Fly a Little Higher Page 6

  “I have cancer,” he said plainly.

  “Oh . . . Yeah . . . Well, geez,” the man stumbled as he tried to find words of comfort. “That’s tough,” he finally got out.

  Zach, seeing the distress on this poor gentleman’s face, just smiled and assured him he was fine. We often found ourselves in this situation where people who wanted to bring us comfort ended up needing to be comforted themselves.

  Zach hated watching people squirm; he didn’t like to be the source of their discomfort. So one day he decided to experiment a little. He was out with friends when a man came up to him.

  “Hey, what happened to your leg?” the man asked.

  “Car accident,” Zach answered, thinking that would satisfy him.

  Unfortunately, the man was a paramedic. “What kind of injury?” he asked. “Tib/fib fracture?”

  “No, hip injury,” Zach responded.

  “Dislocation?”

  “Um. Yeah,” Zach answered.

  “Did you roll the vehicle?”

  “Yep.”

  “Oh man, that stinks. Were you buckled?”

  “Yep.”

  Buried under lies, Zach’s only option was to continue the ruse. When Zach got home he was feeling so guilty, he sat down on the couch next to me and confessed the whole thing, chuckling as he unfolded the multiple lies he’d told. By the time the man finally stopped questioning him, Zach had rolled his dad’s Mercedes, had dislocated his hip, and would have to miss the rest of basketball season because he would be on crutches for six weeks! I have to admit, I was proud of him for having a little fun with it.

  The words I found most comforting were from those people who said it like it was, something like: “Whoa, your son has cancer? Well, that just totally sucks.” No gushy stuff, no advice, just straight up naming it and acknowledging how awful it was.

  One of the kindest and most thoughtful things anyone ever said was the question my best friend, Anne, asked.

  “So, what do you want? Do you want me to call you every day and stop by to visit? Or do you want to be left alone until you get through it?” she asked. “If it were me, I’d want to tuck myself away for a year and come out when it’s over.”

  “Don’t you dare leave me alone,” I answered. “There is no way I can do this thing without talking my way through it.”

  She called me almost every day.

  Eight

  February 2010

  THE RADICAL SURGERY TO REMOVE ZACH’S HIP JOINT AND SEVERAL inches of the femur and replace it with a metal prosthesis went well. The surgeon had to remove much of the surrounding tissue and muscle as well, which meant Zach would never have full mobility again. But Zach was determined to get back as much as he could, and by the second day he was walking up and down the hospital hallway. By the third day he was doing steps, and by the fourth we were going home.

  For six weeks Zach had to wear a brace, the top strap wrapped around his waist and the bottom just above the knee, with a metal bar connecting the two straps. It held his leg at a thirty-degree angle; his knee turned outward continuously, a position that would aid in his hip healing properly. Zach was in pain, but didn’t complain when I pulled out the checklist of exercises he was to do each day. He was determined to heal quickly so he could move on with the chemotherapy and then on with life.

  We only had one close call, when Zach slipped in the bathroom. I had been standing outside just in case he needed help. (Of course, no fourteen-year-old wants help in the bathroom, from his mom of all people.) After a couple of minutes, I heard something crash.

  “Are you okay?” I asked through the closed door.

  He was silent. A few moments later, when he came out, his face was pale, and he was obviously shaken.

  “What happened?” I asked, doing my best to keep panic at bay.

  “The bench slipped when I sat down,” he said with clenched teeth. “I heard something pop in my hip.” He went into his bedroom across the hall and lay down on the bed without another complaint.

  Since I am an emergency medical technician and had been with the fire department for six years, I have seen a lot of things and had to keep my cool while dealing with some very serious injuries. But never have I felt as unsteady as I did seeing the look on Zach’s face as he came out of that bathroom and made his way across the hall to his bedroom; he looked panicked. I was terrified something had pulled apart and been displaced. I knew he was in extreme pain, but he just lay in the bed and kept quiet. It was one of those rare times when I wished he would complain. I called the doctor to see if I should bring him in, and he assured me that it would take a lot of force to pull the stitches or for anything to be displaced. Nonetheless, I brought Zach in to have an X-ray. Everything was fine.

