Treatment

Once we knew Jacob’s complete diagnosis we met with the doctors to discuss treatment. Never in my life can I remember such information overload; nor do I remember ever trying so hard to understand and retain information. Truly, my brain hurt trying to comprehend it all. No college course I ever took compares to those two hours talking to the medical team. I had such an intense desire to understand everything they were saying about our son’s chemotherapy. I could see it in Scott too—the desire and the overload. By the end of our meeting I could tell his head was so full of information that I half expected it to come spilling out of his eyeballs.

We learned that his treatment will last about 3 ½ years. I’m used to the idea now, but it shocked me then. One doctor said, “Yeah, it’s a marathon.” I replied, “I’ve always wanted to run a marathon.”

His treatment has 5 phases. The first phase is called Induction. That’s where we are now. Five days into it, to be precise. Induction lasts 28 days. It’s the most intense and usually eradicates all the leukemia cells (well, all the ones that they can detect and they can detect a lot of them). We will go to “clinic” at Primary Childrens every Friday for these treatments. The medications are administered through an IV that goes right into a central port he has (I’ll do another post about the port). It takes a few hours so we just go in for half a day or so and then go home.

At home we manage his side-effects and give him daily doses of a steroid. No one really knows why the steroid makes the chemo work; they just know it doesn’t work as well without it. We also give him an antibiotic to prevent pneumonia, as well as an antacid, a laxative and pain medication and anti-nausea medication as needed. I think that’s everything. I’m not sure, but I think. Scott keeps giving me medication quizzes.

So far side effects have not really been a problem, at least not since coming home. So that's one day. But it was a good day! He was very happy and felt great. He was a little tired, but no more than normal.

I laughed as I typed that. What’s normal? I guess I mean before the diagnosis and the treatments began.

I know he won’t stay like this and that we will have some very bad days. But I am grateful for today. It makes my soul soar to see him play, laugh and smile—all of which he did today.

So, at the end of all of this can I have a "26.2" sticker for running my marathon? I want to put it on my van.