December is a month filled with preparations and anticipation for everyone. There are cookie exchanges, packages, cards, holiday parties and every manner of excitement for the end of the year celebration, however you happen to name it. The Ramers celebrate Christmas, but this year our preparations have been for a very different sort of event.
We have been waiting with diminishing patience and increasing anxiety to learn if the T cells that researchers at MD Anderson collected last month had sufficiently grown. The call came a little over a week ago, that they were successful. Chemo would begin on Christmas Eve and the genetically engineered T cells would be administered five days later.
Our preparations and travel arrangements were hastily made, and filled with gratitude because Brent now has circulating blasts. It becomes a race in AML, to not have a catastrophic event as the disease overtakes the marrow, because it reduces the power of the immune system. Infection becomes increasingly dangerous. Infection is the catastrophic event we most fear.
The day before we were to fly to Houston, Brent developed a cough. I held my breath.
Overnight, only hours from our departure, he required more oxygen. I wanted some for myself.
As the medical transport team arrived before dawn, Brent went into respiratory distress. Heartbroken and despairing, I asked that we fly anyway, knowing that the only way that Brent might live, is if he could get to these cells. I write this from an ICU in Houston, where Brent battles both leukemia and septic pneumonia. They have sedated and intubated him, giving his body time to fight the infection with the help of strong medicines.
While I knew that we would spend our holiday in the hospital, I did not anticipate that it would look this this.
We are so grateful for our new team of physicians and nurses at MD Anderson who are working hard to help Brent manage his dueling sharks. While still very ill, this is clearly where he needs to be. Our whole family is now here. He is surrounded by love.
While the path ahead is filled with uncertainty, I remain ever hopeful. Perhaps with good reason:
We learned on this day in 2011, that Lauren had a sizable asymptomatic brain tumor. This was devastating news for Dan and me, but 9-year-old Lauren called finding it a 'Christmas Miracle.' Two years ago, we managed to get Brent home for Christmas, nearly in remission, contrary to every medical expectation. Last December, we had evidence of a successful skin graft between Alex and Brent, something that has never been accomplished before. This Christmas, we are hoping for another fantastic and improbable gift, better than anything available from Amazon.
I am grateful to be here, listening to the whoosh of the ventilator, waiting for the slow healing. I have faith that it will come.
The Ramers welcome your prayers and send you our love this Christmas.
Saturday, December 23, 2017
Thursday, December 7, 2017
Unexpected and unlikely
I have been thinking a lot about cells. Particular cells. Special cells that, not unlike the RamerNation, have taken an exceptionally unusual journey.
The DNA for the cells were created over 20 years ago. The ancestor cells grew in my son Alex, dividing and carrying on in the most normal of ways. There was no suggestion, for well over a decade, that they would do anything special. It was assumed that they would live out their time quietly in the suburbs.
Two and a half years ago, some of Alex's cells were scooped up and abruptly transplanted into a foreign war zone, where they tried to establish a new life. In Brent's body, these cells struggled and fought with the hostile natives, but they quickly became overwhelmed.
By Thanksgiving of 2015, they were on the verge of capitulation, when another wave of refugee cells arrived from Alex, this time with a great number of mercenary T cells. This influx of special help turned the tide in a remarkable way, beating down the leukemia to undetectable levels.
The conflict continued over then next 18 months, but open hostility was downregulated--perhaps to something more along the lines of aggressive political maneuverings. We watched from afar, really hoping that leukemia was finally behind us. However, over the past summer, going to clinic with Brent was like reading the international section of the newspaper. As lab reports trickled in, I worried that all was not well in this historically troubled part of the world.
By July, it was clear that violence had broken out again in Brent's body. Leukemia had survived and had gained a foothold.
Brent has seen horrific weaponry most of which kills indiscriminately, the equivalent of using mustard gas (Methotrexate is actually derived from mustard gas-fun fact). He has undergone surgical sacrifice of large tracts of land and endured a nuclear holocaust (hello, radiation!) We have cut, poisoned and burned Brent in excess, in our efforts to eliminate the bad cells. Scientists have been focused on problematic cancer cells for so long, always searching for vulnerabilities so that we can better kill cancer with new medicines.
I have been grateful for these efforts, and for this line of research. The development of these brutal weapons is, in part, how Brent managed to beat osteosarcoma and metastatic melanoma. I often say that it has been an absolute privilege to develop treatment induced AML. There is no snark found in that statement.
With immunotherapy, however, the focus is actually on these other cells, the good that exists in Brent's body. Scientists are now studying ways to make what is working--cancer surveillance by the immune system--stronger and better. The traditional approach to cancer has been laser focused on the enemy, in a horrible war of attrition- (kill the cancer faster than you kill the patient). We are only on the cusp of this paradigm change, but it is very exciting and hopeful.
Last month at MD Anderson, we extracted some of those mercenary T cells of Alex's, which have been residing in Brent's body for a while. We shipped them off to a lab in New Jersey where they will go through special ops training so that they can better identify and eliminate leukemia cells. They will be genetically modified to be focused on CD33, targeting a protein found on the surface of Brent's leukemia.
We are still waiting to hear if the cells have grown, and passed their training program. They may hail from Alex's body, but they will fight passionately for Brent, their new homeland. We hope to infuse them back into Brent, in Houston, before Christmas.
Waiting for news of the cells is exceptionally difficult. While many people hate a war analogy for cancer, I feel like a viewing of Dunkirk might be an encouragement to me about now. I have often found inspiration in how Britain as a nation, survived such uncertainty and peril. They were tenacious, and at times unconventional.
Like Alex's cells, we began our family without fanfare, never suspecting that we would do anything unusual. I thought I would be quietly gardening in the suburbs, raising my children in the most ordinary way. I was not remotely ambitious, but always thought that my contribution to the world would be to raise extraordinary children with Dan.
I never imagined this, when I hoped that they would be extraordinary. But I rather think that they are.
We welcome your prayers for our family.
The DNA for the cells were created over 20 years ago. The ancestor cells grew in my son Alex, dividing and carrying on in the most normal of ways. There was no suggestion, for well over a decade, that they would do anything special. It was assumed that they would live out their time quietly in the suburbs.
Two and a half years ago, some of Alex's cells were scooped up and abruptly transplanted into a foreign war zone, where they tried to establish a new life. In Brent's body, these cells struggled and fought with the hostile natives, but they quickly became overwhelmed.
By Thanksgiving of 2015, they were on the verge of capitulation, when another wave of refugee cells arrived from Alex, this time with a great number of mercenary T cells. This influx of special help turned the tide in a remarkable way, beating down the leukemia to undetectable levels.
