My Baby: A reminder of hope

While unpacking yet another box, I came across an anthology of essays that was created during a writing class that I took in 2003. I decided that my piece, written about my past, but from the perspective of my dad, was appropriate for where I am at this very moment in my life. It is a little long– I debated splitting it into two posts, but decided that for today, the words needed to flow.

So, for your reading pleasure (I hope), and as a bit of a re-introduction to me for any new readers, I present:  My Baby.

.

—-

It all happened so quickly.  She called on her drive back from Boston after seeing a friend. It only took a few words for me to be speechless. “Daddy, I am going to run a marathon!”  Her energized voice told me that some strange power had taken control of my daughter and I would not be able to do anything other than support her. This had happened once before in her life, though the circumstances were very different. I knew that just like the words, “It’s okay Daddy, I am not going to die,” had made me tremble in my surgical scrubs; her strong resolve about the marathon was going to teach us all yet another lesson about living life.

.

I later told my wife about the phone call. We both remembered back to when she was in high school. Tennis was her game.  She only had to sprint, and even then she wasn’t that fast.  Now she is going to run 26.2 miles?  Who is she kidding?  The answer was clear. She was not kidding.  She had embarked on a path and nothing would stop her.  She soon started training with a group of runners.  She would call us after her runs and the tone of her voice always gave her away.  She was bubbly when the run went well, but insecure when she had not run the full distance.  Even when she said it went well, it was easy to tell when in reality, it had been a grueling day.  She has always tried to be strong, and confident, but her voice quivers ever so slightly when something is wrong. My “N’ena.”  My little baby who has had to fight for so much for herself.  She actually thinks she can make me believe she is alright when I know she is not. She has no idea that despite her confident demeanor, she is actually quite transparent.

.

The call about the marathon shocked me; just like another call three years earlier had kicked me right in the stomach. I was probably making rounds with my patients, or just coming out of surgery.  The call came, and changed my life forever.  She had just been to the internist and he was scheduling her for an appointment with the surgeon the next day. They assumed that the large swelling lymph node at the base of her neck was related to Hodgkin’s disease. My daughter has cancer?  Leah and I got on the next flight to Washington and while we sat on the plane we both wondered why we hadn’t known something was wrong. She had been sick on and off all winter.  Why hadn’t I been able to put all the symptoms together?

.

Arriving in Washington, we took a taxi directly to the hospital.  When we got there she was still in the operating room.  I used my medical credentials to try to get more detailed information from the nursing staff.  They eventually let me go see her in the recovery area before returning her to her room.  The surgeon introduced himself and said that though he was confident it was Hodgkin’s disease, they would send the tissue samples to the National Institutes of Health for a definite diagnosis.  He looked at me and as if he could read my mind said, “There was no way for you to have known.”  I had to sit down.  I was a neurosurgeon, a doctor that lived to take care of people, but I felt as if I had failed with my own daughter. I watched her in the hospital bed, happily sleeping, still under anesthesia.  I realized that I could no longer protect her.

.

The week went so quickly.  We met with two oncologists and as usual my daughter took charge.  She quickly became impatient with the first oncologist at a large university hospital.  My daughter does not hide her opinions well, and showed obvious disdain for the series of medical students and residents that bombarded her with questions.  She finally met with the “real” doctor but later compared his bedside manner to that of a professor speaking to his students.  She opted instead of the oncologist of a smaller community hospital.  This doctor warmly welcomed all eight of us (she traveled with quite a large group around her that week) re-arranging chairs in his little office.  He told her that Hodgkin’s was a bread and butter cancer. Very common and considering her young age of 23, easy to cure.  Her eyes lit up as he spoke about options for treatment.  It didn’t take long for her to decide that this man would be the one to help her fight, but she would be the one that would make sure that after six months of chemotherapy, she would be fine.

.

The six months passed slowly.  Every two weeks she would spend an afternoon getting chemo. Then she would go home, have Chinese food, and look forward to the next day where she would be back at work with her preschoolers.  We couldn’t convince her to stop working with the four and five year olds.  Our arguments about their germs had no validity since her blood counts remained normal and their runny noses were not jeopardizing her.  She was never nauseous. She did loose her hair. But really, my little N’ena was dealing with chemo just fine.
.

At the end of October her CT scan revealed that she was in remission.  It was around the time of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year.  All I could think about was the hope that this next year would be sweet and happy for her. It was, at least for a few months.  In February, back in Michigan, on a Monday night, I received a cal not from my baby, but from her trusted oncologist.  I recognized John’s voice immediately. He wanted to call me before he called her.  He told me that Leah and I should get on the next flight to Washington. It was back.

.

This time was different.  We would not let her keep working. She had to undergo emergency surgery for pericarditis.  The sac around her heart was filled with fluid and though we couldn’t be sure, we all assumed that it was related to her Hodgkin’s.  After surgery, she recovered in a hospital room that was always filled with multiple visitors.  We were all there, in fact, when John entered, closed the curtain around the lot of us, and looked her squarely in the eyes.  “You are going to have a bone marrow transplant,” he told her.  “You will use your own healthy cells, but the next few months are going to be rough. This time, we have to use a round of chemotherapy…” and that this point I could see her face beginning to change.  John continued, “The chemo is going to be very high dose.  You cannot go back to work, and it could ruin your chances to have children.”  My little baby was stunned.  She tried to hold back her tears, but her lower lip started to tremble.  Leah was leaving the room in tears, and the friends that surrounded her lowered their heads so as not to show emotion.  N’ena looked at me and said, “It’s okay Daddy, I’m not going to die.”

.

She was right. She was amazing.  This time she was nauseous and much more susceptible to the common germ, but her resolve stayed strong.  She spent two weeks in the transplant unit at Georgetown.  At this point, Leah and I were in Washington more than we were in Michigan.  N’ena’s brother Nicola, was with us and took turns sitting with her throughout the day, trying to each find a way to keep ourselves strong for her sake.  The day of her transplant she shocked us again by asking for a prayer book. We were never very religious as the children were growing up since Leah was Catholic and I was Jewish. N’ena picked Judaism as an adult, and on this day, led us all in a prayer for healing. She bounced back from the transplant quickly; and I went back to Michigan leaving Leah and Nicola to nurse her back to strength.  My baby has never been good at letting people take care of hr and this time was no different.  I almost think that her quick recovery was due to the fact that she wanted to be living her own life again instead of having someone there to take care of her.

.

Three years later I stood waiting for her at he finish line of the Marine Corps Marathon. We had walked through the city to see her at different points of the race. She was still slow and her legs sometimes looked a bit weak.  As we waited we wondered if she had the physical strength to finish. Finally, we caught a glimpse of her entering the finish area and we realized that she had proved that speed and pain didn’t matter.  As my baby crossed the finish line, her arms went up in the air. She had run her first marathon!  I realized that my daughter had taught me not only how to dream, but also that inner strength was powerful enough to overtake any roadblock that might stand in the way.

—-

Happy New Year to all!

xo

C.Mom

p.s.

This is a true story. I changed the names of my family members, and had to rely on my memory and my own perception of my dad’s feelings to write from his perspective.

p.p.s