  Several days after Zach’s hip surgery, we got a call from the oncologist. The tumor had been carefully dissected and examined to see if the chemotherapy was killing the cancer cells. We were thrilled to hear all margins were clear of cancer and the tumor came back 100 percent necrotic! The chemo was working—it was killing the cancer!

  It was the best news we could have gotten. It was looking like Zach would be one of the 70 percent of kids who survive osteosarcoma. He didn’t have any tumors in his lungs; they were completely clear, as was his bone scan. Everything pointed to him beating this horrible disease. Now it was just a matter of healing from the surgery and getting through the next five months of chemotherapy.

  It was a tortuously boring several months, relieved only by Zach’s progress in physical therapy in recovering from the hip surgery. He’d lost so much muscle tissue we weren’t sure how much movement he would be able to recover. He amazed us all by his dedication to therapy. He would never have the same strength and range of motion he had before cancer, but he worked as hard as he could. He wanted to run again.

  One of the chemotherapies he was receiving required several hours of fluids after the transfusion. This meant more hours in the hospital, sometimes an extra day or two. We arranged with the hospital to have Zach go home with a backpack of fluids that would continue to flush his system at home. They were able to train me to change the bags and remove the lines from his port when the flush was complete. A home-care nurse would come to the house once a day and draw blood for the lab and would call us when his numbers were low enough to discontinue fluids. It turned out to be a blessing and a curse. We were able to leave the hospital early, but we were bringing the misery of it home with us. Zach had to lug the pack around with him everywhere he went, and had to stay close to a bathroom because of all the fluid running through him. It also brought that sickening swish . . . click . . . swish . . . click of the pump, a constant reminder that life wasn’t normal, into our house. But we were at home, together as a family. The intrusion was worth it.

  May 2010

  IT WAS LATE IN THE EVENING, THE NIGHT BEFORE ZACH WAS TO check back into the hospital for another infusion. It had been a long few months recovering from the surgery on top of being sick from the chemotherapy. His body was wearing down and so was his spirit. His bedroom door was cracked, so I gently opened it and walked over to his bedside. He was asleep, his favorite stocking cap topped his now bald head, and he held a rosary in one hand and a wooden cross in the other.

  The past months had challenged Zach to examine his faith and its place in his life. His simple, childlike faith was maturing into something he could turn to for guidance and find comfort in during this time of suffering. He was ready to step into spiritual adulthood and be anointed in the sacrament of Confirmation.

  Zach’s Confirmation class was scheduled to be confirmed at the St. Paul Cathedral at the tail end of one of these infusions. It was going to be close, but home-care would be able to deliver the fluids in time for us to get the backpack hooked up and make it to the cathedral. The youth director and Confirmation leader, Annie, came to visit us in the hospital two days before Confirmation. She told Zach not to worry about making it to the cathedral with his class, that Zach would be confirmed one
way or another.

  He grinned at her and pointed at his suit that was hanging on the IV pole in his room. “I’ll be there.”

  “Really, Zach, don’t worry about it. It’s not a problem to schedule something later,” she responded.

  “Nope. I’ll be there. Count on it.”

  The next morning Rob and I arrived at the hospital dressed up and ready to head to the cathedral for Confirmation. Rob was in his suit and tie, and I clacked down the hallway in heels instead of my usual clogs. I’d informed the nurses the day before we would need clearance from the doc bright and early—no waiting around like a normal discharge. We were doing this. The nurses were on board with the plan and made sure the docs wrote up the orders right away after rounds that morning. The home-care pharmacy was there to deliver his backpack and fluids, so it was just a matter of Zach taking a shower, getting his port hooked up to the pack, and getting dressed. He was tired and feeling sick, but he was determined to go.

