Back in my day….

Oh no, I just realized I sounded just like my parents!  Or worse, my grandparents!  Am I really that old?

Back in my day, sigh, TheChive.com was an up and coming website full of funny pictures.  (I had even submitted a family photo in which my brother is licking my uncle's head…don’t ask.)  It was ran by, what I assumed to be, college frat guys because you could also find pictures of hot women scattered all over the site.  :D

It is still a website in which you can go to and see funny pictures, as well as pictures of hot women, but it no longer stops there.  “WHAT STARTED AS A BLOG HAS TURNED INTO A GLOBAL MOVEMENT.”

Under the “WHO WE ARE” section, they describe themselves as such:

“Chivers everywhere are coming together to become the greatest community of sexy creatures, generous misfits and crazy hooligans to come through the net.”

“Whether it’s raising money for charity, putting a smile on a stranger’s face, or simply meeting up to grab a beer, Chive Nation is an online community doing amazing things both online and offline.”

Okay, so what does that have to do with Power for Parker?  Well settle down, and I’ll tell you!

Graham Morris, the owner of Chive on Iowa (the state run chapter for theChive.com), sent me an email.  The email stated that he had been following Parker’s story and was impressed with Parker’s level of courage and his ability to keep a smile on his face.  Because of his bravery and determination, Chive on Iowa would like Parker to receive national recognition.  They also want to help by making Parker one of their honorary beneficiaries and asked if they could dedicate their upcoming event to him! 

But wait, this sounds too good to be true, right?  I’m a bit skeptical…but then he says,

Hey, watch these clips:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ebRi-yquplc
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GW2ebqvHTec

Well crap.  Now I’m crying.  Thanks a lot Graham. 

You weren’t lying when you said Chivers are “some of the most caring and hardworking individuals you will ever meet.”

Obviously I know my son is amazing.  However, it’s overwhelming when somebody else acknowledges it.  Now take that overwhelming feeling and multiply it by 117% and that’s how I feel at this moment.  Out of this world! 

So let me tell you about the event in which Parker will be the beneficiary for.  It’s May 2nd at Hazzard County Saloon in Cedar Rapids from 7pm-2am.  That’s right, ya’ll!  They’re going country!  So show up to this amazing event, dedicated to this amazing kid named Parker.  I mean come on…how can you decline after Graham explains, “We know how to throw back on the weekends and have a great time, all in the name of charity.”? 

You can check out the event at:
https://www.facebook.com/events/436045623230613/  (Event Link)

And support the Chive on Iowa here:
https://www.facebook.com/ChiveOnIowa   (Page Link)

If you’re feeling really awesome, see what else you can do here:
http://chivecharities.org/

To Graham and his fellow Chivers:
Thank you from the bottom of our hearts.  Not only for making Parker a beneficiary, but for recognizing his courage and determination.  During dark times like these, it’s people like you who are the rays of sunshine through the clouds.  You make getting through tough times like this possible.  You are why we are able to smile an extra smile.  You give us hope.  You inspire greatness.  You inspire us to be kinder, do more for others, and have fun while doing it!  Thank you, and CHIVE ON!


I still can't believe this is real...

I barely ever use twitter, but the day Parker was down, I was desperate to cheer him up.  So I logged in to twitter and posted the picture of Parker’s Iowa Hawkeyes cast.  I tagged some of his favorite Iowa Players.  One of those players, Pat Angerer, replied. 

Pat Angerer was a linebacker for the Iowa Hawkeyes.  He was drafted by the Indianapolis Colts in the 2nd round of the 2010 NFL Draft.  Now I’m the Colts fan, but Parker watched games with me.  Even though he is a Packers fan, he always rooted for Angerer because of his Bettendorf and Iowa Hawkeye ties.  Parker also loved Angerer's NFL intro in which he says, “Pat Angerer, The United State of Iowa.” 

