Homeland Insecurity

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We knew it would happen. It was inevitable, really. A simple matter of time. Despite stern warnings, threats of banishment, demonstrations of proper sneezing technique, lectures on hand washing protocol (given by two surgeon parents, no less!); in spite of “foaming in”, gloving up and wiping down anything and anyone that crossed the threshold of our door; in the setting of shoes off, masks on; having endlessly interrogated our children regarding associations with persons of “questionable health status”; total and complete OCD behavior notwithstanding, our antiseptic Achilles’ heel has been discovered.

A beguiling little first grader.

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Bone Marrow Drive

We are supporting a local bone marrow drive, sponsored by the Delete Blood Cancer organization - part of the world's largest bone marrow donor center.

Although it is uncertain at this time if Callen will need a marrow transplant, you can certainly make a difference and possibly save a life. Blood cancers are the second leading cause of cancer deaths nationwide, and kill more children in the U.S. than any other disease.

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Family Ties

Every time we go to clinic, Callen is tagged with a new patient ID band. As the freshly-minted bracelet is secured around his tiny wrist, it is read aloud for verification: patient name, birthdate, medical record number. The band is read and reread umpteen times each visit: every bodily substance withdrawn, therapy infused or procedure performed is predicated upon that name, those numbers.

When meeting Callen for the first time, nearly everyone mispronounces his name. No matter his state of health, disposition or level of consciousness at that particular moment, Callen will set them straight: “It’s CÁL-ən”, he’ll say emphatically. Then, for clarification he will spell it out for them in a most perfunctory manner, with just a hint of exasperation as only a 4 year-old can do: “C-A-L-L-E-N”.

Callen is right to ensure that his name is given its due respect.

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The X Factor

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Callen’s second night at MCV was a particularly difficult one. We were a mere 24 hours into his diagnosis and even fewer hours into his induction chemotherapy. His temperature was still spiking, his pain was still excruciating. He cried out in discomfort, frustration, fear and for reasons unknown. Every hour throughout the night he was awakened, whether by a physical or psychological discomfort, and was nearly inconsolable. We’d do what we could as parents to comfort him – make and remake the soaked bed, mop his brow, apply cold packs to his forehead or warm packs to his aching joints, whisper continuous words of love. When those measures failed, we’d enlist the help of one of his ethereal nurses or a push of morphine. I thought my heart would shatter when at one point late in the night he called out repeatedly, “I’m too little for this! I’m too little for this!” I had to lock myself in the bathroom to scream in anguish, away from his watchful eyes, and curse what I was witnessing.

By daybreak, a shift had occurred. It wasn’t so much a physical change: he was still drenched in sweat, feverish, uncomfortable. But his first words as he stirred were, “I got this, Mom. I got this.”

And so it is with this spirit that we move forward into the consolidation phase of treatment.

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