  We taped him up with Saran Wrap to cover his accessed port, and he hopped in the shower. Moving as quickly as he could without making himself sick, he got dressed, and we got the fluids running and were out the door in record time. He’d done it—he was actually going to make it with the rest of his class!

  We walked into the beautiful, cavernous cathedral with its stone arches and marble floors as fifteen hundred people were taking their seats. As Zach made his way to our reserved pew, one by one his classmates caught sight of him and hopped up to greet him; everyone was surprised at the small miracle of his presence. The next miracle would be getting through the entire Mass without having to use the restroom, as he was wearing a pack with two liters of fluid being pumped into his system. Still recovering from the hip replacement, bald, pale, and sick, the joy on his face was evident. Cancer would not win—it was just a minor setback.

  While he waited in the long line to receive the anointing by the archbishop, one of the ushers asked if he really needed to bring the backpack up with him. I’m not sure what he thought was in the pack. Perhaps snacks? Alli was furious. She knew how hard he’d worked to get there, and he didn’t need the interrogation. But before Alli had a chance to lay into the guy, Zach just nodded and said in a quiet voice, “Yep. I need it. It’s keeping me alive.”

  We made it through the ceremony on that glorious spring day, and Zach was even well enough to go out for a celebratory lunch afterward, though he slept through the remainder of the day once we got home. As Zach rested peacefully, I sat on the patio in our backyard and soaked up the spring sunshine. It had been a good month so far. Just days earlier we had celebrated Zach’s fifteenth birthday and now his Confirmation.

  My heart sang with gratitude for this small miracle. It felt like we’d run a marathon with every ounce of energy we had left and crossed the line. But we were beating cancer and the end was in sight! Zach had shown extraordinary courage and enduring faith in the battle. Now I’d gotten to see Zach anointed into spiritual adulthood, and I looked forward to watching that faith grow and mature. It brought me peace.

  Nine

  July 2010

  I’VE NOTICED THERE ARE A LOT OF CANCER FAMILIES WHO END UP adopting puppies, as if cancer isn’t enough of a powder keg. But having a puppy in the mix seems to serve as a needed distraction. Ours came seven months after Zach’s initial diagnosis and four months after his hip replacement. Zach had done remarkably well with physical therapy and was nearing the end of his regimen of chemotherapy. He had gained significant function and range of motion in his hip and was able to bend over and tie his shoes again. Though not with the same flexibility he’d had before cancer, it was still a big deal. And he had started to walk without the assistance of crutches, as much of a relief as losing shackles. He was free. We all felt the eager hopefulness that comes after a long, monotonous journey; we could see the end, and we were restless and in need of some distraction.

  Over the years, the kids had cared for various pets. We had owned three rabbits, a mouse, a spotted leopard gecko, several fish, and two hamsters. But what they really wanted was a dog. As every mother knows, dogs are like toddlers; they require a lot of work. And, as every mother knows, she will be doing all the work. So for years I resisted. But now my defenses were down after several months of hard battle, so when eleven-year-old Grace came to me and told me Dad was fine with getting a puppy and that it was all up to me, I said yes.

  After weeks of research, we decided on a three-month-old miniature red dachshund we named Daisy. On the Fourth of July holiday weekend, Rob, the girls, and I drove two hours to a little town in southern Minnesota to meet this little bundle whose picture we’d fallen in love with.

  The breeder had told us that she was the runt of the litter, and they had kept her longer than the rest to make sure she would thrive. Once she grew to a healthy size, they decided it was time to put her up for adoption. A family had come a week before us to see about taking her home, but she hid under a shed in the yard and refused to come out. We had been warned that she may not choose us to be her adopted family, so Grace, Alli, and I were thrilled when we stepped into the yard and the puppy immediately ran to us and jumped into Grace’s lap.

