We Found Something
Our church small group was bringing over a lot of their kids that evening, because our church was hosting a “preview night” for adults to walk through an old manufacturing that would soon be renovated into our new church home. As kids were filing into the house, I was preparing to leave, because I would be joining one of the tour groups that evening, when my phone rang. It was the ophthalmologist. “We found something. It’s called a brainstem glioma.” I stopped him, and put him on hold for a moment, got a pad and pen, and called downstairs to my wife to come upstairs immediately. She came in, and through the speaker phone, he repeated what he had said to me, telling us that his assistant would be in touch the next morning about getting us the help we needed. We thanked him, ended the call, and looked at each other, stunned by what we had just been told. We both immediately knelt by the bed and humbled ourselves before the Lord in our helplessness, confessing His goodness and wisdom, speaking out loud our trust in Him for the good of our family. But we couldn’t let it all out, because of what was going on in our house at that very moment. It was the first time we had to steel ourselves and compartmentalize our emotions regarding our son’s health. Our kids were playing with a bunch of other children, and what else could we do right at this moment? So, we attempted to go on with the evening as it was planned.
I left the house, and as I was driving to the church gathering, I called Doc. He picked up the phone, and I immediately started blabbing about everything, and he said, “I already know.” He had been driving in Charlotte about 20-30 miles away from where his office is located. He told me he had pulled over in a nearby parking lot and had been weeping while making phone calls on our behalf.
I was still on the phone with Doc when I arrived at the church and passed the phone off to one of my pastors who explained the current situation. After the call was over, my pastor gave me a hugged me, as I choked back tears. I gathered myself and tried to join the group for the facility tour. I lasted about ten minutes, before I left. I had to get back to my family.
I arrived back at our rowdy child-overrun house, and before I got through the door, Dr. Milroy called me back. He explained that the neurosurgeon at the local St. Jude affiliate would like to get Asher admitted that very night, so that he could have a more detailed MRI the next day. My wife and I agreed to it, and we began to pack a few changes of clothes. As the number of kids in our house started thinned out, our kids started to notice that something was afoot. But until the coast was clear, and my parents arrived to take care of our daughter, we could only deflect.
“Why are you packing?”
“We’ll talk about it later.”
When my parents arrived, I knelt down in front of Asher and said, “Dr. Lowry called. Your MRI results came back today, and they found something in your head that’s not supposed to be there. We don’t know what it is, but you need to go to the hospital tonight, so you can have another MRI first thing in the morning.” His first reaction was an incredulous response to the thought of another super-boring MRI, but he saw something in my face, only a few inches from his, and he said “Dad, you’re scaring me!” and he started to cry.” And as I pulled him in to hold him, I choked back what I could and said “I know, I’m scared too, but we’re going to do everything we can to get this sorted out, and that’s why we need to go to the hospital as soon as possible.”
I don’t recall much about the ride to the hospital. I only remember that it took a few minutes to get us into the pediatric intensive care unit (PICU) where they had a bed waiting for him. The pediatric neurosurgeon was waiting to see him when we got into the room. She performed what would be the first of many standard neurological tests on him. Tests like “Can you squeeze my hands as hard as you can?” “Can you touch your nose?” “Can you feel it when I touch you here?” Her assessment of him was that he looked really good.
The hospital had received the images from Asher’s MRI, and after we got Asher tucked in, we walked back to another room to review them with the neurosurgeon. She began to highlight her observations of those first images, gently pointing out that some of the different coloration at the center of the tumor, was indicative of aggression, but we needed a higher resolution MRI to know more precisely what we were dealing with.
Saluting with his o2 tank that he claimed was a depth charge
Asher was less than excited about having another MRI, but he wasn’t afraid, and he wasn’t exactly broken up about missing school the next day. Some of that courage was imparted to him from the excellent hospital staff. The doctors, nurses, and support staff like Child Life, and countless other office staff did everything in their power to make him feel safe and comfortable. Another aspect of Asher’s courage probably had to do with conditioning. In western society, we tend to operate with a mindset that says, “If I’m sick, I can go to the doctor who will prescribe some medicine, and I will take that medicine and get better.” I know Asher thought this way because he told me in so many words a few months later.