The conflict continued over then next 18 months, but open hostility was downregulated--perhaps to something more along the lines of aggressive political maneuverings. We watched from afar, really hoping that leukemia was finally behind us. However, over the past summer, going to clinic with Brent was like reading the international section of the newspaper. As lab reports trickled in, I worried that all was not well in this historically troubled part of the world.
By July, it was clear that violence had broken out again in Brent's body. Leukemia had survived and had gained a foothold.
Brent has seen horrific weaponry most of which kills indiscriminately, the equivalent of using mustard gas (Methotrexate is actually derived from mustard gas-fun fact). He has undergone surgical sacrifice of large tracts of land and endured a nuclear holocaust (hello, radiation!) We have cut, poisoned and burned Brent in excess, in our efforts to eliminate the bad cells. Scientists have been focused on problematic cancer cells for so long, always searching for vulnerabilities so that we can better kill cancer with new medicines.
I have been grateful for these efforts, and for this line of research. The development of these brutal weapons is, in part, how Brent managed to beat osteosarcoma and metastatic melanoma. I often say that it has been an absolute privilege to develop treatment induced AML. There is no snark found in that statement.
With immunotherapy, however, the focus is actually on these other cells, the good that exists in Brent's body. Scientists are now studying ways to make what is working--cancer surveillance by the immune system--stronger and better. The traditional approach to cancer has been laser focused on the enemy, in a horrible war of attrition- (kill the cancer faster than you kill the patient). We are only on the cusp of this paradigm change, but it is very exciting and hopeful.
Last month at MD Anderson, we extracted some of those mercenary T cells of Alex's, which have been residing in Brent's body for a while. We shipped them off to a lab in New Jersey where they will go through special ops training so that they can better identify and eliminate leukemia cells. They will be genetically modified to be focused on CD33, targeting a protein found on the surface of Brent's leukemia.
We are still waiting to hear if the cells have grown, and passed their training program. They may hail from Alex's body, but they will fight passionately for Brent, their new homeland. We hope to infuse them back into Brent, in Houston, before Christmas.
Waiting for news of the cells is exceptionally difficult. While many people hate a war analogy for cancer, I feel like a viewing of Dunkirk might be an encouragement to me about now. I have often found inspiration in how Britain as a nation, survived such uncertainty and peril. They were tenacious, and at times unconventional.
Like Alex's cells, we began our family without fanfare, never suspecting that we would do anything unusual. I thought I would be quietly gardening in the suburbs, raising my children in the most ordinary way. I was not remotely ambitious, but always thought that my contribution to the world would be to raise extraordinary children with Dan.
I never imagined this, when I hoped that they would be extraordinary. But I rather think that they are.
We welcome your prayers for our family.
Tuesday, October 31, 2017
A less traveled road
I spent most of September and a warm October in the hospital with Lauren and Brent. I would see large families visiting Rainbow Babies and Children's Hospital on the weekends, sometimes providing improbable visuals: Amish men with their wide brimmed hats and distinctive beards walking behind a group of Muslim girls in full black burka. Witnessing these unlikely neighbors reminded me that pediatric cancer recognizes no boundaries.
While there is great focus on disparity, discord and discrimination between cultures, cancer is the great unifier. We parents, regardless of any other differences, desperately want the same thing for our children. Within the cocooned isolation of the oncology unit, we hold on to each other and to hope. We may pray in varied ways, but each of us utters the identical prayer. Please bring health to my child.
The world, as presented in the media is a clanging ugly noise, something that is piped in via the television found in the nutrition room. I generally turn it off, preferring the quieter expressions of love and kindness that we experience every single day.
While writing this, lyrics from some other lifetime, were called to my mind.
I enjoyed my occasional days at home when I could to get Olivia on the bus. Upon waking, Olivia would always roll over to sleepily greet the sunrise, declaring its beauty and promise. This morning when I woke her for school, it was dark outside, and cold. Her cheer and enthusiasm are blessedly unwavering.
We return to warmer climate next week. Brent will formally enter a clinical trial at MD Anderson in Houston for his relapsed AML, a research study that just began recruiting in mid August, only a month before we sought options there.
I picked Lauren up after a rare day without chemo, one that permitted her to attend class. We chatted over lunch about our family and the notion that "to whom much is given, much is expected." The Ramers have been given so much. While we have been given far too much cancer in my opinion, we are also loved and supported in ways I never could have imagined. Lauren and I agreed that we each have a talent, and we should use it in service to others.
My daughter is comfortable speaking publicly and uses her voice to help the adolescent cancer community. Brent, she pointed out, has knack for getting out of incredibly tight spots. His talent seems to be providing Proof of Concept to enterprising folks in medicine, like the surgeon who successfully grafted skin from Alex onto Brent last November.
While I cannot deny the truth in this, I would much prefer that he take up juggling.
I reminded Lauren that I have been following developments in immunotherapy for years. Emily Whitehead was a name I knew long before Brent had leukemia. Her success with Car-T had dramatically changed the treatment options in ALL. Reading about her and the brilliant researchers at Children's Hospital of Philadelphia brought me hope. I thought that using the immune system could transform all of cancer treatments, particularly for folks with LFS because it does not rely on our defective P53 function, as chemotherapy and radiation do. I even said back in 2015 when Brent first developed leukemia, knowing that Car-T was still limited to CD19 /ALL, that I would gladly stand in line if a CAR-T trial for AML were available.
We now find ourselves next in that line for an early phase I trial for CD-33 Car-T to treat his relapsed AML.
I wonder sometimes if I unknowingly made a bargain with God. I alternate in my responses. Should I be grateful about this, terrified, or completely pissed off? I always lean toward gratitude, but in the interest of honesty, have to reveal my conflicting emotions. Faith, I have always said, is hard.
Our home smells of wood smoke and spiced cider when we return. At Thanksgiving, for three consecutive years now, Brent will attempt something unproven. His daring is fueled by a mix of desperation and courage. As his mother, I choose to focus on his courage and his grace.
I wish we were simply taking a less traveled road, but Brent consistently steps into the wilderness with a medical machete, cutting a path for others to follow.
We welcome your prayers, however you form them.
While there is great focus on disparity, discord and discrimination between cultures, cancer is the great unifier. We parents, regardless of any other differences, desperately want the same thing for our children. Within the cocooned isolation of the oncology unit, we hold on to each other and to hope. We may pray in varied ways, but each of us utters the identical prayer. Please bring health to my child.
The world, as presented in the media is a clanging ugly noise, something that is piped in via the television found in the nutrition room. I generally turn it off, preferring the quieter expressions of love and kindness that we experience every single day.
While writing this, lyrics from some other lifetime, were called to my mind.