Pat sent me a message stating that he would like to send something to help cheer up Parker, so I thanked him in advance and quickly gave him our address.  I was so excited for Parker. 

A few days passed, and I was getting ready to head out the door to meet some people and deliver baskets from the raffle.  When I opened the door, I saw a box sitting on my porch from Pat Angerer.  I ran it inside to Parker, and he looked at it in disbelief.  “Pat Angerer?” Parker said, “What?!”

He opened the box and inside was an autographed jersey and a card.  He was stunned.  He opened the card and quietly said, “Wow!”  I don’t think he expected Pat to have written as much as he did. He read the card.  Then read it again.  He didn’t let me read it though.  He just smiled and held the card.  Since I had to go meet some people, I hurried out the door without reading the card, but kept wondering what it said.  It clearly had an impact on Parker.

When I got home, the first thing I did was look for the card.  I read it and it brought tears to my eyes.  Before I tell you what it says, let me tell you about a conversation I had with Parker just the day before.

We were talking about Parker’s appointment on Thursday and how they were going to remove the cast.  He wanted to know if they were going to wrap his leg in an ACE bandage like his other leg had been wrapped in.  I told him no, if he didn’t need the skin graft, he would get another cast until 6 weeks had passed.  “6 weeks?!”  I wasn’t sure if this was an exclamation or question. 

We had previously told him that he would have a cast for 6 weeks, so I didn’t understand why he was concerned.  He said that 6 weeks was not long enough!  I asked him for more clarification.  He explained his small biopsy incision looked “creepy” for longer than 6 weeks.  Regarding the two big incisions from his last surgery, he said, “I don’t want people to have to look at them.”  He was worried about them being “grossed out.”  Parker thought the incisions were cool, and he isn’t grossed out by them.  He’s just worried about what others are going to think. We reminded him what Dr. Miller told him, chicks dig scars, and we told him not to worry what others think. 

But back to Pat’s letter. 

In his letter, Pat defined what a warrior was.  He explained that Parker was the truest form of a warrior.  His words were incredible.  Anybody would feel amazing after reading the words that Pat wrote about Parker. 

I’m not going to write exactly what Pat wrote because I want Parker to have those words for himself, but I am going to quote a small portion of the next section of his letter because I want everybody to know just how amazing Mr. Pat Angerer is.  Grab some tissues.

“A Knight in shining armor is a man who has never had his metal truly tested.”
- You wear those scars with pride.  You were tougher than whatever tried to bring you down.  You inspire me and my family.

The impact that these words had on not only Parker, but on me…..

Wow! - is all I can say.

It’s one thing to hear your mom say, “Don’t worry about what other people think.”  But the way Pat Angerer said it was marvelous and it made a difference.   It was also really great timing.

To Pat:  Thank you.  Thank you for taking the time to write Parker.  Your words of encouragement meant so much to him, and he’s read the card numerous times.  I’ll never forget the shock or the smile on his face when he looked up after seeing the package was from you, “THE Pat Angerer?”  I have no doubt that you're an amazing father after reading the words you wrote.  You're insightful, thoughtful, and intelligent and your kids are lucky to have a role model like you.  I’m still trying to talk him in to sending you a text, but he’s being coy and doesn't want to bother you. 

To those reading this:  Highest bidder gets Pat Angerer’s phone number!  JUST KIDDING, PAT!  I’ve seen you tackle.  I’d rather be on your good side!

The surgeons woke us up at 6am as usual.  I groggily listened to the resident doctor and went back to sleep after he left.  At 9:20 I heard the room phone ringing, but I didn’t get up in time to answer it.  A few minutes later, the nurse was waking me up to tell me we were going to have a visitor at 10am. 

I jumped up and quickly showered.  My mom rushed in after me.  I saw Parker’s eyes open so I told him, “You have somebody coming to see you.”  I was pretty sure it would be a basketball player, but I wasn’t positive.  “Who?” He asked.  “I’m not sure,” I replied.

