I walked into PICU room 5 and was so surprised to see Liam awake and coherent! They’d told us that after such a long surgery they sometimes send them to the PICU intubated and let them wake up slowly. His body handled anesthesia really well and they extubated him even before he got to the PICU.
His body was so swollen from fluids he could hardly open his eyes, but he whispered a few words to me.
I didn’t sleep for a long time. Liam was pretty uncomfortable and his blood pressure was hovering in the 70’s over high 30’s/40’s. His heart rate was sky high. They kept telling me he was fine, but I knew he wasn’t. He was so grateful for ice chips and water that he chugged down an entire cup. His stomach wasn’t at all ready for that much water and it ricocheted right back over me a few minutes later.
At some point I crashed into a deep sleep. Poor Liam didn’t have his call bell and his voice was gone. He whispered and whispered and whispered for me, but I didn’t hear him until his monitor alarmed and I shot up like a bolt. Poor kid! I can’t imagine how helpless that felt.
They started him on a norepinephrine drip for his blood pressure. In the morning when the surgery team came in they said what he really needed was blood. He’d lost 1600 mL in the OR and had gotten three units during surgery, but his body needed more.
Night shift merged to day shift … because really that’s about the only way you know what time of the day it is in a windowless room … and his nurse was amazing! She was every ounce classic New Yorker and I found myself being told to take care of myself by someone who was going to follow up to see if I did it. She was also the reason David got special permission to come in and see Liam before returning to Virginia.
At 10 in the morning PT came by and tried to get him to the edge of the bed. He was barely out of surgery for twelve hours, but he gave it his best shot. They got him to the side of the bed, but his blood pressure plummeted and he got incredibly dizzy so they helped him straight back down. Soon after that he got a unit of blood and and increased pain meds in his epidural and he started to perk up. By evening he was checking his messages on voxer.
I didn’t sleep much that night. The snow. The questions. The adrenaline. It all rolled together into restlessness. The snow outside was beautiful even if we knew it posed a challenge.
Liam did his surgery prep scrub the night before, and I wondered when he’d next take a real bath or even shower. I looked at his legs. Would he still have both of them in twenty-four hours or would they get into surgery and find the tumor had grown too much and all that was left was amputation?
Our alarm went at 4:15. At 4:30 we woke Liam for another hibicleanse bath. Would our Uber driver come? We needed to be at the hospital by 5:10. Downstairs, the snow was thick. The driver arrived and David helped Liam bravely, but slowly, wade through the snow to the car.
I breathed a huge sigh of relief when he was in the car. They were right. NYC doesn’t stop because of snow like Virginia does. We arrived at the hospital and I stepped into wet slush. Our driver backed in and out trying to get Liam as close to the curb as possible. David helped him step in the right places and we made it to the door. I held my breath. The very worst part is having wet crutches hit a tile or concrete floor. There were rugs most of the first ten feet inside and Liam dried his crutches well, then took it very slowly to the desk where we signed in.
Upstairs, we waited and waited. One of the loveliest humans in the form of a child life specialist came to be with him. Liam is twelve, but he’s accustomed to hanging out with kids older than he is. A lot of people tend to see him as a twelve year old and treat him like that or younger. She engaged with him so well, and kept us all entertained during the long wait.
At 7:30, I donned the bunny suit, and followed him to the OR. The guys pushing the bed asked him what he’s going to be when he grows up. “A doctor,” he answered. “What kind of doctor?” is always the next question. “A missionary doctor.”
“Really? That’s cool. What made you decide that? Did you meet a missionary doctor?”
“No, but our church supports missions a lot and I’ve read a lot of books about missionaries.”
I’m always drawn in by the gentle confidence in his voice. It seems as though he has such a strong sense of direction and wisdom that is far beyond his years.
The OR rooms at MSK are huge! They transferred him to the OR table and started putting leads on his chest and getting him strapped in. The anesthesiologist had already asked him in the holding area if he wanted something for anxiety or to make him relaxed and sleepy and he said, no. He wanted to see everything. He’s always so disappointed he can’t see the surgical knives. So he looks around and takes in as much as he can.
He drifted into lala land around 7:45 as the nurse anesthetist (who went to school at UVA!) and I talked to him about getting back out on the slopes at Massanutten. I gave him a quick kiss before they led me out of the OR and back to David.
It always takes a bit for anesthesia to get everything settled and stabilized and in this case Liam needed an epidural, also. David and I weren’t allowed to stay at the hospital because of covid restrictions so we headed back to our hotel.