We share the same biology
Regardless of ideology
Believe me when I say to you,
I hope the Russians love their children too
-Sting
-Sting
I enjoyed my occasional days at home when I could to get Olivia on the bus. Upon waking, Olivia would always roll over to sleepily greet the sunrise, declaring its beauty and promise. This morning when I woke her for school, it was dark outside, and cold. Her cheer and enthusiasm are blessedly unwavering.
We return to warmer climate next week. Brent will formally enter a clinical trial at MD Anderson in Houston for his relapsed AML, a research study that just began recruiting in mid August, only a month before we sought options there.
I picked Lauren up after a rare day without chemo, one that permitted her to attend class. We chatted over lunch about our family and the notion that "to whom much is given, much is expected." The Ramers have been given so much. While we have been given far too much cancer in my opinion, we are also loved and supported in ways I never could have imagined. Lauren and I agreed that we each have a talent, and we should use it in service to others.
My daughter is comfortable speaking publicly and uses her voice to help the adolescent cancer community. Brent, she pointed out, has knack for getting out of incredibly tight spots. His talent seems to be providing Proof of Concept to enterprising folks in medicine, like the surgeon who successfully grafted skin from Alex onto Brent last November.
While I cannot deny the truth in this, I would much prefer that he take up juggling.
I reminded Lauren that I have been following developments in immunotherapy for years. Emily Whitehead was a name I knew long before Brent had leukemia. Her success with Car-T had dramatically changed the treatment options in ALL. Reading about her and the brilliant researchers at Children's Hospital of Philadelphia brought me hope. I thought that using the immune system could transform all of cancer treatments, particularly for folks with LFS because it does not rely on our defective P53 function, as chemotherapy and radiation do. I even said back in 2015 when Brent first developed leukemia, knowing that Car-T was still limited to CD19 /ALL, that I would gladly stand in line if a CAR-T trial for AML were available.
We now find ourselves next in that line for an early phase I trial for CD-33 Car-T to treat his relapsed AML.
I wonder sometimes if I unknowingly made a bargain with God. I alternate in my responses. Should I be grateful about this, terrified, or completely pissed off? I always lean toward gratitude, but in the interest of honesty, have to reveal my conflicting emotions. Faith, I have always said, is hard.
Our home smells of wood smoke and spiced cider when we return. At Thanksgiving, for three consecutive years now, Brent will attempt something unproven. His daring is fueled by a mix of desperation and courage. As his mother, I choose to focus on his courage and his grace.
I wish we were simply taking a less traveled road, but Brent consistently steps into the wilderness with a medical machete, cutting a path for others to follow.
We welcome your prayers, however you form them.
Saturday, September 16, 2017
Gratitude for support, balanced by a hunger to do better
I nearly forgot to post a link to the Hyundai Hope on Wheels clip that Lauren did. We shared this on FaceBook last week, but everyone is not on social media. As we travel back from Houston, where we have been shopping for clinical trials, I can finally process and put this into context.
A few weeks ago, while Lauren was doing chemo, they asked if she would be willing to share about her experience with pediatric cancer. This is the video that they put together.
Lauren really enjoyed the ceremony held at Rainbow Babies and Children’s Hospitals, where folks from Hyundai presented one of those giant checks for research. Lauren, along with other pediatric cancer patients, were encouraged to put colorful handprints on the white car and the researcher's white lab coat. It was a day to bring together researchers, donors and the patients that they hope to serve.
Lauren joked with Dr. Letterio that she always wanted one of those giant oversized checks, even one written for just $5, and imagined how funny it would be to cash it in at the bank. Dr. Letterio tucked this away, and a few days later sent the ceremonial research check from Hyundai to her hospital room while she was sacked out from chemo. You will notice that there are quite a few zeros after the five. We are so grateful for the generosity of this organization.
Lauren has since been talking with Kathy, the art therapist at Rainbow Babies and Children’s Hospital on how to transform this check into a fun piece of art. Lauren wants to make it collaborative work, getting patients on the oncology floor to interact and to have the art project from these young people serve as a thank you to Hyundai. While isolated in the hospital, it is good for the patients to connect with one another. The art would also serve as a reminder to young people who might not have been at the event, that they do not battle this alone—donors and researcher are trying to figure out better ways to address cancer.
I am proud of how she is forwarding several goals at once.
Research matters, a truth that has never been more evident for our family than right now. Brent is most fortunate that he turns 18 in a few weeks, because the clinical trials that are most suitable for his relapsed leukemia are not found in pediatrics, but rather on the adult side. If he were closer to Lauren’s age (nearly 15), his challenges would not be limited to finding how to best deal with a tenacious cancer, but in finding appropriate trials that he would qualify for, not because of safety issues related to organ function or disease load, but solely because of how old he is.
Age discrimination takes on a whole new meaning, if you are a teenager with cancer.
Most look forward to when their teen becomes independent and goes off to college. For years, I have been anxious for Brent to become an adult for a very different reason: so that these adult treatment opportunities would finally be available for him. If we, as a nation, are content to spend less than 4% of the NCI budget on pediatric cancer research (which is wholly inadequate) then the very least that we could do is provide these underrepresented patients in the Adolescent and Young Adult (AYA) population access to adult clinical trials.
It has long been a double whammy for teens, being first neglected in terms of dedicated research dollars and then being locked out of adult trials, kids with their noses pressed against the glass.
Obviously, our main goal should be to increase pediatric and AYA funding. Our family supports various foundations like Kick-it, Alex’s Lemonade Stand and St. Baldricks’s, to supplement the paltry federal spending. I have spoken to lawmakers about the needs of families like ours, and the spillover benefit of this research for the population at large, so that the federal allocation for pediatric research might improve. (Alas, children do not vote.)
But a secondary objective should be to increase access to cutting edge therapies by lowering the age restrictions on clinical trials. Will Brent be significantly different, medically speaking, a month from now, when he reaches his legal majority, at 18? Actually, with an aggressive cancer, a month could make a huge difference. But in every other way of medically evaluating him, a birthday milestone is completely arbitrary.
With a swipe of the pen, and an extra page of consent in the bundle of forms (for parents to sign), treatment options could open up for teenagers with cancer. It would not cost an additional research dime. My family does not need this regulatory change at the moment, but other families who are out of options do. And unfortunately, even more families will find themselves frustrated by clinical trials that are tantalizingly close for their child, yet inaccessible merely for how they are written and approved by FDA and IRB.
We thank you for your continual support over the years, for buying T-shirts, supporting various fundraisers and sending donations to cancer research organizations on our behalf, like the Cancer Research Institute which forwards research in immunotherapy. It has been so meaningful to us.
