Tribute

We met on an evening in September. When I got to the ER his mom had been crying. Someone had already told her that her 2 year old baby boy had a belly full of tumor.

He had big blue eyes, long eyelashes, and soft blond hair.
He also had persistent fevers, weight loss, and a listless expression
He had his mommy's hope and his daddy's heart in his hands.

This sweet little boy became many things to me.
The first (and God willing) only patient I gave the wrong diagnosis to.
When I corrected that mistake, I stood in front of his parents and told them that their child had only a 50% chance of being alive in 2 years. Another first.
The first time I a family the therapy wasn't working.
And the second.
And the third.


He never went anywhere without his pint sized hockey stick.
He usually traveled riding on the wheels of an IV pole.
He was a merciless and fairly eccentric fashion critic.
An exuberant hugger.
A fan of "The Price is Right"
A lover of "dip" (ketchup), "hot dip" (wing sauce), and Shamrock shakes.


He had wretched luck. Terrible toxicities from every single drug, slow recovery times, blood clots, infections, and ultimately, he was the first of my patients to fail to respond to every treatment we offered.


When it became clear that everything we were doing was making him miserable and nothing we were doing was stopping the tumor from multiplying in belly, lungs, and bone marrow, his parents decided to take him home and treasure having him and his sister together for as long as they could.


He died recently, a few months shy of his third birthday and just 7 months after he came into my life.


When I think about him, I can't help but remember the way those tumor cells looked under the microscope. Large and angry, clumping together and pushing the normal cells aside. Bullies imposing chaos and pain and heartache on the innocent. You could see them in the act of replicating. Always fresh troops to make him thinner, weaker, and to make his parents eyes more empty and haunted.


Mostly, however, I think about how fine and soft his hair was when it started to grow back after the chemo. I remember hallway hockey games and the times he would let me carry him around, dragging his IV pole behind us. I remember how cozy he looked curled up in bed with his bear of a father and how his Elmo slippers were almost as big as he was. I think about his smile and how he glowed when the music therapist came in with her xylophone. You could always tell what room he was in by tracking his mother's laugh but he was generally out of his room putting smiles on the faces of nurses and patients alike. He was a kid and he didn't like to let being sick get in the way of his play time.


I miss him. I am lucky to have met him. I wish I could have done more.
I am glad that there is no more suffering.


Neuroblastoma is a terrible disease and I hope someday we have a cure.