Ella had been dropped off at school and Mimi had picked up Benjamin so that he could spend the day at her place. David was working at home and I'd made a long to-list to distract me from the call that was coming that afternoon. It was the day we'd learn whether Benjamin would be graduating to the next phase of treatment (Maintenance/Continuation) or if he'd be held back for a second round of the first, intensive phase (Induction).
Thankfully Mimi had offered to pick up Ella from school if the call from the hospital hadn't come yet because we had to take her up on it. As mid-afternoon crept into late afternoon and knowing the kids would be arriving home soon I emailed the nurse assigned to Benjamin's case to ask when we could expect to hear something. She immediately wrote back that she would follow up with the doctor and we'd be hearing shortly.
I set myself up in David's office with my laptop, notebook, pen and list of questions printed out. A few minutes later, just as I heard the distant sound of little voices on our front porch, my phone lit up with the "Sick Kids" caller ID flashing across the screen. I waved to David who was wearing noise cancelling headphones and answered the call on speakerphone. It was the fellow (simply put, the medical trainee that works under Benjamin's oncologist).
He began speaking the words we'd been dreading. Benjamin wouldn't be moving on to Maintenance. Instead we'd be repeating a second round of Induction. Weekly chemo. Heavy steroids. A number of possible side effects.
Though I'd had this nagging feeling in my gut for over a week that this would be the news I was still holding out hope. My gut is rarely wrong so even though deep down this was what I had been expecting, I felt blindsided. We were hopeful after hearing the week before that the CT scan had shown "significant decrease" in the cancer that we'd be moving forward. This felt like a heartbreaking setback.
After we'd hung up I told David I needed a few minutes on my own. He nodded, hugged me and headed upstairs to help Mimi with Benjamin and Ella. I opened the door to our unfinished laundry room, the first quiet, private place I could think of. I sat on the area rug, the only thing between me and the cold concrete floor, and fell apart. With my head in my hands, every feeling welling up in my eyeballs and rolling down my cheeks, my body heaving, I let it out. I was thankful that was the room where we keep the Costco-sized boxes of Kleenex. Eventually I was able to pull myself together.
I moved to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face before climbing up the stairs to the kitchen. I went through the motions of our evening routine of dinner, bath and bedtime. I caught myself more than a few times studying Benjamin and wondering how this sweet, happy, seemingly healthy boy could have so much going on below the surface. Even now, it feels surreal. Like a bad dream only I can't wake up.
Once the kids were down David and I sat huddled together in the dark of our living room. We reviewed everything the fellow had said. What it would all mean - for school, for socialization, for scheduling, for balancing. We tried to find the silver linings, something that was tough to do that night. When they seem hardest to come by is when we tend to need them most so I always appreciate that I have a partner who fights to see the positive alongside me. We hold each other accountable in that way.
While David got ready for bed I tip-toed into Benjamin's room and crawled in beside him. His little hand found mine and his fingers wrapped tightly around. I felt the inhale and exhale of his every breath on my chest as I held him close to me. I could have stayed there forever. I softly whispered, "You will beat this. You will win." I truly believe that he will.
Just because I fall apart sometimes doesn't mean that I lose hope that our little guy can do anything, it just means that some days I have to dig deeper to have the positive thoughts speak louder than the ones that feel heavy.
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