It's called pediatric cancer.
Yeah, that's what I do. I take care of sick kids with cancer. I've done it for awhile now-6 years to be exact. Sometimes it seems that bald heads and feeding tubes are the norm. Chemotherapy, radiation, and blood counts are all very routine words in my day-to-day. But it is an awful concept to wrap your head around...Kids-with cancer. But somehow in a world that should be dripping with depression and heartache we manage to make it okay. We laugh, we smile, and we survive.
However yesterday was different, very different.
Reality became clear as I witnessed a painful and harsh introduction of pediatric cancer to an unexpecting, undeserving family. This is NOT normal. This is NOT okay. This IS a tragedy.
However, the physician delivering this tragic news did it beautifully, with compassion, and an honesty that you could trust. The parents sat there stoically as the arsenal of information was delivered-diagnosis, prognosis, treatment. Their faces were brave, but I could tell they were trembling inside. I'm sure all they could hear was lkdsfjlasdkj CANCER alkdflaskdjfks BRAIN TUMOR ioojhtdfslkdj UNFAVORABLE tyrdcdlasjdk CANCER adlkfalskd 25% CHANCE of SURVIVAL adaksdflks BRAIN TUMOR arebuyldflskj 25% lonmgt;skdjflksdjeklwd CANCER.
Now the words chemotherapy, radiation, and blood counts felt different; they seemed to stab their way though the conversation, rather than casually roll off the tongue as they usually do. I felt miles away from normalcy. I wanted to make it better. I wanted to make the situation not seem so hopeless. I wish I could have told them death was NOT imminent, but I couldn't. There is a ZERO percent chance that this tumor will go away. With chemo and radiation it can shrink in size and thus hopefully provide the family with more time together, but even that is not guaranteed.
I've never seen fear like the fear I saw in this dad's eyes. It was anguished and piercing. I almost lost it as we all sat huddled in the tiny conference room discussing the details of an invading brain tumor. As I scanned the room, unable to maintain the gaze of this heart-broken dad, I saw a simple, generic poster that caught my eye. I don't even recall what the poster was about, but it contained The Children's Hospital of Philadelphia's trademark line "Hope lives here." As over-used as this simple statement is (it appears on EVERY poster or document from the hospital), it really hit home to me that day. "Hope does live here," I thought to myself, "and it starts with me." Sure, this is the WORST possible situation. I can't think of a scenario more horrible to be confronted with as a parent than this, but there is power in HOPE. That is the reason I moved across the country to go to grad school in pediatric oncology, because on days like today I wanted to be the one to provide hope-realistic hope. I'm not talking about empty promises and delusions of reality. I'm talking about gutsy, diligent, unwaivering hope. We have tools to fight this invading astrocytoma and it's my responsibility to arm these parents with them. Discouragement and despair aren't part of the protocol.
As I walked with the family back to their room I paused for a minute and told them, "You can do this and we are going to help you."
No, we wont' cure this malignant disease, we may not even give them 5 more years, but we will help them fight this battle with courage, strength, and hope.
