Say Hi to Jesus For Me, childhood cancer, children in hosptial

"Say Hi to Jesus For Me": Chapter 5

Todd was very fond of Dr. Mikkelson, the urologist. On one of his follow-up visits, Todd took a large picture he had painted to give to him, but to his dismay, Dr. Mikkelson was not there that day. Another doctor walked into the room, and there stood Todd, picture in hand. He didn’t want to be impolite and tell the doctor that the picture wasn’t for him. What could he do?

With great insight, the doctor offered to make certain that Dr. Mikkelson would receive the picture. A week later, Todd proudly displayed a letter from Dr. Mikkelson:

Dear Todd:

Thank you for the painting. You are quite an artist. We are all pleased that you are recovering so well.

We greatly respected this kind doctor, who took time out from his busy schedule to write a thank-you note to a child.

Todd did crazy things sometimes, perhaps as an attempt to hide his fear, for on these occasions his laughter easily turned to tears. Once, for example, on a visit to the doctor’s office, he played around and hid from us. When it was time to leave he ran from room to room, trying to get away from me.

On other occasions he was in such pain that just walking the few steps from the parking lot to the lobby took forever. We couldn’t always carry him. Often that would cause more pain. He was most comfortable when he was at his own slow pace, bent over like an old man.

Periodically Todd was readmitted to the hospital. It took quite a while for his stomach pains to subside, which caused us some concern. Also, the chemotherapy suppressed his white blood count, so he was unable to fight infection. A cold could send him to the hospital.

Once his count was so low that he normal germs in the digestive system posed great danger to him. He had violent stomach cramps. He was unable to eat or drink. A drop of water was more than he could handle.

During every hospital stay Todd was tense and afraid until the inevitable IV was started. Then he was ready for action. He would chase the nurses with his IV pole or visit the playroom for fun and games.

The playroom was always "safe". No shots were given there, and no examinations except temperature and blood pressure, which didn’t hurt. Volunteers and parents played games with the children to occupy and teach them and to divert attention from their disabilities.

It always amazed me how readily the children accepted one another’s illnesses, bandage, and handicaps. No one ever thought of pointing a finger or making fun. The sight of another’s wound simply triggered compassion. They all knew what pain was.

The playroom had real blood pressure gauges, thermometers, and IV equipment (minus the needle) -- all the things the children were familiar with from the ward. They tried everything out on dolls, giving them thorough examinations. Once the children were familiar with the equipment, they were less afraid when it came time for it to be used on them.

My mother called in a prayer request for Todd at a Christian radio station. Several days later, a host for one of the radio programs and his wife came to visit Todd at the hospital. A friendship began when Ron sat on the floor next to Todd’s bed and asked, "Brother, you seem to know Jesus so well and love Him so much. Will you pray for me?"

Then I started hearing the Lord’s Prayer again. Over and over I heard it, on the radio, in conversations, in books. One day a friend asked, "Do you know what my favorite Bible verse is?" It was a part of the Lord’s Prayer.

Always before, the Lord’s Prayer had been a warning of bad news to come. Now each time I heard it I thought, "Oh, no! Not again. Now what?"

In the middle of June, Todd started having pain in his back. At first we thought nothing of it, but every day it became worse. He did not like taking medication, so he just bore the pain.

Even though everyone was watching Todd for any sign of recurring cancer, the doctor thought this probably was a case of shingles. On Friday she suggested we wait to see if he broke out in a rash typical of shingles, and call Monday if there was no change.

All weekend Todd was in pain. The only way he could stand it was sitting straight up. So he tried to sleep nights by sitting in a chair or on the couch, supported by pillows so he would not slouch over. We took turns sleeping next to him in a similar position to help hold him up.

By Monday we were all exhausted from sleepless nights. Todd’s pain was worse, and there was no sign of a rash. The doctor suggested we bring him in the following day for tests.

Todd had seemed to be tripping slightly over his own feet. By the time we saw the doctor, he was definitely stumbling. Now the doctor had reason to check for a neurological source for his back pain.

Todd was admitted to the hospital. I was so frightened, and yet I hoped that now they would finally be able to do something about Todd’s pain.

A whole battery of doctors came to check Todd over. But first things first. He had to be hooked up to an IV. That meant more pain, screams, fear and anger.

Neurologists gathered around his bed and examined him by sticking him with a needle-like instrument to determine if he had feeling in his legs and back. By this time he could not walk. He could move his legs, but seemed to have no control over where he placed them. He could not take two steps without falling down.

