Emails

This post is #15 in a year-long series ... Through this series of posts I plan to share our family's experiences during our 17-year-old daughter's year-long battle with brain cancer, which began in February of 2008. My desire is to process through the events of that year from the perspective that a decade of time has brought ... for myself, really. But if you'd like to follow along, you're welcome to join me.

As I've been writing these posts each day, I've been jogging my memory with a little journal in which I scratched down some notes as we were moving through those early days.  The last day I wrote in that journal was February 27th ... but thankfully, at that point, I began sending daily emails pretty consistently to keep people informed of Hannah's progress.

I am grateful for that little journal and those emails, because I'm afraid a great deal of Hannah's journey would have been lost in the fog of our daily shock and awe, and the rest would probably have been lost in the passage of time. 

Much of what I write in future posts will come from those emails ... and some days, I will simply post the emails verbatim, because they provide the daily details better than I can re-create them.  I'd like to do that today ...

February 28, 2008
We’ve had a good day of answered prayers and gradual progress. What a blessing to be moved into a private room last night….two babies came in to the neuro floor, and they decided to put them in a room together, so they needed our room. We did not complain! This room (#4727) has two chair beds in it, so Brad was able to stay, allowing me to sleep much better. Hannah has eaten a little bit of solid food today, and was able to take a short walk (with assistance) down the hall, and sit in a chair for a few minutes. She pretty much spends the rest of her time sleeping. We are scheduled for a physical therapy consult in the morning to see if they can help her get her neck loosened back up. So progress is slow, but steady. She is still not up to receiving visitors, so we’re going to continue to limit visitors to immediate family for now.

We will probably be coming home over the weekend, but it may not be until Monday or Tuesday. It just depends how she does. We’re in no hurry…we want her to be well when we come home. The doctor also told us that she will probably be out of school for 3-4 weeks after returning home, so we think she’ll be returning after spring break. Again, it all depends on how she does.

Tomorrow morning they will be removing the dressing from her head. Again, please pray that this goes well, and that it is not too painful for her. The P.T. appointment may be tough too, and I think she’s a little nervous about it.

Bethany seems to be doing better today. We hope she can return to school on Monday.

We are very humbled by the outpouring of love and support our family has received. You have been a blessing to us!

God is good, all the time!
Jill and Brad

February 29, 2008  (Yes, 2008 was a leap year, which just kind of added to the surreal nature of that whole time period.)

Another great day of answered prayer! A resident came by about an hour ago and removed Hannah’s dressing. The most painful part was removing the tape from the back of her neck, which took a couple of minutes, then he just ripped the rest of it off, like ripping off a band-aid. So, even though it was rather painful, it was over quickly. That is now behind us, and her incision seems to be healing really well. We had two meetings with the physical therapist today, who gave us some exercises to do to help loosen up those muscles in her neck. She also took a pretty long walk down the hallway. She didn’t particularly enjoy the physical therapy sessions, but I think it really helped Brad and I see how we can best help her get better. She was also able to eat a little more today—a chicken strip at lunch, and half of a grilled cheese sandwich for supper. She still doesn’t really feel up to receiving visitors, so we are going to continue to limit company for now.

I’m going to pass along a new prayer request tonight…we are awaiting the results of the pathology report on the tumor. The surgeon said it would be 1-2 weeks before we heard anything. The results of this report will determine whether any further treatment will be needed after Hannah is completely recovered from surgery. We are praying that removal of the tumor will be all that is needed.

Bethany continues to improve and seemed much more her old self today. We are very thankful that she is finally feeling better!

Thank you again for all your support…it means more than we can say!

God is good, all the time!
Jill and Brad

I do have to share a quick funny from Hannah's physical therapy session that day.  I mentioned in a previous post how her neck was very stiff and sore from the surgery.  One of the therapist's goals was for her to be able to turn her head from side to side (like she was shaking her head "no" very slowly).  Hannah, always a compliant child, sat in front of her and earnestly tried to turn her head ... but all she was really doing was moving her eyes from side to side.  She would say, "Am I doing it?  Am I doing it now?  I'm doing it, aren't I?"  The therapist had to tell her that no, she wasn't even close.  It aggravated her that the PT didn't think she was turning her head, because she was quite sure she was.  The therapist left us with orders to practice with her, which we did, but she never did actually turn her neck for us in a "therapy" session ... only her eyes.  Once her neck wasn't as sore anymore, she started turning her head naturally without any intervention from us.  I'll never forget how convinced she was that she was actually turning her head in those therapy sessions though!  :)

Recovery

This post is #14 in a year-long series ... Through this series of posts I plan to share our family's experiences during our 17-year-old daughter's year-long battle with brain cancer, which began in February of 2008. My desire is to process through the events of that year from the perspective that a decade of time has brought ... for myself, really. But if you'd like to follow along, you're welcome to join me.

February 27, 2008

My memories of this day are pretty foggy due to fatigue.  Not long after we were given the MRI results the evening before, we received word that Hannah was being moved from the PICU into a regular room. We were so happy to be leaving the hustle and bustle of that overflow ward and looking forward to a little privacy. Finally, Hannah (and I) would be able to get some rest. At this point, she had not had any sleep since before her surgery other than the fitful 1 1/2 hour nap she had taken that morning.

Brad and I had decided we would take shifts that night. I was reaching the point of desperation for some real rest. The plan was for him to go stay with a friend in Little Rock, sleep that evening, then come and relieve me at the hospital at 1:00 am. He headed out to get some sleep and prepare for his shift.

Hannah was moved out of the PICU, and put into a room with a 4-year-old child and her family. It was a tiny room ... small for one family ... itty bitty for two. They were a sweet family, but had a lot of visitors, and they all had to walk back and forth through our part of the room to get to their side. They also used the room phone for all their communication, and it rang loudly and incessantly. So much for peace and quiet and privacy ... and sleep!

Hannah ended up needing a lot of assistance that night, and was very dependent upon me. I called Brad about midnight and told him not to come. There were things she needed her mom for, and dad -- as wonderful as he was - just would not do. I spent another night sitting on the arm of the chair beside her bed ... another interminably long night. Finally, close to dawn, the nurse brought Hannah a Valium, the first sedative of any kind she'd had since her surgery, which allowed her to finally rest. I curled up in the fold-out chair (still wearing the same clothes I'd put on the morning of the surgery), and tried to grab a few minutes of sleep before the day began in earnest.