The Ramers will soon be taking on a new role in supporting research. Brent will be enrolling in an adult clinical trial when a slot opens. We recognize our good fortune, that he is permitted to queue up. Hopefully, there will be a greater recognition of this unmet need, and more pediatric trials will be funded, and adult trials will be written in an age expanded and more inclusive way.
Thursday, September 7, 2017
The month of September
It is September, the month where we "Go for Gold" in honor of pediatric cancer. I write this from my daughter's hospital room as methotrexate drips in the darkness, the same yellow poison that we pumped into my son Brent nearly six years ago. We are giving Lauren the identical chemotherapy regimen that caused Brent's leukemia.
It sounds like madness, but we have no other option.
It is September, and my brave, bald daughter sleeps fitfully, frequently waking to ask for a basin, or medicines to help with the nausea. I am not sleeping, partially because of these requests, but mostly because I know that I should be writing something. It is September, after all.
I am not sure how to describe how we manage as a family, having two children with active cancer. Lauren is being treated for high grade osteosarcoma. Brent relapsed over the summer with his treatment induced leukemia. The RamerNation is shopping for clinical trials. We are enormously grateful for the support of our community.
We have said for many years, that research matters. We have lamented that only 4% of federal spending at NCI is dedicated to pediatrics. It is not nearly enough. We have worked to support pediatric cancer research, raising funds for supplemental grants through non-profits like Kick-It, St. Baldrick's and Alex's Lemonade Stand. We want to help other families who face a cancer diagnosis in their child, understanding how difficult it is to live with fear and uncertainty. The Ramers also know the devastating side effects of a 'successful treatment' including organ damage and secondary malignancy. We have worked to try to find a better way.
Research does indeed matter, and I concede and celebrate that some progress is being made. However, despite our varied efforts, there are currently no alternatives for treating Lauren's osteosarcoma, aside from toxic drugs dosed at levels sufficient to kill her without very careful management. Brent needs a clinical trial for his leukemia, specifically a cellular therapy. This alludes to the bit of progress that I mentioned. We will travel next week to MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston, a literal disaster zone, in the wake of a hurricane.
It is all madness.
Our difficult reality is more striking in September, when the Ramers typically talk about pediatric cancer and post yellow ribbons. We usually visit a local field filled with golden sunflowers- a blooming awareness campaign along the highway sponsored by Prayers from Maria, a foundation that supports pediatric brain tumor research. This year, regrettably, we are far too busy for such things.
I often say that God wouldn't give us so much cancer if we were not supposed to do something about it. I would certainly prefer to support these fundraising efforts than to participate directly in clinical trials. God, apparently, has other ideas for us. So, next week we will push back Lauren's chemotherapy treatment a bit so that we can travel to MD Anderson and speak to researchers about both kids.
I try not to think about what our life 'ought to' include, like being able to watch Lauren in the marching band on Friday nights, or seeing her run in cross country meets. I try not to grieve senior activities and graduation for Brent, recognizing instead that his mental toughness is immeasurable, his endurance remarkable and his overall experience has been nothing that can be taught or prepared for in an academic setting. I truly try to focus on the things that we have been given: prayers, love and support from unexpected places, compassionate care from our team here at Rainbow, family time, even in a hospital.
We currently have the opportunity to speak with folks who are developing cutting edge therapies, a gift that I do not fail to recognize. My hope is that the best and the brightest have good things to offer us in the month of September.
I watch my daughter sleep in the dim light, listening to the hospital sounds, the familiar beeps and yellow drips. The scars on Lauren's body increase in number each year, but her sweet soul remains intact. For this, I am grateful.
We welcome your prayers for our family.
It sounds like madness, but we have no other option.
It is September, and my brave, bald daughter sleeps fitfully, frequently waking to ask for a basin, or medicines to help with the nausea. I am not sleeping, partially because of these requests, but mostly because I know that I should be writing something. It is September, after all.
I am not sure how to describe how we manage as a family, having two children with active cancer. Lauren is being treated for high grade osteosarcoma. Brent relapsed over the summer with his treatment induced leukemia. The RamerNation is shopping for clinical trials. We are enormously grateful for the support of our community.
We have said for many years, that research matters. We have lamented that only 4% of federal spending at NCI is dedicated to pediatrics. It is not nearly enough. We have worked to support pediatric cancer research, raising funds for supplemental grants through non-profits like Kick-It, St. Baldrick's and Alex's Lemonade Stand. We want to help other families who face a cancer diagnosis in their child, understanding how difficult it is to live with fear and uncertainty. The Ramers also know the devastating side effects of a 'successful treatment' including organ damage and secondary malignancy. We have worked to try to find a better way.
Research does indeed matter, and I concede and celebrate that some progress is being made. However, despite our varied efforts, there are currently no alternatives for treating Lauren's osteosarcoma, aside from toxic drugs dosed at levels sufficient to kill her without very careful management. Brent needs a clinical trial for his leukemia, specifically a cellular therapy. This alludes to the bit of progress that I mentioned. We will travel next week to MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston, a literal disaster zone, in the wake of a hurricane.
It is all madness.
Our difficult reality is more striking in September, when the Ramers typically talk about pediatric cancer and post yellow ribbons. We usually visit a local field filled with golden sunflowers- a blooming awareness campaign along the highway sponsored by Prayers from Maria, a foundation that supports pediatric brain tumor research. This year, regrettably, we are far too busy for such things.
I often say that God wouldn't give us so much cancer if we were not supposed to do something about it. I would certainly prefer to support these fundraising efforts than to participate directly in clinical trials. God, apparently, has other ideas for us. So, next week we will push back Lauren's chemotherapy treatment a bit so that we can travel to MD Anderson and speak to researchers about both kids.
I try not to think about what our life 'ought to' include, like being able to watch Lauren in the marching band on Friday nights, or seeing her run in cross country meets. I try not to grieve senior activities and graduation for Brent, recognizing instead that his mental toughness is immeasurable, his endurance remarkable and his overall experience has been nothing that can be taught or prepared for in an academic setting. I truly try to focus on the things that we have been given: prayers, love and support from unexpected places, compassionate care from our team here at Rainbow, family time, even in a hospital.
We currently have the opportunity to speak with folks who are developing cutting edge therapies, a gift that I do not fail to recognize. My hope is that the best and the brightest have good things to offer us in the month of September.
I watch my daughter sleep in the dim light, listening to the hospital sounds, the familiar beeps and yellow drips. The scars on Lauren's body increase in number each year, but her sweet soul remains intact. For this, I am grateful.
We welcome your prayers for our family.
Saturday, August 5, 2017
Someday is today.
Two weeks ago, my sister asked me to ride with her. We took a familiar route, one that we had travelled many times in the months that we trained. It was a beautiful day, and the first time since our race in June that I had even been on a bike.
