I am woken by the resident doctor.
“Our plan is to have you come down midday. We’ll take off the splint.”
I’m barely awake. The room is freezing, and I’m burrowed in blankets.
“If it looks great, we’ll put a long cast on and send you home. If it doesn’t look great, we might need to change the plan.”
Wide awake now.
I know what “change the plan means”. It means Parker will have an amputation. I re-read my blog post where I said we’d take it one day at a time and that I was striving to be as strong as Parker, but I fear I was just being stoic. I know I need to gather all the strength I can, yet again, but right now I’m terrified.
I’m angry. I want to hit something. I want to scream. I want to throw up. But most of all, I just want to cry. I make my way to the bathroom. Inside the bathroom I can hear Toy Story on the TV, so without a doubt, they can hear me. I cry as quietly as possible, hoping Parker stays asleep. I question how I’m going to get through the next couple of days if the news we get isn’t the news we want. More importantly, I worry about how Parker will handle it. Dr. Miller said he was optimistic, and I’m trying really hard to be. But it’s just that, really hard. The punches don’t seem to get easier. Not in the slightest. I return from the bathroom, eyes swollen and nose running. Good thing it’s dark in the room.
I have one thought repeating in my head.
That’s how I feel right now.
I didn’t wake up excited to start decorating for my daughter’s 1st birthday party. I didn’t get to shower her in kisses. I didn’t get to wrap her birthday presents. This isn’t fair.
No. I woke up, in fear, scared for my son. It isn’t fair.
Most of all, it isn’t fair for Parker. He shouldn’t have to have to go through this. He’s such a great kid, we’ve proven that. He doesn’t need to be tested any more. I just want it all to go away. I want my energetic 13 year old son back. I want to see him come flying up to the house riding his bike followed by his friends. I want to see him jump off his bike, run to the back yard, and start playing soccer. I want to see him being a normal teenager again. It isn’t fair.
But I know it’s time. It’s time to be positive. I know that no matter what, we’ll get through this. He’ll get through this. It’s time to puff out my chest, brush off my shoulders, stand tall, and prepare to walk down to Dr. Miller’s office. It’s time to reveal what’s under the splint.
(I debated not posting this entry because I try to remain positive, but this is the reality of being a cancer mom. I'm not always positive and strong. Sometimes it just sucks, and I get angry.)