Brad arrived early that morning and we spent the day just helping Hannah recover.  The muscles in the upper part of her neck had been cut during the surgery, making it difficult for her to turn her head at all.  She was unable to roll over in bed, sit up, walk, or lie down without assistance.  But thankfully, even with all the activity in that tiny room, she was finally able to rest.  In fact, she spent quite a bit of that day sleeping.

Even though Hannah required a lot of assistance at that point, it was clear that she had suffered no long-term disabilities from the surgery.  In fact, our surgeon told us he believed the only permanent side effect was that she would no longer be able to look up with her eyes ... if she wanted to look at something higher than her head, she would have to lift her chin to see it.  That was certainly something she could live with!

About 7:30 that evening, we were moved to a private room.  It was much bigger than our shared room, and it had two fold-out chair beds in it, so Brad and I would both be able to stay with her.  Hallelujah!!  This was an answer to prayer and felt like nothing less than a miracle.  I couldn't wait to take a shower, put on some clean clothes, and actually stretch out to sleep, knowing that Brad would be there to help meet Hannah's needs. 

Blissful Ignorance

This post is #13 in a year-long series ... Through this series of posts I plan to share our family's experiences during our 17-year-old daughter's year-long battle with brain cancer, which began in February of 2008. My desire is to process through the events of that year from the perspective that a decade of time has brought ... for myself, really. But if you'd like to follow along, you're welcome to join me.

February 26, 2008

Brad and Bethany arrived at the hospital around 8:00 that morning, and they were a welcome sight after our long night in the PICU.  It had been such a relief to see the sun rise that morning and know that we had made it through that first night.  With the bright rays of sunshine, our fears seemed to dissipate.

A dear friend who lived in Little Rock had given us her house key on the day Hannah was admitted to the hospital, telling us that we could go to her house and crash any time we needed to.  It was time to take her up on that offer.  I was exhausted after less than two hours sleep each of the two previous nights, and was getting desperate for rest.  So Bethany and I headed to Sarah's house.

I was able to take a shower for the first time in a couple of days, but had to put the same clothes back on that I'd been wearing since the day before.  I laid down on a bed in an upstairs bedroom and managed to sleep for about an hour.  I was anxious to get back to the hospital, so we headed back there, grabbing some lunch from Sonic on the way.

The three of us sat with Hannah for a few hours in ICU.  We knew at some point during the day she would have an MRI, but had no idea what time it would take place.  We had already learned that the concept of time means something completely different in a hospital than it does in the outside world!  Our parents, who were staying in our home, came by to visit and brought Bethany back home with them when they left.

Finally it was time for the MRI.  They rolled Hannah down to the MRI area in her bed, but then had to transfer her from that bed to the hard MRI table ... that was hard to watch!  We were both able to remain in the room with her, which was a comfort to all three of us.  I was very thankful that she was able to lie still and relatively pain-free throughout the scan, even though she had to rest her head on her incision.  It also seemed mercifully shorter than her previous MRIs had been.

Once the MRI was complete, we returned to the PICU.  Our surgeon came to by to see Hannah and told us that the new MRI looked good.  Brad asked if we could see the results, and he took us to another room and showed us the scans on a computer.  He put the before and after pictures side by side so we could see the difference ... And what a wonderful difference there was!

The doctor confirmed that the tumor did not appear to be the kind which could be easily treated with radiation, and that was why they had removed it all.  He explained that when the biopsy results came back, the tumor type would be ranked from a 1 to a 4, but that even if it was a 4, it was treatable.  He explained that there were three possibilities at this point:  1) No further treatment would be necessary; 2) They might have to treat that area with radiation to make sure it didn't return; or 3) radiation along with chemotherapy would be necessary.  The biopsy results would tell us which option was to be ours.

My brain got stuck at that point.  Radiation?  Chemotherapy?  Those were treatments for people who had cancer, and Hannah didn't have cancer!  We had no history of cancer in our family; Hannah was just sixteen years old; she had been completely fine just a few days ago; everybody was praying for her ... There was no way this was cancer.  Just another thought for me to dismiss.  Hannah was going to be fine.

We returned to PICU and told Hannah just that ... the tumor had been successfully removed and she was going to be just fine.  Overall, we were feeling really good about what we had been told.  That big black spot in the middle of the MRI scan where that ghostly white tumor had once been was certainly confirmation that everything was going to be okay.


Looking back at this day from the perspective that ten years has brought, I'm so thankful for our blissful ignorance at that point.  I'm grateful that we knew nothing of the childhood cancer world, that we could not see the rounds of radiation and chemotherapy ahead of us, and that for at least a little bit longer we thought that just maybe our lives were going to return to normal after all. 

Most of all, I'm thankful we did not know that exactly one year from that date in February Hannah would be leaving us for Heaven.  I'm also grateful for the year God granted us with her ... even with all its heartaches and its ultimate heartbreak.  

Because really, this story is not about me, or Brad, or Bethany, and it's not even about Hannah.  It never was.  It's about God and His Kingdom and the role we have been allowed to play in it.  I was reminded of that as I stood in the sunshine showering Hannah's grave on the hillside with rose petals today.  Her prayer to be used by God in her storm has been answered many times over, and is still being answered even nine years later ... and I am grateful.  

Brain Surgery

This post is #12 in a year-long series ... Through this series of posts I plan to share our family's experiences during our 17-year-old daughter's year-long battle with brain cancer, which began in February of 2008. My desire is to process through the events of that year from the perspective that a decade of time has brought ... for myself, really. But if you'd like to follow along, you're welcome to join me.

Photo credit: Internet Archive Book Images on Visual hunt / No known copyright restrictions

February 25, 2008

Very early that morning, a nurse came by our room to check on Hannah, as was routine.  We asked her if surgery was still on for 7:30, and she said no, it would not be until 3:00 that afternoon.  We breathed a little sigh of relief for the temporary reprieve, and quickly called our parents and told them not to get in any hurry to come.  Half an hour later, the chief resident came by and told us we would be going down for surgery in about twenty minutes.  What?!   We called our parents back and told them to go ahead and start the 50-mile drive to the hospital.

I'm not sure how much time actually passed before a volunteer arrived in our room and we started the trip to the OR.  Walking beside Hannah's bed as he rolled it down the long hallways was one of the most surreal experiences of my life to that point.  It was during that walk I began to fully realize that life as we had known it was about to irrevocably change.  It was no longer so easy to dismiss the list of risks the surgeon had reviewed with us the night before.  Would Hannah still be the person she had been for 16 1/2 years?  Would she even survive this surgery?

