Less than 24 hours later, when the results from the biopsy barely had a chance to settle, we received a phone call from our consultant. He explained that he had a free slot that afternoon to discuss Maisie's treatment plan in more detail and to also begin chemotherapy if we were ready. Ready? How could we be ready? I had no idea what we needed to be ready for. I had no idea what chemotherapy meant for Maisie, what it would entail, how it would affect her. I had so many questions, some that I was sure our consultant could answer but so many more that I knew he couldn't. But, whether we were ready or not we knew that we needed to go and begin whatever process was ahead of us. We knew that it was Maisie's only option at this point.
When we arrived at the clinic I began to feel so overwhelmed and I felt like we shouldn't be there, that we had no need to be in a place where chemotherapy and tumours where the hot topic of conversation. As we waited to be seen by the consultant I saw family after family, child after child come in and by the way in which they maneuvered around the clinic and by their physical appearance, it was apparent to me that for some people this place had become well known, it was a place where a lot of time had been spent. This scared me. I wondered how long Maisie would have to come here, how much of her childhood would be spent inside these walls. In time would we be so used to coming here that we too would look as familiarised with the process and look like we belonged? As well as this, it also struck me hard how many other families were going through a similar situation. And while one part of me ached for every mother, father and child there knowing how they must be feeling, another part of me felt some comfort. We were not alone here.
The consultant went over the treatment plan again with us, 4 weeks chemotherapy which would involve the insertion of two toxic drugs, Dactinomycin and Vincristine, followed then by surgery. He explained the different effects that each of the drugs could have on Maisie's little body and I heard risk of infection, anaemia, nausea, vomiting, constipation, tiredness, hair loss and the list kept going. Although I was sitting in the chair opposite the consultant trying so hard to take in everything he was saying and trying to 'hold it together', he must have seen through me. He must of sensed that I was actually suffocating under the weight of his words and when his outstretched hand rested itself upon my arm I crumbled. I was afraid. Even though the tumour had been there in her little body all this time, growing and trying to take over her life, she has always looked healthy and well. Other than the lump on her side, which you dont even see through her clothes, you would not look at her and think she was sick. I was afraid that the effects of chemo would change that. That every day from now on it would be physically written on her face and body, 'I have cancer'.
I have to say at this point how truly amazing our consultant is, (and actually every single member of staff in the clinic). Even though we had only been acquainted for such a short time I had already placed my trust in him. He spoke with sincerity and was warm and genuine in his approach. I hung onto every word he said and treated it like gospel and even though what he said terrified me, I was also confident in his knowledge and ability to make my baby well. To help her fight. To save her life. After the snots and tears had stopped flowing, he asked us if we wanted to go ahead with chemotherapy today or if we wanted a few days to let this all sink in. I wasn't ready for this at all, but I knew I never would be. How could you? There was no time like the present so we decided to go ahead.
Now, up to this point all I knew about chemotherapy was what I had saw on TV and in films. I imagined being in a room with lots of other people, sitting for hours on end while Maisie would be hooked up with wires and the toxic drugs slowly dripping into her little body. For some people this is the case, but at this stage for Maisie the process would be different. We were called into a little room at the back of the clinic where a few nurses were waiting for us with a tray of syringes. One of the nurses asked me if Maisie had a 'Mr Wiggly'? I was very confused for a second and thought 'doesn't she realise that Maisie is a girl? And even if she wasn't, why would they need Mr Wiggly anyway? After some silence and a few strange glances the nurses must have realised what I was thinking and said that 'Mr Wiggly' is actually what they call the Broviac line that is inserted into Maisie's chest. Relieved and slightly embarrassed I brought out Maisie's line and it started to sink in what the doctors had been referring to all this time when they had mentioned 'future treatment'. When they had inserted this line almost a week ago, before the biopsy had even been done, they knew what was coming, they knew this line would be needed for chemotherapy. A nurse then very quickly and carefully took one syringe at a time, connected it to the end of her line and pushed them though. 3 minutes and the process was over. 3 minutes and Maisie had received her first cycle of chemo. 3 minutes and Maisie had toxic chemicals flowing through her tiny little body.
Even though it had only taken a short amount of time and it caused no discomfort to her at all, (she actually fell asleep straight after) the pain for me was unbearable and the whole situation was unfair. From the moment I found out I was pregnant I instinctively found myself wanting only the best for my baby, doing everything I could to ensure that he/she would be strong and healthy. I ate well, I exercised, I took folic acid and vitamins and took the best care of myself that I could. When Maisie started to wean I was also very strict with what I gave her. I would have spent hours in the kitchen when she went to bed cooking her up meals using only fresh fruit and vegetables to the point where I became almost anal over what she ate. I only wanted her to be healthy. And now, here I was holding Maisie on my knee watching and allowing nurses to insert toxic chemicals into her body to attack the large unhealthy growth that had taken up residency, when I had never even allowed her a Petit Filous. Of course I knew that Maisie needed this treatment and I knew that I was once again doing what was best for her but the irony of the situation did not escape me and it hurt so bad.
Again, being completely naive about the process of chemotherapy I had expected the effects to be imminent and I was scared to take her home in case she reacted so bad that I wouldn't know what to do. Our consultant, (again showing complete understanding and care), had provisionally held a bed in the ward for us just in case we wanted to stay overnight for peace of mind. However, when Maisie woke she was in great form, ate up all her dinner and was smiling at everyone so we decided that it would be better for her to be at home in her own surroundings.
When we got home we went about our normal bedtime routine but I found myself staring at her more intently, waiting to see a difference in her. But of course there wasn't. She was just the same little girl that always smiled up at me when getting bathed and snuggled into me when getting her nighttime bottle. Everything was just the same. Except that now, Maisie was well and truly on her journey to fight and beat cancer.
