Easter Weekend, 2017 - Diagnosis

I have always seen life as a journey; an adventure if you will. The paths we take during our time on this earth are fluid and we often go through “seasons” of life that vary in difficulty on a variety of levels. The complexity of the interaction of those levels is often what leads to stress and how we manage that stress is manifested in a number of different ways.

The seasons of life are definitely not the same for each person, couple or family and often the season will be characterized not only by time, but also by the type of difficulty or triumph that the person or person(s) were going through at the time. Some seasons are long and some short, some are defined by spiritual troubles, relationships issues, financial struggles, or emotional achievements. The transition from one season to the next can often be so slow that you miss it until years later when you reflect back over your life. But every once in awhile there is a transition that is so abrupt and so devastating that you are acutely aware that a new season is starting.

On Easter weekend of 2017, I helplessly watched as a new season started not only in my life and my family’s life, but also the life of my beautiful little redheaded fireball, Hazel Elizabeth. It started when my wife, Elizabeth, took Hazel to our pediatrician for a follow up visit after she had finished a 10-day round of antibiotics for a case of strep throat. Nothing seemed abnormal at first and the check up went fine, but Elizabeth was still concerned that Hazel looked pale and our doctor was willing to err on the side of caution so he ordered bloodwork. Later on that day the doctor called Elizabeth and told her that Hazel was not in immediate danger, but that she needed to go straight to Nationwide Children’s Hospital (NCH) in Columbus and have more testing done.

My job takes me to industrial plants all across the country and is pretty much 100% travel for up to six weeks at a time. My team had recently finished a job early in Iowa and we were driving home with our company truck and tool trailer when I received Elizabeth’s call saying she was headed to the ER at NCH and could I meet her. Luckily, we were just passing through Columbus at the time of her call, so I was able to meet her on the road and stand by her through the terrifying events of the next few days.

Over the course of three days, Hazel was run through a battery of tests to help determine what was wrong with her. The initial blood tests showed she had slightly elevated white blood cell counts, low hemoglobin, and low platelet counts. While these results could present from a variety of different causes, the scariest one of course was cancer. By the time I arrived at the hospital, I had already read enough of the available research to know to be worried that leukemia could be a possible, if not likely diagnosis. As each test came back negative, but Hazel continued to remain pale and act lethargic, I dreaded what I felt deep in my heart was coming. I prayed so very hard that night for one thing and literally one thing only: please do not let me baby girl have Leukemia. I didn’t say cancer, I was specific, I said “Lord, please don’t let Hazel have Leukemia.” Over and over again I repeated this simple prayer and hoped against all odds that we would hear that she had a treatable infection, bacteria, or even a virus.

Alas, that was not destined to be the case. Over time we began talking to more and more oncology doctors instead of general attending doctors, they were slowly breaking us into the fact that it looked like Hazel was battling Leukemia. During this initial phase we met an oncology fellow that really connected with Elizabeth and I, and while very straightforward, she always remained positive with us and assured us that they had the capabilities to help Hazel battle this disease. She remains on our team today and we are so very thankful for her and her compassionate bedside manner that first helped us grapple with the concept of cancer in our tiny daughter.

We heard a lot of people say “The worst part is the not knowing.” when we were waiting for a diagnosis. For some that may be true, but for us, I don’t believe that was the case at all. As long as we didn’t know, we had hope. Hope for a different diagnosis beyond the word “cancer”. Hope for a relatively short hospital stay, some medicine, and then a return to normal life. Hope for something, anything else beyond a long road of chemotherapy, steroids, and roller coaster emotions for the next 2-3 years.

On Saturday, April 15^th 2017 that hope was finally destroyed for good. Our doctors filed into Hazel’s hospital room as she lay sleeping next to her momma. The oncology team slowly, compassionately explained that the lab results finally showed that Hazel was indeed suffering from Leukemia. More specifically, she has Precursor-B Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia or ALL for short. Our doctors quietly held us as we cried, asked questions, and learned what life was going to look like moving forward.

This was without a doubt the worst day of my entire life. Some people say that you just “go numb” when you hear news like this but I didn’t. I felt everything. The range of emotions that hit me all at once is indescribable. I felt such an immense and crushing sadness, the likes of which I have never felt in any other situation in my life. The hurt ran deeper than simple emotion, deeper than my brain could fathom, and deeper than my heart could truly bear. This type of pain can only be described as being felt in my soul. The very fabric of being that makes up my life and total human consciousness, that which connects me to this world and the thereafter, aches.

This deep-seated sadness is not based in fear, its actually based in knowledge. Knowledge of the fight Hazel has ahead of her. Knowledge that I cannot take away any of her suffering. Knowledge that the new normal for my family includes the word “cancer” and involves hospital visits, precautions, medications, and scary side effects. I cry all the time. I wake up and cry. I cry telling people about her diagnosis. I cry watching my other kids on the playground. I cry when I’m alone and when I’m surrounded by people.

I hurt so much for Hazel, for my wife, my kids, my family, and yes for myself. Each day on this path is a hard journey and not one that I want to be on, but one that I accept and I own. My faith remains unwavering, I am sad but not depressed, I am not afraid. I have resolve and I will do anything that needs done to make sure that someday I will walk Hazel down the aisle and give her hand to some extremely lucky young man. Her red hair will be spilling out from underneath a white veil and she will be taking the first steps to starting and leading her own family. As she does, I hope that the path I am leading our family on during this trying time remains a poignant season of her life characterized by faith, support, strength, and love. So so very much love. 

Mark 14:36
"Abba, Father," he cried out, "everything is possible for you. Please take this cup of suffering away from me. Yet I want your will to be done, not mine."