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"Say Hi to Jesus For Me": Chapter 12 |
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One day as I sat in the hall, two mothers got on the elevator. One was crying. I had heard that her daughter was near death. I so much wanted to console her and tell her about Jesus, but I was too timid to approach her. I prayed that God would have her walk up to me upon her return and start a conversation, if I was to witness to her. |
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While I was waiting, I opened my Bible at random and read:
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Was the Lord speaking to me through his Word, preparing me for Todd’s death? Was he saying that this grain of wheat would fall into the ground, too, and bear much fruit? I never did talk to the other mother. I had so much to ponder myself. |
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The doctors had one more drug they could try. It was experimental. They were not sure of the dosage or of all the side effects or of its effectiveness. But it was potent. Unlike most IV fluids, it burned as it entered the vein. |
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A doctor came each day as the drug was administered to observe Todd’s reactions. She would ask Todd about any tingling sensation, pain, or discomfort he was feeling. Since the drug was administered through an IV over a period of several hours, to pass the time she invented all sorts of games to play with Todd while she observed him. Once she promised to bring her makeup the next day and transform Todd into a roaring tiger. He could hardly wait. He didn’t mind answering her questions from then on. |
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The next day he lay perfectly still as she transformed him into a ferocious animal. The only thing that moved was Todd’s mouth, which couldn’t help but break into a wide grin once in a while. Finally he found the words to express his total joy: ""his is even more funnier than Disneyland!"" |
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For the next day Denise promised to bring a tail, some whiskers and clothing to complete the costume. But by that time the Chemotherapy had shown its side effects. Todd was feeling so poorly that he was no longer interested. There was no way to duplicate the bliss he had felt the day before. |
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When people came to visit, they often felt awkward. What could they say? We usually made small talk. "How are you?" "Hanging in there…. Holding up." Sometimes their words came across like a pat on a child’s head and a: "There, there, it’s going to be all right." Often well-meaning people would say: "I understand what you’re going through." |
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I felt like screaming sometimes. I wanted to take people by the shoulders and shake them. How could they understand? Had they ever been one of five people to hold down a little child so an injection could be given? Had they ever stood helplessly by and listened to a child’s screams of pain and frustration, trying to find soothing words to calm him when they felt like screaming themselves? |
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Even if they did understand, I didn’t acknowledge it. But I knew Jesus was there, and he understood. He knew what pain was like. He knew what it meant to suffer. I could be honest with him. "O God, I hurt! I can’t stand it anymore. Please help us!" He was there to comfort- to give the peace that passes all understanding. He allowed the tears to flow and dried them when relief came. |
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The tumors were growing; the pressure grew. I had been at the hospital with Todd several days without going home. My physical needs were taken care of. I was permitted to use a shower on the floor, and Dutch and my mother supplied me with fresh clothing. |
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But one night I’d had all I could take emotionally. Todd was in pain and wanted me by his side constantly. I’d had to calm him down, encourage him and care for him until I had no more to give. Once more I placed a desperate phone call home. "Please, honey, you have to come, so I can get out. I’ve got to get away!" |
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Even though Dutch had to go to work the next day, he came to sit with Todd during the night. But Todd didn’t want me to leave. He was used to having me anticipate his needs before he asked. "Please! Mom, stay! Don’t leave me! I’ll do anything you want me to. But please don’t leave." "Dad is here with you," I offered. "You won’t be alone. He will take good care of you." "Yes, I know, but I want you here," he insisted. "Son, I’m all confused and upset. I have to go home and talk to Jesus for a while and ask him to help us." "But you can talk to him here!" "Yes, but I have to get away for a while. I’ll be back in the morning," I promised. I fled the room, the fourth floor, the hospital and managed to hold back the flood of tears until I reached the car and was headed for home. About halfway home, I noticed the car radio was playing, "Turn your eyes upon Jesus." That was the answer! I had taken my eyes off Jesus and looked to all our trouble. I opened my Bible to the front flyleaf and wrote, "Keep your eyes upon Jesus." At home I fell into bed and slept without interruption until morning. |