"Laurie, we rode our bikes for 100 miles."
I repeated this statement, for the literal meaning, which was kind of astonishing to me on its own merit. 100 hilly miles is no small thing. But it represented something far more significant and symbolic: the medical hills and distance that we have travelled as a family. I find myself in a bewildering place.
Since that beautiful New York day, a mere seven weeks ago, my daughter Lauren has had three surgeries and a confirmed diagnosis of extraskeletal osteosarcoma. As we searched for therapy options that might spare her the risk of treatment induced leukemia, Brent was found to have AML. This devastating relapse was confirmed the night before Lauren began the exact protocol that caused Brent's blood cancer. Without any better options, we nonetheless began pumping Lauren with the same poisoned cocktail that we fed to Brent six years ago.
Watching this infusion made me just as nauseous as the cisplatin made my daughter.
There aren't words to describe how busy, nor mentally and emotionally taxing these weeks in hospital have been.
Each of the kids prepared for treatment, dyeing their hair in anticipation of losing it: Lauren donning bright purple and Brent going with sky blue. Lauren worked with her tutor, finishing all of next years math while she waited for chemo to begin and healed from surgery. Lauren shopped for hospital gear. Brent had a get-together with friends. Cancer has become somewhat normalized in our home, which is probably good, but is also kind of disturbing.
We have had several admissions with both of them in at the same time, often on separate units and in different buildings. This has been completely overwhelming.
My sister had urged me to bike with her, in order to clear my head. As we passed familiar barns and climbed elevations that we had trained on dozens of times before, I would pointedly repeat, "We rode our bikes for 100 miles."
My sister would affirm this statement. "Yes, Ann. Yes, you have. You have done this. And you will again."
While the specific challenges of finding appropriate treatment options are new, the process of 'figuring it out' is not. We found a way to graft skin from Alex to Brent, relentlessly asking folks to consider our unique problem. Dan reminds me of how we initially and repeatedly have been told 'no' over the course of the past six years and urges me to keep asking. It is often about asking the right people. Bold, creative and courageous people, in the right specialty. We have been blessed to have so many cross our path, just when we needed them.
I have worried and doubted about how this will happen again, the RamerNation pulling another rabbit out of a hat. My son is determined, so this inspires me to get busy looking. My daughter is strong, which bolsters my faith. My husband encourages me to keep asking, learning and advocating. Our family is simply better together. The combination is synergetic. We are much stronger than the sum of our parts.
As Brent finishes his bridge therapy this weekend, after a gnarly detour through PICU, I am thinking about our next steps. We will look in earnest for trials, particularly immunotherapy options.
I was biking less than two months ago to support Cancer Research Institute, with the theory that immunotherapy might be something that my kids would someday need. Someday certainly came crashing in on the heels of that ride.
Someday is today.
We welcome your prayers for our family.
"Laurie, we rode our bikes for 100 miles."
I repeated this statement, for the literal meaning, which was kind of astonishing to me on its own merit. 100 hilly miles is no small thing. But it represented something far more significant and symbolic: the medical hills and distance that we have travelled as a family. I find myself in a bewildering place.
Since that beautiful New York day, a mere seven weeks ago, my daughter Lauren has had three surgeries and a confirmed diagnosis of extraskeletal osteosarcoma. As we searched for therapy options that might spare her the risk of treatment induced leukemia, Brent was found to have AML. This devastating relapse was confirmed the night before Lauren began the exact protocol that caused Brent's blood cancer. Without any better options, we nonetheless began pumping Lauren with the same poisoned cocktail that we fed to Brent six years ago.
Watching this infusion made me just as nauseous as the cisplatin made my daughter.
There aren't words to describe how busy, nor mentally and emotionally taxing these weeks in hospital have been.
Each of the kids prepared for treatment, dyeing their hair in anticipation of losing it: Lauren donning bright purple and Brent going with sky blue. Lauren worked with her tutor, finishing all of next years math while she waited for chemo to begin and healed from surgery. Lauren shopped for hospital gear. Brent had a get-together with friends. Cancer has become somewhat normalized in our home, which is probably good, but is also kind of disturbing.
We have had several admissions with both of them in at the same time, often on separate units and in different buildings. This has been completely overwhelming.
My sister had urged me to bike with her, in order to clear my head. As we passed familiar barns and climbed elevations that we had trained on dozens of times before, I would pointedly repeat, "We rode our bikes for 100 miles."
My sister would affirm this statement. "Yes, Ann. Yes, you have. You have done this. And you will again."
While the specific challenges of finding appropriate treatment options are new, the process of 'figuring it out' is not. We found a way to graft skin from Alex to Brent, relentlessly asking folks to consider our unique problem. Dan reminds me of how we initially and repeatedly have been told 'no' over the course of the past six years and urges me to keep asking. It is often about asking the right people. Bold, creative and courageous people, in the right specialty. We have been blessed to have so many cross our path, just when we needed them.
I have worried and doubted about how this will happen again, the RamerNation pulling another rabbit out of a hat. My son is determined, so this inspires me to get busy looking. My daughter is strong, which bolsters my faith. My husband encourages me to keep asking, learning and advocating. Our family is simply better together. The combination is synergetic. We are much stronger than the sum of our parts.
As Brent finishes his bridge therapy this weekend, after a gnarly detour through PICU, I am thinking about our next steps. We will look in earnest for trials, particularly immunotherapy options.
I was biking less than two months ago to support Cancer Research Institute, with the theory that immunotherapy might be something that my kids would someday need. Someday certainly came crashing in on the heels of that ride.
Someday is today.
We welcome your prayers for our family.
Tuesday, June 13, 2017
We Pedal On
We got to West Point Friday night just in time to pick up our registration packet and drop off our bikes. I got to meet my first friend from AstraZeneca. Priscilla was a riot of optimism and enthusiasm, asking to take photos and promising me that we would see each other in the morning. She assured me that we would encourage each other throughout the 100 miles. She did not lie
We had time to grab some delicious pasta dinner, get Dan and the other kids settled into our Airbnb (Dan gets extra points for being the lone driver in the later car) and then go to bed. No late night Cav's watching for this girl--although it seems that they did quite well, even without my attention.
Jamie gets extra chauffeur points for getting up so early to take us to the starting line and a round of team points for getting snazzy custom RamerNation jerseys made for the three of us. The morning weather was mercifully cool. West Point was stunningly beautiful. The course, as advertised, was hilly throughout. I felt great for the first 45 miles.
I met Orlaigh, a woman from Ireland, (actually from the same town that Laurie just returned from) who now lives in Long Island. She was riding 100 to honor her mother, who had breast cancer. I hate cancer, kind of a lot.
