Last of Lurie

So, in rounds this week, the team decided that if Jonah keeps on his path of recovery, he'll be ready to discharge to RIC early next week.  This discharge should be our last if things go according to plan.  There is no more chemo, no more procedures, no more reason to sleep at Lurie.  The end of a chapter that seemed a million miles away at the start of this journey.

Someone told me we should make a dream board - all the things we dream of doing as a family now that we can leave Lurie in the rearview mirror.  Put a big "X" on a picture of the hospital, close the book on this portion.

The thing is - I can't.  The facts of this journey have broken me.  I can't put a big "X" on the hospital because there's a chance we'll be back.  I can't let myself dream of all of the vacations we may take, I can't imagine having all of the kids at the same school - medulloblastoma is a mean and nasty cancer that likes to return, and if I "X" off the hospital and we have to return I won't be able to dig deep enough.

I hate being scared.  We haven't even made a decision about radiation, much less trodden that road, but closing the chapter on Lurie opens up all things scary.  Radiation scares me - the short term effects can be similar to the effects of chemo, and the long term effects can literally take away IQ points.  Then there's everything beyond radiation.  What will life be like when we bring Jonah home?  Is our house ready for his new physical requirements?  What will we do for school for Jonah next year?  Will he be able to eat enough to not require a G-tube?  And above everything, what if it comes back?  What if it's a secondary cancer instead?  What if we have to do this all over again?  What if it comes back?

Cancer breaks you - in ways that you don't understand until it touches you.  I will forever be scared, unless I don't need to be.  I hope to need to be scared, I hope to need to find answers to questions I would have never asked before cancer.  I know and trust that God is sovereign and that He is in the writing of Jonah's story, of my story, but that doesn't eradicate this fear.

Today is a good day though, and in that, I try and remember that each day is precious - each day a gift.  Jonah is recovering quickly from the expected terrible of stem cell transplant and the conditioning chemo and that is a gift.  His tomorrow is no more guaranteed than mine.  It's silly to feel like his tomorrow is more uncertain than mine - his story is written for a certain number of days, and worrying about all the troubles of tomorrow won't change that number, it just makes my days harder.  And so, as one chapter of Jonah's treatment draws to a close, the only way to move forward is still one step at a time.  I have to remind myself, opening a new chapter and the fears associated with it, doesn't change how to move forward.  One step - covered in prayer - at a time.