The OR liason nurse (who’s name happened to be Virginia … such a sweet coincidence to connect us to home) called to tell us the first cut happened at 9:34. She sent us a text around 11:15 to say his vitals are stable and he’s tolerating anesthesia well. I told her I hoped he’s having good dreams about snowboarding and that we’re praying for everyone. “Well we can sense the prayers. There is a peace!”I told her there are hundreds if not a thousand people praying for him and for his surgeons by name all day long. Worship and praise happening all day long in our hotel room! Her response: “Praise God!!! I have no doubt HE is here!”
The day we signed consent, the nurse told me, “And you can self medicate. We won’t judge. Lots of parents do.” I was honestly a little dumbfounded because it hadn’t even occurred to me. We had fought so long and so hard to get here, we’d worried so much about his tumor breaking, this day felt in many ways like a celebration. We felt the weight of the surgery deeply, but our joy in answered prayer was equally palpable.
Our entire time in NYC felt as though we were being carried in a bubble. We could literally feel the prayers of hundreds of saints as we taxied through the streets from one place to the other and now today in our hotel room. I knew Liam was within that cloud of witnesses also.
Around 1:30 when she checked in at the OR again she told them they were being prayed for and texted David and I that it brought so many smiles. That made me cry. I told her, “Liam is incredibly gifted with music. He plays by ear and almost anything he hears. He has composed some of his own work and I think he will lead people in worship. This cancer has felt like as much spiritual battle as physical to destroy his calling. And all along the way God has brought us people to fight alongside of us and who acknowledge God. It’s an incredible gift.”
Her response really made me feel like crying.
“Wow!! At such a young age!! Absolutely God has his hand on him! I love this! Ok so personal info I sang with the Brooklyn tabernacle choir for almost 20yrs So I love music I love worship No coincidence!!”
My heart felt so hugged by God. The gift of a connection with someone in Liam’s OR room with a similar passion for music and worship and deep faith.
I sent her the link to Liam’s song:
She text back, “Oh my word, Is he the one playing the piano and singing????? Now you have us crying. Amazing!!!! I can’t stop crying. I will never leave your side!!! 🙌🏼🙌🏼😩🙌🏼🙌🏼
At 3:30 we got the call from Dr. Healey. The tumor is out!!!! Dr. Healey got clean margins!!!!!!!!! His growth plate is saved!!!!! The neurovascular bundle is freed!!!!!!!! There is enough bone left for Dr Prince to attach the internal fixator!!!!! The tumor appears dead!!!!! We won’t know what percentage of it for a few weeks because they have to decalcify it before manually counting the cells. But he thinks we’ve been seeing expansion from hemorrhage/cell death!!!!!! Basically the dead cells caused it to act like a big sponge. He was able to save more muscle than he expected which is enormously beneficial for Liam to walk again!!!!!!!!! Liam is handling anesthesia well!!!
We were completely in awe of so many answered prayers!
At 3:50 Dr. Prince started with his portion of the operation to attach the fixator to the tiny bit of femur that was left. They were attaching a plate at the knee, a thin rod the length of the femur, and the acutal fixator at the top that would be magnetically moved to induce bone growth.
I thanked our liason for being my heart with Liam when I couldn’t be there and she responded back with,
“It has been an honor and a privilege serving you all today! Father we thank you for your faithfulness and your hand of provisions! In Jesus name! Amen Love and hugs!”
The gift of her was almost too much for me to comprehend. I never met her and likely never will this side of heaven. But she did so much more than her job that day. She loved on our family as though she was part of it. And truly she is in an eternal sense. God gives the most gracious gifts to His children in lonely times.
At 8:35 Dr. Prince called as they were closing and suturing. He reiterated the negative margins and said everything went smoothly and according to plan. Liam ended up with a 20 cm gap. He shortened his leg by 5 cm to get the ends approximated more quickly. Liam’s knee bone was completely preserved and he had exceptionally good range of motion. The tiny bit of femur that was left was good, thick, strong bone with a good construct.
It would take a year or more, but he has good bones, he’s healthy otherwise, athletic, he has strong muscles, and a strong family and he thinks Liam is up to this challenge.
Liam was headed to the PICU and David and I simply collapsed into each other’s arms and sobbed in prayers of thanksgiving.
We are in awe, humbled, and so grateful. To God who led us so clearly and faithfully the past few months with dreams and signs and many confirmations and who was so gentle and merciful when our faith wavered in the darkness. He led us here, to the two men who are among the most gifted in the nation. And we are unbelievably grateful to the men and women who have studied for years, dedicating their lives to a high stress life that requires constant pressing in and learning to offer gifts of incredible talent, hope, and healing.
