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If it’s not one thing, it’s another.

Now that the hand has (mostly) healed and the kidney is (mostly) bouncing back, we’ve allowed ourselves to fully embrace our normal lives. We’ve allowed ourselves to believe that we lead normal lives.

But we don’t.

When Austin had all his scans two weeks ago, his hemoglobin was low. Not below the threshold that required an immediate blood transfusion, but on its way. His doctor recommended coming in the following week which I pushed off until this week because I didn’t want him to miss camp. And then over the weekend, he got sick. A fever, sore throat, complaining about his ear hurting, long and fussy nights. So yesterday, we had to go to the clinic anyway to match his blood for the transfusion and I asked for a doctor to see him just to be safe.

Weeeelllll: Fever, ear infection, suspected dehydration (which didn’t turn out to be the case, luckily) and most likely, anemia. So, you know what comes next, right? They placed an IV in his arm, started him on fluids and IV antibiotics, and we waited. And waited. I sat in a small chair with this big sleeping boy, sweating out his fever, in my arms. The hours ticked by until they found us a room on the over-crowded in-patient floor and over we went.

Another long and restless night, with Austin waking up every time his blood pressure was taken or every time he rolled over and became tangled in his IV line. Then he’d request that I join him in his bed, which was many times more comfortable than the rubber bouch (bed-couch) I usually sleep on. But by now he was sweating out the IV fluids and soaking the sheets underneath him, so I was back and forth, back and forth between bed and bouch, until we both finally slept soundly from 5 until 8 (Austin until 9:30 actually).

His fever has passed, and his kidney numbers look fantastic (which, of course, is all that really matters) and he is finally, just now, starting his transfusion, after a long and boring morning quarantined to our room. The blood, lest we forget, takes seven to eight hours so it may be past his bedtime but I will fight to be released as soon as he’s done.

One more night, one more time, one more brief trip down this dark road. Every time I dare think we are passed the danger zones, every time I dare imagine that we have a wide open future ahead of us, fate or bad luck or something steps in and snaps us back to reality. Not so fast, it says. You may feel normal every now and again, but you are not.

But, despite hospitalization for every little ear infection and sore throat, I hold tight to the belief that we have a wide open future ahead of us. That one I will let go of.

Today was fine. Long and boring and exhausting the way that standing around an airport doing absolutely nothing all day can be exhausting. And that’s what we did: nothing really, except roll spirals of Play-Doh and paint with watercolors (I on paper, Austin on his legs).

But he was a trooper. Not a single peep out of him when the IV was placed in his hand. I’m pretty amazed by how he handles these physical invasions, minor though they may be. He doesn’t even squeak when he gets his weekly blood draw, and the IV, which I was nervous for, was quick and easy. Funny how his brother screams every time I get near him with nail clippers. Oh well, to each his own.

The blood took seven-and-a-half hours and will hopefully last us six weeks. It blows me away to think we used to have to be there almost every day, sitting through transfusion after transfusion. When you’re so deep in the trenches of cancer warfare, it doesn’t seem as if you’ll ever emerge, as if you’ll ever again live like a normal human being. And then, sometimes without warning, you come out the other side and return to the land of the living, and it’s almost as if it never happened. That way of life that you were forced to adopt as your own suddenly feels completely foreign.

Life once was normal and then, whoosh, it was anything but. And then whoosh, by an incredible stroke of luck or strength or something, life is suddenly normal again.

We’ll take it.

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February 2020
M T W T F S S
« Jan    
 12
3456789
10111213141516
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242526272829