  Daisy promptly took on her role as major cancer distraction. When Zach would come home after a few days in the hospital, Daisy would happily greet him at the door, so excited she could hardly contain herself. Zach would lie on the floor, and she would jump on his chest and give a most thorough licking of his entire face and was especially fond of his nose and mouth. I’m not sure the doctors would have approved, low blood counts and all, but it was therapy for his soul that was worth the risk.

  When Zach was sick, Daisy would dig her way under his arm and nuzzle until she was comfy. Or if he was lying on his stomach on the floor, she would roost between his legs with her chin resting on his butt.

  Her distractions weren’t always welcome. One day Grace and I had been out shopping for a new middle school uniform. Upon returning home, we were met by a very guilty-looking puppy and a floor covered in stuffing torn from Grace’s new teddy bear. Grace was furious!

  “It’s okay. See?” I held up the husk of what was left. “It tore on the seams. I can fix it, no problem,” I said, trying to keep her from tears.

  We began re-stuffing the bear when we came across a little recording device that had been inside the bear. Daisy’s crime had been recorded. I pushed the play button, and we could hear her growling and tearing the bear to shreds. I couldn’t help myself—I busted out laughing. After a few moments of stubborn protest, Grace joined me.

  Daisy was good at making dark things lighter through humor, and this would become especially true in the days to come.

  IT WAS THE END OF JULY, TIME FOR ZACH’S LAST INFUSION. AFTER eight months of chemotherapy and surgery, we were finally done. Done with hospital stays and boredom, done with blood draws and port accesses, done with backpacks of fluids and days of being sick just to feel better again and do it all over. We were leaving this hospital and not coming back.

  It was during that last stay in the hospital that we met Lance and his mom, Laurie. Lance was a couple of years older than Zach and had been diagnosed with osteosarcoma just a couple of weeks before Zach had. It was odd that we had never seen him before, but that was kind of how it happened—you got in, you got out. The curtain between the beds often kept friendships from forming.

  Lance didn’t have the same prognosis as Zach. His tumor had not responded as well to the chemo; it was not “as dead” as Zach’s was, so he would have to continue on for a few more months with a different therapy. Neither Zach nor Lance were really up for talking much since they had both been on chemo for a couple of days and chitchat took too much energy, so Laurie and I did the chatting for them. It was a comfort to talk with someone who knew what we were going through, who really understood the whole thing. I’d wished I had more time to get to know her and that Zach would get to know Lance, but we were leaving and would not likely see them again, unless it was
at a follow-up clinic visit.

  You would think that I would have been ecstatic, that I would have been doing cartwheels down the hallway. But I wasn’t. There is this strange phenomena that happens with people who have battled cancer. As hard as it is to go through chemo and as much as you want so badly for it to be done, when it finally comes to an end and you are walking out that hospital door, it feels more like leaving a secure fortress than leaving a prison. You realize that you aren’t leaving the battlefield behind but are actually taking it with you, and it will be a part of you forever.

  Zach didn’t feel all that upbeat about leaving either. He was a little sad to leave the nurses who had taken such great care of him all those months, some of whom he regarded as friends. They presented him with a card signed by all of them and an iTunes gift card because they knew he loved music from all the time he’d spent with his headphones on and the few times, when he’d had a private room, he’d brought his guitar in. We promised to stop by for a visit when we came for his CT scan and follow-up appointment the next week.

  Then we walked out the door into the great, big world and wondered if life would ever really be normal again.

  FIVE DAYS LATER I TOOK ZACH TO THE ONCOLOGY CLINIC FOR A routine CT scan. We had decided to take part in a study of osteosarcoma patients that was being conducted to see if this certain maintenance therapy would help keep the cancer at bay. It seemed like a good choice for Zach, and it gave us a little peace of mind to know that we were still actively doing something to combat the disease in others.

  Zach had rebounded from the last chemo cycle and was feeling good. He had been home most of the previous year and was excited about starting back at the high school in just over a month. We were happily talking about my youngest sister, Maria’s, wedding that was coming up in a few weeks when the doctor and nurse came into the room.