I am focusing on the one tiny bright spot: that, as soon as he recovers from this now seemingly useless surgery, we will get to go home for Christmas. We’ll then return on the 26th or 27th for surgery. And then we will embark on something that will make everything we’ve been through thus far look like a walk in the park.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.