Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Day 2 (Etopside stay)

He slept last night. Oh ironies of ironies. To sleep better in a hospital than at home says a lot about how often we've been here and, of course, the energy-zapping chemo coursing through his veins. We are 20% done with this stay; here's hoping all goes as scheduled and we leave as planned on Friday. 

Watts and I are trying to pass the morning by throwing things across the crib and listening to a little Indelible Grace. Keeping him off the floor is like wrangling a small angry tiger. He wants to crawl, wants to mess with his lines, and wants to follow Piper out of the room when she leaves. Despite the restlessness, he is doing well so far with the chemo with no detectable side effects. We'll start back up in a little while. He is getting two hours of Etopside, thirty minutes of Cytoxan, and four hours of the rescue drug, Mesna. We'll do the exact same thing for all five days.  

He is asleep now in my arms. Chemo is going. Doctors have come and gone.

I long to not be here. I long for all to be well in Watts' body, for cancer to not exist, for our days to be filled with park trips and play dates, and to not have to gather hair from my son's bed. As I shuffle past so many aching families in the halls of this floor, I long to make it all go away. Some stories I know, most I don't, but the weariness and grief I can see all around me. It is all wrong, really. All terribly, terribly wrong. 

This aching broken world, what hope is there in it? Death is inevitable, it haunts the healthiest of us, and ultimately strips us of all earthly loves. We walk through our days not knowing what tomorrow will bring, not knowing the number of our days. How does one live in a place of such fragility? How does one not break under fear of the unknown, the pain that inevitably lies up ahead?

We were made for something more. A broken Eden has us all breathlessly waiting and crying out for His return, for our true home, where all shall be made right. Cancer and death will have no place. Aching hearts will be filled. He will be there.

In the meantime, as we all trudge through these weary days, each of us facing our own challenges of sorts, of this I know: God is for me (Psalm 56). He rides the storm, holds me up in the darkest hour, and gives meaning to the bleak days. Oh Lord, you have been good to me. Come quickly.


  1. Amen. Oh for the days when we can return to Mount Zion... He will lead us like a shepherd. Our hearts will cry as we remember our sorrow and laugh as we realize they are finally and totally over! (Jeremiah 31)

  2. Thank you Hannah! You are precious in His sight! I will continue with prayers for baby Watts AND your family.

  3. What a sweet sweet boy and what a journey of perseverance for all of you. We pray for you all regularly and will keep doing so.

  4. Yes. Amen.

    We are all praying for all of you.

  5. Prayibg every single day sister. Wishing there was more i could do. Love you. So much.

  6. Praying for your sweet and precious family!


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