When we arrived at the clinic I began to feel so overwhelmed and I felt like we shouldn't be there, that we had no need to be in a place where chemotherapy and tumours where the hot topic of conversation. As we waited to be seen by the consultant I saw family after family, child after child come in and by the way in which they maneuvered around the clinic and by their physical appearance, it was apparent to me that for some people this place had become well known, it was a place where a lot of time had been spent. This scared me. I wondered how long Maisie would have to come here, how much of her childhood would be spent inside these walls. In time would we be so used to coming here that we too would look as familiarised with the process and look like we belonged? As well as this, it also struck me hard how many other families were going through a similar situation. And while one part of me ached for every mother, father and child there knowing how they must be feeling, another part of me felt some comfort. We were not alone here.
The consultant went over the treatment plan again with us, 4 weeks chemotherapy which would involve the insertion of two toxic drugs, Dactinomycin and Vincristine, followed then by surgery. He explained the different effects that each of the drugs could have on Maisie's little body and I heard risk of infection, anaemia, nausea, vomiting, constipation, tiredness, hair loss and the list kept going. Although I was sitting in the chair opposite the consultant trying so hard to take in everything he was saying and trying to 'hold it together', he must have seen through me. He must of sensed that I was actually suffocating under the weight of his words and when his outstretched hand rested itself upon my arm I crumbled. I was afraid. Even though the tumour had been there in her little body all this time, growing and trying to take over her life, she has always looked healthy and well. Other than the lump on her side, which you dont even see through her clothes, you would not look at her and think she was sick. I was afraid that the effects of chemo would change that. That every day from now on it would be physically written on her face and body, 'I have cancer'.
I have to say at this point how truly amazing our consultant is, (and actually every single member of staff in the clinic). Even though we had only been acquainted for such a short time I had already placed my trust in him. He spoke with sincerity and was warm and genuine in his approach. I hung onto every word he said and treated it like gospel and even though what he said terrified me, I was also confident in his knowledge and ability to make my baby well. To help her fight. To save her life. After the snots and tears had stopped flowing, he asked us if we wanted to go ahead with chemotherapy today or if we wanted a few days to let this all sink in. I wasn't ready for this at all, but I knew I never would be. How could you? There was no time like the present so we decided to go ahead.
Now, up to this point all I knew about chemotherapy was what I had saw on TV and in films. I imagined being in a room with lots of other people, sitting for hours on end while Maisie would be hooked up with wires and the toxic drugs slowly dripping into her little body. For some people this is the case, but at this stage for Maisie the process would be different. We were called into a little room at the back of the clinic where a few nurses were waiting for us with a tray of syringes. One of the nurses asked me if Maisie had a 'Mr Wiggly'? I was very confused for a second and thought 'doesn't she realise that Maisie is a girl? And even if she wasn't, why would they need Mr Wiggly anyway? After some silence and a few strange glances the nurses must have realised what I was thinking and said that 'Mr Wiggly' is actually what they call the Broviac line that is inserted into Maisie's chest. Relieved and slightly embarrassed I brought out Maisie's line and it started to sink in what the doctors had been referring to all this time when they had mentioned 'future treatment'. When they had inserted this line almost a week ago, before the biopsy had even been done, they knew what was coming, they knew this line would be needed for chemotherapy. A nurse then very quickly and carefully took one syringe at a time, connected it to the end of her line and pushed them though. 3 minutes and the process was over. 3 minutes and Maisie had received her first cycle of chemo. 3 minutes and Maisie had toxic chemicals flowing through her tiny little body.
Even though it had only taken a short amount of time and it caused no discomfort to her at all, (she actually fell asleep straight after) the pain for me was unbearable and the whole situation was unfair. From the moment I found out I was pregnant I instinctively found myself wanting only the best for my baby, doing everything I could to ensure that he/she would be strong and healthy. I ate well, I exercised, I took folic acid and vitamins and took the best care of myself that I could. When Maisie started to wean I was also very strict with what I gave her. I would have spent hours in the kitchen when she went to bed cooking her up meals using only fresh fruit and vegetables to the point where I became almost anal over what she ate. I only wanted her to be healthy. And now, here I was holding Maisie on my knee watching and allowing nurses to insert toxic chemicals into her body to attack the large unhealthy growth that had taken up residency, when I had never even allowed her a Petit Filous. Of course I knew that Maisie needed this treatment and I knew that I was once again doing what was best for her but the irony of the situation did not escape me and it hurt so bad.
Again, being completely naive about the process of chemotherapy I had expected the effects to be imminent and I was scared to take her home in case she reacted so bad that I wouldn't know what to do. Our consultant, (again showing complete understanding and care), had provisionally held a bed in the ward for us just in case we wanted to stay overnight for peace of mind. However, when Maisie woke she was in great form, ate up all her dinner and was smiling at everyone so we decided that it would be better for her to be at home in her own surroundings.
When we got home we went about our normal bedtime routine but I found myself staring at her more intently, waiting to see a difference in her. But of course there wasn't. She was just the same little girl that always smiled up at me when getting bathed and snuggled into me when getting her nighttime bottle. Everything was just the same. Except that now, Maisie was well and truly on her journey to fight and beat cancer.
Wendy
Wendy you write with such poignancy and sensitivity that I can almost reach out and touch your pain. Nothing anyone says will make you feel any better... but I hope that knowing how many people are walking with you and willing Maisie to get better brings you some comfort. This will pass. Maisie will get better. I'm sending you so much love and positivity xxx
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