The volunteer left the three of us alone for a few minutes in a little room outside the OR.  We prayed and cried together for a little while, and Hannah asked me to promise her I would not leave the waiting room.  That was an easy promise to make ... I wasn't going anywhere!  By the time our surgeon arrived, we had more or less pulled ourselves together.  I don't remember anything he said, but I know Brad told him we were praying for him.  Hannah was given a shot of something, and within just a few seconds she told us she felt like she was floating.  Then she was rolled away from us and my heart and soul went with her.  Brad and I spent a few minutes together in that private area, then went up to the waiting room, where there was already a crowd of folks waiting for us.

The entire surgery lasted 5 1/2 hours.  Once an hour, the lady manning the waiting room desk would call us to the phone, where the report each time was that everything was going, "So good."  Our group would rejoice with each one of these good reports.  At one point the entire group of folks who were there waiting with us went to the chapel to spend some time in prayer, except for Brad and me.  I wasn't leaving the waiting room.  As lunch time came and went, our friends and family went to eat, and someone brought me back a piece of pizza.  Food was not allowed in the waiting room, and I wasn't leaving ... so I sat on the floor with people around me to shield me from view and gobbled it down.

Finally, our surgeon arrived at the door.  He gave us the best news we could possibly hear at that moment ... The surgery went well; Hannah was awake and talking; and he believed he had gotten all of the tumor.  Oh, THE JOY!  After he left, our whole group circled up and prayed a prayer of thanksgiving, accompanied by tears of sweet relief.

Hannah was brought from surgery directly to the PICU, which is where we got to see her for the first time after surgery.  I wish I had been a bit better prepared for how she was going to look.  Her face was swollen and bloated, and her eyes!  They were wild, glassy, and unfocused and when I first saw her, my heart froze in my chest because I just knew she was blind.  It soon became apparent that she could see, though her vision seemed somewhat impaired.  She was very relieved to see us and said that she'd been asking to see us "for a long time".   She was relieved to know that she still had hair, which was now in two long ponytails on each side of her head.   We could see the dressing on her incision peeking out from behind her head.

After we visited with her for a bit, we brought Bethany in to see her.  Hannah told her she loved her and assured her that she would be okay, which made Bethany cry.  Her grandparents and aunts and uncles each came in and spent a few minutes with her.  Finally it was time for everyone else to head home (Brad stayed with a friend in Little Rock that night so he could be close by).  As Brad left, she told him, "Adios, Daddy."  Yes, her favorite class was Spanish.  Then Hannah and I were on our own.

It was an incredibly long night.  We were in an overflow section of the PICU ... basically an open ward with several other beds.  Every other bed was occupied by a baby, and then there was us.  There was constant activity going on around us, and the bright overhead lights stayed on all night long.

I had told Hannah the night before that after her surgery she would be given some good drugs and just be able to relax and sleep for a few days.  I could not have been more wrong.   I did not know that brain surgery patients are given minimal medication, because it's important to monitor their responses for the first few days after surgery.  She was awake all night long ... It was almost as if she could not close her eyes.  I sat in a rolling chair beside her bed holding her hand ... until the nurses came and turned her, when I shifted to sit on the arm of the chair on the other side of her bed.  Back and forth we went, every couple of hours throughout that night.

She talked a lot, but I recall only jumbled bits and pieces.  I remember that she called me "Mommy" all night, which she had not called me since she was a little girl.  She battled fear off and on throughout that night, telling me at one time that she felt like her whole body was in shock (which it almost certainly was).   Another time, she told me she was playing Tetris in her head.

While her moments of fear seemed to come and go, my fear was constant.  Hannah ran a low-grade fever all night, leading me to believe she was getting an infection.  I found myself staring constantly at her heart rate and blood pressure on the monitors, panicking inside each time they blipped upward or downward.  I wished so badly that they could give her something to help her sleep, or even to just relax.  Out the window, I had a perfect view of the Arkansas state capitol ... and I saw both the sun both set and rise.

Hannah finally drifted off about 5:00 am and slept until 6:30.  When she fell asleep, I stiffly left my perch on the arm of the chair and tried to sleep in it for a little while.  Fully dressed, bathed in the bright lights of the PICU, and with zero privacy, sleep was elusive.

Giving Consent

This post is #11 in a year-long series ... Through this series of posts I plan to share our family's experiences during our 17-year-old daughter's year-long battle with brain cancer, which began in February of 2008. My desire is to process through the events of that year from the perspective that a decade of time has brought ... for myself, really. But if you'd like to follow along, you're welcome to join me.

February 24, 2008

That Sunday was another day full of visitors, especially in the afternoon after church time.  Bethany was well enough to come spend the day with us, which was something both girls enjoyed.  Hannah was also feeling well, thanks to the effects of the steroids, and the girls spent a lot of time playing Tetris on the video screen beside her hospital bed when they weren't talking with visitors.

Late in the afternoon after the visitors had dispersed, our surgeon dropped by the room to talk with us and have us sign some consent forms.  He told us that surgery was scheduled for 7:30 the next morning, which took my breath away a little bit.  Up until that point, it had been easy to think of the surgery as "some time in the future".  The past few days of visitors had kept us busy ... busy to the point that we could almost forget why we were there!

He explained to the four of us that the surgery would be done with Hannah in a seated position and that she would be on a ventilator throughout the surgery.  They would go in through the back of the skull, and he assured her that they would not have to shave her entire head, just the part around her incision.  She had been worried about them shaving her head ever since Tommy told her she had a brain tumor, so she was very happy to hear that!

We were ready to sign the forms and get on with this thing, but he said he needed to review the risks with us first.  We steeled ourselves and listened to a litany of possibilities, as our girls' eyes grew wider and wider.

Stroke.
Paralysis.
Blindness.
Seizures.
Loss of speech.
Loss of ability to walk.
Loss of ability to swallow.
Intellectual disability.
Death.

And then, "Sign here and we'll be ready for surgery in the morning."

How does a parent sign a consent form for that?  How does a parent willingly subject their otherwise healthy child to those types of risks?  I mean, the tumor wasn't causing that much trouble ... some headaches, a little nausea ... couldn't she just live with it?

But we dutifully signed the form, and the surgeon left.

The girls were speechless for a few moments, struck dumb by what they'd just heard.   Then they wanted to know ... were those things going to happen?  Could Hannah really be paralyzed, or become blind, or even die?  We assured them that the doctor had to tell us that stuff ... that those types of complications were certainly very rare ... that we were trusting God to take care of Hannah.