A little while later, we see Aaron White duck down through the door followed by Josh Oglesby. 

“Hi, I’m Aaron.”

“Hi, I’m Josh.”

 Parker was shocked and just stared at them as they shook his hand.  They checked out his cast and agreed it was the coolest cast they had ever seen.  They gave Parker a basketball and signed a few posters.  I dug his Iowa Hawkeyes basketball jersey out of his suitcase, and they signed it as well.  They talked about their favorite basketball teams and players and about the Championship game.  Parker’s huge smile stayed plastered on his face.  They told him that he should come to a practice or maybe a game when he’s up for it.  I don’t think Parker could believe it.  Before leaving they took a picture with Parker.  They then said, “Do you want a picture too?” - “YES!” my mom and I answered!  We were already so thankful they came to visit; we didn’t want to bother them for another picture.  How nice that they offered! 

They again shook hands with Parker and told him that they were happy to meet him and they hoped he felt better soon.  They were so incredibly nice.

After they left, Parker was still in shock.  He even chuckled a few times in disbelief.  He said he couldn’t believe how tall Aaron White was, and we rehashed everything that was said.

I am so thankful that they would take the time to come and visit Parker.  We’ve been to a few games, and we always watch them play on TV.  So to be a fan and have these guys live up to the expectations we had bestowed upon them is incredible.  After a few rough days and a break through the day before, this visit was a very welcome, positive reward for Parker.  I’ll always be grateful to them for the joy they provided.  

After surgery Parker was melancholy.  He went through some pretty embarrassing, traumatic things for a teenage boy.  Yet he never complained.  When they took out his catheter, it hurt.  He didn’t complain though.  His eyes were full of tears, but he tried to choke them back.  A single tear rolled down his cheek, and I was reminded of his bravery.  The rest of the day he was quiet.  We couldn’t get him to smile, which was so easy to do before. 

The next morning, they took the drain out of his leg.  It hurt just as bad, and again, the single tear was back.  Consoling him was of no use.  He refused to talk. 

He seemed to be getting a little better when we went to get his cast on.  Slowly but surely, I was starting to get a few more smiles out of him.  He picked out the awesome colors for his Hawkeye cast.  He didn’t have much pain when they were putting the cast on.  A few times he winced, but he said it wasn’t bad.

A few hours later, I could tell something was wrong though.  The movement from putting on the cast took its toll and Parker’s leg started bothering him.  We gave him some good pain medication and he fell asleep. 

Later that day, Dr. Miller came to the room and explained about the dark spot on Parker’s leg and how he might have to have another surgery.  Almost immediately Parker was back down in the dumps.  I still couldn’t get him to talk about it.  I asked if he wanted to talk to the psychiatrist, but he refused. 

This is where I went out to my car and broke.  (You can read about that in my previous post.)

When we got back, Parker was still quiet.  I tried getting him to talk, but he wouldn’t.  I told him I understood he was feeling down, and I didn’t blame him.  He’s been through more than any kid should have to go through.  The dreary day passed, and we went to bed, ending the day, in a gloomy state.

The next day, physical therapy came.  Parker had already been in a foul mood, and physical therapy did not help.  We took him down the hall to practice getting up and down stairs.  He was not thrilled, but he tried his best.  He became quickly frustrated about the strength that he had lost, and I could tell he wanted nothing more than to get back to his room and lay in bed.  After getting back in bed, the dreaded tear returned.  I asked him if he was in pain.  He said no.  “Then what is wrong?” I asked.  “I’m just, I don’t know.  Mad.” he replied.  I asked him if he wanted me to leave him alone and he said yes then fell asleep. 

