It was four years ago today when Jodi and I sat packed in a conference room with what seemed like the entire pediatric oncology and bone marrow transplant staff from UCSF, four years since that word, relapse, fell into air thick as mud.
I remember that day one of the bone marrow transplant specialists told us that we could take him home if we wanted, that we could make him comfortable, that he could eat anything he wanted. But I didn’t want to read the subtext. Instead, I listened to his oncologist telling us she had one more card to play, that she wanted to try one more thing.
After we left that room, everyone started to look at us differently. Some nurses gave us long hugs. Some nurses couldn’t bear to look at us at all. We were moved to a bigger room, given a bigger bed. But grasping what was really happening was nearly impossible.
Later that day, I told Caemon’s nurse in the anteroom of his hospital room, “I don’t know how to simultaneously prepare for my son to live and to die.”
Her eyes lowered. She leaned against the wall, slid down to the floor, and said, “I hate that I’m the one saying this, but I think you have to do the latter.” My blood ran cold. I simultaneously rejected the possibility and knew she was right.
The next day, Jodi and I met again with Caemon’s oncologist, and while she had talked about that last card she wanted to play, she told us very plainly, her head in her hands, “I don’t think I can save him.” I remember Jodi telling her we believed in her, urging her to remember miracles, and she recounted some.
We decided to stick with hope, to believe somehow in a miracle. There were other plans in the works: get him healthy enough for another transplant, start him on some experimental treatments, irradiate his spleen, consider a splenectomy, and so much more. The narrative around Caemon was that we were going to keep hoping as long as we could. We had to. If there were any specks of hope to be had, we were going to hang onto them like helium-filled balloons ready to drift away with the slightest tug of a breeze. Believing the alternative was too much.
Now, four years on, I sometimes wish I had allowed myself to grasp that he was dying, that I would have let some of those balloons go so that I could really see what was happening to my child. While I doubt much would have changed with regard to keeping him in the hospital, proceeding with the experimental treatments, etc., I wonder if the end of his life would have hit me the way it did. I wonder what it might have been like simply to hold him after he stopped breathing rather than watching huge teams of doctors and nurses trying to save a boy who had already gone. I can’t know that. It wasn’t his path, and his relapsed disease progressed far more quickly than anyone could have imagined. But I still wonder.
I don’t allow myself to think much about the day Caemon died. I lived it once, and the trauma of it is too much, but sometimes, when it does flit through my mind, and when I hear other parents’ accounts of holding their children as they die, I wonder what that must be like to simply know one’s child is dying, to prepare oneself. And maybe I did know. I never would have been ready. How could I be?
The next ten days are always a difficult march toward the end. Ten days were all he had between the time we learned of his relapse and the time he died. Ten days are all we had left to snuggle him, to take him in, and even though I hadn’t fully accepted he was dying, when I look back, I do see that I soaked in every moment, feeding him his favorite foods, reading him his favorite books, surrounding him in his favorite people the best we could, spending nearly every moment in his bed.
Maybe even without accepting his impending departure, I was, at least, able to prepare him by letting him know I was there, that I loved him with all of my being, that somehow I would survive. Maybe he needed to go just the way he did, the scent of hope still in the air, one last balloon floating away by his side.
7 thoughts on “the eternal what-if”
It hurts to read this. I’m crying like I haven’t cried in I don’t know how long. Thanks for sharing such a brave, poignant post. Thanks for waking me up and splitting me open.
Every time you write about Cameon, I can feel the love you poured into him. Thank you for sharing this difficult stuff with all of us. We are out here, surrounding you with love.
Sending you both love and hugs. Caemon was surely loved and he knew that in his soul.
Blessings to your family.
You did exactly what you were able to do at the time. That was your path. You were with Caemon every step of the way,
So much love to all of you.
I love you. I remember that day too, as you know. I was with Caemon in his room, along with two of his favorite hospital people. They prepared me by letting me know what the meeting you were in was about. And Caemon was full of joy that day. He was standing on his bed laughing when I arrived, and shouted, “I’m so happy to see you!” You and Jodi gave him the ability to be joyful in the midst of all that was happening. Hope – I remember how clear it felt that you would take that path. And you did prepare him, or maybe he prepared us. He knew, and he did what he needed to do to say goodbye. “What if” would be there no matter what you chose. And I know with all my heart and soul that you always did exactly right by him.
My heart hurts for you so much and yet you genuinely inspire me every single time I read your words. The what-ifs would make a weaker person insane. Still you battle on, you strong warrior woman. I think of your sweet boy so often. Caemon made me a better parent. I thank him, and you, for that.
I still think of you both and Caemon frequently. He hasn’t been forgotten, and you have taught me to always choose hope.