I thought a lot about the people who travel with me in spirit. My phone, which carries a fantastic biking playlist from my volleyball girlfriends, dinged text messages of encouragement throughout the race. Jamie, Dan and the kids waited for us at the rest stops and finish line, ever supportive. I saw a ladybug on a flag, a symbol of my friend Gabby. I felt both a rush of grief and a dose of her encouragement, something which always bolstered my confidence. We don't really do anything alone in this life, regardless of how it may appear.
I came to this century ride with Alex (who absolutely killed it, finishing an hour and a half before us) and Laurie (who was announced as the 4th highest individual fundraiser). However, we ended up riding most of the miles alone, only bumping into one other at rest stops, which is how these races tend to work out.
Like a starry sky filled with constellations, there are vast stretches of quiet in between. Throughout the ride, I thought about how Alex was somewhere in front of me and my sister just behind me, connected by invisible bonds. My husband would be cheering just up ahead. Glimpses of Brent, Lauren and Olivia could sustain me. Jamie often drove by, shouting encouragement through the window.
I met some researchers who had good things to share about their work. This lifted my spirits as I considered Lauren's current issue. Potential issue, I should correct, because it is not a problem until it is a biopsy confirmed problem.
I say this kind of a lot, a mutant mantra for mental health. Because there are lots of worries along the way, which could rob me of today's blessings if I allowed them to dominate my thoughts. It is difficult mentally to tamp down worry, particularly when I have intimate knowledge of how long and difficult a sarcoma treatment is. But today is not that day-- which is another handy phrase.
It got hotter in the afternoon, but the folks from CRI did a fantastic job of providing support. There was food, water, Gatorade etc, every 10 miles or so, and the SAG trucks patrolled the routes to make sure that everyone was covered. Laurie struggled at the very beginning and tailed the pack of 100 milers. She told me that for the first 40 she had her own personal SAG driver, Paul, who insisted that he would not leave her. And he didn't, until she began passing people, and met up with me at mile 55. It was an extremely well run event.
I biked with Debora, another part of the AstroZeneca team, an ebullient woman who is comfortable hugging a sweaty stranger on a bike. She evoked Gabby's social fearlessness and perpetual optimism.
In the second half of the ride, the century riders chatted more at the rest stops, encouraging one another, plying pickle juice on those who were cramping and plotting out the distance remaining. Breaking down the miles we had yet to grind out, into smaller more manageable chunks really helped. "Only 12 miles to the next rest stop!"
Around 70 miles in, just after passing a SAG truck, I lost use of my brakes. Laurie, ever practical, pointed out that I wouldn't need them for at least the next quarter of a mile, which was clearly uphill, so we climbed. At the top, there happened to be three riders from AstraZeneca who were stopped at the crest. They kindly helped me with what ended up being a simple fix, something that any experienced rider would know how to handle. A downhill followed, one that was perilous even with functioning brakes. Without their help, I would have had to wait for the SAG truck. It felt somehow prophetic to see how these researcher-riders became directly involved with my plight.
Laurie and I later worked our way up a ridiculously steep and winding road that hugs the rough rock face of a mountain, with the Hudson River flowing below. We had come down that gloriously scenic hill early in the morning, when our adrenaline was rushing, and our legs were fresh. We did not stop for a photos in our haste. Racing along, I had seen a huge bird take flight and I thought about how extraordinarily beautiful, but fleeting it was.
As we reached that same peak after a long climb on our late afternoon return, Jamie was waiting there to take our photo, capturing us sweaty and tired. It was still a glorious view. As we posed, a biplane which I can only describe as 'Gabby Yellow' came out of nowhere, passing close, and commanding our attention. It was perfect.
An exhilarating downhill followed. However, we did not return through West Point. The course took us instead a different route that involved some hills that Laurie and I neither anticipated nor appreciated. There may have been some swearing. We passed a woman who shouted encouragement to us, telling us that we were only three miles from the finish.
Heartened, we pedaled on.
Two miles later, we read a sign that said '5 Miles To Go.' There was definitely swearing at this point. And murder plotted. Disheartened, but determined, we pedaled on.
Finally at the finish, I hugged my family--Alex looking irritatingly well rested--and we cheered Laurie and our new friends in. Dan bustled us to a massage tent where angels of mercy put their hands on our positively disgusting bodies, encrusted with 100 miles worth of crystalized sweat (sorry to be gross, but it was like sand on my face) They stretched us and pummeled our muscles. It felt positively amazing and I think this saved me, because believe it or not, I was not sore the next day.
Over $900,000 was raised at the event for immunotherapy research. I know that more will roll in for CRI until Sept 1, when fundraising is finalized. It was an honor to be part of this effort, and I am grateful for every bit of encouragement and support along the way
.
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In the morning, I sipped coffee and listened to musical gift from my volleyball friends, a lyrical affirmation of their belief in me. Laurie and I talked about how fortunate we had been in the weather. On Sunday, it neared 80 degrees by 9am. Biking in that kind of heat would have been an altogether different sort of challenge.
I was enjoying the beautiful gardens at our airbnb and watching Olivia feed a goose and her four fluffy chicks. It suddenly washed over me that there was nothing left to do, no 100 mile buffer between me and Lauren's surgery.
I was enjoying the beautiful gardens at our airbnb and watching Olivia feed a goose and her four fluffy chicks. It suddenly washed over me that there was nothing left to do, no 100 mile buffer between me and Lauren's surgery.
This is the next step.
Deep breath.
Heartened, or disheartened, we will pedal on. We do not do this alone.
Deep breath.
Heartened, or disheartened, we will pedal on. We do not do this alone.
Thursday, June 8, 2017
Riding 100 miles for the past, present and future
They say that you should have an Elevator Pitch--a point that you would make to a captive audience that lasts the length of an elevator ride. This makes me imagine folks in the business world lurking at a bank of elevators and carefully slipping in when an important ear should be leaving for the day, speech at the ready.
It may sound like a complaint, but I consider it to be a blessing, to do this at home. (Brent sits cozily in our living room with his infusion dripping as I type this) He has had a ridiculous medical journey and his time at home is hard earned. We never take it for granted.
I am not sure that there are buildings tall enough (or elevators slow enough) to accommodate what I would want to say these days. I might, however, be able to cover it over the course of a 100 mile bike ride. This is assuming, of course, that I could breathe enough to speak as I pedal uphill.
Tomorrow, I will be driving to West Point, NY. On Saturday, Alex, Laurie and I will bike in support of Cancer Research Institute which funds immunotherapy studies and trials. Biking 100 miles will not the biggest event of my week--it is currently ranking 4th--behind the devastating loss of my friend Gabby to metastatic breast cancer, the challenges of finding appropriate treatment for my son Brent's GVHD and the surgery that we are organizing to remove my daughter Lauren's latest cancer concern.
