Yesterday was another chemotherapy visit. Surprisingly, I look forward to these.

In the days leading up to clinic (in this case, 3 days since our last visit), we are vigilant. We can’t look at Callen and necessarily know what’s going on in his body. Sure, there are tell-tale signs that require immediate action – pains, bleeding, bruising, fevers- but this has been a quiet few days. And so we surmise he is OK, but we can’t really say. Until we’ve been told.

The entire pediatric oncology staff is phenomenal. The clinic is supported by ASK, and it’s very sick kid/anguished parent friendly. From the luminous environment to the numerous distractions – books, toys, games, computers, snacks, drinks – from front to back, it is absolutely oozing with (sterile) love for patients and their families.

At this point in Callen’s treatment, it is also our only outing. His absolute neutrophil count (ANC) is very low, which means his risk of infection is extraordinarily high. So the opportunity to leave home is strangely liberating. Once we step out of our car, his little mask goes on as we wind through the maze that leads to Nelson Clinic. Once we’re through their door, he’s just like everybody else. Which speaks to the even bigger point…there IS an everybody else – we’re around people!!!!! Callen settles in at the gaming table. A quick game of Memory (he wins by a landslide), a round of Sorry (following 4 year-old “rules”), and an orgami activity being organized by one of the clinic volunteers. Finally, it is our turn.

His vitals are taken. His weight is up from the steroids, which are fueling an adolescent-sized appetite. He’s afebrile (WHEW!). His nurse is an angel. His physician has a gentle touch and an even gentler soul: his very presence is soothing, even though the reason for it is anything but. The central line is accessed, its dressing changed . The labs are sent, the vincristine is run in by his saintly nurse, garbed in full protective gear. One man’s poison…

More than 4 hours have passed since we first walked through the clinic doors. Anxiety has replaced excitement. The desire to “know” has been replaced by the dread of “finding out”. The results are in. His ANC has fallen even further. Critical is 500; his is 200. My charge is to continue strict precautions. Go nowhere. Admit no one. Clean the house like it’s never been cleaned before.

And so this morning begins at 5 a.m. with rubber gloves and Clorox wipes. Do you know how many doorknobs are in your home? There are 65 in mine. And every one of them is sparkling now. Light switches? Check. Toilet handles? Counter surfaces? Drawer handles and pulls? You could eat off of them.

But please don’t.