Shortly after that, our parents took Bethany home, promising to return first thing in the morning to sit with us through the surgery.  Brad and I both stayed with Hannah that night in her hospital room.  She did not want to go to sleep that night, so we laid awake and talked for a long time.  I remember assuring her that the hard part was building up to this surgery ... once that was over, they would give some good pain medication, and her only job would be to relax and rest.  I laid beside her in her bed and scratched her back until she finally drifted off into a fitful sleep. 

I laid awake for a long time, thinking about how many people I had known through the years who had had brain tumors.  Most of the people who came to mind had done well ... their tumors were removed, they went through a little rehab, and they went on to live normal lives.  Certainly there were others ... but no, I wasn't going to think about them.  Hannah was going to be part of that first group.  She would be fine.

Hannah's Prayer for a Storm

This post is the tenth in a year-long series ... Through this series of posts I plan to share our family's experiences during our 17-year-old daughter's year-long battle with brain cancer, which began in February of 2008. My desire is to process through the events of that year from the perspective that a decade of time has brought ... for myself, really. But if you'd like to follow along, you're welcome to join me.

February 23, 2008

Hannah was a young woman who took her faith seriously.  From the time she got down on her knees in our living room and asked Jesus into her heart as an 8-year-old child, she had a sincere desire to serve God.  In August of 2006, she wrote this (if you use your imagination, maybe you can picture the little hearts with which she dotted all her "i"'s ...):

"I pray that I won't hide my light under a bowl but for the world to see.  Lord, break my heart for my friends and let me share this joy that I'm feeling and not keep it hidden for it is not your intention for us to keep quiet, but to share the gospel.  Prepare me, Father, and give me a passionate concern for the lost." 

Now, she wasn't perfect.  She struggled with the same issues and temptations common to all teenagers.  She made her share of mistakes, but her heart was always turned toward the Lord.

About a month before her headaches began, Hannah attended a youth retreat at our church called Disciple Now. A special speaker was brought in for the weekend, and one evening he talked to the kids about how God sometimes uses storms in our lives to mature us, and to give us an opportunity to demonstrate the love of Christ to those around us. As he talked, she began to realize that she had never experienced a real storm in her life, and when she prayed that night, she asked God to send her a storm, so that through it, she could glorify God and bring others to Him.  The next morning, she posted on her Facebook page:  "This world has nothing for me ... I will live for Him."

Now, we knew nothing of this prayer at the time.  What teenager shares something like that with their parents?

But on the night of February 22nd, with serious brain surgery looming in the near future, Hannah shared this story with her dad, telling him that she believed this was her storm.  He shared it with me when I arrived at the hospital the next morning, and I was blown away by the faith and strength of our 16-year-old daughter.  I still am.

Do we believe that God gave our daughter a brain tumor in answer to her prayer for a storm?  No.

But we do believe He knew what was to come in her life, and He was preparing her for the day she would hear that news.  From the very beginning, she accepted this situation as her storm, and never once did she question His hand in her life.   At least not that we knew ... We were not privy to the conversations she may have had with God when she laid her head on her pillow each night.  What I do know is that He gave her a special grace ... a supernatural grace even ... which allowed her to shoulder this burden in manner that astounded those who watched her.

So Many Kindnesses ...

This post is the ninth in a year-long series ... Through this series of posts I plan to share our family's experiences during our 17-year-old daughter's year-long battle with brain cancer, which began in February of 2008. My desire is to process through the events of that year from the perspective that a decade of time has brought ... for myself, really. But if you'd like to follow along, you're welcome to join me.

February 22, 2008

The next few days were a blur.  We had so many visitors it was difficult to even have time to eat.  I remember that one day I didn't even have the opportunity to take a shower because of the steady stream of people coming through her room.  Many of the folks who appeared at Hannah's hospital room door we hadn't seen in months, or even years ... but there they were to encourage us and pray with us.  One dear lady arrived with a key to her home in Little Rock that we were free to use whenever we needed to get away from the hospital. 

There were other people who did not come to the hospital, but instead served our family by caring for those staying at our home in Magnet Cove.  People took the time to visit Bethany and help her feel less lonely in our absence, to prepare meals for our parents who were staying there with her, and even to take care of our dog when no one was home for extended periods of time.  Others sent notes, wrote emails, made phone calls, mailed gift cards, sent flowers or balloons ... the list goes on and on.

And then there were the hundreds (which swelled into thousands) of people who prayed for Hannah and for our family from the moment they heard of her diagnosis.  Oh, how those prayers buoyed us up on the heavy days!

These incredible kindnesses were both humbling and overwhelming.  I know I did not adequately thank all of these wonderful folks for their selfless generosity to our family at the time.  And I hope that ten years later is not too late.  If you were one of those people, I want you to know that your kindness, however big or small, was a huge part of what kept us afloat both during those early days of shock and awe, and even over the year that was to follow.  Thank you.

So many people were interested in following Hannah's story, I began trying to think of a way we could keep people informed of the developments.  There was no way we could communicate individually with everyone who was asking about her, and we wanted to avoid the "telephone game" scenario where facts can so easily get distorted as they are passed along from person to person.  We considered a CaringBridge site, but Hannah, always a private person, did not want one.  In early 2008, Facebook was a thing, but not nearly what it is now, so that wasn't really a consideration either.  So I settled on email as our primary mode of communication with those who wanted to follow her progress and pray for us.  That decision started a year-long series of nearly daily emails which would eventually reach literally around the world.

This is the email I sent ten years ago today at 11:14 pm ...

Tonight, I’m writing from home. I’ve come to spend some time with Bethany, and to get a good night’s rest at home. Brad is staying at the hospital with Hannah.

We met with the surgeon for the first time about 2:00 this afternoon. We still don’t know for sure when the surgery will be, but it should be Monday or Tuesday. We’ll get the word out when we have a definite date and time. He told us basically the same thing the resident had told us. They will go in through the lower part of the back of her skull (not needing to cut off much hair, which Hannah is excited about!) and remove a piece of the tumor and examine it. If they determine it will be treatable with radiation, they will close the incision and end the surgery. If it is not treatable with radiation alone, they will go ahead and remove the entire tumor. He did tell us that in looking at the MRI and CT scans, it appears to be the second kind, and will probably require complete removal. She will have to spend at least 24 hours in ICU, then will remain hospitalized for 5 to 7 days following surgery. He said the tumor is in a delicate area, and not very easy to get to, but he has a lot of experience with this type of tumor in this location. His name is Dr. A…please lift him up in your prayers.

