Radiation Begins: A Snapshot

This is far from a full retelling, but it does capture moments. 

Wednesday, April 13: Hyrum’s first day at radiation. The treatment takes place at the Stephenson Cancer center, 18 minutes from our home. He lays down on a table and techs slide a pillow under his knees. He settles his head onto the "stinky blanket", and they attach his mask over his face, securing it to the table. He is unable to move his head or neck for the duration of the treatment. The machine rotates around him, targeting his tumor. All of this is no issue for Hyrum! However, the treatment requires him to be alone in the chamber for 15 minutes. Steroids and, well, a tumor... have left his emotions running high. Dad is Hyrum’s one comfort object, and Hyrum has needed his presence always. 

Michael said “I'm not taking any steroids, nor do I have a tumor, but leaving Hyrum alone in that room by himself was the hardest part for me as well. Hyrum jumped onto the table and put on the mask that immobilizes his head and neck. He was so brave and courageous. When he realized that no one would be in the room, that's when the anxiety started to manifest itself. The 15-minute radiation session turned into over an hour due to us running in and out of the room trying to keep Hyrum calm while still trying to perform the radiation treatment. He was so relieved when we were finally finished. I gave him a giant hug, and he never let go. We were both had tears rolling down our faces." 

Meanwhile, my parents took Caleb and Emily to the zoo. We received beautiful, thoughtful packages from friends and family in Utah.  

Thursday, April 14: Hyrum needs his space to grieve. He seems to tick like I do: needing solo time to mull and process huge feelings before he can reenter normal social relationships with some semblance of composure. As such, he set off for radiation again with only Dad. We were all nervous. We prayed for angels to be with him in moments when we could not. I got a call soon after their departure, saying Hyrum had vomited. I jumped in the car with extra clothes and some meds. That day, an extra pediatric nurse (one angel) was there with an iPad full of Bluey. He took it into the chamber with him, and it was enough of a distraction that Hyrum did the ENTIRE treatment without interruption- truly a miracle compared to his experience the day before. Because his car seat was dirty, he jumped in the van with me for the ride home, and we enjoyed his promised trip to Donut Palace. It was the first time he tolerated being alone with me since diagnosis. (another miracle, since a lot of his hard feelings have been targeted at me.) 

That night, I was sobbing in our room, trying to write, while Michael answered a knock to our door. It was a woman from our local congregation.  I don't know her well. I’ve had maybe 3 conversations with her. She brought us four boxes of pantry staples, easy meals, kid friendly snacks, family crafts, Easter eggs, toys, and gas money. She wrote a beautiful letter saying that they want to be friends with us and offered to watch our kids anytime. I wept again, but different tears.  

I’ve begun studying how the Savior suffered. Why and how could He bear the immense suffering He did? What behaviors could I imitate to help me bear mine? (Ex: He invited close people to watch with Him in difficult moments.) The unexpected package reminded me of the widow’s mite (Mark 12:41-44). Perhaps Christ could bear to suffer because He knew that even the least-likely giver is capable of giving heavenly gifts. Perhaps He knew that suffering is a platform that invites people to do and be more. Undoubtedly, He knew and believed that each of us are worth saving. The beauty of that late-night offering lent me some much-needed power.  

Friday, April 15: My parents’ last day with us. The kids enjoyed a delightfully new straw-built-into-the-bowl cereal breakfast. Hyrum had some good energy- he sat by me in a camp chair and we chatted while we finished planting the garden. We watched Inside Out (one of Hyrum’s favorites ever since we moved to Oklahoma) and read books. Neighbors delivered flowers, donuts Texas-Kolaches (different than Utah ones, ya'll...), Easter baskets, and more. Another blessed friend helped us submit our amended tax return (it’s a long story lol). That night, my father gave Michael and me a priesthood blessing. My parents began their drive home in the middle of the night. 

Saturday, April 16: A HARD day. While my parents were here, it still felt like some alternate vacation reality… But there we were on a normal Saturday, with early-morning cartoons (one of Michael’s nostalgic traditions) and chores and...Hyrum still had cancer. It was terrible in every possible way. I took a solid 3-hour “sad nap” and Michael carried the family. Thank goodness for food deliveries and friends and Michael on a truly gloomy day. 

Sunday, April 17: Easter. We woke with good energy to bright, beautiful weather. We listened to music, watched VeggieTales, and hunted our backyard for colorful eggs. Got showered and dressed, took some deep breaths, then stepped out into *what felt like* the public eye, a.k.a. our local Sunday meeting. In those familiar, green-carpeted hallways, everyone knows about our situation. I mean, any remotely interested party on the internet knows too! It's how we want it. We are happy to share - I just don't want to verbally repeat the horror of his diagnosis a hundred times... 

As of now, it's a BIG unspoken thing that needs breaking down, over time, with every person I currently know. Our life is very different than it was, and I will undoubtedly become someone different along this journey. There's bound to be some needed conversations between here and there to bridge that gap. Verbal grief processing is slow for me, but I know how necessary and healing it is. I'm trying to be brave, and these first church moments felt like a big exhale. I have never needed people (all my people, not just the church ones) to be more gentle with me- and I have never been more acutely aware of how hard people are trying. I'm exhausted on my part and inspired by each of you. 

That evening the kids laughed in the bath together and wrestled in their pull-ups, like they always have. We are keenly aware that disasters can happen anyway/anytime, but that night I was reminded that unexpected, beautiful moments are equally as inevitable. 

Despite how dark tomorrow might feel (and often does for me), I "know that all things work together for good to them that love God." (Romans 8:28)