We Own the Sky(43)
I’m a long-time veteran of Hope’s Place. My daughter was diagnosed with PXA in 2009. She has been healthy and happy ever since and lives a normal life. I know it might be hard to hear now, but you have so much
to be hopeful for. Take care.
“Look,” I said, handing Anna my phone. “From someone on Hope’s Place.”
Without her glasses, Anna squinted as she read. “How lovely,” she said. “Do you know that person?”
“No, not at all. I asked something on the forum this week about recovery time, and I said Jack’s operation was this week. There’s more, look.” I opened another one.
Subject: Good luck!!
Sent: Mon Jul 7, 2014 5:16 pm
From: TeamAwesome
Recipient: Rob
I have to be quick because I am just off out the door but wanted to wish
you the best of luck for today. We have a little tradition around here on Hope’s Place of sending good wishes on op day...so just to say that I’m thinking and praying for you all. I know just what a lonely, heartbreaking, nerve-racking time this is. My son was diagnosed eight years ago and is now a happy healthy teen, who manages to find a million ways to drive me mad! I am telling you this as I remember just how much I needed to hear stories of hope, not from doctors but from real people, people who
had gone through the same. So that’s my story of hope. Do post to let us
know how it went (if you feel like it). All your friends on Hope’s Place are cheering you on.
“Goodness, people are so kind,” Anna said, scrolling through the message
again.
“Are you okay?” I said, squeezing her shoulder, pulling her closer to me on the bench.
“No, not really. I’m just so, so...” Her words trailed off, and her eyes followed an old couple strolling with a bag of bread crumbs for the birds.
“Me too,” I said, and took a deep breath, letting some air into my lungs. I went back to my phone and started to read the rest of the messages, stories of hope from strangers on the internet.
*
Jack had woken up, and we went to see him in intensive care. One half of his head was covered with a dressing and net. Occasionally his eyes would flicker open but then quickly shut again, and we sat on either side of him, each holding a hand.
“I’m sorry,” a nurse said, when we asked her if the operation had gone well. “I can’t tell you that, but the doctor will let you know more. She’s in the waiting room, the one at the end.”
I knew something was wrong as soon as I walked into the room. Dr. Flanagan was sitting down, still wearing her green scrubs, frantically checking something on her phone. It made sense now: how the nurse averted her eyes, a more secluded meeting room at the end of the corridor.
“So,” Dr. Flanagan said, putting down her phone. “It’s good news.” I waited, too scared to breathe. “The operation went very well. Everything is out. No complications. And Jack did brilliantly.”
“You managed to get all of the tumor?” I said, feeling the pump of my heart, the quickening of my breath.
“Yes, we got all of it,” the doctor said, taking her surgeon’s hat off. “It was simpler than we anticipated. Some tumors are complicated, tangled up with blood vessels, but that wasn’t the case here. We’ll have to do a scan to confirm this, but I’m confident that we’re looking at a gross total resection.”
Gross total resection. We knew those words. We had read them on Hope’s Place, in the medical literature. It was the gold standard for children who were cured. All visible signs of cancer removed.
“So this...this,” Anna stammered, almost gasping for breath. “This might
mean he’s cured?”
“Yes, it might,” Dr. Flanagan said quickly. “Officially I’m not allowed to say that. We doctors are very nervous talking about cures but, in Jack’s case, the surgery did go incredibly well, and I really expect him to make a full recovery.
However, to be fully straight with you, there is always a risk that it will come back. In Jack’s case, that would be a very small risk, but a risk nonetheless.”
A risk, a very small risk. But there were always risks, crossing the road, playing rugby at school.
“And will he need any more treatment?” I asked.
“So,” the doctor said, looking at her watch, “in the coming days we’ll do another scan to make sure that the resection was total, that there are no signs of cancer. And if that scan confirms what we think, no, Jack won’t need any more treatment.”
“Thank you,” I said, “thank you so much.”
“Well, it’s nice to be the bearer of good news,” the doctor said, standing up and walking toward the door. “But if you’ll excuse me, I need to prepare for another operation.”
Suddenly, Anna stood up and flung her arms around the doctor. Their embrace was awkward, two people who didn’t know how tight to squeeze or how long to hold on. But Anna wouldn’t let go, her arms tightly wrapped around the doctor’s body, as if she was clinging to her own child. They stood, gently swaying next to a fire extinguisher, as Anna whispered “thank you, thank you” into Dr.