The doctors talked about Todd as if he weren’t there, treating him like an object. He was frightened. He lay with his eyes lowered. I was furious over the doctors’ lack of tact and sensitivity, but I didn’t have the nerve to speak up.

That night Todd sat in a wheelchair. I tried to get him into bed, but he said that hurt more. A doctor assured me there was no law saying he had to go to bed. We walked the halls most of the night.

Todd still hadn’t had anything for pain. The doctor ordered it when I asked for it, but by the time the nurse brought it, Todd had gone to sleep. They said not to disturb him, to wait until he woke up. Then the whole procedure was repeated.

They were stalling. They were reluctant to give him anything because of the test scheduled for morning. He would have to be sedated for that.

The test involved taking a small amount of spinal fluid and injecting some dye. The X-ray would then show if there was any nerve blockage to account for Todd’s loss of feeling in his legs. We were glad Todd was sedated and would feel none of it.

The test seemed to take hours. Dutch and I had trouble trying to pass the time.

When Todd was finally brought to his room, our joy at having him back was short-lived. We were asked to join the doctors for a conference.

What do you do when they tell you they’ve found more cancer?

Our world caved in again. But God gave us the strength to hear the doctors out. They explained that Todd had a tumor wrapped around his spinal cord. There were only three known cases of Todd’s kind of cancer in which this had happened. But that was little consolation to us. Todd would probably soon be paralyzed.

It all happened so fast -- too fast to comprehend, too fast to cry. Dutch asked when surgery to remove the tumor would be performed. The surgeon looked at his watch and said, "We’re scheduled to begin right away."

There was just time to sign a consent form and try to tell Todd what was happening. He was still sleeping off the anesthesia, but we felt he had to be prepared. Dutch told him to remember that Jesus would be with him. He was too drowsy to hear. They wheeled him from the room.

I finally had time to cry. The doctors were concerned. We knew they hurt with us. Dr. Nelson put his arms around me and assured me that they would do all they could. The surgeon was one of the best.

Then all there was left to do was wait and pray.

I remembered an article in which the writer talked about God’s hands being there to minister to our needs. I tried to picture God’s hands guiding the surgeon’s hands in the delicate operation.

I couldn’t stand the long wait, so God allowed me to sleep. He promises that He will not allow us to be tempted beyond that which we are able to endure.

At last they said Todd was out of surgery and would soon be placed in intensive care, where we would be allowed to see him five minutes out of every hour.

I wanted so much to see him, but I was afraid of what he would look like. Before we opened the door, I breathed: "Lord, please help! Come with us. Help us to bear it!"

Todd had tubes attached to him everywhere. His lips were dry and torn. He was pale and didn’t know we were there. Every hour we went in for a few minutes. There were few patients, so we were permitted to stay longer each time.

As drowsiness left Todd, he became frightened and uncomfortable. The pain returned.

At one point he cried out in desperation: "God damn!"

That hurt. It was not like him. But we understood.

Here he had been doing fine. Then the pain came. The last thing he knew, he was having a test. And now he woke up in more pain and tied down by tubes and IVs. He couldn’t understand.

The next morning we were called to a conference with the doctors again. You could almost smell the bad news. I didn’t want to go, Todd wanted me to stay with him. But one of the doctors insisted I be there with Dutch. He would stay with Todd.

X rays taken during surgery revealed tumors in Todd’s lungs. The disease had spread even more. The hope for Todd’s total recovery diminished.

Somehow the news didn’t crush us. We went on talking, smiling, feeling, seeing. God was there helping us, shielding us from the blow. There was talk of cobalt treatments and increased chemotherapy. Before we had chosen not to have cobalt treatments, but now we had no choice.

Todd was starting to feel better and we were permitted to spend more time with him. He seemed less uncomfortable than after his first operation. Breathing wasn’t as painful, since the incision was on his back. But he was unhappy. He resented having a roommate. He wanted to be alone.

He had to be handled very carefully. The nurses showed me how to "log roll" him, which meant moving him in one motion with the help of a sheet.

We still did not know if he would regain use of his legs completely, but indications were good. The neurological "pricks" showed feeling in his legs. The doctors were pleased.

Then came the day when he could get out of bed again. We resumed our rounds through the halls, with Todd in his wheelchair.

But Todd was depressed. He who could always pray couldn’t even be persuaded to say grace.

Then the Lord told me what was wrong. Todd was mad at God! He felt betrayed. He had thought all was well -- and now this! He felt guilty for having cursed. He couldn’t understand why all this was happening, and he didn’t know what to do.

I stopped the wheelchair, turned to him, and said, "You know, son, it’s OK to tell God you’re mad at him."