I felt so helpless and my eyes filled with tears.  I left the room and asked for the Child Life Specialist.  They had her paged, and she called me back a little while later.  I told her that Parker was down and that I was worried about him.  I asked if we could get some Hawkeyes to visit.  My hope was that the coach could come and possibly give him a pep talk.  The Iowa Hawkeyes Basketball coach, Fran McCaffery, had a son who also was a cancer warrior.  I was trying to find anything that could help.  She told me she would send out an email ASAP and follow up with me the next morning.  I also reached out to a close friend of mine, who had helped find some signed Iowa Merchandise for the benefit, to see if any of his connections could help.

Also while he was sleeping, I sent a tweet out to Pat Angerer, Bryan Bulaga, and Micah Hyde to show them Parker’s awesome Hawkeye cast.  Bryan and Micah were former Hawkeyes who now play for Parker’s favorite NFL team, The Green Bay Packers.  Pat Angerer was also a former Hawkeye turned Pro that Parker always rooted for.  Pat and Bryan retweeted the photo of Parker’s cast, and Pat even tweeted , “What a Badass!!!” 

When Parker woke up, he was still down.  I told him about the tweets, and he thought it was really awesome.  He didn’t believe me that NFL Players would tweet about his cast.  This raised his spirits for a little while, but he was soon back to bleakness.

That’s when I realized he needed to break.  It was his turn.  He was succeeding with being strong, but he needed to vent.  He needed to let it out.

I took down the side rail and sat next to him on the bed.  I told him I was worried about him and that he needed to talk to me; he grabbed his phone.  I took it away.  I said, “Please.”  He stared at the TV; I shut it off.  Again I told him that I was worried about him.  I asked him if he was ok, and he put his arm over his face.  I asked him if he was scared.  No answer.  I asked him again if he would talk to a psychiatrist, he said no.  I told him that I know he’s strong.  That if he’s scared, he has absolutely every reason to be scared.  I assured him it would be okay.  I told him I wanted him to get MAD and get ANGRY.  Tears started to fill my eyes.  I said, “Parker, I need to know that you’re going to fight this.  I know that is selfish, but I need you to fight this.” My voice cracking, tears now unable to be contained.  He started crying too and said, “Now you’re going to make me cry.”  I told him that it was okay to cry. 

After a few minutes, he told me he knows he can fight this and win.  He told me that he was mad.  That he was frustrated.  He can’t run anymore.  I quickly understood.  He was starting to comprehend the toll of the surgery.  We had explained it before, but now it was real.  He was so active before playing outside with his friends.  Chemo took that away temporarily, but he had been back playing soccer in the back yard a few days after receiving chemo.  Sure his stamina was lessened, but he wasn’t completely limited.  I explained to him that this, too, was temporary.  Sure it was going to be a longer amount of time before he could run again, but someday he would.  I told him the harder he worked towards it, the sooner it would come back.  I told him laying in bed was not going to get him closer to playing sports.  I could see him start to collect himself.  I told him he had been so strong.  I explained that I know it sucks; I hate it too.  And for the rest of the year, it’s going to suck, but it’s going to get better too.  I reminded him of Dr. Miller’s words, “If I need to ruin summer for you, I will, but you will have more summers.”  I told him to beat this, and then the world was his. 

The effects were almost instantaneous.  He sat up in bed, he ate more, and he started using his incentive spirometer (an apparatus for breathing after surgery).  He even pushed himself further during physical therapy.  It didn’t take long.  He was back to being himself, even joking with Kelsey when she came in for the night shift.  His smile was back, and so was mine.

So I’ve come to realize breaking doesn’t mean we are weak.  In fact, it makes us stronger.  And Pat Angerer was right.  Parker is one tough “bad ass”!  

It happened.  I broke.  It started as a little crack.  Like a chip in your car windshield from a rock.  That little crack got bigger and bigger.  Wider and longer.  It spider webbed across the windshield.  And then it shattered.  I shattered.

I yelled, I hurled my phone at my windshield, and I started crying.  Then I apologized.