Liam’s battle will remain fierce. He has many mountains to climb. God is writing a story of faith, hope, and courage and we are humbled and honored to walk alongside. I’ve been singing this song since September. One day on the way to chemo I heard the words and they pierced deeply into my heart. Especially these,“You take what the enemy meant for evil, and you turn it for good.” I sang along , sometimes with faith, sometimes through tears at yet another negative report. Tonight I cried instead of singing at the magnitude of these words. This God will carry Liam through the excruciating pain of the next few days.
Strange the way it feels like the last days and simultaneously like the beginning.
A lot of events in life are like that. Some of them happy events …this was before we got married and this was after.
Before cancer. Except I catch myself looking at pictures and thinking this was before cancer. And then a month or so later wondering, I wonder if the tumor had started growing. Was this really before cancer, or just before we knew? Similarly, I think we will always say, pre surgery and after surgery.
Liam went back to the hospital for methotrexate Thursday. David switched out with me Friday night instead of Saturday night so I could start packing.
My friend came to help me for a few hours. Unfortunately, we had to get Covid swabbed which took an hour and a half out of my precious time. I knew Liam had a repeat MRI Friday during the night. When I picked David up for the swab he handed me the radiology report and said, “You need to not freak out when you read this. It grew again.”
I read the measurements. We knew it grew. We could see it. But seeing the measurements in real numbers was horrifying. It had grown 2 cm in all three directions yet again. I was particularly worried about the neurovascular bundles because they said there was only milimeters to spare.
I just couldn’t understand.
I kept feeling a sense in my soul that the work was over. It was time to speak gratitude for what was done; but this? This was shearing pain. I wondered if we would get there and find out he had to have an amputation after all? If they couldn’t save his neurovascular bundle, his leg would be useless.
I drove back home feeling deep, deep grief. Confusion. Fear.
And then I heard it. The same songs. The same words. Filtering through my consciousness, asking me to believe.
Liam was discharged Sunday afternoon! We were so grateful!
Monday morning I sat in our quiet house, praying. So many children love Liam and are praying for him and I’ve prayed that God would be gracious with their hearts. I keep thinking about the growing unrest around us and I wonder sometimes how our children will do with their future. Will they have what it takes to stand for Jesus and truth no matter what? I felt myself wondering / asking / praying if Liam’s story could be part of growing so many kids’ faith. That they would see a God who is able and that seeing prayers get answered would give them a foundation of faith that would let them stand up against whatever life throws at them?
A friend sent me a message telling me that she recently read a quote that faith is asking once for something and then thanking God for the gift, even before we can see it. Over and over, God confirms thoughts in my mind like this. The work felt done. And now this reminder.
I thought I was fine. Then I went upstairs to take a shower and my body started shaking all over as I began to hyperventilate. Breathe, I reminded myself. Breathe. You have to breathe. I tried, but I nearly blacked out. I had made an urgent appointment the day prior because of debilitating pain in my right shoulder. I didn’t know if I should try CST, massage, or chiropractic. I needed all three and had time for none. God kept bringing the name of a CST person I’d heard about to my mind so I messaged her and she asid she’d work me in. I called a friend to pick me up because I didn’t trust myself to drive. My body was succumbing to the stress.
The appointment was divinely appointed by God. She is a believer and prayed such specific, healing prayers over Liam and I as she worked. I cried some of the time and some of the time I caught myself lifting my hands in worship. “God will bring the people to you.” I remembered that phrase and I knew God had brought her to my mind over and over the day prior for a reason.
That afternoon we finally got all the insurance codes approved. Literally in the nick of time.
Tuesday morning we said goodbye to our other children and flew to NYC.
We had the same PALS pilot as our return trip which was really special! He let Liam fly the plane for almost thirty minutes!
As soon as we landed and dropped our luggage at the hotel, we went for an MSK covid swab. Because Liam hadn’t been swabbed since Thursday, I went to the consult alone and facetimed David and Liam.
Dr. Healey wasn’t terribly shaken by the tumor growth although I could see it gave him pause. “This isn’t the world record for distance, but we’re definitely reaching the upper limits.” He started talking about the options of LSS again and I said, “If it’s still an option, I know Liam wants the fixator.”
“Oh, it’s definitely still doable and I think it’s reasonable. It’s just going to take a very long time.” I asked Liam on the phone and he said, “Yes, as long as you can still get clean margins.”