He looked up at me with a smile. A heavy burden had been lifted, "It is?" Later that day he whispered in my ear, "Mom, I’ve been praying again." He was happy again and soon spent more and time in the playroom.

He was receiving physical therapy to help him regain the use of his legs. He loved his therapist. He also called several nurses his "special girl friends". He pursued them relentlessly through the halls and waited for their "special tickles". He continued to improve so much that he was discharged a week after surgery.

After the last examination by the neurosurgeon, I wondered how I would be able to take proper care of Todd at home. A small part of his spine was exposed. The doctor smiled and said, "He is not going to fall apart".

Todd’s physical therapy continued once a week after he was home. He worked hard at practicing to walk. He had to concentrate to control the direction his feet went in, and he wobbled a lot.

Once, on our daily trips to the hospital for cobalt treatments, we met the neurosurgeon in the hall. He was talking on the phone and just pointed to Todd in amazement as he walked by. He obviously had not expected such progress.

Since the tumor had been wrapped around the spinal cord, the doctors could not be sure they had removed all of it. The cobalt treatments were directed at the spine and would eventually weaken it. We were told that, should Todd live to be a teenager, we could then expect problems with his back. They advised us to try to direct his interests away from anything that would strain his back. "But we really had no choice about the radiation. The prospect of possible back trouble years in the future did not weigh so heavily as the immediate danger of cancer.

Swimming was good exercise for him, so I took him to the YWCA. They let him use the pool, but the lifeguard eyed him with great concern. His back was marked with a green marker to show the area of radiation. He did look weird. But he had fun.

When chemotherapy was resumed, the potent drug caused all Todd’s hair to fall out. The object of chemotherapy is to kill fast-growing cells, because cancer cells grow fast. Since hair cells also grow fast, chemotherapy killed them as well.

His hair was all over his pillow at night. It was in his mouth. It fell in his food when he ate. His comb brought out bushels of hair. It was like combing a shedding dog. After a few days of this, we had a talk with Todd and he agreed to have his hair cut very short so it wouldn’t bother him so much when it fell out.

He was embarrassed about it, though, and from then on he usually wore his baseball cap. But he always saw other kids at the hospital who were just as bald as he was.

Pastor and Mrs. Roufs came to see him again. They brought prayers, gifts, and encouragement, and a verse of Scripture: "Is any among you sick? Let him call for the elders of the church, and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord; and the prayer of faith will save the sick man, and the Lord will raise him up; and if he has committed sins, he will be forgiven."
(James 5:14).

Pastor Roufs suggested that we might call the elders and that he would anoint Todd with oil. But he said it was up to us, and we had to decide and initiate it. It sounded OK to us, but we didn’t follow through with it. I suppose we just weren’t ready.

I read in the paper that a boy who had been in a hospital room next to Todd’s had died. The paper also told of the Christian testimony his mother had given at the funeral.

I thought then that if a woman’s child died, her world must stop turning and the sun must stop shining, and she would walk around in a veil of tears and shock. But to see that boy’s mother at the hospital the day after the funeral, beaming and testifying to the love of God, was almost disturbing.

She told me she had asked for an altar call at the funeral. "You didn’t!" I said. "You couldn’t have!"

"Of course! What better time is there?" she asked. "At no other time are people as aware and open and receptive as at a funeral. It was perfect. And I think someone received the Lord that day."

It was hard for me to understand, but a seed was sown in my heart.

Todd was in and out of the hospital. The tumors in his lungs were growing, so his chemotherapy was in heavy doses, and he sometimes had reactions to it. When his white blood count was too low, he had to be admitted to the hospital. At this point a cold could have killed him.

We were very fond of Dr. Nelson, Todd’s hematologist. We talked to him over lunch one day of our struggles and our faith in God. I told him how I had often felt like shaking him and picking his brain for any advice, any hope, anything. We always wondered if there was anything else in the world we could do for Todd, anywhere else we could take him. Did someone else have more knowledge, different treatments? Perhaps the doctors in Mexico or on the moon had a better idea.

Dr. Nelson had tears in his eyes as we told him that now we had placed Todd in God’s hands. We told him we were trusting God to give the doctors wisdom, and that we would agree to anything Dr. Nelson suggested.

Dr. Nelson admitted humbly that wisdom did not come from him, but from higher up. We felt a special bond of closeness with him.

Some weeks later Dr. Nelson took time from his busy schedule to sit on the couch of Todd’s hospital room with me and talk about our hopes and dreams for the present and the future. I dared ask him then how much longer he thought Todd might live.

"Perhaps six months."