“What Did You Do In School Today?”

One year ago, Shawn missed the first day of school (I think.) Three months ago Shawn missed the last day of school. In between Shawn missed over a hundred days of school and countless partial days. Then we spent the summer doing “Camp CHOP” with inpatient chemo starting every four weeks for 15 days at a time. The idea of what we’re doing now was not even on our radar a year ago today. I looked at emails and texts that Bill and I sent to each other on those days and they included words like “I don’t know if he is sick again or is just saying that to get out of brushing his teeth” and “Don’t brush your teeth again, whatever, I don’t care, just eat your fuckin’ breakfast or you will be starving in an hour” and “It will be very difficult for me to get out of work today. We’re slammed already. Hopefully he’s ok until [his dad] gets off work. Hopefully he’s ok period.” We had no idea what was actually going on. Reading those emails was hard.

Parenting is hard.

I eagerly read Facebook today and liked every single First Day of School picture I saw. I honestly liked them. I loved them. All of them. I posted my own. Those pictures are the best. Parents love those pictures. Our kids tolerate them. They are the good views. The hope views. The We’re Moving Forward Each Year views.

I work in Higher Education. I never have off for the kids First Day Of School. I usually go in to work early that day. When I was my kids’ ages and younger, my mother made homemade cookies every First Day Of School. I have never been able to do that until this year. Since I’m still on leave, I could be home baking cookies while they were at school. I baked early so that I’d be able to go get Shawn when the school called me to come get him. No one expected him to make it past lunch. He usually needs a nap after a trip to the grocery store.

They didn’t call.

Shortly after noon, I sent an email to his teacher, principal, guidance counselor, and CHOP hospital teacher. I wanted to get things set up for next week when we go back for two weeks his last round of chemo. But I also wanted to see how things were going. His guidance counselor was the first to write back. She said that she checked on him at lunch and he was happily eating his little pizzas and wanted to go out for recess with his class. His teacher wrote later. He lasted the entire day.

Shawn is not supposed to be doing this well at this point in treatment. He’s in the final rounds of one of the most intense chemotherapy regimens there is. He continues to surprise us daily. We are lucky.

Last night we talked about going back to school. He was very excited. He told me, “this year I’m not going to be as shy because everyone in the school knows who I am because, you know, the cancer and stuff.”

We had tacos for dinner.

Shawn’s been asking for tacos for weeks so I prepped them after baking the cookies. Maybe he’d actually eat them. He’s losing weight and needs to eat. At dinner, I asked him about his day at school. He saw Happy, the Monkey that sits in his chair when he’s not in school. His teacher read the book to the class. He said goodnight to Happy before leaving. He told me that at recess he saw “the grave that doesn’t have a body” of the kid who died at his school four years ago and some other kids were asking him questions. I tried to find out more about this. I think it’s a bench that is a memorial for Nick, the boy from his school who had cancer and died in 2012, but Shawn didn’t have much to say about it. Nick’s mother visited us at CHOP a couple weeks ago. Shawn has been thinking.

At the bus stop this morning, a neighborhood mom told me about a family friend who’s five year old son was diagnosed with brain cancer a month ago. From her description, I suspect it’s the same type of cancer and same treatment protocol that Shawn has. I spent all day thinking about this, while baking cookies and prepping tacos. How do I help them when I don’t even know them? Would this discussion have happened a year ago?

What did you do in school today?

Happy New Year

On August 31, 2015 we brought Shawn to the doctor to try to find out what was going on with the oddly patterned vomiting. It would be another week until we returned to his pediatrician and were sent to the CHOP Emergency Department when the pediatrician thought she saw papilledema, swelling of the optic disc, during an eye exam. It would be another 7 months until we received his cancer diagnosis and another two months after that until we received the medulloblastoma diagnosis after the results of the genetic testing came back.

With one exception, I have spent every late August since I was five years old preparing to return to school or begin a new academic year at work. The start of a new school year feels more like New Year’s Day to me than January 1st does.

Last Wednesday Shawn asked for dumplings from a Chinese restaurant near Penn’s campus. It was the first of two freshman move-in days at the University of Pennsylvania. I love the energy and excitement of the start of semester so I lingered for a bit. I watched the students. I watched their parents. I listened to the cicadas humming at full force the way they do in late August.

