It’s been about a month since Alistair was diagnosed.
He’s had five chemotherapy treatments. A number of procedures. Tonnes of medications. Countless blood tests.
And he’s been taking them all in like a champ.
Well, he hates taking medicine orally. So whenever we tell him he’s going to get some medicine, he groans and then asks, with a hopeful light in his eyes: “Is it through my line (central line)?”
And if the answer is affirmative, he goes “Yes!!!” with a little jiggle.
But if it’s not, well. It will be a bit of a struggle. He would protest and cry a little, but usually in the end he would say “OH FINE!!!!” and then drink it all up.
At the hospital today, the hubby was prepping Alistair that the nurses were going to give him medicine (through his line). This conversation took place:
A: “Am I going to eat any medicine in my mouth?”
Hubby: “Not now. But maybe you need to take one more tonight.”
A: “I don’t want to eat medicine in my mouth.
A: “What does it taste like?”
Hubby: “It might be yucky. But it’s the same one you took in the morning.”
A: “I like the one I took in the morning.”
Clearly he has forgotten the fight we had had in the morning to get him to take that same medicine.
He’s a cutie.
Our lives seem to now be divided into two timelines: pre-diagnosis and post-diagnosis.
My heart squeezes a little whenever I think about pre-diagnosis. How carefree we were. All I was worried about at that time was him outgrowing his febrile convulsions. And we were looking forward to him starting school, going camping, and enjoying summer.
Now, it’s post-diagnosis.
Four weeks in, and we’re still adjusting to our new routines. In and out of hospital. The nerves. The breakdowns.
But there are some good moments too. We’re determined to still live life as normal as we can. To still laugh and have fun. To still make happy memories.
Many of you have been asking about Amy.
Initially it was a bit of a struggle for her to understand what’s going on. As she was quite used to Alistair going in and out of hospital (due to his febrile convulsions previously), she was not too alarmed by him staying at the hospital. But she didn’t really understand the severity of the situation. And of course she wouldn’t. She’s only seven.
I tried explaining leukaemia to her and what it means for Alistair. The hospital gave us a picture book called “When I Had Leukaemia” and I read it to her in the first week of Alistair’s hospitalisation. Out of everything in the book, the one thing that jumped out for her is the fact that Alistair’s going to lose his hair…
We try to stay as positive as we can. We try to be as patient and mindful as we can about her feelings. But sometimes she gets upset about how Alistair seems to be getting more gifts, more toys, more attention… And honestly, at times I just lose it. I scold her. Why can’t she be more understanding and sympathetic? Why can’t she feel the heaviness of the situation?
But of course she can’t. She’s only seven.
Oh God, please grant me grace and wisdom.
I don’t want us to focus on Alistair’s wellbeing at the expense of Amy’s.
Reminding myself to breathe, be kind, and be patient.
Please continue to pray for Alistair to be completely healed. That he will continue to respond well to his treatment and show astounding progress. Let him go into remission by the end of his induction therapy period, which is next week. Let his bone marrow and every part of his body be restored to normal and perfect health. May God’s supernatural healing and divine protection be upon him. Amen.