Thoughts on Chemo...

I’ve been thinking about chemo lately. Chemo isn’t exactly what I thought it was before Ammon was diagnosed. In many regards, chemo refers to multiple treatments over varying time periods that are all designed to adequately arm Ammon in his cancer battle. Some of the chemo treatments fight a single solitary purpose in the cancer battle and are used just once, while others are administered repeatedly, even daily, and work together on the same strategic objective. Some are the tip of the attack, the probing and softening of the defenses, and some are simply manning the watch towers on areas that have already been won. Certain chemos are administered through Ammon’s port, others through his GJ tube, and others, like the lumbar poke, require sedation and insertion right into his back.

Chemo is a life saving poison. If this were a fairy tale, chemo would be the poison apple that causes you to fall into a forever sleep, but without said poison apple you would never meet your dream come true through an eternal kiss. The pain of the poison apple is what makes the happily ever after even a possibility. For example, a few days after Ammon’s diagnosis, he received a chemo treatment referred to as the PEG (in hindsight, an exceptionally bitter apple). The PEG is received only once in the overall chemo roadmap, but only once is all it took. The lifesaving aspects of the PEG also resulted in an emergency life flight, pancreatitis, and a sickening downward spiral of severe medical complications that necessitated over a month stay in the PICU followed by a week in the ICS. The PEG was a devastating poison for Ammon, and a lethal poison for Ammon’s cancer.

Sometimes, because I can’t see the chemo, I almost close my eyes and pretend it’s not there. I’ve been known to chuckle when Ammon needs a diaper change, particularly in the days after his chemo treatments, because I jokingly say his diaper is radioactive, or at least the contents therein (I know several Dads that would love to slide into a chemical protection suit before every diaper change). I usually do this because sometimes we all just need something to chuckle about; at times we just need a little bit of the best medicine, a laugh and a smile. But even as the nurses and I chuckle at the thought of another radioactive diaper, the nurses are pulling on gloves and putting on robes. Not just standard gloves to ensure the nurses don’t come in contact with germs that you can simply wash away, or vice versa in spreading harmful germs to Ammon. No, these gloves are the thick purple gloves that are designed to protect you from the poisonous aspects of the cure. The robes have the same protective characteristics. And pretty much anytime, any of the professionals working with Ammon need to be exposed to him for extended periods after his chemo treatments, whether through brushing his teeth, changing a diaper, or another caring procedure, they always dawn the thick purple gloves and the special robes. And when they are done they throw the protective materials in a container marked with a hazardous sign on it. Like I said, because I can’t see the chemo I almost pretend that it’s not there, and sometimes in what is probably a foolish showing of solidarity with Ammon, I’ll do the nurse a favor and grab the diaper and put it on the scale without wearing the special gloves. “See no gloves,” I think to myself, “Surely you are being overly cautious; surely, it is not that dangerous. Man up, and let’s just change a diaper!” But I’ve come to know these professionals, I know they love Ammon, and I know they are not foolish. I know they respect the power, the seriousness, and the residual effects of the cure.

I need to wear the gloves too, because to do otherwise is simply pretending that the poisonous cure I can’t see is not as difficult to endure as it really is. In some ways, this act of not putting on the gloves is selfishly minimizing the treatments that Ammon is required to endure. And I’ve realized that Ammon doesn’t need that kind of attitude from me, when what he really needs is my continuing faith, love, and prayers. Because over the last month in the PICU, I’ve witnessed how hot the burning fire of this cure might feel before it really becomes the cure. I also know that this chemo process, combined with faith, love, and prayers, will continue to shorten the path to reaching our happily ever after.