The next day I walked up there again, this time to get Shawn some cookies that he asked for but didn’t eat. Along the way I saw a father that I’d met on the oncology floor. I waved and said hi but he seemed to be in his own world and kept walking without turning his head. Later he told me that he had left the hospital and gone for a walk at his family’s urging but he regretted it. There’s too much life out there, he told me. So many young people starting school and families living their lives. He couldn’t stand to be around it. I can’t stand to be away from it.

Today is August 31, 2016 – the first day of the fall semester at the college where am currently employed. I’m not there. I’m on leave to take care of Shawn.

Happy New Year.

 

The CHOP Bake Sale Donation

Two years ago Lilly and her friend, Gabrielle, began asking if they could have a bake sale in front of our house. Gabrielle’s mother and I kept saying “yes, someday” each time the question came up. I think we envisioned a lot of work for us, the moms, and there always seemed to be schedule conflicts for one or both families.

Last spring they asked again to hold a bake sale but this time said they wanted to donate the money they earned to CHOP. We picked a date. April 17th.

The kids did almost all the work themselves. They spent the Saturday before the event makingIMG_4495 cookies, cupcakes, muffins, and Rice Krispies treats. I helped them take the finished products out of the oven, and Gabrielle’s mother did the same, but they did the rest. They set prices for each item. They made ingredient cards to be mindful of those with allergies. They made signs and decorated a cash box. The theme would be “Desert Island.” (Get it?) They chose Caribbean music to play. They cleaned our outdoor furniture for its first use of the year after accumulating winter grunge on the back patio and moved it to the front yard.

We spread the word through friends and family. A mom from Shawn’s school asked if she could post about it on the parent Facebook page. I said yes.

After a cold and rainy early spring, April 17th was suddenly sunny and warm. It was this year’s rendition of that first spring day when nature pops and you want to be outside all day. For most of the early afternoon we had a steady stream of customers. Friends, family, classmates, and neighbors came not only to buy goodies but also to offer personal support to our family and to the effort to raise money for CHOP. More than one parent bought a couple of $0.75 cupcakes with a $10 or $20 bill and told the kids to keep the change. Kids brought their allowance money and piggy bank change to donate. My own children did the same.

Bake Sale 1

At the end of the day, they had raised $265 in about three hours. We saw old friends and met new people and neighbors and felt a lot of love and support from our community. After seven isolating months in and out of the hospital, without the association and identity that comes with a diagnosis followed by the struggle to accept our new identity, we felt like we were a part of something that day. The kids felt proud of their effort and its outcome. They had done something good and they knew it.

Like the previous two years of trying to arrange our family schedules for a bake sale, we then spent the next three months working to schedule a time for the kids to donate the money to CHOP. It would have been easy enough for me to deposit the cash into my checking account and then make the donation online. But we wanted the kids to have the chance to donate it in person, to experience this not as an abstract exchange of money on the internet but to hand it to a person and to do so in the hospital.

Finally, this week, we were able to meet with someone from the CHOP Foundation. Shawn’s low blood counts meant that he wasn’t able to leave the floor so we met on the bridge between the inpatient oncology wings. She brought gifts for the kids and asked them if they have a preference for where the money goes. She listed several options — child life, a particular department, medical research, the general fund, etc. As I’ve written previously, I have my own opinions. But this is not my money and this was not my fundraiser. They chose the general fund. Use the money where it is most needed.

During this exchange, I contemplated the $3.6 million that my insurance company has paid CHOP, so far, in the last year. I compared that with the $265 that my children, with the help of their friends, were right now giving to this hospital. I thought about how lucky we are to have as good health insurance as we do. I thought about how proud I am that my kids and their friends recognize that not everyone has what we have and that they want to help.

Last night Shawn had a procedure that was very traumatic to him, both mentally and physically. We once again invaded his body and beat him up a little bit more in this massive effort to try to fix what is wrong. Lilly was here with us. She held his hand and said encouraging things to him. Later she told me that she thought that all of this is unfair. When I started to talk about the necessities of his treatment, she stopped me and said “no, I don’t mean just what’s happening to Shawn, I mean that all these kids need to be here in this hospital at all.”

What’s The Third Best Day Of Your Life?

“Mommy, what’s the third best day of your life?”

Shawn asked me this question on Monday while we were waiting to be admitted for his second round of chemotherapy. We’d been to the oncology clinic, then to cardiology for some tests, and then back to the clinic for blood work and an exam, all to be sure that he was at a good point to begin his second round of chemotherapy. He was.

