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I know this is very last minute but, in preparation for our meeting with the dcotors tomorrow (or today, depending on when you’re reading this), I welcome your questions. Of course, we have a list of our own already and of course, we know a bit more about Wilms’ tumor and kidney dialysis and surgical resections than most of you (I hope!), but I’ve found over the last few weeks that it’s really useful to listen to the questions that others pose. The “what if’s” and “how about this . . .?” or “could they do such-and-such instead of such-and-such?” Sometimes we get caught up in our own way of thinking and our own set of fears or assumptions and we  just need a different perspective.

So if you have a question or a suggestion or a scenario for treatment you think we should be considering, post it here (before 3pm on Monday). And wish us luck . . . .

We still haven’t heard anything.

This means one of three things (or maybe it means one of those other things I just haven’t thought of yet): 1) The doctors at St. Jude’s haven’t yet contacted Jeff. 2) They did contact him and their recommendation was the same as his (watch and wait) and he’s just been so busy, it sort of fell off his radar and he forgot to call us (this is, in my opinion, the best option although it seems out of character). Or 3) their recommendation was so extreme (i.e. removing the kidney right away), that Jeff is consulting again with the local docs before contacting us. Hmmmmmmm . . .

On another note, as many of you probably knew when you read the last post but were hesitant to share with me, Jude IS the patron saint of “lost causes”!  And I thought I was kidding when I suggested it. Couldn’t they have picked the patron saint of sick children or something? Lost causes? Ugh.

After I had already googled it myself, I got this in an email from Mark, who’d obviously googled it himself:  The Apostle Saint Jude Thaddeus is “The Miraculous Saint,” the Catholic Patron Saint of “lost causes” and “cases despaired of.”  When all other avenues are closed, he is the one to call upon, and his help often comes at the last moment.

Okay, I get that. This is the place you go when all else has failed and then, at the very last moment when hope is almost gone, they save you. I still think it’s a bad name.

Anyway, just to fill you in on other developments in our life: Still nothing on the house, although we did have a showing yesterday. I’m hopeful that some couple is sitting at their kitchen table right now talking about how much they love this house and figuring out what to offer (I told you I don’t lose hope!). 

Braedan continues to love school and is learning to read before my very eyes. And Austin is finally starting to love his school too.  He actually clapped as we pulled up the other day. He still cries when I leave him but it only lasts ten seconds and then, in his teacher’s words, he has “phenomenal” days.

So, we carry on.

No official news yet. We are meeting with Jeff at 5 o’clock since he’s working in the PICU today, and I am getting increasingly nervous. I’d been feeling pretty good, mostly because Austin wowed us by taking a few steps and eating a plate of mac and cheese! Did I mention how tough he is? He was thrilled with the applause he received from several doctors and nurses when he announced that he’d farted, which is a good sign he doesn’t have an ileus. Wait til he poops — we’ll probably throw a party! (Oh, there will be much work for me to undo all he learns at the hospital. . . )

So I was feeling good, heartened by one doctor who thought we might get to go home tomorrow or the next day. But then I talked to Jeff and heard something in his voice, a hesitancy or nervousness or something. I’m probably reading too much into it; he is working in the PICU after all and dealing with lots of families on the edge of disaster. I just need to wait. It is strange to think that he and the pathologist in Washington state and various doctors tucked away in offices scattered throughout the hospital know the fate of my child and I just need to wait.

I keep recycling old lines from our first round with cancer, but this one, taken from a Carepage posting on September 11, 2007, as we awaited pathology results after the horrifying growth of Austin’s primary tumor, keeps popping into my head:

“Don’t even know what to wish for. But wishing nonetheless.”

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