Monday, November 3, 2008

Ice Cream Sunday, Chemo Monday

Pablo and his after-breakfast snack

I seem to be lagging behind a day on my posts.... It's late Monday night, and I am covering Sunday. Sunday was overcast and cold (for LA), like the LA version of the Morrissey 'Every Day Is Like Sunday' video. We had another great driving day. We went east this time, hitting the San Gabriel Mountains. Pablo was asleep the whole time we were in the mountains, but Jo Ann and I enjoyed the beauty outside the car, and the beauty snoozing in the back seat. On the way up to Big Tujunga Canyon, we stopped at In N Out Burger. Pablo at most of a cheeseburger, and drank most of his Sprite. We ate at a picnic table outside, Pablo bopping all over the cement bench. He was happy, the way a five-year-old boy is when he's in the presence of a burger, his loving mommy and his adoring papa. For a moment (like many other moments over the past six months) I forgot that Pablo was battling cancer. Even though Pablo's beautiful bald head was right in front of my eyes, it no longer says 'cancer' the way it used to. Now, it just says 'Pablo.'

This morning was another out-patient chemo appointment. It was a quick trip to the oncology clinic for blood labs and vial of Vincristine. Everything went well. P's hemoglobin is looking good, and his white blood count is dropping, as expected. I checked in with Pablo on the phone a couple times today. He was animated, precocious, and conversational. I felt good knowing he was bouncing around the house and playing with Polly. Just knowing he's in a good mood at home makes my day at the office a lot better.

When I got home from work at 10 p.m., Jo Ann and Pablo were knee-deep in a game of Uno.
They were competing furiously, each with a mug of hot cocoa at their side. Pablo's smile and clever commentary on the game let me know that he was happy and that today's chemo hadn't shredded his insides. For the second consecutive day, I had that feeling that the terror of cancer was nowhere in our house.

Night-night. I'm determined to be at the poll when it opens at 7 a.m.

1 comment:

Lizard Eater said...

Phase 1: You glance at your child and for a second, are startled. Your child looks just like the kids in the St. Jude's commercials.
Phase 2: You forget that your child is unusual and when you're out in public and your child rips off their hat, you're confused when strangers visibly do a double-take.
Phase 3: You see a kid with hair and think he looks kinda freaky. ;)