What’s the third best day of my life? Jeez, I don’t know. I couldn’t even tell you the first best or first worst day of my life off the top of my head, let along drill three deep. Where does he come up with these questions? Did he ask for the “third best” because the traditional answers to such questions for parents are the days that our kids are each born and he knows that I have two kids so by default those days would be numbers one and two? Is he old enough and experienced enough to even know about such traditions? Honestly, while seeing and holding both my children for the first time certainly does rate among the most amazing experiences I’ve ever had, their actual birth days weren’t all that great for me. I almost died on one of them. I deflected with “What’s the third best day of YOUR life?” He couldn’t answer either. He started talking about how he thought three day old babies would answer that question.

If you’ve followed along with us at all, you probably know that Bingo is one of Shawn’s favorite things to do at CHOP. It’s broadcast on the hospital TV channel. Weekdays at 2PM, you know what we’ll be doing, usually in our room, sometimes in the studio.

Since Lilly is not in school or camp this week, she came to visit us. She took the opportunity to be a guest caller at Bingo, as we’ve occasionally seen patients and siblings do. Tuesdays are now Musical Bingo. Shawn watched from his room. Lilly loves acting, public speaking, and cameras. She was so excited at the idea of being on TV, even just the in-house channel at CHOP. She was nervous at first but quickly settled seamlessly into the role. She was at home.

 

Here she is being introduced:

 

And then Shawn won:

 

My phone ran out of storage space right before she said “that’s my brother” with a gigantic smile as the other announcer said that “Shawn from 3 East” was the first winner. But I heard it and saw it and their father was upstairs in Shawn’s room, watching the same smile on his face. My stage-loving daughter was holding the mic as her attention-hating brother was watching his sister, the person he loves most in the world and vice versa, host his favorite thing to do at CHOP.

I thought of Shawn’s question from the day before. What’s the third best day of my life? For a moment, I considered that maybe this day was it.

Journey Into The Whirlwind

“I’ve been reading memoirs written by people who’ve experienced really horrible things in their lives,” I told my Sunday morning running group over coffee a month ago. “Shawn and I are going back to CHOP on June 20th for his first round of chemotherapy,” I told them. “The doctors tell me that this protocol is among the most intensive chemo there is. It’s going to really suck. I need a really gut-wrenching memoir to read while we’re there. The more heartbreaking, the better.”

Most of my running friends are smarter and more well read than I am. It’s part of the reason I like being with them as much as I do. The Sunday group is particularly astute, if not a bit sesquipedalian.

Two weeks later Jim, also a Russian history professor in addition to being one of my running partners, handed me a paper copy of Journey Into The Whirlwind by Eugenia Semyonovna Ginzburg. “This should meet your criteria,” he told me. It’s a firsthand account of a woman who spent eighteen years in prison and hard labor camps during Stalin-era Russia. “Bad things happen to her,” Jim told me, “and then it gets worse. Let me know if you have any questions about the history surrounding the events in this book.” My eyes probably actually widened. This sounds perfect!

IMG_5008

I tucked Jim’s book into the side pocket of my CHOP bag and headed into chemo, whatever that would actually turn out to be. I spent the days leading up to this admission with increasing anxiety and outright fear about what we’d deal with when we got there and then headed into our Whirlwind.

We were admitted on a Monday. The first three days were active infusion of “the most intense chemotherapy there is, short of our bone marrow transplant kids.” Those kids are locked away in a solitary wing that is difficult to get to. I’ve never been there or seen them. Shawn threw up several times on Monday in a mechanical way. He wasn’t nauseous, he simply threw up when he needed to and felt ok in between episodes. I held the puke buckets under him and rotated them as I’ve done hundreds of times before. He had some urgent diarrhea, too, as predicted, and some urinary incontinence. I did a lot of laundry in the first two days. Then it was over. That was it. And Shawn never complained.

