Shattered

It was supposed to be a simple X ray. The preliminary thing we had to do before the consult with an orthopedic surgeon and a probable MRI. But in my gut I was pretty sure it wasn’t.

On Thursday when Liam’s pediatrician called and said he needs an X ray I balked. “I’ll take him on Monday, but I’m not taking him today. Liam has given up so much this summer. He hasn’t gotten to do fun things because of Covid plus he’s had this limp all summer and I am not taking this trip away from him.”

She hedged. “I don’t think we’re actually going to see anything on the X ray.”

I didn’t. “He needs this trip. He’s given up so much. I can’t risk seeing something on X ray and ruining his annual three day canoe trip. I promise I’ll take him on Monday. He’s mucked around with this all summer. He needs this trip emotionally.”

“Ok, I’ll go ahead and request the consult though so we can get the ball moving.”

When Liam got home on Sunday he threw up from exhaustion. He’d paddled five fast miles in a little over two hours that day, some of it alone, with his cousin a year younger helping the rest of the time, and kept up with the men on the trip. Even so, it didn’t seem like him. He was limping more, too, and he stumbled going across the threshold of the basement. I bit my lip. That wasn’t the first time he’d stumbled and almost fallen.

We walked in for the X ray and the tech invited me in to the monitors to avoid radiation. She shot the first picture and I caught my breath. Dear Jesus, have mercy. That is not ok.

We drove home. I tried to pretend everything was normal, but I sneaked to the bathroom and googled what does osteosarcoma look like in a femur X ray. I wasn’t done reading the horrible words when the phone rang. It was our pediatrician.

“Hey,” she said. “I don’t have good news.”

“It is what I think it is, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

I slipped out onto the front porch, leaned against a column, stock still. The silence of that moment forever incongruous with the complete splintering of our world as we’d known it.

I wonder if I’ll forget the rest of our conversation for the rest of my life. There are moments that get etched into our brains so deeply we never forget them. The moment David and I first held hands. The way it felt when our babies emerged, wet and warm, and I held their little bodies. And shattering moments like these when you don’t know how to scream and crumple simultaneously so you just stand still.

Meanwhile Liam bounced around the house. I called David. I tried to make dinner. Liam sat down and played “Only Time” by Enya at the piano (he’s never seen sheet music for it in his life. I stood and videoed it and used every ounce of strength not to sob my guts out.)

We tucked the girls in with books and told the boys we needed to talk to them about something. Harrison took three steps in front of David and when David stood him up again, he did it again. And then again. What a night I thought. One child takes his first steps. And I have to tell the other there’s a monster growing in his leg.

That night wrecks me every time I think of it. The boys could tell something unhappy was up. Their guesses made me realize how much reality had already begun to sink in for me. “I’d take any of those,” I said. “Liam has cancer.”

“I have cancer?” Liam half whispered twice in disbelief, touching his leg. I nodded and moved in close. “Can I hold you?”

His grown up, independent, athletic self nodded and crawled into my lap. David moved in close. We sat there, arms wrapped around him. When we finally started talking again I asked him if he had any questions or anything he wanted to say. He shook his head no. “There’s just too many things going through my head.” Later when I asked him again he said, “It feels like my world just stopped.” Me too, buddy. Me too.

After a long time we prayed and David went to tuck in the girls. Adam went to bed. Liam and I talked and cried some more. As we were getting our probiotics before bed his voice broke. “I guess I’ll just remember Jesus and how much He suffered and use Him as my example.”

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