And with that, I signed consent.
I walked out onto the sidewalk to catch an Uber. A minute before the driver arrived, the entire street was swarmed with upwards close to fifty police. They walked in groups, back and forth, peering into cars, poking in trash cans, back and forth over and over. Sirens blared and a helicopter hovered overhead. Finally after thirty minutes, they gave up the search, and the street cleared to let us through. We never heard who or what they were looking for.
We laughed ourselves silly over Peter Rabbit that night.
On Tuesday we spent the day going from one dr visit to the next. Lab work, meeting the MSK oncologist, X rays, meeting Dr. Prince, and somewhere in the middle we met another mom and son I’d been in contact with who is only a few weeks ahead of Liam in this process. It’s always a gift to meet someone in a similar situation, but it’s extra special with Covid.
All along, it felt as though we ran into hurdle after hurdle after hurdle. I told David that it felt as though satan couldn’t quite reach him anymore so he just threw blazing balls of fire into our path. And he wasn’t giving up now. There was 12-14 inches of snow predicted for that night. How were we going to get Liam to the hospital??? Would Uber run? Could he get in there without falling?
On Monday Liam was sitting at the kitchen table when Adam glanced down at his leg.
“Dude, your tumor is huge.”
I looked and sucked in my gut. It’s obvious that it’s growing. CHOP was right. That three week break from chemo because insurance wouldn’t come through with the codes in time for surgery had endangered not only his leg, but his life.
How? And why? Why did God continue to speak such words of promise to me and yet we ran into block walls and what feels like the opposite of progress?
A few minutes later one of the mamas I’m talking to about this particular surgery messaged back. “Yes, I feel like I have a heart attack every single day about osteosarcoma. You really just do not know. I’ve heard of kids with tumors that grew and when they took it out and sent it to the lab it expanded as it was dying. You just can’t know.”
Liam was pretty subdued. He played more with Harrison. Skipped school because of not feeling well. Worked hard at being funny. I found out he named his tumor Frankenstein. Sounds fitting.
On Tuesday we celebrated Christmas.
Today is the crazy pre-chemo day laundry / clean up the house / pack everyone except David / school day. When I sat down to read my Bible one of the first verses I read was about Paul seeing a man crippled and lame from birth. He saw that he had faith so he simply told him to rise up and walk and the man did …. leaping and walking and praising God!
I don’t think that was coincidence. I prayed that God would increase my faith to believe! Over and over I feel as though I have faith, that I am believing, only to realize I am acting or thinking in ways that indicate the doubt in my heart. I want to believe.
This morning I realized we are six days from flying to NYC for surgery and two of those are the weekend. We still don’t have insurance approval. I peered out at the sky. I wish I could see a rainbow. But only grey sky peered back at me. I turned to shepherd Zara out of the room so I could pray to quiet my heart. “Mom, look, the rainbows.”
Confused I followed her gaze. The sun had split through the clouds and hit the prism in their window and rainbows danced all over the wall of their bedroom.
We celebrated Christmas early. I wanted to celebrate in our own home. Plus, not knowing how much pain Liam would be in or even if we would be discharged in time to be together, it just made sense.
We slept in, drank David’s freshly roasted coffee and ate the biscotti my friend, Rosy, made and muffins my mom made.
It was a perfect, lazy morning.
Omelets for breakfast because they’re Liam’s favorite thing and the rest of us love them except for Zara who doesn’t like anything with eggs.
And then gifts! A local foundation asked for my wishlists for the kids and did all the shopping for me so I only had to buy David’s and wrap everything. I don’t know how else I would have gotten everything done in the timeframe I had.
It was a beautiful day. And a bittersweet one. The possibilities hang deep like shadows on the wall. No one knows the handwriting on the wall. Living with cancer is a moment by moment choice to live in the moment that is and live it fully. That verse about take no thought for tomorrow? It’s pretty literal.
David and I played a game of Scrabble with the boys, but never even got to finish it. It still amazes me how time it takes just to feed and clothe a family of seven. After an early dinner we drove to see the Christmas lights. I heard Zara and the boys making up jokes in the back seat and my heart wanted to leap with laughter and cry with the poignancy of it all. Adam and Liam together are such a fun mixture. They pull out sides of each other that no one else gets to see. And their humor is like a comedy show happening in your own house. David and I just squeeze each others hands and hope we get to listen to this for years.
Both our parents joined us for hot chocolate when we got back. So many precious moments.