I didn’t take out the book until Wednesday. I was at about page 15 when the hospital chaplain stopped by. This is one of those positions at CHOP that make the rounds every so often to see if they might be needed or wanted. I wasn’t in a mood to chat with anyone, having finally opened my book while Shawn was happily watching a movie. But I was polite. She told me that someone had told her that we were new and might need some help from her. New? Hahahaha. This is our 16th admission. Our first for chemo and second on the oncology floor but we are far from new to CHOP. “Well, I don’t know who told you that we are new and might need your help, but we’re not new and we’re atheists, with a small ‘a’, it’s just not a thing for us. Thanks for stopping by, I appreciate your time.” I hoped she’d just leave. I get that chaplains, particularly hospital chaplains, have things to offer even to non-religious families, but it’s just not where I’m at right now. Thanks for stopping by, I appreciate your time.

She didn’t leave. Damn. Ok, time for some small talk. I can do that. I’m not in the mood, but I can do it.

“What are you reading?” She asked.

I held up the book and read the title out loud.

“What is it about?”

“A woman who spent time in a Russian prison in the Stalin era.”

“Are you a professor?”

“No, why do you ask?”

“I don’t see many people around here reading hard copy books, especially about topics like that.”

She eventually left. I really did appreciate her time.

I kept reading when I could. It took me the entire 15 day stay plus a few days at home to finish the 418 page book. That felt very long for a relatively easy admission but it was because it was so smooth that it took so long to read. Shawn was awake and happy for most of the time. He wanted to play. My time was spent mostly interacting with him and when I took some time for myself it was outside, running or walking, while Shawn watched TV or played games on his iPad, Face Timing me if he needed anything, which most of the time he did not. That’s a good thing, given how many admissions prior to the diagnosis I spent rotating the puke bowls and watching him finally collapse into sleep after screaming in pain for so long. I rarely left the room during those stays but I had plenty of time to read.

So what did I get out of Journey Into the Whirlwind?

I wanted to read this book for it’s horrific memoir topic. That’s been my thing lately, after all. This woman endured a lot. It’s both good to know about such things in the world and it’s good to understand that just because there are worse things happening to other people doesn’t make whatever troubles you are going through any easier. It’s also a good reminder that none of us have a corner market on suffering in this world.

As always happened at the beginning of such a ride one or two of us began to make literary comparisons: in this case Alaska and Jack London’s White Fang.

As I read, I noted quotes that felt relevant to our experiences here. This is not a book review, nor is it an academic discussion. These were my thoughts, broken out in quotes, as I read this book while living on the oncology floor of a pediatric hospital, having spent seven months living on other floors of the same hospital while desperately seeking answers.

Perhaps because waiting for an inevitable disaster is worse than the disaster itself, or because physical pain dulls mental anguish. Or perhaps simply because human beings can get used to anything, even to the most appalling evils, so that the successive wounds inflicted on me by the dreadful system of baiting, inquisition, and torture hurt me less than those I suffered when I first came up against it.

We can get used to anything, can’t we? When we first came to this hospital I didn’t leave my room for two days because I was too terrified to try to find my way around while worrying about what Shawn would be doing while I was gone. Most parents on this floor who are here for the first or even second time, are petrified. In addition to having most likely recently been told the horrific words “your child has cancer” they have also been uprooted from their homes, whether 10 miles away or 500 miles away. It’s the most awful feeling at the start. But what about us? Our primary doctor assured me that I am not the first parent to feel tangible relief from hearing a cancer diagnosis, because it’s a diagnosis, and a diagnosis carries with it a treatment plan, which is better than continuing to try to tread water in the abyss. But these others – they are petrified. Last week they were likely sitting in their pediatrician’s office saying “something’s wrong.” And now they’re here. They don’t even know how to get food, let alone want to eat it. The first weeks are tough. But we did that almost a year ago.

They were worse off than I was: I had the advantage of six months experience behind me.

May I never experience all that it is possible to get used to.

For better or worse, yup.

At the once, without allowing myself to dwell on the horrors of our situation, I set about establishing contacts.

That’s the key, isn’t it? Establish contacts. Make connections. Other people. Ginzburg describes the process of deciphering the prison alphabet system of tapping on walls in order to communicate with others. I struggled to make contacts in the first few days of this admission. I wanted to meet other parents. I wanted to talk to their kids, and so did Shawn. But how? Half the kids are restricted to their rooms, with requirements to leave the door closed and have all people entering to wear masks. How can I meet them? The answer became laundry. Yup, laundry. Unlike most floors at CHOP, 3 South has a washer and dryer on the floor (the PICU had one, too, but the system was haphazard at best). This is huge! No schlepping dirty clothes to the Connelly Family Resource Center on 8 Northwest! Our own laundry! During weekdays there’s even a person who coordinates it, does it for you (more on that later) and texts you when your stuff is done. On weekends, though, the parents communicate among ourselves. We write our name and number on a white board and when it’s your turn, the person before you texts you to let you know. Then you text the next person when you’re done. So now I had the names and numbers of Mike and Nia. Whoever they were. I spent that day looking at people, wondering who was Mike and who was Nia. But I knew their names and I had texted with them. I had established contact.