It was over the dumbest thing too.  The navigation on my phone wasn't working and Parker wanted something to eat that wasn't hospital food.  He hadn't eaten the entire day of surgery or the day after surgery except for a few bites of an apple.  I was desperate to find him something that he couldn't resist.  But I have no idea where anything is in this town.

I had been proud of myself.  Up until surgery day, I had held it together for the most part.  Sure I've cried.  A lot.  But that was different.  I could control when I cried.  I could hold it together until I was in the shower or at least out of sight.  I hadn't snapped.  I hadn't let it get to me like I did this time.  I couldn't control it this time.  My tank was full.  My phone not working was the small drop that made it overflow. 

I was embarrassed the minute it happened.  My mom was sitting next to me in the car.  I immediately apologized. 

But the weirdest thing happened.  I felt better.  I needed to scream.  I needed to get it out. 

I’m writing this because I took on a role when my son was diagnosed.  I took on the role of Super Mom.  I wanted to show how strong I was.  I wanted to inspire people.  All while being a good example for Parker.  But alas, I’m not perfect. 

I learned that I’m not Superwoman.  I’m Kristin.  All I can do is my best.  And my best is ok.

I made it to my destination that day.  Parker ate a chicken strip and a few french fries, and with every bite I started to feel better.

The next day I realized something that wasn't going to be easy though.  Parker needed to break. 

The night before surgery, Parker had 3 friends stay the night.  It was wonderful.  They were the absolute best distraction.  Parker wasn’t sitting there worrying about his surgery.  He was laughing and having fun.  While I was putting donations into baskets and taking care of Kaitlyn, Kevin took Parker and his friends mini golfing and out for pizza.  After pizza, they came back home and hung out in the basement.  They came up for snacks and drinks, causing me to do nothing but smile while watching them joke around with each other and giggle. Parker had so much fun.  Then in the middle of the night, Kaitlyn started coughing and gasping for air so my husband took her to the emergency room.  They took x-rays and gave her steroids.  They got back home at 4:30.  I wasn’t going to sleep much anyway. 

Before I knew it, we were in the car driving to the hospital.  I made all the traffic lights, cars didn’t get in my way, and I even made the comment that the rest of the day was going to go just as smoothly.  I was ready to kill Leonardo once and for all.

We arrived and were put in a room where we met with the surgery staff, nurses, anesthesiologists, and surgeons.   Jokes were told.  “What’s the difference between broccoli and a booger? You can get kids to eat boogers.”  We laughed nervously.

Parker grew more and more quiet as surgery approached.  Family members filtered in and out of the room, telling him, “You got this, Parker”. 

After some hugs, kisses, reassurances and many I love you’s, they rolled Parker away.

“We need to walk before I can’t.” – I said.  I checked in at the waiting area and because we had such a large group, they directed us to another floor’s waiting room.  And we waited.  And waited.

Some family members wandered off to get food, always offering to bring me back something to eat, but I couldn’t eat. My mind was on Parker.  Are they cutting him right now?  Are they able to get all of the tumor out?  Is he okay?  I wonder if he’ll get sick from the anesthesia like last time.

My cousin came up with her daughter and son, and I was able to play with them.  They were a great distraction.  She left, but her sister came shortly after with her two boys and I was distracted again.  Teasing and chasing the little kids.  Their giggles were music to my ears.  I never stopped thinking of Parker though.  Soon the boys were gone, but my parents, grandparents and aunt stayed with me.

We waited some more.

The 5 hours that they told me it would be went by.  We waited some more.  6 hours…they told us we needed to go to the after hours waiting area.  7 hours…I start to really get nervous.  7 ½ hours….I get a call that I’ll never forget.

“Is this Parker’s mom?”

“Yes.”

“They are taking Parker to the PICU.  We would like you to take elevator F to……”

“Wait.  PICU?” – (Hold the phone away) - “MOM!” – (Put the phone back to my ear) - “PICU is intensive care right?”

We head to the elevator.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“WHY?!”

