7. Beige on Beige

First it was Lunchables, then Uncrustables, then peanut butter and honey sandwiches. Pringles, Doritos, but not those Doritos, then ketchup chips. Mr. Noodles. Garlic bread. Mr. Noodles ON garlic bread. That’s been the meal of the week. Quietly padding down the stairs at 3:20am to turn on the burner, throw some water in a pot and stand there in silence as it simmers, boils, cooks the two minute ramen, and then I dump the water, clean the pots, and take a bowl full to the brim back up the stairs to room 313 to feed my ravenous 4 year old.

Christmas came and went, just like a regular Wednesday in so many ways. But nothing at all like a normal day in all the other, more important ways. It’s absolutely breathtaking to see the generosity and magic at work here at RMH at Christmas. There was an entire ‘North Pole’ set up for parents to partner with Santa to make all their kids’ gift wishes come true. There was a gourmet Christmas Eve dinner served in front of the twenty or so Christmas trees. There was a break in treatment so we got a few days to relax and enjoy. My sweet little chipmunk-cheeked man got to sit in bed and open a stocking and be amazed that Santa knew he was here. And my parents came and we snacked and laughed and made sixteen small meals and everything was brutal and everything was shockingly fine. And then a big bowl of Kraft Dinner and an early bedtime and another 3 am jaunt downstairs to make a beige-on-beige meal for the little prince.

And then here, the 27th. The much bigger day on my calendar than Christmas this year. Today was Mercer’s final day of induction–the first month of treatment where they tackle things the most aggressively. Today he got the “sleepy milk” medicine in his port, took a nap in the “space room” and woke up after getting a lumbar puncture and bone marrow biopsy. Everything is SO kid friendly. The procedure room is completely covered in stars and has a big decal on the wall to make it look like you’re in a rocket ship. I snuggled him until his eyes closed and the doctors get to work.

The only things he has to show for that was an enormous hunger when he woke up, and two bandages on his back. He received chemo in his spinal fluid, they took a sample of the fluid to check for cancer cells in there (which have always shown negative so far) and the bone biopsy will show whether induction has been successful and the cancer cells are not present anywhere. We find out those results Jan 3. And that determines if we stay on Plan A and keep going or if we reroute to Plan B. All the prayers and positivity and vibes and hopes and dreams are channeled in that direction.

For now, we know today is the last day of the daily steroids– meaning his little chipmunk cheeks will go back to regular, his massive unending hunger will subside a bit, and his “roid rage” mood moments will settle a bit more. Two brown medicine bottles get to be tossed in the bin and that feels massively amazing and important. A whole month we’ve been here. Four weeks of treatment done and dusted.

He has had a pretty easy time with the side effects. I know we have so much to be grateful for–his little body has tolerating this cocktail of meds so well and I know there is a miracle unfolding inside his tiny body each day. The story of his bravery and incredible strength is being written with each nap, each time he slurps his medicines, each bowl of kraft dinner… it’s all composing the tale of Mighty Mercer. Our family will never be the same, the world will never be the same. As with all insanely big heavy things we endure, it reminds me of the duality of life — sturdy and fragile. Tough and delicate. All of the entire universe and it’s mysteries seem to be contained in the body of a preschooler fighting a disease we all wish didn’t exist. How is it this happens all the time — how is it that the oncology ward here is full daily? How is it so common, yet so earthshattering? How can I understand things so much less but also feel I know so much more? How can I be sitting here asking nineteen bajillion questions…

And he just keeps on eating noodles and playing Lego.

And thank God for that.

Thank God for two medicine bottles being chucked. Thank God for two-minute noodles and garlic bread. Thank God for people on both sides of the Georgia Strait who supplied all my kids with amazing Christmas gifts. Thank God for the laughs even in the oncology ward. Thank God December 27th is checked off this calendar. Onwards and upwards friends!