Pain in your child's face is hard to handle. Not a booboo in need of a kiss and a bandaid, but pure pain. Adam is still in the hospital tonight. We thought that this second inpt chemo treatment stay would be easier. He got in earlier. He was practically a pro. But last night was the torture we had feared. Adam was in pain. And short of holding him, encouraging him (which must have seemed completely useless to him), there was nothing I could do. This wasn't the nausea we had expected. This was pain coming from deep in his body. And I was impotent to do anything.
Adam is feeling a little better now but he is still nauseous and continues to have some GI pain. So he is spending a second night in a row at Vandy.
My folks are up here helping out with Camille. We continue to get loads of support from our friends and family across America (and the world--thanks Anton). But last night, what I saw in my son's face was loneliness. And not the loneliness of the friendless but that of the inaccessible. Adam's situation is not that unusual. There are thousands of kids with cancer, many with much worse forms, but Adam's own experience, his pain and anguish are his alone. Holding him last night, telling him that I was there, encouraging him, telling him that I loved him, all seemed like a limp response to the monster that was invading him.
Now he sleeps. And I hope he will stay asleep to make up for what he did not get last night and to let Martha sleep for more than 30 minutes at a time.
I run the country music half marathon tomorrow. I haven't trained like I should but I think I can finish. Every step will be a prayer for health, comfort and connection away from loneliness for my boy. The minor pain I am sure to feel will be a reminder of the very real pain inflicted on him. And the relief of reaching the end, the endorphin high, will be a preview of what is to come as Adam moves through this thing. On the cancer unit today I saw a colorful sign for a little girl who had reached her final chemo treatment; "Congratulations Michelle!" it read. We have five months left.
Please continue to send your good wishes and prayers. A special thanks to Meriam's family, especially John Paul and his class. The license plates are coming in nicely. It all counts.
About Me
- Edward Brinson
- I am a 53 year old licensed clinical social worker. I enjoy working with teens and adults. I also work with couples. I have never met a person or a family without strengths and resiliency. In my spare time I am trying to grow up and not grow up, love my wife and my kids, practice mindfulness imperfectly, be calm, be more risk taking and generous. Currently I am on a hand full of insurance panels including BC/BS, Cigna, Aetna, and Medicare. Call any time to set an appointment; 615 306 0580.
1 comment:
This was so difficult for me to read. If there is hell it must be traveling this cancer path alongside your child. And Adam looks so brave in his mohawk photo! We've been gone so long. I have a memory of Adam in the backseat of my car. Just me and him. I think we were hanging out a couple hours. He was quiet initially but once we passed some heavy machinery on WEst End (I think they were putting in pf chang's) he became very animated, pointing out the crane, the dump truck. . . and on and on he went. What a sweet and sincere little boy he was! I guess for many families this haul, this heaviness, will ruin them. But I see, I know, you are all so intensely connected and, too, attentive to the subtleties of good hanging out. Man, you have to have that. I can see Martha on the porch with a beer, getting you to join her. I hope Elvis was a good show, I'm sure he was. He can bring it out! My good vibing energy is with you, with Adam and beautiful Camille. I look forward to enjoying a mojito with you, on your porch, when it's hot, the kids wild in the front, on the other side of this! much love, meg
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