“I cannot give you that information over the phone.” -  And we hang up.

The elevator arrives at the floor, opens, and my phone rings again.

“Kristin?”

“Yes?” – Tears streaming down my face.

“We need you to go back where you were.  The surgeon will be out to talk to you soon.”

“WHAT?!  What do you mean?  Is everything ok?  Oh, God!”

“The surgeon will be out to talk to you soon.” – And we hang up again.

My head is spinning and my thoughts scream, “OH GOD.  OH GOD.  HE DIDN’T MAKE IT.  HE DIDN’T EVEN MAKE IT UP TO INTENSIVE CARE.  OH GOD.  THIS CAN’T BE.  PLEASE NO.  PLEASE.  PLEASE.  I CAN’T GO ON WITHOUT HIM.  OH GOD.  Just breathe.  Kristin…it’s okay…he’s fine.  He’s fine.  He’s okay. He’s strong.  He’s got this.  OH GOD.”  

I thought I lost him. I thought the worst.  They were going to take him to intensive care, but he didn't even make it up there.  

We go back down to the waiting area we were in before, but we don’t sit down.  We wait.  And wait.  My family keeps assuring me that it’ll be okay, but the wait is torture.

I see a phone on the wall and dial the number on the plaque.

“This is Parker’s mom.”  - I manage to choke out.  “Am I where I need to be?  Is this the right spot?”

“Yes.  I believe so.”

“Ok.” – I hang up the phone.  And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I ask my family members, “Why aren’t they coming?  What’s taking so long?”  I hear muffled cries behind me as I stand facing the double doors, but nobody answers.  I stand, waiting for someone, anyone.  Desperate for somebody to come talk to me, yet dreading the news they might tell me.

I see Dr. Miller, casually walking towards me. 

“Parker is doing well.  The surgery went well.”  He looks at me confused, not knowing about the calls I had just received.

“But he’s going to the PICU?” – my voice cracks.

“It’s ok.  Let’s go sit down.”

He tells me that the surgery took longer than expected.  They were not getting pulses in Parker’s foot.  There was a blood clot and the vascular team was called in.  One vein was sacrificed, but they were able to remove the clot and save the other major vein.  They wanted him in Intensive Care so he could be monitored more closely, especially after such a long surgery.  But they removed the tumor and were able to save his knee.  It was a success.  I could breathe.

We were taken to PICU family lounge to wait for Parker.  I went in the bathroom and dry heaved.  There was nothing in my stomach to throw up, but I was a mess.

As we were waiting, our favorite nurse, Kelsey, came down to see what was going on.  She received word that Parker was being transferred to the PICU.  She immediately hugged my mom and me and let us know that she was thinking about us.   (Now that’s going the extra mile, or as we tease, “The Disney Way.”)

I settled down a bit.  And then I saw him roll by the door, monitors, oxygen mask and all.  My eyes filled with tears, and we waited, yet again.  They called us back after they got him into a new bed and situated.  I went to his side.  He was breathing.  He wasn’t awake, but he was breathing.  Tears streamed down my face.  As the rest of the family came back, I wiped away the tears.  They rubbed Parker’s arm and told him they loved him even though he wasn’t awake yet.  My grandma had to walk out.  Seeing him like that was too hard on her and she broke down in the hallway.  I went out and hugged her and told her it was all okay now.  I told her I loved her and headed back to the room.

After standing there looking at him for what seemed to be an eternity I sat down, still staring at him, waiting for him to wake up.  They came and got x-rays, and I saw him open his eyes and look out at me.  He was asleep by the time I got back in the room.  I pulled a chair up to his bed and sat there.  Waiting.  When he woke up, he reached for my hand.  He didn’t say a word.  He slept the rest of the night.  I drifted in and out of sleep in the chair next to his bed. 

To Parker, the day lasted a few hours and he slept through the rest.  To me it was an eternity.  Leonardo died that day, not my son.  And I couldn’t be more thankful.