Hannah is feeling great and is still amazingly strong and enjoying all of her visits and phone calls. The outpouring of love and support for our family has just been wonderful. Thank you to all who have called, visited, emailed, sent cards, brought or sent gifts…it has meant so much to our family. I wish we could personally answer every email we have received, but there have just been too many! Please know that we are reading every one and gaining strength from them. Please continue to pray for God to be glorified in this situation. Also, please remember Bethany in your prayers…she has mono and really feels terrible (worse than Hannah does right now, actually). Her spleen is enlarged, and she needs to rest, which is difficult with all that is going on right now. Her grandparents are taking good care of her, and she was able to come to the hospital today to see Hannah, which I think helped her a little bit. Please pray for her quick recovery. By the way, we also found out today that Hannah tested positive for mono, but she has no symptoms, and the surgeon does not seem to think it will be a problem.

God is good, all the time!
Jill

Admitted to Children's Hospital

This post is the eighth in a year-long series ... Through this series of posts I plan to share our family's experiences during our 17-year-old daughter's year-long battle with brain cancer, which began in February of 2008. My desire is to process through the events of that year from the perspective that a decade of time has brought ... for myself, really. But if you'd like to follow along, you're welcome to join me.

February 21, 2008

After a restless night, it was time to load up and head to Arkansas Children's Hospital.  I packed a suitcase for myself and for Hannah, which was difficult as we had no idea how long we would be there.  Brad drove us the 50 miles to Little Rock ... and I'm sure we must have discussed what was ahead of us, but I honestly don't remember anything from that drive.

We arrived at the hospital, and after some confusion at the admissions desk, we ended up at the Neuroscience Clinic on the third floor.  As we walked into that area, I remember feeling as if I were watching someone else go through all these motions ... that this couldn't be our family walking into a neuroscience clinic ... no way was this our reality.  But it was our family that was escorted into a room to wait for a visit from a doctor.

We had only been in there a few minutes when a smiling face appeared at the door.  It was our friend Tim, who had driven up to spend the morning with us.  Words cannot express how much it helped to see a familiar face in such an incredibly foreign place.  His presence was something solid to cling to ... a link to reality in this surreal situation.  He hung out with us all morning, helping the time pass more gently.  He knew when to talk and when to be quiet, and faded into the background when hospital staff came in to speak with us.  But his presence was an anchor throughout that topsy-turvy morning, and it was a great gift.

The chief resident finally came by, accompanied by three med students, one of whom was a former student of Brad's.  He explained to us that Hannah would be admitted, and would remain in the hospital until after the surgery, which would be the following Monday or Tuesday.  He ordered an MRI of her spine to be done that afternoon to be sure the tumor had not "seeded."  I heard him say those words, but my mind could not process them, so I simply dismissed them as not being applicable to us.

When they took her down for her MRI, they moved us to the fourth floor and put us in a tiny little holding room, where our parents were brought when they arrived.  There was an emotional time of reunion as we hugged and cried.  They stayed with us for awhile, then headed to our home where they would help care for Bethany for the next several days while Hannah was in the hospital.

We were stuck in that holding room for quite some time.  It seems that the floors were being waxed in the room where we were ultimately going to be placed.  It was hard for me to process that people were actually doing mundane things like waxing floors when our daughter had been diagnosed with a brain tumor.  I mean, didn't they know?!

We were finally allowed to go to our patient room (with nice shiny floors) where we waited for Hannah to be brought up from her MRI.  The chief resident accompanied her as she was rolled in.  He shared with us that the MRI showed that the tumor had not seeded (of course not ... I had already dismissed that possibility!).   He explained that the location of the tumor on her pineal gland blocked the flow of cerebrospinal fluid when she was lying down ... which is why her headaches and nausea were so much worse in the mornings.

He talked with us a little bit about what to expect with the surgery.  They would begin with a less invasive procedure in which they would open up her skull, remove some cells from the tumor and test them to see if they were a type that responds well to radiation.  If that were the case, they would close her up, and just treat her with radiation.  If the cells were some other type, they would need to do a full craniotomy and remove the entire tumor.

He prescribed doses of steroids to be administered which would decrease the swelling in her brain and relieve her headaches.  He also ordered an emergency shunt kit to be kept on the table beside her bed at all times, "just in case."  More words for me to dismiss.  We weren't going to need that.  Hannah was going to be fine.

Two of Hannah's uncles arrived that evening and hung out with us.  Hannah adored her uncles and enjoyed their company.  The steroids were already making her feel better, and we were grateful for that.  Brad went home to get some sleep and to spend time with Bethany, and Hannah and I settled in for our first night in the hospital. 

MRI - Part Two

This post is the seventh in a year-long series and the second half of a post from earlier today ... Through this series of posts I plan to share our family's experiences during our 17-year-old daughter's year-long battle with brain cancer, which began in February of 2008. My desire is to process through the events of that year from the perspective that a decade of time has brought ... for myself, really. But if you'd like to follow along, you're welcome to join me.

February 20, 2008

Tommy entered the room and pulled that third chair up to where we were sitting, so Hannah and I were basically knee-to-knee with him.  He gently explained to both of us that the MRI revealed a tumor in the pineal region of Hannah's brain.  Hannah and I were both pretty tearful, but his words had a calming effect.  He asked if we would like to see it, and we must have assented, because we soon found ourselves in the technician's booth staring at a ghostly image of the invader in Hannah's brain.  The tears returned.  Even our friendly technician was crying by this point.

We moved back out into the waiting room and sat back down in our three chairs.  Tommy explained that this tumor would require immediate intervention and we should plan to go to Arkansas Children's Hospital that night.  Or, since Hannah was not in any acute distress, we could go home and head to Children's in the morning.  Either way, he would call ahead so they would be prepared to receive us when we got there.  For me, there was no question ... We would go home.  Somehow I had to share this news with Brad and Bethany and give our family time to process it.

As we sat in our little circle, Tommy took our hands and prayed with us.  He placed Hannah into God's hands and prayed for the wisdom of those who would be treating her.  I don't remember anything else he prayed, but I do remember the feeling of peace that flowed over us in that moment.  He gathered up all the MRI films into a big envelope and walked us out of the hospital through a back exit so we wouldn't have to walk through the public areas in our emotional state.

We stood outside our car for a few minutes and Hannah asked Tommy if they were going to have to shave her head.  He replied that they might, and said, "but it is what it is."  For some reason, those words were oddly comforting ... a confirmation that this whole thing was out of our control.  Tommy offered to drive us home, but I assured him I was capable of driving and would be fine.

