July 7

I feel sick and achy. Both Henry and I are weepy and frequently one of us is in tears these days. The picture of Harry on this blog site was taken a year ago yesterday. He had just learned to climb our stairs all by himself. How could that have been a year ago?

My memories of last July are overwhelmingly sad. The month started with such promise. We thought we were going to beat this thing. We were so hopeful that we were going to be able to move onto the next step in Harry's treatment - going to Toronto for a liver transplant. Were we ignoring the signs of recurrence? The signs were so like the signs of the original tumor - so minor as to be mistaken for normal growing pains. Harry was getting a bit more fussy in the beginning of July - but he was clearly teething new molars. I could feel the hard nubs on his gum just under the surface. See the red spots where the tooth was shifting, preparing to break through the surface. He was drooling more, I think, just like all of his other normal teething episodes. Little cheeks red with the flush of teething. How could a body be both shutting down and growing new teeth at the same time???

We had no room for anything but hope and faith that our son was going to beat this cancer.

We went for his last CT scan on July 14th. All four of us went together. Harry seemed so alive. He was so alive. I can still see him, so close to walking on his own, pushing a wee plastic shopping cart from the waiting room at paediatric CT scan down the long hall, past the CT scanner itself, the technician's room, the examination room, the family washroom. Laughing. Curious. A 'normal' 15 month old boy.

He cuddled in my arms as we talked with the anaesthesiologist, going over his case, his weight, how much he would need to be given to put him out just long enough for the scan. Lydia and Henry went to Tim's to get doughnuts. Lydia, wise beyond her 4 1/2 years, asked the doctor, casually, as she finished the last licks of her chocolate dip doughnut, "Will you inject the sleep medicine into a vein or will you use Harry's central line?"

I was so focused on the positive. That these results would be positive.

I stayed with Harry for the CT scan, draped in a leaded robe. He was very upset and did not want to be strapped to the table. I had to hold him down and soothe him while the doctor administered the first dose of the sleep medicine and wait for it to kick in. I felt terrified. I completely understood how scared he must have felt, lying strapped to that table, wrapped up to keep him immobile. He screamed in protest. Harry rarely cried out like that, it made it all the more heartbreaking to hear, because I knew just how scared he was, to cry like that. He seemed to be out and they started the scan, but the table had barely moved into the tunnel, when Harry woke up. The sleep medicine didn't seem to be working. I remember wondering if she had calculated the dose correctly. She had to administer a double dosage. Was his body fighting going to sleep for the scan because it knew the results?

I can't remember if I held his hands. Were they strapped by his side or above his head? I had to hold his hands above his head for chest x-rays. His tiny naked body, clad only in a diaper, sitting on this little bike seat like stool. I would have to hold his hands, his arms pulled above his head, as they strapped him, crying, into this clear plastic tube to hold him immobile for the x-ray. But this was not the x-ray. Funny, I thought I would never forget such a detail. But I can't recall if his arms were strapped in by his side or over his head for the CT scan. I do know I always put his Lovie underneath his head so he could feel it so close.

He was out for the scan - but never really completely under - despite the double dose of sleep medicine. I stood right beside the table, at his head, as the scanner whirled around him. I told him how much we loved him. How brave he was. How strong. How everything would be okay. It would be over soon. He just had to stay still while they took the pictures.

Soon enough it was over and I was able to pick him up and take him back to the exam room to recover and wake up from the drugs.

The technicians don't give you any indication about the results of the scan. While I can't recall exactly what she said. The anaesthesiologist made a comment before she left, something to the effect that maybe she wouldn't see us again, or that she would maybe see us again if we needed follow up scans. I think that was it. We felt so hopeful, thinking that it meant that the scan looked so good we wouldn't need another scan soon, because we'd be off getting Harry a new liver.

We went shopping at Winners after the scan. Lydia's pink swimsuit had, just the other day, completely lost its elastic all at once and was now no longer staying up! So we bought her a new 2-piece bikini. I bought 2 summer dresses. I think we bought Henry some shorts. We bought Harry a bath toy - a set of happy hippos that floated in the tub. We were a normal family, doing normal family things.

I remember waiting for the CT scan results. We felt so positive that week. We felt so strongly that Harry was done his chemo and would not need another round. We felt so sure that the scan would tell us that his lungs and lymph nodes were clear and the liver tumor was small enough that we could go for a transplant.

In retrospect, I suppose we were crazy to be so optimistic. Rhabdoid cancer does not work that way. But we could not be any other way. It was unthinkable that we would give up on Harry. We could never do that to him.

So in early July, until that horrible, horrible day on July 18th, when we got the CT scan results. We were happy, joyful, full of love and so optimistic for the future.

But it is hard to remember those last happy days. July 18th and all that happened so quickly after that day are what looms and lurks and overshadows all my memories. I can feel it stalking us.

The memory of the end.

I don't want to do this.

Oh God. I don't want to do this. I don't want to go through this anniversary. This hurts too much.

I don't want to go through those last two weeks of Harry's life. When he was so sick and dying. Though even then, right to the very end. We couldn't see it. Wouldn't see it. Couldn't see it.

I don't want to do this.

I don't want these memories.

I don't want this pain.

I just want my Harry back.