Biking 100 miles will feel like a vacation.
I do hope that it will be a 'working vacation,' and that I will have the opportunity to speak to researchers about the things that they are learning, because advances in immunotherapy would impact all three of the things that have dominated my time, emotion and attention this week.
When life throws you challenges, rapid fire like this, it can be overwhelming.
I grieved over the weekend for the loss of my friend, a mutant Auntie who knew my children well. Gabby remembered better than I did when 'library day' was for Olivia, and often greeted her after school through the wonder of FaceTime. I would chat with Gabby while I folded laundry, which transformed this mundane job into an engaging social event. She had a special relationship with Brent as a multiple cancer survivor and visited him both at MSKCC and in our home. Like Brent, Gabby frequently found herself in medical messes, and like Brent, she always seemed to find a way out.
I cannot express how much Gabby brought to my life, in laughter which came easily, and random knowledge, which rivaled google. But beyond this, she had a grace and wisdom in how she faced her own life-one filled with cancer, but overflowing with love. She recognized that life is not measured in years, nor health, but rather in lives that are touched. As an example, she knew by name, nearly every person we met at MSKCC, from the nursing assistants to the elevator guy, teasingly dubbed "chief of vertical engineering"
"Has your son returned from his vacation?"
"Do you have photos of the new baby?"
I told her how remarkable this all was. (I am decent with remembering people's stories but horrible with retrieving their names). She scoffed. "But, Amish, they are all so important. They care for me." And they clearly did, more than simply as their jobs required. I know this with absolute certainty because some came to her room to check on her after they finished their work elsewhere in the hospital.
People were important to Gabby. And she treated them like the treasure that they are. Even in hospital, even struggling, she always thought of others, which was the defining quality of her life. While nothing can be changed for Gabby, a better understanding of the immune system and advances in cancer treatment would benefit others, including our mutual mutant friends. In this way, I feel that biking the century ride honors Gabby's generous spirit.
I learned yesterday how to stick a 3/4 inch needle into my son's chest to access his mediport. For years, my personal measure of success was found in avoiding this particular nursing skill. I will now be doing this procedure daily, in order to give Brent infusions from home. I also navigated my way through several pharmacies this week in order to get the specialty medications that he needs. We are transitioning to a new adventure.
It may sound like a complaint, but I consider it to be a blessing, to do this at home. (Brent sits cozily in our living room with his infusion dripping as I type this) He has had a ridiculous medical journey and his time at home is hard earned. We never take it for granted.
After facing three significant cancer diagnoses with Brent and the devastating side effects of treating them, I would gladly bike to support more effective and less toxic treatments. Biking 100 miles is a trifle, in the grand scheme of what life and cancer has required of my son and how both impact him today.
I took my daughter Lauren to meet her surgeon this afternoon, a hand me down from Brent's osteosarcoma days. Dr. Getty greeted us warmly, saying that he could not believe that it has been five years. I told him that it was five cancers ago, if he wanted another measure of time. He seems to bring out the snarkiest of humor in me.
Lauren is now fourteen years old, becoming a beautiful young lady. While normal parents might talk to their children about the birds and the bees, a mutant sign of coming of age is learning to pick a surgical plan or evaluate treatment options. Today, my daughter asked good questions and signed assent for the first time.
They grow up so fast.
Lauren and I laughed in the car on the way home from this appointment about how I had bought a baby photo album for her, but as a third child, it was completely empty. (I didn't even purchase an album for Olivia, our fourth.) Lauren joked that instead we could fill her baby album with cancer memorabilia. "Oh, look at that adorable adrenal tumor! I remember that hospital gown..." She certainly comes by the snark honestly.
Her surgery will be on Wednesday. We welcome your prayers. With any luck,she will not need any sort of additional treatment, but I am shopping for immunotherapy options if this growth proves to be malignant.
Past, present and future. This is why I ride.
Our team leaves tomorrow. We each do what we can. My sister Laurie, Alex and I will ride our bikes. Dan, Jamie, Brent, Lauren and Olivia will cheer us on. Thank you for doing what you can, whether it be encouraging our family, sharing our story, or donating to the cause by following this link:
As I ride, I will be thinking of Gabby's disease, unconquered by traditional chemotherapy, about Brent's current challenges, which are side effects despite the success of treating his cancer, and of Lauren's future challenges. I know that we can do better.
I will have 100 miles to think about how.
Thursday, May 18, 2017
What doesn't kill you...
I spent nearly two months in the hospital this year with Brent, who is thankfully regaining his strength every day. I have things to work out in my mind. I really need to work out my muscles as well. So, I have been preparing for a hundred mile bike ride on June 10th in support of immunotherapy. I have been writing a bit as I train with my sister and son Alex, both who are joining me in the fundraising event. I thought this entry was worth sharing.
5/10 (27 miles)
It was a lighter day for us after the long ride, really just trying to keep our legs loose.
I thought, with gratitude, about the scientific community working on cancer. A number of people have asked me why I am biking for Cancer Research Institute, when we have historically been active in pediatric focused efforts, like Kick-It. We still support childhood cancer research, which is seriously underfunded. But as I pedaled along, I thought about Brent and his gauntlet-run through oncology over the past six years and the role that immunotherapy has played.
Throughout, I have prayed for specific things--for blood counts to rise, for pain to be avoided, for healing to happen. I prayed all the time. But often, I simply prayed for guidance. "Show me what to do, and I will do it."
Back to immunotherapy. Brent first had osteosarcoma in 2011, a huge pelvic tumor. After he had his limb preserving surgery at MSKCC, he was plagued by infection, something that required several other surgeries, further hospitalizations and delays of his chemo, all really bad stuff. A few months after Brent completed this regimen, I read an article about how folks with infection issues suffered less sarcoma relapse. I always try to find an upside in our struggles and remember sharing this bit of information with our docs. "Good thing we were dogged with infection." They were fairly horrified. The correlation was there, but calling infection good, is like telling a bride that rain on your wedding day is considered good luck--cold comfort when a weather event ranked somewhere between a deluge and a hurricane blows over the reception tent.
We marched onward...and discovered Brent had metastatic melanoma. Curious about how common this diagnosis is in LFS, and desperately seeking treatment ideas, I shared Brent's struggle in Living LFS's online support group. A friend messaged me and offered to text a family friend about Brent, someone who "works in melanoma." Her family friend was Jim Allison, who is now a stadium filling rock star in cancer immunotherapy. Back then, he recommended doing Interferon just as our local team had suggested. But if it should fail, he recommended that we consult Jedd Wolchok at MSKCC, a former colleague of his. Brent did almost a year of interferon, which is an immunotherapy drug. Melanoma, thankfully did not return. But as a result, I began following immunotherapy researchers and reading as much as I could about this emerging field.