For a moment I felt as if all this were part of a film.

There were many times during the Undiagnosed Period and the Diagnosis that I felt as if I was watching myself experience things. I suppose that’s called disassociation and from what I’ve read, it’s not uncommon for people in such situations.

Although the authorities were careful to shift the warders about from one Corridor to another so that we should not get used to them or establish human relationships, the same ones came back to us from time to time and we learned to distinguish between them.

Ah yes. The nurses change, at most, every 12 hours, sometimes more often. Sometimes you talk to the nurse at 7PM and he/she tells you that they’ll be with you until 7AM but you wake up at midnight to find an unknown person in your room, drawing blood from your child. It’s different from prison in that the GOAL here is familiarity and continuity of care. But sometimes it doesn’t work out that way. It’s their jobs. It’s our lives.

With the curiosity of “ex-solitaires” we talked incessantly to the camp women, many of whom had been here for more than a month. One after another we learned their life stories-all of them fantastically improbable and yet true; all tragic, yet consisting of episodes which were comic in their incongruity.


You mustn’t grieve so much for your friend. People die here so often, you can’t afford to. Think of something else, your family for instance. Have you got anyone outside?


One had to bear constantly in mind that however bad things were today, tomorrow they were apt to be worse. Each night, as one went to sleep, one could thank Fortune that one was still alive. “No luck today my lady death.”

People die here. Actually, as we headed to Floor 3, Oncology, I consoled myself with the knowledge that, unlike the PICU, it’s unlikely that anyone will actively die near us. We most likely won’t have to be caught off guard hearing death in the next room over again. We won’t have to explain it to Shawn, again, on Floor 3. At least that part of our experience is likely to be over for the time being. And if I weren’t living all of this, I’d hardly believe it.

One day Derhovskaya ran out of cigarettes. Used to chain-smoking, she was in torment. Just then I got a parcel from my mother in which she had put the usual two packs. “Saved!” I said carefully, holding them out.  Derhovskaya blushed and with a muttered “Thank you” turned away:
     “Just a second. I won’t be long.”
     She sat down by the wall and tapped a message. One of the prisoners in the next cell was Mukhina, the secretary of the Soviet Revolutionaries’ clandestine regional committee. Derkovsaya tapped away, not realizing that I could follow:
     “There’s a woman Communist here who has offered me cigarettes. Should I accept?”
     Mukhina inquired whether the Communist belonged to the opposition. Derkovskaya asked me, passed on my reply–and Mukhina tapped categorically: “No.”
     The cigarettes lay on the table between us. During the night I heard Derkovskaya sighing deeply. Though thin as a rail, she would much sooner have done without bread. As I lay awake on my plank bed, the most unorthodox thoughts passed through my mind — about how thin the line is between high principles and blinkered intolerance, and also how relative are all human systems and ideologies and how absolute the tortures which human beings inflict on one another.

During the time when Shawn was undiagnosed, we went through hell. We’re still going through hell, but now we have a lot more support. Sometimes I call cancer the Golden Ticket Diagnosis, which sounds crazy to most people and especially to people who’ve kids have also received a cancer diagnosis. What I mean by this is that for months, we didn’t know which direction this was going. There were three possibilities for the root of the problem – Infectious, Immunological, or Malignant. Malignant was the furthest down the list for most of that time. Which one we would land on would determine a lot about what happened next.

When we moved into oncology, I was instantly struck by the inequality of resources compared with other departments we had spent time in. There was SO MUCH STUFF. There was lunch and dinner put out several times a week. There were continually replenished snacks for parents. There were not only laundry facilities on the floor, but there were people there who will do your laundry. Shawn likes animals. Pillowcases with animals on them appeared on his pillows. Stuffed animals, the big ones, were delivered to our room. One day I was sitting on my bed in our room and someone came in and handed me a $50 Amazon gift card with “Shawn – 14” written on the envelope. Our room number – 14. They were handing them out to each family on the floor. Our social worker told us that we would not have to worry about our rent or bills during the duration of his treatment.