Every admission comes with it’s own pieces of good and hard. This is methotrexate one of cycle three.
Liam experiences significant anticipatory nausea. We’ve developed a lot of strategies to keep his day clicking and get it over with as quickly as possible to minimize his wait time and suffering.
Thursday was our best day yet. We arrived early, labs were drawn and fluids started immediately. He got emend in clinic. Usually he likes to walk to the hospital, but since getting IV emend makes him lightheaded, he gets a wheelchair. Because he was getting a wheelchair I suggested he gets his periferal IV in clinic instead of waiting and he agreed. (It hurts to use crutches with a periferal IV.)
His labs looked fabulous and everything was clicking. We even had a bed assignment by 1:30 and he met urine lab parameters for methotrexate administration. We were in his bed minutes after 2 ready to go.
And then we sat. For HOURS . as Liam struggled with nausea because the person who transfers patients from clinic to inpatient in the computer clicked the wrong thing and none of his orders transferred. I was so frustrated and upset I started crying when our favorite nurse stopped by to visit. “Don’t do that,” she said all business. You can’t do that because then I’ll do that, too, and then we’ll all do it.” I pulled myself together as she continued. “You have every right to be upset. I would be, too. And I’m so sorry it happened.” Liam’s assigned nurse was at the door. “Stay strong, Mama.”
Ped’s nurses have a tough job. They walk in the door bringing positivity with them … even in dark days. And when mamas fall apart, they know when to pull them together so they can be strong for an awake child and when to hand them a box of tissues and offer to stay while they go on a walk for a sleeping child and a mama crying in the corner.
Chemo finally got hung an hour before I projected we’d be finished.
Thankfully, we’ve figured out his best drug regimen. Emend IV before anything starts, kytrell and benadryl IV push through his port thirty minutes to immediately prior, a BAD (benadryl, dexamethasone, ativan with less ativan than the typical solution) IV infusion during and after until the nausea abates.
Liam only vomited once during the night. My goal is to someday do a chemo infusion with zero episodes of vomiting. We’re close and I’m so happy to see the enormous progress we’ve made.
He was so down emotionally this admission. It’s getting harder and harder to be locked away for days. The oncologist covering inpatient today is every inch a gentleman. His appearance is impeccable every time, even after a night on call. Monogrammed, perfectly pressed shirts. Shoes that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Liam shot him with saline on one admission and he pretended to get him back but barely dribbled a few drops on Liam’s sleeve.
Liam didn’t have the nerve to do it at first but one of the nurses told him he has two boys at home and can handle it. 😉 This admission Dr. P walked in Thursday evening and said he thinks he better come with an umbrella or poncho in the morning.
Friday morning when they did rounds, Liam faked sleep and then shot up in bed, aimed, and squirted. He mostly missed. Dr. P expected it and sent the rest of the team in first. The sudden movement from Liam sent him ducking around the corner. He returned with a towel shield. However when all seemed calm he walked around the corner to return the towel and the nurse sneaked Liam another saline under the covers. Dr. P walked closer. As he wrapped up the talk he said, “Do you have any questions?”
“Actually, yes,” Liam said, sat up straighter, and nailed him with saline. His shirt was soaked! The room erupted in laughter. “You better watch your back,” Dr. P said. “Looks like my back is pretty safe against the bed,” Liam responded.
That evening Dr. P walked in. To his surprise I was in the bed with Liam and being the gentleman he is, it gave him pause. But he pushed through and nailed Liam with saline man to man. It was the BEST medicine ever! They fist bumped, called a truce, and Liam’s sparkle returned and stayed.
Later that evening my mom dropped off dinner at the door. Because of Covid we can’t have visitors. Even our kids can’t visit. But I can go out and meet people outside if they drop things off. I was back upstairs with fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans that smelled amazing! One of our favorite residents was in the room and Liam offered him a piece of chicken. He looked like he wanted one and said, “I have some work to do, but save a drumstick for me and I’ll come back for it later.”
I thought he was joking, but I hoped he wasn’t.
At 8:00 he returned. Liam gave him the drumstick and Auggie said, “Do you mind if I stay a bit?”
“We’d love that!”
He pulled up a chair, then backed it up a few feet as he realized he was about to take off his mask. And there he sat. Eating the chicken, chatting away with Liam about football for probably thirty minutes.
I still almost cry thinking about it. He was at the tail end of call which means he’d probably been in the hospital for almost 48 hours straight. He had wrapped up for the night and could have walked home. Instead, he chose to sit and chat with a twelve year old boy who had cancer, to share his food, and offer friendship.
