It started with a limp, really. 

Our toddler, a normally rough and tumble little bowling ball, twisted his ankle and didn’t stop limping for weeks. It didn’t make any sense. He was in pain, so we took him to the doctor. The doctor ordered an X-ray, which showed nothing. He kept limping. We took him back to the doctor, this time for an ear infection, and said, oh by the way, he’s still limping. The doctor thought that was odd and sent us to a pediatric orthopedist, who found nothing. Finally, we took him back to the doctor, this time for a fever of 104, and our doctor said to us, is he still limping? We said yes, thinking, isn’t the fever a bigger deal right now? But the brilliant man ordered a blood test. 

Low hemoglobin. 

The immediate unspoken fear was cancer, but I spoke it on the phone to the doctor whose diligence saved our boy, thinking I could face it if I knew what was coming. Yes, it could be cancer, he said, but there are other possibilities. 

We took him to the ER. I drove in a fog of panic forced down under a weird calm I pulled out of somewhere unnatural. But little man couldn’t see me scared, so I needed to not feel scared. We were in the ER for so many more hours than I remember. He got a transfusion, the first of many, right there in the uncomfortable little emergency room bed, my body folded around his little one as if I could protect him from what was already happening inside his bones. We rode together in an ambulance, something I kept trying to refer to as an adventure, to a bigger and better equipped hospital in Chicago and rolled into the room we’d stay in for the next 9 days. There was a Spider-Man decal on the wall outside the room. I tried to make a big deal out of this and say the nurses knew the right room to put him in. 

After he finally went to sleep, I googled the symptoms of leukemia. He had all of them, down to the night sweating. There was no doubt in my mind what the diagnosis would be. An expectation of the worst was easier for me because I didn’t want to be shocked by bad news. We came to understand that his diagnosis, if one has to have cancer (which is another discussion entirely), is the diagnosis one hopes for. It’s treatable, known, and predictable. The steps have been tread and worn by millions of kids who came before him, and in turn, he can help provide some data for kids who come after. 

The time spent in the hospital was tiring but regimented. It went by quickly, and I thought I knew what to expect upon coming home. I was very wrong. From the moment we got home, nothing went as expected. The relief I expected never came. The fear rooted itself and grew, the anger dug in deep and overshadowed the fear, and the steroids threw everything else into disarray. 

Somehow, even with the anxiety and 2-year-old roid rage, we made it through the first month, the phase called Induction. He was declared to be in remission, but he still needs to be in a higher risk category for the next phase because of another type of cell found in too high of a percentage. This treatment will work – is working, but it’s a long road ahead. Time will continue its march, and our choices are to resist fruitlessly or get on board and ride along. Doesn’t seem like much of a choice. Onward!