I’m grateful for all of the support that our family, friends, coworkers, classmates, and community has given us. I’m also grateful for the support that CHOP and various foundations have given us. That goes without saying, although I’ll say it anyway. And from reading about other people’s experiences, we are more fortunate than most families facing the reality of having a child with a life threatening illness, including cancer, which is indeed an exclusive club to which no one wants membership.

Hemophagocytic Lymphohistiocytosis (HLH) is a rare and life threatening immunological disorder that carries a poor prognosis (that means that kids die) and is treated in part with steroids and chemotherapy. For a while during our undiagnosed period, it was toward the top of the list of things that the doctors were considering for Shawn. It’s a terrifying condition that also stuns families and sends them into a tailspin. And you’ve probably never heard of it until now. One of the horrors that I contemplate is that if we’d landed on HLH instead of cancer when the Wheel of Possible Diseases was still spinning, our lives would probably be very different right now. The same exclusive club, but without the special membership card. During our last admission, I met a mother who’s child was on the oncology floor for treatment for HLH. She wasn’t in any less need of support than the parents of kids with cancer. I once asked one of Shawn’s doctors, who has worked in other departments, “If we had landed on HLH rather than cancer, would all this STUFF be happening?” “Probably not” was the answer.

We need the help, that’s for sure. But so do a lot of people. How do I reconcile my needs with the unfairness of the situation? Friends have told me, “take advantage of everything that’s being offered to you.” They are, of course, correct. How can I not? What good would come of not doing so? “It’s all from our donors,” CHOP staff have told me, “most this is given by people with a connection to childhood cancer.” That makes sense, too. Of course people will want to give back and they will do so with conditions that they have a personal connection with or one that pulls at their heartstrings. When I’m in a position to give back, it will be to help families in all forms of previously inconceivable situations, not just those dealing with childhood cancer. I’ve seen them. I’ve watched their kids die. I’ve heard their financial struggles. I’ve watched them have to leave their kids there during the day and go to work because they have no choice. And no one is doing their laundry.

During our first round of chemo, I contemplated several things I could do to combat what I saw as an embarrassment of riches when I compared our experiences in oncology with our experiences elsewhere in the same hospital. I could take some of the leftover food from the many lunches, dinners, and snacks and give it to the homeless people I see daily on my runs from the hospital. I could take my gift card and hand it to a parent in another department that I meet on the elevator. I could borrow some of the multiple copies of popular movies that are available in oncology but that we’ve never been able to find elsewhere and “accidentally” leave them in the playrooms on other floors. My own personal Robin Hood campaign.

In the end, I did none of those things, at least not that time. I grumbled to myself and to anyone else who would listen. Grumbling doesn’t really do any good but perhaps someone listened. Someone told me that a doctor had recently become aware of all this inequity and was similarly shocked and was told “you should talk to Shawn’s mom.” That made me feel better. For a moment. People know. They’re listening to me.

The only thing that I did was refuse to take part. I did my own laundry, even if that meant waiting until the weekend or going to another building. I didn’t eat any of the meals or snacks. In the end, that probably saved me from gaining more weight since none of the meals were particularly healthy, although there was some amazing looking fresh-cut fruit one day. I didn’t eat it.

No one is going to decide to give lunch to kids with other illnesses because I refuse to eat what’s being offered to me. I can probably effect change in a more productive way by becoming involved at a higher level. Maybe when we’re done with whatever it is that we’re doing here, I will. I hope I do. When I donate, my money will be earmarked “for the greatest need.” That won’t be oncology. In the meantime, like Derhovskaya and the cigarettes, sometimes you just have to dig your heels in and stick with your beliefs, even at your own expense, for the sake of feeling like you have some level of control over what’s happening to you.

Your child might get cancer. It’s a terrible version of hell. But your child might also have a Thousand Other Horrifying Things happen to them. There’s no corner market on suffering in the world.

Deliberate Happiness

If you scroll through my past posts, you can find anger and frustration. Lots of it from Shawn and from me. As recently as last Monday, I raised my voice here. Loudly. We were in the ER. At that time, and now looking back, I believe my anger was justified. Other times, in retrospect, my anger was not justified. Shawn’s anger was always justified. He has been dealt a bad hand and it took some really good people a really long time to figure out what to do with that. If anyone has a right to be angry, it’s Shawn.