I don’t know what inspired him to become a doctor, but this much I know. He’s going to be one of the best ones out there. Because even as an intern, he’s seeing people, not a diagnosis.
We had been so incredibly careful in the days leading up to Thanksgiving because we so much wanted to be with David’s family for the holiday. In the end, the neulasta didn’t work nearly as well and Liam’s counts were too low for it to be safe.
We were terribly disappointed.
Slowly as I grieved what wasn’t, I was able to give thanks for what was.
Our little family loves being together! I never, ever take that for granted.
We still traded food around just like we had been planning to so we got a scrumptious Thanksgiving Dinner.
The temperatures hit seventy so we went back to David’s parent’s house and sat on the porch to talk while the boys played cornhole. It was the perfect way to keep Liam safe and still get to see everyone for a few hours. Such an incredible gift!
The morning after that horrible X-ray on July 29 I realized I was singing, “Light of the world, you stepped out into darkness. Open my eyes let me see.”
That theme of light into darkness has come back to me over and over, but especially these past few months.
Today the words of “This is where the healing begins,” by Tenth Avenue North continue to run through my head.
“This is where the healing begins, oh This is where the healing starts When you come to where you’re broken within The light meets the dark The light meets the darkSparks will fly as grace collides With the dark inside of us So please don’t fight This coming light Let this blood come cover us His blood can cover us This is where the healing begins, oh This is where the healing starts When you come to where you’re broken within The light meets the dark The light meets the dark”
Today, Friday, was our appointment with Dr. Healey. He came in and introduced himself, sat down and chatted with Liam about what he enjoys doing and what he did before his cancer. Then he said, “Well, I know you came here to see me about your tumor. What can I do for you?”
Liam didn’t miss a beat. “So, I heard that your colleague can do an external fixator where you can regrow your own bone. Can you do that for me?”
Dr. Healey smiled and said, “So you want to talk about reconstruction.”
He got a thoughtful look in his eyes we would come to know as his signature. I’m going to start at the beginning. I know that you will know a lot of this; but it’s my job to explain it and I want to make sure you understand.
And then he spent almost thirty minutes explaining osteosarcoma, what it had done to Liam’s leg, how the different options for surgery worked, including the fixator. They no longer use external fixators because of the high risk for infection, but they do internal fixators and adjust them with magnets. As he explained the way the bone is manipulated downward and bone cells fill in it’s wake I got goosebumps! It was just like my dream!!! I heard God whisper, “This is your man.”
When he finished talking, David, Liam, and I looked at each other. We all knew without a shadow of a doubt what we wanted. Liam is a cautionary story. Dr. Healey said sometimes certain operations have a green, yellow, or red light. Liam is in the yellow zone because of the size of his tumor, the questionable response to chemo, and the three week delay while we should have been doing surgery. He palpated his leg and said the neurovascular bundle still moved and he was amazed at Liam’s knee flexion. Then he said, “I can usually tell who will do well with this by their attitude. He turned abruptly to Liam and put out his hand to shake it, “Liam, how are you today?” Liam looked a little surprised at the sudden shift in conversation, but said, “Pretty good,” with a lot of confidence. Dr. Healey said, “That’s all I need to know.”
He was far less depressing about the MRI results and said we really can’t know until we take it out whether that is cell death from chemo or outgrowing itself. The important thing was to get clean margins. When I told him we had started cycle 3 he said, “That’s what we would have done also. God didn’t come down from Mount Sinai and say, Thou shalt do two cycles of chemo and then surgery.” He actually helped devise the protocol and did so because the Jewish people refuse amputation. So to accommodate their religious beliefs, they knew they needed to form knee replacements. At the time, it took the manufacturers about two and half months to create a knee replacement. Two cycles gave them the perfect amount of time.
He told us that he had actually trained Dr. Prince and then sent him to Japan to learn how to do the fixator since that was the first surgeon to have done it in patients with osteosarcoma. “I think he’s in the OR today. Let me see if he can come talk to you.
We went back to the waiting room for an hour and then met Dr. Prince who was equally fabulous. He sat and explained the entire process to Liam. “You’re going to hate me at some point. That’s ok. That’s my job. But when this is over, you can do anything.”
“I can play football?”
“You can do anything you want to do. Well, anything your parents let you do.”
We walked out the door filled with hope; but most of all completely amazed at a God who showed us this plan when we had no idea it was available. And in His incredible love, had us scheduled for consult with the very few people in the world who could make it happen before we knew.
