Hope4Peyton

An unnatural phenomenon has occurred. One of those things that make you sit back and wonder “How is THIS going to play out?”

*disclaimer and warning: this may fall WAAAAAY into that TMI (too much information) header

The start of Peyton’s time of the month and my time of the month have coincided on the same day. Peyton got her first dose of steroids as all that girly-bit nonsense decided to commence.

This could bring about any interesting number of conflicts or the universe could just implode….watch and see.

Peyton woke up around 3:30 this morning and said, “Mommy, I think I’m hungry.”

I said, “Yeah, me too, why don’t you go make us something.”

“Moooommmmy! I’m on steroids, I’m hungry!”

“Oh yeah? Well, I’m…I’ve got…do you know what….oh never mind, how many eggs do you want?”

We are both hungry, cranky, moody and slightly tilting off our collective rocker. I think NOW would be a great time for Nathaniel and Rachael to decide to run…not walk…for the nearest fallout shelter.

On our way home from the clinic yesterday I felt the building of a catastrophic migraine starting. I think I drove the last couple of miles home by THE FORCE. I got all the kids into the house and promptly went all Excedrin-junkie and laid down on the couch. Feeling a little guilty because Peyton had just had a major chemo dose and I was the one face down on a pillow.

Luckily I caught it before it got too bad, but when Peyton crawled up next to me and we spooned together in our little nest of self-pity, it was a true bonding moment.

We are both feeling better this morning. Neither of us feel compelled to get dressed or actually produce MOVEMENT of any kind, but better. It’s one of those days the two of us could happily lounge in bed all day with a book/movie and a bag of Cheetos/bowl of cream cheese and be perfectly content.

Be proud of us, we’re at least making the most minimal effort. I posted this update and Peyton drew this picture that perfectly showcases our family and how she feels about us.

My first thought was that we were a family of cannibals. Wild, crazy, tribe-dwellers. Not completely off the mark. But it turns out that we are indeed a family of prines and princesses….those are crowns on our royal heads. Except Rachael. I asked her what was up with her sister’s princess.

“She’s not a princess because she made me mad! She don’t gots a crown.”

“Why doesn’t she have any hair?”

“Because she’s bothering me.”

“OH.”

“And I didn’t draw a mouth so she’ll be QUIET!”

This is apparently the 4 year old version of a voo-doo doll.

I am still in my school-schedule of setting appointments for Peyton’s clinic visits.  So, at 7 AM this morning, when the alarm went off and I knew there were lovely late afternoon appointments we could have taken, I was one step away from ripping off my own foot and beating myself senseless with it.  There is NO reason not to make my appointments for 10 AM, allowing us all to awaken to our normal gentle sounds of the TV being turned on and the Wii warming up.

However, we made it to clinic on time and besides being ridiculously tired, all went well.  We had a freaky moment in meeting Dr. Kerr, strange only because our oncology group already includes a Dr. Kerr…. so we now have two Dr. Kerr’s, who have husbands who share the same first name, they drive the same vehicle, they work in the same medical specialty and now work in the same office.  Spooky, huh?  It confused the heck out of Peyton who kept whispering to me, “THAT is not Dr. Kerr.”  But Dr. K2 was exceptionally nice, Peyton loved her on sight and that made the new doctor an easier transition.

Peyton dressed down in a big way today and Dr. K2 made a comment about how cutely she was dressed….to which the nurses and I had a good laugh.  The day will come soon enough when she walks in with her full princess gear, tiara and rhinestones glaring and then Dr K2 can experience the full fashionista Peyton is.

Peyton’s counts were perfectly in range.

Her ANC = 1400
RBC = 12
Platelets = 210K

Peyton has a nice hack-y cough that had us fleeing Alabama a full day early.  Saturday night she complained that her throat hurt, Sunday morning she woke with a full blown cough and we packed up and left before she could get a fever that would leave us trapped for a 72 hour (minimum) stay at CHOA (Children’s Hospital of Atlanta).  The cough has remained, leaving us unable to go enjoy Little Tales on Tuesday morning, but with no fever, no red throat, no red hears, no funky post nasal drip, she was diagnosed with a summer cold.  Isn’t it great that we have an ONCOLOGIST to tell us she has a summer cold?

She got her Vincristine chemo via port and starts her monthly round of steroids.  All her at-home daily/weekly chemo med doses remain the same as her counts were perfectly where they are supposed to be.

This means she has 3 more of these visits in her protocol.  3!!  After what feels like a million trips to the hospital and the clinic, the “end” is in sight.  A friend asked if we are going to have an end-of-chemo party for Peyton in October.  Yeah…I don’t know.

Part one of me wants to have a rockin’ blow out fest for her.  We have the perfect reason to PARTY, two and a half years of chemo and radiation and it is the end of treatment.  Why would we even hesitate to throw down Animal House style?