I remember very little of what Hannah and I discussed on the 20-minute drive home.  I do know that, as any typical teenager would be, she was concerned about how her friends would react.  She said that she didn't want anyone to know, and I assured her we'd protect her privacy.

As we got closer to home, I knew I needed to call Brad and let him know what was going on.  He was at his job as a high school principal, and it was about time for the buses to run.  I got him on the phone and told him I needed him to come home.  That was all I could get out before my throat closed off, and I hung up.

He arrived at home just a few minutes before Hannah and I did, and waited for us in the garage.  He had no idea what was going on ... in fact, he thought maybe this had something to do with Bethany.  We were awaiting her ultrasound report from the day before ... He certainly wasn't expecting MRI results so soon.

We pulled into the garage, and stepped out of the car.  Hannah spoke first ... "Daddy, I've got a brain tumor."  We held each other and cried for awhile together while I filled him in on some of what Tommy had said.  Then it was time to go into the house and break the news to Bethany, who had been home alone sick all day.  More tears ensued.  Once we pulled ourselves together a bit, we had a prayer time as a family, placing Hannah in God's hands, acknowledging that we had no idea what was ahead of us, but affirming our trust in Him.  The peace that passes all understanding (Philippians 4:7) began to make itself known.

The rest of the evening was a blur of phone calls and visitors.  Brad made the hardest calls (because I couldn't even talk), which were to our parents, informing them of what was going on.  He also called our neighbor, a retired pastor who had become our girls' adopted grandpa.  Bro. Gerald came down the hill from his home and prayed with us, sharing a scripture with us which became our theme verse throughout the next year ... "The Lord is good, a refuge in times of trouble.  He cares for those who trust in Him" (Nahum 1:7).

Hannah had told me she didn't want anyone to know ... and I don't know how it happened, but suddenly everybody knew.  We lived in a small community, and word travels fast.  This was a Wednesday evening, and somehow Hannah's name appeared on every local church's prayer list.  About 10:00 that evening, a group of her friends and their mothers appeared at our door with a basket full of gifts, including a soft purple blanket which they had all signed.  That blanket would go with her into surgery a few days later.

Our phones rang incessantly, and one of those calls was the ultrasound report on Bethany.  With the results of her bloodwork, and the enlargement of her spleen and liver, her diagnosis was changed from pneumonia to mononucleosis.  That certainly explained the fatigue and malaise she'd been experiencing.

Another call was from Tommy, saying he had made arrangements for us to check in through the ER at Children's Hospital first thing the next morning.  Things were getting real ... even though the feeling of disbelief that this was actually happening to our family was also very real.

In the midst of the chaos of that evening, Hannah remained calm.  I remember her saying at one point, "Now I'll have a story."  I was in awe of the strength that God was clearly giving her.  When she went to bed that night, she posted this on her Facebook page ...

"I will praise Him in the storm! I'm going to children's hospital in the morning..."

And I sent the first of what would become a year's worth of emails, this one just to our close family and friends ...

"After several days of strange symptoms and doctor visits, we found out today that our 16-year-old daughter, Hannah, has a brain tumor. We are headed to Arkansas Children’s Hospital first thing in the morning for a biopsy. God’s hand has already been involved…the ophthalmologist that we were sent to yesterday is a great Christian guy who sang in our wedding 20 years ago, so he has been taking good care of us. We also found out today that our 12-year-old daughter, Bethany, has mono, not pneumonia, as she was originally diagnosed. So…please keep all of us in your prayers. Both my parents and Brad’s parents are coming to LR tomorrow, and are going to help us out with Bethany for as long as needed, so that need has been met, too. We are looking forward to seeing God working through this situation!"

MRI - Part One

This post is the sixth in a year-long series ... Through this series of posts I plan to share our family's experiences during our 17-year-old daughter's year-long battle with brain cancer, which began in February of 2008. My desire is to process through the events of that year from the perspective that a decade of time has brought ... for myself, really. But if you'd like to follow along, you're welcome to join me.

Photo credit: Muffet on Visualhunt.com / CC BY

February 20, 2018

On the morning of the MRI appointment, Hannah woke up feeling great. For the first time in nearly a week, she didn't have a headache. Her vision was clear, and her pupils were normal. I clearly remember the feeling of relief that flooded over me. Whatever this was, it was over! I could literally feel the weight lifting off my shoulders. In fact, I was so sure Hannah's "sickness" had resolved itself, I considering canceling the MRI. After all, the co-pay was sure to be expensive ... and I was going to have to leave Bethany home alone for a few hours. But as I recalled the heavy anxiety of the previous week, I decided to keep the appointment. It would be worth the trouble and expense just for the peace of mind that everything was fine.

I made sure Bethany was comfortable in the recliner with the Disney Channel on TV, a blanket, and plenty of snacks. I assured her we would be back in a couple of hours, and then Hannah and I headed to the same hospital where Bethany had gotten her ultrasound the day before. We located and checked into the MRI suite, where we were greeted by a friendly technician. She explained a little bit about what to expect and started an IV in Hannah's arm for the contrast which would be administered about halfway through the procedure. She had Hannah lie down on the narrow sliding table and fastened her down with straps. It was somewhat disconcerting to watch her place a strap over Hannah's forehead, immobilizing her head. I spoke a few words of encouragement to Hannah, then stepped out into the waiting room as the technician entered her little booth and shut the door.

Settling into my uncomfortable plastic chair, I listened as the eerie jackhammer-like sounds of the MRI began to drift into the waiting room. I picked up a magazine from the basket beside my chair, but had difficulty focusing on the pages. I clearly remember a fleeting thought running through my head that our lives could be changing forever on that day, in that moment. Quickly shaking it off, I reminded myself that Hannah felt fine this morning ... all of this was just to confirm that she really was okay.

Lost in my thoughts, I was startled when the door to the technician's booth opened, and she leaned out of it. In her hand, she held two tickets. She held them out in my direction and said, "Here are a couple of tickets for a free meal in the cafeteria. When this is done, I'd like for you and Hannah to have lunch here." I didn't know how to respond for a moment ... Why would we want to do that? I declined the tickets, telling her that I had a sick child at home and did not want to stay any longer than necessary. She said she understood and disappeared back into her booth.

Now I was concerned. I couldn't imagine why this lady wanted us to stay and have lunch at the hospital. Unless ... But no, I dismissed that thought. Hannah was fine. The MRI was going to prove it.

