No Mercy from the Cancer Gods

I had a feeling this was going to happen. Really, it was only a matter of time:  First Alastair got sick with a bad cold, about a week ago. Then Elsa caught it — with a fever — last Friday. Then it was my turn.

Amazingly, somehow, Clio remained unscathed throughout, and when Monday rolled around and she was still OK, I thought (briefly): Huh. Maybe the Gods discussed it over wine and ambrosia and decided that they’d cut us a break, after all we’ve been through, and Clio’s not going to get this virus we’re all passing around.

But then she got back from her clinic appointment Monday afternoon, and Alastair told me that her ANC was only 100. Which is, like, really low. (ANC = Absolute Neutrophil Count. A measure of your body’s infection-fighting ability. 1500 and up is normal.) It hasn’t been that low since her induction chemo over the summer — but we’d been told that the CNS phase she just had would depress her counts.

And I thought: Wow, those Gods are really being nice to us. Because A.) Clio is super susceptible to a cold right now and B.) If she gets a fever, and her ANC is that low, they will totally hospitalize her.

So, by way of saying thanks, I built a small scale replica of the Parthenon in our backyard, using items from our recycling bin, then burned some incense I found in the back of my desk, left over from when I was in college.

But the Gods must have wanted a fatted calf or a virgin or something, because a mere two hours later, Clio spiked a 102.5 fever and started coughing. So I freshened up Clio’s hospital bag, packed one for myself, called the clinic (a formality, really, since I knew they’d tell us to go to the ER — standard procedure for fevers), and off we went.

Clio was actually in a pretty chipper mood — you’d never know she was sick — and chattered as we drove. It was a sunny, unseasonably warm afternoon, and as we crawled through the traffic behind Fenway Park — the Sox season opener had just let out, and  tipsy twentysomething pedestrians were everywhere — I thought: How strange yet right it is that all of these carefree people, out there having fun, are completely oblivious (at least, temporarily) to the fact that less than a mile away, practically within view of Fenway, is a hospital full of kids with serious illnesses. They’re even more oblivious to the fact that here’s one of those kids right now — the bald one in the back, singing along to “It’s a Hard Knock Life” — driving past as they sip their Sam Adams at Sweet Caroline’s.

And they should be oblivious, and I’m glad they are. Because it’s sunny, and beautiful, and it’s Opening Day, and damn what I wouldn’t give to stop and have a nice cold beer and pretend I’m 25 again before I get back on the road and bring this sweet girl of mine to the hospital.

So, anyway. Here we are, on the 6th floor of Children’s (or Motel Six as the other cancer mom here that I’m stalking calls it.) We’ve been here three nights now, and I’m guessing it will be two or three nights more before we can leave.

It’s frustrating as all hell, because we know that what Clio has is a virus. But we don’t know it in a scientifically infallible way. And because her counts are so low, they have to keep giving her antibiotics and taking blood cultures to make sure that there isn’t some deadly bacterial infection brewing somewhere in her (even though we know that there isn’t) and watch her carefully to make sure her condition doesn’t get worse, her cough doesn’t turn into pneumonia, etc.

People whose immune systems are compromised by chemo die of  viruses and infections all the time. Well, not, you know, all the time. But enough that they take fevers very, very seriously. As well they should. Still. SHE HAS A COLD, FOR GOD’S SAKE!

Sometimes I just can’t believe our life is such that our child having a fever and a cough is enough to land us in the hospital.

So, when do we get to go home? Well, her ANC has to be 200 or above (it had gone down to 30 yesterday. ugh), and she has to be fever-free (or “afebrile” as I like to say to impress the doctors) for 24 hours.  What’s also a drag is that because Clio has a cough, she can’t leave the room and go to the playroom down the hall. While she’s not feeling great, she’s not feeling so awful that she wouldn’t enjoy some playroom time.

I just hope we’ll be outta here in time for her to watch the Marathon on Monday, and see Katelin cross the finish line in her honor. (Initially, I was hoping we’d be home in time for me to turn 39 in the comfort of my own home, but I’ve come to peace with the fact that I’ll be waking up tomorrow, on my birthday, right here at Children’s.)

Meanwhile, I’m building a new temple to the Gods right here in our room, out of Styrofoam cups, plastic cutlery and tiny little tissue boxes, and am on the lookout for fatted calves and virgins. (Or virgins with fat calves. Either way.)