Because Part two of me is scared. “End of treatment” doesn’t have any guarantee of “end of cancer”.  If anything, it’s an anxiety booster for me.  When we started this journey I was all “get to the end, get to the end, get to the end!” and now that we can see the finish line, I have a healthy dose of “Am I ready for this to end?”

I don’t know if there is a good way to explain this.  As long as we’re putting the toxic poisonous chemo into her system, it’s at least doing something to battle the return of the cancer.  If we stop that, there’s nothing to keep it from coming back.  Do you get how my fragile brain might start equating the toxic poisonous chemo as, if not a good thing, at least a thing with a very valuable purpose?

My friend Annike has this fantastic analogy she uses.  You’re walking a vicious, angry dog at your side with a desperately tight grip on it’s leash….a leash that keeps the dog where it’s supposed to be, it keeps the dog under some control.  Then one day you’re supposed to take the dog off the leash and hope it stays at your side, under control, but you have NO WAY of knowing what it’s going to do.

In the wake of so many of our friends relapsing post treatment, literally days after stopping the drugs, the reality is that I know it’s a possibility that end of treatment could mean nothing.  I don’t mean to seem pessimistic or Chicken Little about it all, and I do know that many children do make it successfully through treatment and into long wonderful cancer-free lives.  I praise God for remission, for the knowledge that the cancer is out of her body, but that doesn’t stop me from staying awake at night, almost listening for its return.  I trust God that no matter what happens we are fully in his purpose for our lives, but that doesn’t stop me from praying that we be graced with an end to this.

Peter and I would talk about relapse when we were deciding on him taking a job that meant a move away from our support system and hospital.  But we talked about it in a vague, unspecific way…a very non-possible possibility.  It has happened in such a wave lately, so many little friends relapsing that there’s a dread that what was once possibility could be probability.

Do I feel like celebrating when there is a feeling of “how do you celebrate what feels like opening the door wide open and inviting cancer back in our home?”  Oh, I also know that I want to celebrate her strength and endurance, her amazing spirit and joy, making it through what we’ve been through.  Letting everyone know how thankful we are for the support and friendship and unending encouragement through the past two years.

I don’t want to give her this great big “YOU’RE DONE!” and then have to turn around and say, “oh, I was wrong about that.”  Quandary.  One emotional baby step at a time on this one.

If you look to the right of this post, you will notice a cute little widget that says something to the effect of “Have some Mayhew goodness gift-wrapped and gently laid under the Christmas tree of your email every time Anissa breathes the wrong way” (or “Get email updates”).

SOOO Proud of her!

There are these moments when you get to witness a great parent in action.  You are just impressed to the tips of your toes at the way they diffuse a situation or handle an obstacle, or perhaps it’s just a show of love that warms your heart.

This was not one of those moments.

I love Chick-Fil-A for the fact that the kids can go play after they’re done eating and give you few moments to talk to a friend.  We got to do that today and I sat with Natalie, while 5 of our kids ran wild in the playroom…all wonderfully sound-proofed.

We got to watch this drama unfold like a car wreck.

We’ll call him DAD…just that way, in BIG BOLD letters because those are the terms in which he obviously thinks of himself.  A loving dad I’m sure, but DAD….a manly man with a manly son….who we’ll call SON.

SON came out of the playroom in one piece.  There were no ripped clothing, there was no blood or signs of trauma.  Just one perfectly fine SON.  SON tells DAD, “A boy in there hit me.”

DAD’s spine went so rigid I could almost hear the snaps of his vertebrae being over-extended.  He runs to the door and throws it open, yelling the whole time!

“Who hit you! Which one! Was it THAT one!”

I turned in my seat to see which demon of the playroom had committed so foul a crime against SON’s person.  THAT one would surely be obvious by his cigar-smoking and evil mustache twirling appearance.

Now, I want to note that SON was at least 6-7 years old.  And I prayed that when I turned it wasn’t going to be either my 10-year-old or Natalie’s 9-year-old that was THAT one.  But I was even more shocked to realize that THAT one was a 2, maybe 3 year old, cherub with a little tow-headed identical twin.

“WHO. IS. THIS. BOY’S. PARENT?  Where are your parents?”  He starts yelling randomly around the restaurant and then sticks his big, long fingers into THAT one’s little face, who is promptly scared crapless by this strange adult yelling at him.  THAT one’s father comes around the corner and the twins go running to him, one in tears, one just terrified.

Father-of-that-one tries to talk to DAD.  At which point DAD goes OFF!

“Your son blah blah blah, and my son blah blah blah.”  I’m watching DAD rip into Father-of-that-one…Son has moved on to play, so apparently traumatized by the whole event that he needs to go for a ride down the slide. And DAD continues to berate Father for the accused assault.  After the butt-chewing has ended, DAD has blown off all his steam, he’s rendered two toddlers incoherent in fear and forced an entire restaurant to listen to his “I am king of the buttheads, listen to me roar” performance, he utters the words that threw Natalie and myself into complete ironic meltdown.

“My SON is VERY sensitive.”

Must come from his mother’s side.