The clanging of the MRI finally ended, and the technician opened the heavy door separating us from the magnetic tube where Hannah was. She released her from her straps, and Hannah sat up, both of us glad it was over. As she stood and we prepared to leave, the technician pushed those same two tickets in my direction and much more insistently urged us to go have a free lunch in the hospital cafeteria. She said something about needing to make sure all the films turned out okay before we left, so if we would go have lunch and then swing back by the MRI suite before leaving the hospital, that would be great. That way, if any of the films had to be re-done, we could take care of that before we left.

Okaaaay ... this didn't seem right ... but what did I know? Maybe an MRI was like an x-ray, where the doctor tells you not to get dressed until they make sure they got good pictures of your insides. I reluctantly took the tickets, and Hannah and I headed to the cafeteria to have lunch.

I have no memory what we ate or even what we talked about ... probably whatever she was missing at school that morning or what had happened on the last episode of American Idol. I do remember her asking me why that lady didn't want us to leave, and me assuring her that it was just routine.

We finished our lunch and headed back to the MRI suite. When we walked in, I immediately noticed that two of the waiting room chairs had been pulled close together. The waiting area only had three chairs, and they had been spaced far apart when we arrived that morning ... in fact, we had laughingly waved to each other from across the room as we sat down. The technician seated us in those two chairs right next to each other and told us that Tommy, our ophthalmologist was on his way over to talk to us. Then she disappeared into her booth.

My heart dropped like a stone. There was no denying it anymore. Hannah was not fine. She began to ask me questions about what was going on, and I had no answers for her.

A few minutes later the technician popped back out of her booth and asked me to step in there with her. Tommy was on the phone, and wanted to talk with me. I gave Hannah's hand a squeeze and stepped into the booth. The technician closed the door and handed me the phone. Tommy told me he was on his way. The MRI showed "something" and it would need "further treatment." Somehow, I had the presence of mind to ask him if Hannah needed to be included in our conversation when he arrived, or if this was something we needed to discuss without her present. He said I knew Hannah best, and that it was up to me. Yes, I did know Hannah ... and I knew she would have a lot of questions. I told him to be prepared to talk with both of us when he arrived.

When I hung up the phone, I couldn't seem to get enough air. As I steeled myself to step out of that booth to face Hannah, the technician put her hand on my arm and said, "You don't have to go out there yet ... Take a minute." Her kindness nearly undid me. The tears came then and she hugged me. I didn't stay in there long, though. I needed to get back to my daughter.

Hannah knew the moment she saw my face that something was up. I sat down beside her and told her what Tommy had said. We held each other and cried a little bit, then pulled ourselves together and waited for Tommy to arrive. I remember pulling a magazine out of the basket beside the chair to help pass the time, and it was a ladies' magazine from 1987! We flipped through it, laughing at the big hair and outdated clothes. So incredibly surreal. 

It felt like hours, but it was only about ten minutes before Tommy arrived.

To be continued ...

Doctor Visits and Referrals

This post is part of a year-long series ... Through this series of posts I plan to share our family's experiences in the last year of our 17-year-old daughter's life on earth, which spanned from February of 2008 to February of 2009. Many of you who read this blog followed our journey through the emails I wrote over the course of that year. My desire is to process through the events of that year from the perspective that a decade of time has brought ... for myself, really. But if you'd like to follow along, you're welcome to join me.

February 19, 2008

So we had two kids with two very different health problems to take to the doctor at the same time.   I was working as an independent contractor speech pathologist at that time, so if I missed work, I didn't get paid.  Their appointments were in the morning, so we decided that Brad would use half a sick day and bring them to doctor, then I would come home at lunch and spend the rest of the day with them so he could go on to work.

I went to work that morning, but I honestly don't remember anything I did while I was there.  I'm sure I saw my students, but my therapy couldn't have been very effective.  My mind was on my girls and what in the world was going on with them.  How could both of them have such weird health issues at the same time?

Finally I got my hours completed and headed home.  Brad and the girls arrived about the same time I did, and while they ate lunch, we talked.

They had done a new set of chest x-rays on Bethany to check the status of her pneumonia, but her lungs looked good.  The doctor suspected that her ongoing malaise and fatigue may be due to mononucleosis, so he had referred her to our local hospital for an ultrasound of her liver and spleen.  He had scheduled an appointment for this to be done that afternoon.

OK ... I could deal with mono.  I'd had mono in college.  It wasn't fun, but it wasn't so bad.  What about Hannah?

He described how the advanced practice nurse had done a thorough examination of Hannah, and everything seemed to be fine.  When she checked her pupil reactions, however, Hannah's pupils did not respond to the light.  Normally, pupils will constrict when a light is shined into them, but Hannah's did not.  They remained enlarged.  The APRN asked the doctor to come in and check her pupils, with the same results.

Because of these issues with her eyes, the doctor wrote a referral for Hannah to see an ophthalmologist, and made the appointment for that afternoon.  I was still taking all this in, when Brad handed me the written referral, and I saw the name of the ophthalmologist.  That name!  Could that be our friend Tommy from college ... the guy who had sung in our wedding over 20 years ago?   That's how he spelled his last name.  Was he a doctor now?  I guess we would find out!

So now we had two kids with two very different health problems going to two different doctors at the same time.  It was time to divide and conquer.  It was decided that I would take Bethany for her ultrasound and Brad would take Hannah to the ophthalmologist.  Hannah's doctor didn't seem to be terribly concerned at this point, and Bethany actually seemed to be far sicker than she was.

Bethany's appointment was uneventful.  The ultrasound was completed and we were told we'd probably get the results the next day.  I took her home and anxiously waited for Brad and Hannah to arrive.

When they got home, I grilled Brad for details.  The ophthalmologist was indeed our old friend Tommy, and they spent a good bit of their appointment getting re-acquainted.  Tommy examined her, and was able to get her pupils to constrict with the use of some eye drops.  He told Brad that the antihistamines we'd been giving her could possibly have caused the pupil dilation, but he added, "If it were my daughter, I'd want her to have an MRI."

An MRI was scheduled for the next morning.

Seeing Double

This post is part of a year-long series ... Through this series of posts I plan to share our family's experiences in the last year of our 17-year-old daughter's life on earth, which spanned from February of 2008 to February of 2009. Many of you who read this blog followed our journey through the emails I wrote over the course of that year. My desire is to process through the events of that year from the perspective that a decade of time has brought ... for myself, really. But if you'd like to follow along, you're welcome to join me.