During radiation, Shawn transitioned out of anger and into something else. Happiness? Hope? Relief?

We arrived at CHOP on Monday morning to begin Shawn’s chemotherapy. He would begin in the clinic and move to the inpatient floor as space and time allowed. Our primary doctor in neuro-oncology was out of town at a conference so we’d planned to see an attending that we have worked with most in the past. But she was unavailable so we saw a different attending. She was amazed by the change in Shawn. We have worked with her, too, but not since Shawn turned happy. And also not since Shawn turned healthy. I mean, other than the cancer. Which is still there. Waiting. Silently. This doctor used that term. Silent tumor. It’s there but not there. It’s there but we can’t see it and we never have, not as a primary tumor. Shawn would call that a Ghost Tumor if we asked him for a name.

That morning the oncology clinic was overtaken by a foundation called Michael’s Way. I can’t tell you much about this group other than that, like many organizations, they appeared in our lives at the exact right moment when we didn’t even know we were looking for them. We checked in at 8:55AM, a few minutes before our scheduled arrival time. People were wheeling in carts of pizza and soft pretzels and cookies and bottles of water and juice. Professional photographers were scoping out their space. Shawn looked on excitedly as a Giant Connect Four game was being set up. “Can we play that?” he asked. “We’ll see” was the only response I could provide. Promise nothing and hope for the best has become my only answer in pretty much every situation here.

My goal for myself for this admission was to not be angry. Actually, my goal was to not show anger. Time after time I’ve begged myself to not be angry. To not overreact. To go with the flow. I’ve failed every time, including last Monday in the Emergency Department. When I reacted with anger at a situation that a supervising nurse practitioner ultimately apologized for and wrote up some sort of report and told me that they are working to try to resolve the problems that caused this particular incident, I watched Shawn as he sadly asked me to stop arguing. The look on his face reminded me that, again, my reaction was justified but that I was right at what cost? What did it fix? What did it harm?

I decided that I would fake happiness. Not in an artificial way, although it would probably be somewhat plastic. I can’t usually control how I feel. Most people can’t. At CHOP I certainly can’t control most of what happens to us. And not feeling angry is probably going to take some more time. But I decided that I can control how I act and react.

The first two days went smoothly. Way more smoothly than my nightmares had anticipated in the weeks leading up to this. I was in a groove of faking happiness and it wasn’t even all that hard. The oncology floor is unexpectedly calm and quiet. Those haggard looking parents and grandparents I’d previously observed in the elevators getting off on Floor 3 now just seemed to be people doing things in a very matter-of-fact way with their mostly happy looking kids. Parents getting off on Floor 3 (with me) now seem less haggard than when we lived on other floors. Less stressed. Less angry.

The Oncology floor is, so far, pretty quiet. Boredom has been our biggest complaint. He is experiencing some side effects of the chemo (vomiting and diarrhea) but so far it’s been less than he’s had in previous admissions when he was so sick and they couldn’t figure out why. Back when we were treading water. Shawn has been relatively unimpressed with chemotherapy so far. “The external shunt on the PICU was WAY worse!” he tells me. We played bingo. We played games with volunteers. The same people he used to grunt at and shoo away are now fun.

This morning, day three, I finally had a chance to employ my Don’t-Show-Anger plan. If I were a teacher at this, I’d give myself a C-. Passing, but barely. Shawn got angry shortly after his breakfast arrived. I don’t know why and neither does he. A bacon and ham omelette ultimately ended up on the floor and walls like so many meds and food before. I raised my voice. I yelled at Shawn. The nurses came in. They closed the door. They told me it was ok. The doctor later told me that it might be a reaction from the steroids they’re giving him to help with the potential reactions to the chemo. I was embarrassed. We’ve been here before, without the drugs. I’m still so unclear about discipline issues at the hospital. How to react. What to do. How it’s different than at home. How to parent here in this artificial parenting environment. If there’s no manual for how to be a parent in the outside world, there’s certainly no guidelines for what to do here.

I’m hesitant to write this, because this is the kind of thing that when everything goes to shit in a few hours I’ll regret and want to come back and retract, but so far this has been one of our easiest admissions. Little drama and even less trauma. My current internal question for myself is – has this admission been easier because I decided to be less angry or am I less angry because this admission has been easier?