First Day in Houston

The Short Version

Today was the longest day of initial appointments and preparations being made for the upcoming treatments. We have another chemo infusion tomorrow, and then the actual radiation therapy will begin on Thursday afternoon.

We also have more specific information regarding the length of time we will be in Houston. At this point, we expect to be here and receiving treatment (5 days per week, Monday - Friday), until the very end of August. We can't know for positive sure just yet, but we will probably get to all come home on or about Labor Day weekend.

The actual treatment time each day is actually very short, but the doctors insist it is very important that the daily routine not be interrupted, and believe that here at M D Anderson is the best place for Amanda to receive it. We were also reminded once again that surgery is not an option.

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The Longer Version

There are people here from all over the world, it seems ... certainly from every corner of the U.S. The waiting rooms are filled with hurting and hopeful parents, with little children and/or teens who are at some point in the hair growth/loss process. For all the different languages spoken, M D Anderson provides an interpreter to aid in communicating the most precious of information to the parents of the most precious children. I watched today as such a "session" was taking place within 10 or 12 feet from where I was sitting. As I watched the child's father, the child's doctor, and the interpreter across the room, I was reminded that a father's tears are universally understood. I could not understand any of his words, but his tears looked strangely familiar.

Another boy whose cancer has managed to take his right leg, and who has also somehow lost his right eye, sits quietly in a wheel chair parked in a corner of the room. His name is finally called and the boy refuses to leave the waiting room and "go back" to see his doctor or take any more medicine. His mother begs ... a nurse comes to help, and ends up begging too. They finally talk him into at least letting them check his vital signs. He leaves the room and doesn't return for a long time ... which means they probably were able to talk him into more chemo as well.

I happened to be the one with Amanda at her last appointment of the day with her primary doctor here at M D Anderson (whose name also happens to be Dr. Anderson, but only coincidentally). He and his nurse are very efficient and at the same time, very patient-centered. We like and trust them. Today he told Amanda that he was especially glad to see her, because she was the healthiest patient he had seen all day. I sat still for a minute, wondering how I should feel about that statement. You see, as a parent, I'm always trying to "interpret" words too, but not like the linguist I spoke of earlier. I'm forever taking in every word, pause, tone, body language, eye movement, nervous twitch ... whatever, and trying to "interpret" those things to see if there might be additional messages within them. It can be a dangerous habit, and I probably shouldn't do it ... but ...

Sometimes, however, I interpret for Amanda ... in a good way. For example, during one of our meetings with the doctor today, he mentioned that Amanda would have to be careful in the future with things such as running. Amanda spoke right up and asked, "Are you saying I can't run?" The doctor hesitated for a few seconds as if he was trying to figure out how much detail he should give in the answer to Amanda's question. I said, "Let me interpret that for you. What Amanda is really saying is, 'Can I play soccer and be a cheerleader?'" Amanda smiled and agreed that those were the things she was really talking about. The doctor said that soccer was probably out for a while, and that cheerleading would have to be light duty. After all the radiation Amanda will undergo in the left pelvic area, there is considerable concern for the weakening of the hip.

Amanda's response to this kind of news has always been what I would call (for lack of a better term), full of faith. I don't know how else to describe it. She doesn't pout or start a pity party .... ever. She holds her head high, and as if she is absolutely certain God is control of every destiny, she smiles and says ... OK. And her smile is sincere. If it weren't, I would immediately know (remember ... the "interpreter?"). But she is so sincere, it is incredible. Her smile and "OK" and body language all speak the same faith-filled message. Next to her I feel so small. I realize that she IS what I would like to be.