I’m long overdue for this catharsis, so hopefully this won’t be too arduous or too heavy-handed, but as the saying goes, here goes nothin’.
Our last hospital visit, nearly three weeks ago, brought good news and the promise of bad. First, the good: E’s platelets were once again at a very healthy level, leading us further toward the conclusion that her ITP may, in fact, be in remission. Two and a half years after diagnosis, this should have been cause to celebrate. But at its heels was the not-so-good news: Despite the fact that the past round of bloodwork testing for intestinal disorders such as colitis, Crohn’s and Celiac’s all came up negative in March, the pediatric gastroenterologist, Dr. S., believed that E does, in fact, have Crohn’s. (Apparently a fair number of her Crohn’s patients also tested negative on the bloodwork but still had it. In the wide world of medicine, they call that a false negative.) We were sent off to do more at-home tests and, depending on those results, the high likelihood of an impending colonoscopy.
This happiness was followed by our looping back to E’s hematologist, Dr. B. After she left the room I asked him, point blank, “Is this going to suck as much as ITP?” to which he replied, “It’s probably going to suck even more.”
The last at-home tests confirmed the need for a colonscopy. But the doctor’s first available morning appointment isn’t for another three weeks. And so we wait. And, as I have for the past two and a half years–since December 5, 2009, to be exact–I try to keep things as normal as possible.
The good part is, this time of year we’re almost too busy, it being high season with my work (mostly conferences) and E involved in an upcoming variety show, her ice skating show, and B just getting elected to the board of education and now gearing up for that. It seems like spring and fall explode with activities and not enough time to do them all–and I welcome all the distractions.
But in those quiet moments, in between A and B, I’m left with my thoughts. And though I fight every day not to live there, I feel like worry is my undercurrent–always there beneath the surface, ready to bubble up.
The rational mind says, “There’s no point in worrying. Worry when you have to.”
Dr. B. says, “Promise me one thing. DO NOT go online to research this until you know exactly what you’re dealing with.”
My friends ask, “How are you doing?” They want to know what it feels like.
I try to keep the worry at bay. I know—having been on both sides of it, the jinxing side and the optimist’s side—that you’re much better off saving the worry until you absolutely need it. But the truth is, it’s there. It can be diverted, but it cannot be denied.
My child is beautiful and full of life. And we have many happy moments full of laughter. And we try to make the best of things and enjoy the good moments. But at least two times a week, she complains of crippling stomach aches that stop her in her tracks. She’s had worse symptoms, too. There’s something to it—I fear the diagnosis of another chronic condition, promising more hospital visits, pain, and suffering; more to take her away from just being a kid. It feels unfair: Couldn’t she just get a break and be able to say she’s healthy, and know it’s the truth?
I’ve told her the basic facts, without embellishment. But knowing the contagion of moods, I have tried very hard to keep my worry as far away from her as possible. Perceptive and inquisitive, she probably senses in part what’s going on, though. I am not that good an actress, and she’s too good an investigative reporter.
And so we wait. And will face whatever it is with realism and, yes, a good dose of hopefulness. Because that’s just how we roll.