Monday, September 18, 2017

One Thousand, One Hundred And Sixty Eight

I feel guilty at times, not too often of course, but with growing frequency as time moves on.  The guilt I feel has nothing to do with anything I have done, or anything I have failed to do.  It is absolutely not related to anything I have control over. But it arrives, typically after the occurrence of a specific type of event:  The death of a child to cancer who I have learned about on this journey, or a significant downturn in their health, such as a relapse.

Today was one of Rudi's last few remaining clinic visits in his course of treatment, where he gets the usual workup by one of the pediatric oncologists at Grand River Hospital, plus Vincristine pushed into his port, and Pentamadine to reduce the risk of infection.  Part of the work up is taking his height and weight, and today he was 185 cm (likely taller if he didn't slouch), and weighed in at about 80 kilos. At first glance, he looks just like any fit, healthy fifteen year old kid, he could be a swimmer, a soccer player, a runner, or a hockey player.  In fact, the only thing that might indicate he is in nothing but perfect health is the bump a few inches below his collarbone where his port is located, and a couple of scars on his chest.

About an hour ago, the TLC Foundation (a London charity that helps children with cancer and their families) added a very sad post and photograph of a wonderful young girl who may not likely survive the next few days. Like many children with cancer she should have been treated successfully, gone into remission, and survived this disease, even at considerable cost. But instead she will die... How fair is that?   

And the guilt sets in, and fills me, and it makes me angry. Why? Why did Rudi have such an event free course of treatment? He fevered twice in three years, was hardly sick, and spent a couple of weeks in the hospital while his appendix decided whether or not it wanted to be surgically removed. That was it. And then there are kids who have the most miserable experiences during treatment where nothing seems to go well, and then they relapse, and sometimes they die.

I have always maintained that there are no guarantees that life will be fair, however that should really only apply to less important things, such as whether your baseball team wins the championship, or whether you get accepted to your first choice of university, or whether you end up buying a lemon for a first car. Not about who gets to live, and who does not.  Fuck this disease.




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