I was tidying up our medicine cabinet recently and found these. And even though they’re nearly 20 years old and very out of date, I couldn’t bring myself to throw them out.
As many of you know, when Small Man was three months old, he was diagnosed with Neuroblastoma 4S cancer. He had a golf ball size primary tumour on his adrenal gland which had metastasized into hundreds of smaller tumours in his liver, causing it to swell to over three times its normal size. Emergency surgery removed the primary, after which the doctors adopted a wait and see approach, as this particularly rare form of cancer was known to “self-resolve”. We were told that the “4S” stood for “Stage 4, Special”.
Thankfully, blessedly, Small Man didn’t need chemotherapy, but he had to undergo a brutal but essential testing protocol over the following four years to ensure the cancer didn’t spread any further. Initially, we spent a fortnight in hospital every six weeks (by the end, we only had to go in once a quarter), and it took its toll on all of us. By the time he was one, Small Man would start crying when we turned onto the motorway entrance towards Westmead Children’s Hospital. In later years, at the end of each round of tests, he would stop talking completely for a week.
The only effective way to track what was happening inside his tiny body was through nuclear imaging scans, so our son was injected with radioactive isotopes and strapped down to a scanning bed. Apparently neuroblastoma kids are notoriously difficult to sedate, and Small Man used to put up an admirable fight. It wasn’t until he was old enough to be hypnotised by the Wiggles that the process finally got easier. Prior to that, the only thing that would settle him even slightly was an elephantine dose of chloryl hydrate – the doctors used to tell us that the dose could knock him out for up to 12 hours, but we were lucky to get 45 minutes. He also needed iodine to protect his thyroid during the scanning process, but he was allergic to the formulation that the hospital used. In the end we had to crush up iodine tablets usually dispensed for nuclear emergencies and feed them to him in a sugar syrup through a syringe.
It was all so long ago but I treasure these old bottles, because I don’t want to forget. They remind me to always be grateful for everything. They remind me how lucky we are to still have our strong, strapping 21 year old son. And they remind me that as individuals, Pete and I are powerful, but as a team, we’re unstoppable.
Sometimes, life can feel very tough. In those moments, it’s good to remember that we’ve been tested before, and we survived. Yep, I think I’ll keep those bottles.
“As a team we are more powerful” = what being married really means. Hugs and love to you, Maz
Love to you and your family Celia
This brought (happy) tears to my eyes. Yes indeed we should all count our blessings no matter how small. And I’m a sentimentalist but I say keep the bottles for sure! Helen
Indeed – there are situations that really do call for gritting the teeth and powering through. I know my two kids who had health problems as infants are much more resilient than their older, healthier sister. I can only imagine what a resilient young man yours has become.
Thank you for this post Celia. Isn’t it wonderful to have a positive outcome from cancer.
I just want to give you a big hug 💞💞💞
You are such wonderful parents xo
Thank you for sharing that Celia. I can understand why you wouldn’t throw those bottles away. You are all still here loving life to the full and are a strong loving family. How wonderful that is.
I can’t even fully imagine what you must all have gone through. To have a dangerously ill child has to be right up there with the worse things that can happen in life. Best wishes to you all.
Keep them forever Celia. They are special.
<3
Not only should you not throw them out, you should frame them, with a label saying something like ‘Fear Conquered’. I have a little shadow box with relics of my own battle, and a label that says ‘Reasons to be Cheerful’. It helps a lot on days when I start to feel sorry for myself about nothing much.
You have such a wonderful family bond through what seems like at least 3 generations. Love is so powerful. x
Celia, this is so well written and really resonates with me. Thank you.
What an emotional read, testing times for you all. We don’t realise how strong we can be, and the fact that you all pulled (and stayed) together, rather than apart shows that wonderful things can come from sadness and pain. You and your family are inspirational and we thank you for all the support you have given and continue to give us with your friendship xxx
Once upon a time, there was this family… and they lived happily ever after ♡
wow I did not know that story – it must have been so hard to see your son going through such a difficult time but it is lovely that you treasure knowing you got him through. It is funny the small things we hang onto as a little link to our past and our links to our past makes the present so much more precious!
What a story! And, yes, it brought tears to my eyes, too. So very very glad that Small Man made it through the cancer and is now 21. Bravo to Small Man! Bravo to all of you!
Oh, Celia, what a story and yes, i too had emotional tears for you and your family. UNSTOPPABLE!!! Cheers. Love from here.
Powerful post. Thanks for sharing. What a family. Glad you all still have each other.
It’s sad to hear what you had to go through, it surely is difficult for parents when they have to have to see their child suffering, but glad to know that all is well now
How special and magical those bottles must seem. Your story brought tears to my eyes, happy tears. GG
XXX
Hi Celia – I had dinner last night with a friend who almost died but pulled through. Life is precious so must be lived to the full. Your blog helps to show us all how! All the best.
Wow, came here to get some Sunday bread inspo and now hugging my baby a whole lot tighter xxxx
Oh Celia – how you find something positive out of such hardship, worry and pain is an inspiration to us all. Virtual hugs and it’s made small things I was worrying about fly out of the window.
Celia, you give me such hope and joy with every one of your life stories. Keep on going!
I’ve only just read this post- sitting here in our hotel room, our in-between-home, and feeling lost without a home and a kitchen – this post caused me to stare out into the trees and listen to the birds and feel immense gratitude not just for all that i have, but for being able to call you ‘friend’.