A note on Dr. Miller.

Dr. Miller has a reputation of being a skilled and talented surgeon.  He’s confident.  He doesn’t rush when he’s meeting with you.  He’s patient.  He waits for you to process the information given to you and allows you the time to think of questions.  He explains things incredibly well and is extremely knowledgeable and well spoken.  But Dr. Miller also has another gift.  I went from being a belligerent mess to relatively composed in a matter of minutes, all because of his tranquil nature.  He is calm and collected.  He is able to assess a situation and proceed with amazing technique.  Not only did he calm me down, he reassured my entire family who sat in a circle around us, staring at him, begging him for answers with their eyes.  He not only asked me if I had questions, but he asked everybody with me and answered every question in great detail.  And he didn’t leave until he knew we were all okay.

Jack Cullen of the QC Times wrote an awesome article about Parker and his attitude while fighting cancer.  The title, "Smiling teen battles cancer with positivity," shows just how Parker is perceived.  You can't help but to notice his smile and fantastic attitude.  I'm so grateful Mr. Cullen took the time to speak with us and tell Parker's story.  Raising awareness is something that we plan on doing a lot of, and this certainly helps.  Photos by QC Times

Read the article here:

When Parker started Kindergarten, I was so nervous for him.  He stood there so quiet and brave.  When it was time for me to go, a single tear fell down his face.  It was heartbreaking!  I wanted to just pick him up and leave!  I had told myself I wasn’t going to cry on his first day of school, but when I got to the car, I bawled my eyes out! 

When we moved to Madison and he started a new school, the same thing happened.  Yet again, he stood in line so quiet and brave.  When it was time for me to leave, there was that single tear rolling down his cheek again.  And again, I went back to my car and bawled my eyes out. 

When the doctor at the Emergency Room told us they thought it was cancer, I watched my son cry.  I hadn’t seen him cry since he was a little bitty guy.  He hasn’t had a reason to, I guess.  We’ve had no death in the family since my grandpa's passing when he was little.  It makes me realize we have been extremely fortunate.

 I couldn’t stand to see him cry.  I told him it would be okay.  I told him that he was going to beat this.  I held his hand.  He choked back tears, sat up, and shook it off.  I could see it right there.  He was ready to fight this. 

He hasn’t cried since that first weekend in December when he saw his brother after the preliminary diagnosis.  Not even a single tear.  He’s fighting for his life, and he’s doing it bravely.  So nobly.  I know he’s still scared.  He has to be.  It’s a scary thing, cancer.  But he won’t give any indication of it.  There hasn’t been a moment of self pity, even at a time when he would be entitled to it!  He’s standing tall, valiant. 

I’ve told visitors not to cry when they come to see him.  I know it’s hard.  I know when you first see him with no hair and much skinnier than before, it’s hard not to react.  However, we’re not sad.  We’re strong.  We’re optimistic.  We’re motivated.  And we’re not backing down.  Even in the hospital room, even when he’s sick and sleepy, we’re still upbeat and positive.  We have no reason not to be.  The nausea is just a side effect that will go away with Leonardo, and we’re killing Leonardo.  That makes us very happy.  

We met with the surgeon.  The above picture is a before picture of the tumor.  Chemo has decreased its size significantly.  The picture on the rights is the surgery plan drawn by Dr. Miller.  They will remove what is left of the tumor and then replace a piece of his bone just under the knee with a bone donor.  They will attach it using a metal plate and some screws.  They will also go in to the other leg and "mess up" the growth plate so it doesn't grow longer than the one with the tumor.  He will have a cast for 6 weeks and on crutches for 3 months.  

So as surgery approaches Friday, Parker remains brave.  I ask him if he’s nervous or anxious.  I am.  He tells me, “No.  I’ve got this, mom.”  And then he gives me a giant smile.  “Pain ain’t got nothin’ on me!”