February 18, 2008

Hannah had remained headache-y through the weekend, but the morning nausea had subsided.  She was back in school, and things seemed to be normalizing somewhat with her.   My main concern now was for our younger daughter, Bethany.  She had been diagnosed with pneumonia a few days before Hannah's headaches started, and she just didn't seem to be improving.  She was scheduled to return to the doctor the next day for some more tests.

At that time, I was working part-time as a speech-language pathologist for a local school district, and I also saw a few students privately.  After finishing up with one of my private students, I checked my phone and saw that I had missed a call from Hannah's high school.  The voice mail was from the school secretary, who told me that Hannah wasn't feeling well, and that I needed to call the office.  My heart sank as I dialed ... I had been so hopeful that she was getting better!

Our girls attended a very small school district, where their dad was the high school principal.  When I called the office, it only took a few minutes for them to get Hannah to the phone.  She told me that her head was hurting and she was "seeing double."  The alarm bells started going off in my head, and I told her to sit tight ... I'd be there in a few minutes, and we'd go straight to the doctor's office.  She assured me, though, that she was already feeling better ... everything was fine now ... it wasn't a big deal ... and she wanted to stay at school.  I reluctantly agreed and hung up the phone.

I was hosting a baby shower for some teachers after school that day, so I spent the rest of that afternoon running around town doing errands and preparing for that event.  As people began to arrive at the shower, I pasted on a smile and went through the motions required of me ... all the while counting the minutes until it ended and I could go home and see how Hannah was doing.  The feeling of foreboding I had while standing in the pharmacy section of Walmart was back, and it was so, so heavy.

The baby shower finally came to an end, the clean-up was completed, and I headed home.  I was so anxious to talk with Hannah and see what had really been going on at school today.   As she shared with me the issues she'd had with double vision at school, I noticed that she looked a little "off".  As we continued to talk, I realized what was bothering me about her appearance ... the pupils of her eyes were extremely dilated.

The realization took my breath away.  Not wanting to alarm her, I finished our conversation without saying anything about her eyes, then pulled my husband Brad aside and asked him if he saw it too.  He spoke with her for a few minutes and confirmed what I had seen.  We decided that we would call the doctor first thing in the morning and see if we could get her in at the same time we brought Bethany in. 

I felt a little better that we were finally doing something ... but sleep did not come easily that night.

Migraines?

This blog post is part of a year-long series ... Through this series of posts I plan to re-live our family's experiences in the last year of our daughter Hannah's life on earth, which spanned from February of 2008 to February of 2009. Many of you who read this blog followed our journey through the emails I wrote over the course of that year. My desire is to process through the events of that year from the perspective that a decade of time has brought ... for myself, really. But if you'd like to follow along, you're welcome to join me.

I have a vivid memory of standing in the pharmacy section at Walmart studying the dizzying array of colorful boxes on the shelves. Tylenol, Excedrin, Advil, Motrin … How could I know which one was the most effective?   I needed something that would help alleviate Hannah’s headaches.

She was back in school now, but really wasn't feeling much better.  She’d been waking up with severe head pain and and an upset stomach for the past few days. The headache would subside somewhat throughout the day, but never fully go away.  We had thought maybe the morning headaches and nausea were the result of sinus drainage overnight, so we were giving her antihistamines, but they didn't seem to be helping.  Maybe we were dealing with migraines. 

Standing there in the pharmacy section, my thoughts were also on our 12-year-old daughter, Bethany.  A few days before Hannah started waking up with these monstrous headaches, Bethany had been diagnosed with pneumonia.  Listless and fatigued, she didn't seem to be getting any better either.

As I perused the choices on the shelves, people bustling around me, time seemed to stand still for a moment as a deep fear gripped my heart … What if these headaches were more than just migraines?  I had a deeply disturbing feeling that something much more serious was going on.

But I had a busy Saturday ahead of me … Time to make a decision and get on my way!  Surely a name-brand medication would be better than the generic version.  I grabbed a bottle of Excedrin Migraine, paid for my purchase, and left the store.  But the feeling of foreboding stayed with me.

Missing School

This blog post is part of a year-long series ... Through this series of posts I plan to share our experiences in the last year of Hannah's life on earth, which spanned from February of 2008 to February of 2009. Many of you who read this blog followed our journey through the emails I wrote over the course of that year. My desire is to process through the events of that year from the perspective that a decade of time has brought ... for myself, really. But if you'd like to follow along, you're welcome to join me.

Hannah always loved school.  From the very beginning, she excelled academically, and she took great pride in that.  Maybe a little too much pride!

Before she even started school, she knew where she wanted to go to college ... Ouachita Baptist University, the alma mater of her mom and dad, of course!  As a preschooler, she practiced writing her name until she could do it with perfection ... very proud of the fact that her name was a palindrome.  In elementary school, she was driven to accumulate more Accelerated Reader points than any other kid in her grade ... and she did.  When she was in junior high, she would start off the year telling me which academic awards she was going to receive in the assembly at the end of the year ... and then went on to do just that.  By the time she started senior high, she had a goal ... to be valedictorian of her class ... and she was heading that way with a 4.0 GPA through the second semester of her sophomore year.

So when she woke up the day after Valentine's Day 2008, once again with a severe headache and nausea, and asked to stay home from school for the second day in a row, I knew she wasn't playing around.  The girl didn't take missing school lightly.

Ten Years

Ten years.

"Ten" is usually a number to celebrate.  Your ten year wedding anniversary is a special milestone.  The day your child finally gets to hold up "two whole hands" when asked how old she is is an exciting day!  A perfect "ten" in gymnastics leads to a gold medal.  Knocking down all ten pins in bowling ... Strike!

But what about ten years since your 16-year-old daughter woke up in the morning with the first signs of the cancer that would ultimately take her life?  There is no celebration for that.

Valentine's Day 2008 will forever mark the beginning of a journey that would change our lives in ways we never could have imagined.  Who would have thought that a morning headache and some nausea would launch us into a world we barely even knew existed ... a dizzying world of radiation and chemotherapy, blood draws and platelet infusions, hospital stays and hospice admission?  A place where our faith and our family would be tested beyond what we ever would have thought we could survive.

But ten years ago today we didn't know that.  We thought Hannah had a virus ... just a stomach bug that would resolve itself in a day or two.


Over the next several months, I plan to re-live our experiences in the last year of Hannah's life on earth through a series of blog posts.  Many of you who read this blog followed our journey through the emails I wrote over that year.  My desire is to process through the events of that year from the perspective that a decade of time has brought ... for myself, really.  But if you'd like to follow along, you're welcome to join me.