The most exciting thing for me about immunotherapy, is that it does not rely on p53 function to eradicate cancer. With Li-Fraumeni Syndrome, Lauren and Brent have only one effective copy of p53. The work of detecting and shutting down a faulty or damaged cell is seriously impaired, which is why my children are so prone to getting cancer in the first place. If the immune system could be harnessed to detect and eradicate cancer, it would bypass a weakened cellular mechanism and not do further damage to that already sketchy process, as chemo and radiation are prone to do, quite indiscriminately.
Brent's melanoma treatment was interrupted by just this sort of collateral damage. He developed treatment induced AML, an aggressive leukemia that requires bone marrow transplant. We were fortunate to have a perfect sibling match and we spent the better part of 2015 in the hospital, fighting to just get to transplant and then going through that arduous process. (Lauren threw a recurrent brain tumor into our summer schedule. It is a ridiculous life with LFS.)
Brent relapsed almost immediately with AML. I prayed for health and ideas. He became desperately ill that autumn, and his oncology team at Rainbow Babies and Children's Hospital tried to just get him home for Christmas. They proposed using the power of Alex's transplanted immune system, boosted with extra T cells, unchecked by any protective immunosuppression. It was dangerous and uncharted and shockingly, it worked beyond their hopes, although Brent didn't achieve a complete response. We tried epigenetic therapy through the spring, trying to bridge Brent to a trial.
As I pedaled along, absorbed with the twists and turns and how I came to be training for 100 miles in support of immunotherapy, I wondered if God speaks through Mick Jagger, because the Rolling Stones were stuck in my head--"You can't always get what you want/ but if you try sometimes, well you might find/ you get what you need." Like the persistent infection that nipped at his heels during osteosarcoma, Brent seems to have benefited from a stunningly aggressive case of necrotizing fasciitiis (which is flesh eating bacteria-I return to the notion that we live an absurdly unbelievable life) This infection nearly killed him last summer. No one would prescribe such a thing, but in hindsight, there may have been an upside: The giant immune response required for Brent to overcome sepsis seems to have finished off his leukemia. Certainly not what we wanted, but perhaps this was what Brent needed.
Brent lived an incarnation of the phrase "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger" Trust me, administering a drug like nivolumab would be a far preferable way to achieve this immune response, than dealing with the surgical after-effects of this devastating infection. I support immunotherapy research to help scientists try to understand the mechanisms of the immune system and develop more refined therapies than what Brent has endured. The immune system may be powerful, but current therapies are bluntly applied, unevenly effective and not deeply understood. CRI helps scientists advance this promising new field.
We will never know for sure, but as I look over the explanations for how Brent has survived these malignancies, science would point to the power of the immune system being a significant factor, although I do not question the power of prayer: a combination therapy.
We will never know for sure, but as I look over the explanations for how Brent has survived these malignancies, science would point to the power of the immune system being a significant factor, although I do not question the power of prayer: a combination therapy.
Brent gratefully remains in remission.
If you would like to help me support this research, click on the link below. Many thanks!
Tuesday, January 24, 2017
Shaking it up
With a bit of time on my hands, while Brent naps, I thought that I would write something. I found several empty, untitled drafts from the past two months. I vaguely remember sitting down, but not knowing how exactly to describe what our family was doing.
In November, we successfully grafted skin from Alex and covered the large wound on Brent's back, something that has never been done before. Alex took time from his studies at the University of Michigan to do what he was uniquely able to for his brother. I am proud of his generosity to Brent and of the man that Alex is becoming.
While the graft has been a raging success, Brent has since developed painful lymphedema, GVHD and open wounds on his legs that have required a great deal of attention and care. It was isolating, exhausting and discouraging for all of us, in ways that are difficult to put into words. Seeing your child in pain, unable to alleviate it, is incredibly difficult. Causing the pain, even as we were caring for these wounds, was even harder.
Whenever I despaired, which was often, I would mentally point with gratitude to the things that were working: the absence of cancer and the success of the skin graft. I struggled this fall, trying to balance gratitude and grief. I was paralyzed emotionally, and physically weary from tending to Brent's medical requirements, discouraged without seeing progress or an end to his suffering.
I thought that I would shake things up in the new year by committing to a 100 mile bike ride that will take place in June. The event raises funds to support immunotherapy research via Cancer Research Institute. I registered for the race and began to train, believing that this would be good for me--mind, body and soul-- as well as benefit cancer patients like my children.
Brent's idea of shaking it up in 2017 was developing septic pneumonia, and enduring a five day stint in the PICU.
I write today from his hospital room, beginning our third week here. My sincere hope is that we have checked the box for 'life threatening episode,' for 2017, a habit that is alarming on its own, but especially in the way that it has become routine for us.
Brent is improving slowly and we hope to return home sometime this week.
We welcome your prayers for the RamerNation, and if you were inclined, your support for Cancer Research Institute.
In November, we successfully grafted skin from Alex and covered the large wound on Brent's back, something that has never been done before. Alex took time from his studies at the University of Michigan to do what he was uniquely able to for his brother. I am proud of his generosity to Brent and of the man that Alex is becoming.
While the graft has been a raging success, Brent has since developed painful lymphedema, GVHD and open wounds on his legs that have required a great deal of attention and care. It was isolating, exhausting and discouraging for all of us, in ways that are difficult to put into words. Seeing your child in pain, unable to alleviate it, is incredibly difficult. Causing the pain, even as we were caring for these wounds, was even harder.
Whenever I despaired, which was often, I would mentally point with gratitude to the things that were working: the absence of cancer and the success of the skin graft. I struggled this fall, trying to balance gratitude and grief. I was paralyzed emotionally, and physically weary from tending to Brent's medical requirements, discouraged without seeing progress or an end to his suffering.
I thought that I would shake things up in the new year by committing to a 100 mile bike ride that will take place in June. The event raises funds to support immunotherapy research via Cancer Research Institute. I registered for the race and began to train, believing that this would be good for me--mind, body and soul-- as well as benefit cancer patients like my children.
Brent's idea of shaking it up in 2017 was developing septic pneumonia, and enduring a five day stint in the PICU.
I write today from his hospital room, beginning our third week here. My sincere hope is that we have checked the box for 'life threatening episode,' for 2017, a habit that is alarming on its own, but especially in the way that it has become routine for us.
Brent is improving slowly and we hope to return home sometime this week.
We welcome your prayers for the RamerNation, and if you were inclined, your support for Cancer Research Institute.
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