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The next evening I was pushing Todd around the halls. He loved to go around and around. Once he invented a new game. Equipped with some scraps of paper and a pencil, he handed out tickets to nurses for speeding as they hurried past us on their rounds. But tonight Todd wasn’t feeling well. He was quiet as we walked. Then I glanced at his hand. I had learned to watch that IV like a hawk. I thought I noticed a swelling. The IV was going bad. I stopped to take a closer look and Todd panicked. "No! I don’t want you to look at it. You’ll just tell the nurse it’s inflated and she’ll pull it and then they’ll start another one." A thought flashed through my mind. The only reason the IV was needed was to keep the vein open for the last dose of Chemotherapy the next day. This past round of Chemotherapy had shown no results at all. What if tomorrow’s Chemotherapy weren’t given? "Son, I said, "I’ll tell you what. You go back to your room and wait for me while I call Dad. I want to ask him if the IV has to be restarted if it’s infiltrated. I can’t promise you anything, but I’ll ask." I called home, but Dutch wasn’t there yet. I left word everywhere I could think of for him to call me as soon as possible. In the hall I met two doctors familiar with Todd’s case. One had taken care of Todd all along. We valued his judgment. Todd loved him. He cared. "Doctor," I began, "I think Todd’s IV is infiltrated, but he is so scared of having to have it restarted that he won’t let me check it. Dutch and I have already decided that if this series of Chemotherapy shows no results, we’re going to quit- no more experiments. My question is this: Will it make any difference in the long run if he has that last dose tomorrow?" The doctors looked at each other, their eyes pleading for an answer from the other one. "Oh, Mrs. Monson! Don’t put us on the spot like this! We can’t make that decision for you." "But I just want you to tell me if you think this last dose will make a difference. I don’t think so. But I never want to have to look back and say, ‘If only….’" "Well, truthfully, the therapy has not had any significant effect. Who is to say what one more dose would do? You and your husband have to decide. But I really don’t think that it will make any difference. If it was going to have an impact, we would have seen it by now." "Thank you, doctor, that’s all I wanted to know. I’ll talk to my husband tonight about stopping the therapy." I didn’t offer any more hope to Todd. We had to wait for Dutch’s call. I kept my promise to leave the IV alone until a decision had been made. "Mrs. Monson, there’s a call for you at the desk," the nurse said. Normally such calls were discouraged. They tied up the lines. But the whole staff seemed to know that we were about to make a major decision. The intern hovered nearby, trying not to show that he was listening. Our doctor had already told him to abide by our decision. "Honey," I explained, "Todd’s IV looks like it might be infiltrated, and he’s so scared about having it restarted. I talked to the doctor and he’s not sure one more dose would make that much difference." Dutch was calm when he replied, "Well, there’s only so much you can do. If it isn’t going to make much difference, it’s more important that Todd isn’t hurt any more than has to be. Go ahead and tell them to stop if the IV infiltrates. If it doesn’t, we’ll go ahead with the dose. If it does, we’ll leave it at that." A few months earlier Dutch had vowed to try anything medical science had to offer. He’d said he would fight to the end. Now God had given him the strength to place quality of life above quantity and trust the Lord for the outcome. The intern came right over after I hung up. He had heard. His concern was apparent. I told him that I would tell Todd of our decision and then they could check the IV. "Son, we’ve decided that it’s up to Jesus alone to heal you now. There will be no more Chemotherapy, no more IV’s, no more tests, no more shots, except for pain. But Dad said we should give it a chance. If the IV doesn’t infiltrate, you’ll get the Chemotherapy tomorrow, and then that will be it. If it does infiltrate, we’ll pull it and that’s the end of the Ivs. It won’t be restarted." His face brightened, "You mean it? No more? What if the doctors talk to you and change your mind?" "I’ve already talked to them about it. No more IV after this. Promise." He was so happy, so relieved. I don’t know that he understood the full significance of our decision, but he was grateful. At the moment the status of the IV was "marginal." Later it proved to be infiltrated, and it was pulled. For days after that Todd’s hand was sore and blue from the fluid that had leaked into the tissue. |
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There were no more treatments to try. We wanted to go home. Todd wanted to go home. While he was at the hospital he was never quite sure that we wouldn’t change our mind about the IV. At home he was safe. Then it was time to pack. As usual the room was full of our personal belongings- pillows and blankets from home to be more comfortable, a lamp so I could read at night, pictures of Jesus, toys and teddy bears, games and projects. While Dutch settled with the cashier, I received last minute instructions from the doctor. He prescribed cough medicine with codeine, but he didn’t expect it to do much good. Todd’s tumors were obstructing his lungs, and the body’s natural reflex was to expel the obstruction by coughing. Todd had been chewing on ice when he felt the urge to cough. Whether it really helped or not doesn’t matter. He thought it helped. It curbed his anxiety. There was Tylenol with codeine for the pain and Thorazine to tranquilize him. The quieter he remained, the less he would fight to breather, and the easier it would be for him. We were to start with small doses and increase them as his pain and his tolerance for the drugs grew. Todd’s blood count was low. Under normal circumstances he would have been given a blood transfusion, but the low count had the advantage of making him drowsy, so he was less aware of pain. The transfusion might perk him up for a couple of days, but would make it harder in the long run. We decided against it. His lung X-rays showed shadows that could be interpreted as water. To relieve pressure in his chest, the doctors could try to tap the water with a long needle between the ribs, but it would be unpleasant and the water would quickly return. We decided against it. We were grateful that the doctors were frank and did not recommend unnecessary treatments. We made an appointment for Todd to be seen in clinic about a week later. "How long do we have, doctor?" "About two week." We found a toy wagon and piled all of our belongings onto it, with Todd on top. Our departure resembled a circus parade. Todd’s triumphant exit. All the nurses lined up to say hood-bye. "Look at the king on his throne!" "Take care!" "See you." "Thank you." "Bye! I’m going home!" |
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