On August 18, 2003, I walked my small son into the hospital for an MRI I was sure he didn’t need. A head CT in June for eye symptoms and headaches had come back clear, still the pediatric ophthalmologist had ordered this scan. I helped two nurses restrain him so they could start an IV in his little arm. I held him and rocked him as he screamed and fought and gradually fell asleep from the sedation meds. I stood in a hall and watched the nurses carry my sleeping son into a large room with a giant machine and lay him on a table. I watched them hook him up to oxygen and all types of monitors and strap his body down. Then, they closed the door. I sat in our patient bay for an hour & a half listening to the strange mechanical noises of the machine scanning my son’s head and wondering how much longer it would take. When it was over, the nurses brought him to me. He was floppy, drugged, and belligerent as he recovered. After he had awoken sufficiently I walked out of the hospital with his young three year old body in my arms, convinced it had all been an unnecessary trauma and colossal waste of time. I couldn’t have been more wrong. About five hours later I answered a phone call I never imagined I would receive. It was a doctor telling me a mass had been found in my son’s brain – that he had a tumor. A tumor we would soon learn was inoperable. I honestly don’t remember much about that day or the following week, but I do remember the moment of realization when I understood our lives had been changed dramatically.
Joshua is now 9 years old, and we have been living with the knowledge of his tumor for two-thirds of his life. Since diagnosis, his tumor has progressed twice. He finished his second chemotherapy protocol in September of 2007. We are absolutely thrilled his tumor has remained stable since that time. While we have been exhausted by the longevity of each protocol, the process of ending and being off treatment is always emotionally difficult. We’ve been on this path before though, and are familiar with the level of stress it involves. Because Joshua’s tumor is inoperable – it is still there. Because it is still there, we must constantly watch him for signs, signals, & symptoms of further growth. I’m sure we would still be watching just as vigilantly if his tumor were able to be surgically removed, but it isn’t. It is sitting there, in his head, threatening us with the possibility that it will start to grow again. I’ve often said I feel as though I woke up one morning to discover I’ve become a lion tamer. A lion resides in our living room and it has no purpose but to destroy. With a whip and a chair, we have fought the lion. But after a time, when the lion has gone to sleep and this particular whip and chair have lost their usefulness, we must stand empty-handed. We must stand and watch this lion, and wait for it to awaken and take another swipe at my child.
Despite the difficulties of coping with Joshua’s cancer, we have many things in life for which we are thankful. We are thankful for the feistiness in our “smiling pirate” (a nickname earned through daily eye-patching), our boy with the strongest will we’ve ever seen. We are thankful for his resilience, his fight, his gentleness, his love, and the character we know is growing in him through this trial. We are thankful for our other children who add to the joyful noise, love, and laughter in our home. We are thankful for the family and friends who have stuck by us on this long, long road. We are thankful for every ounce of support we’ve received and especially for the love and prayers we’ve been given. We are thankful for the perspective we’ve gained, the new friends we’ve made, and all the people we’ve met on this journey. We are thankful for our amazing doctor & her team, our fantastic nurses, and all the staff who make all the medical procedures so much less painful and tedious.
We are also thankful for the opportunity to share Joshua’s story, and hope that it will inspire people to help children with cancer. So many children are still fighting, and too many children will fight in the future. Your support of childhood cancer research can help make their battles a little easier.
The Metz Family
