In May, Jeff developed a high fever and it was feared he had pneumonia, and so late one
Thursday evening, Jerry took him back to hospital in Ottawa. Pneumonia was ruled out on
examination, but as his blood count was extremely low, he was given a blood transfusion plus
antibiotics intravenously. Jeff was always very frightened of the blood transfusions. His veins were
so used up at this point the I.V.'s would not keep on working and had to be restarted many, many
times. Oh, how Jeff hated this!
This was a really rough time for all of us. Jeff became so upset emotionally that he broke out
in hives, which in turn changed into huge welts whenever a doctor or nurse so much as entered his
room. He looked like a burn case. A short time after they would leave me alone with him, the marks
would completely disappear, only to surface once more when anyone from the medical staff would
reappear. Also, at this time Jeff was in Isolation which always made him very unhappy, as anyone
coming into his room had to wear a gown and mask.
Finally, one Saturday evening at suppertime, the I.V. clogged again and stopped working.
I had noticed the nurse checking it repeatedly all afternoon and figured there were problems AGAIN.
Jeff's little face was a picture of total despair and defeat. The I.V. technician was summoned and she
tried for about twenty minutes to get the needle back in. As she probed and probed to find a vein Jeff
began to scream and scream. Finally, he had had all he could take and he was begging me with his
eyes to please help him. I had had all I could take too!! I charged out to the desk and demanded that
they leave him alone for awhile. The I.V. technician was also in tears. She came to me outside Jeff's
room, pulled up the back of her blouse and asked me to feel her back. The perspiration was literally
running in streams off her back and she said, "Joan, you don't have any idea how hard it is on me to
have to hurt Jeff like this." She was an excellent technician and was a good friend to Jeff. It certainly
wasn't her fault. In fact, she had always been able to insert the needle when others couldn't. Jeff's
veins were just too used up from all his treatments.
I made such a fuss at the desk they finally called the doctor at home, and eventually he gave
the choice of I.V. again or three intramuscular shots every day to Jeff. "Huh, some choice eh?" was
Jeff's reply to this suggestion. However, he decided on the three injections per day rather than the
dreaded intravenous. I really don't know which was worse, as they gave him these shots in the top
front part of his thigh. In the middle of the night when it seemed to me he'd just fallen asleep, I'd hear
the swish of the door and knew within moments my poor little darling would be subjected to more
hurt and frustration. I'd hear the nurse say, "Now lay still Jeff. You know this has to be done." Sure
he knew, but he also was only seven years old, and a life of needles was just no fun. He'd even
whimper in his sleep like a little mistreated puppy because he never knew when someone else would
be in to hurt him. It is a terrible feeling to be in a room with your own child, day after day, and not
have any authority over what is done to him.
One night in particular, my mother had come to Ottawa with me and she was hurting inside
for Jeff as much as I was. It was about 3:00 A.M. and a nurse had come in, awakened Jeff abruptly
from a sound sleep, and jammed a needle in the front part of his thigh. The moment Jeff's scream
rang out, mom ran from the room she'd been given to sleep in, and I'll never forget the look in her
eyes. It was the look of a wounded animal. Grandmas hurt very deeply too. We both felt completely
helpless.
Mother's Day 1978 -- another day that stands out in my mind. Jamie, Mom, Jerry, and I
shared a pizza in Jeff's hospital room. He was in Isolation which meant we all had to wear gowns and
masks. What a day! We tried to appear happy for Jeff's sake, but were becoming so weary physically
and emotionally, we could hardly think straight any more. Jeff had made me a little gift, a lovely
purple flower in a little vase. He had also prepared a card with another 'love note'. I'll always
remember how over and over he would say, "Mommy, know how much I love you? Higher than the
highest cloud and wider than the widest ocean!"
At this point in time, I got on the scales and discovered I had lost thirty-two pounds. Tea and
digestive cookies were my main diet. Food just didn't taste right to me; I couldn't seem to swallow
past the lump in my throat. Jeff made quite a few comments to the effect that he did not especially
like to have a 'skinny mommy'.
Jeff hated it when he was in Isolation as he was confined to his room and wasn't able to go
to the play room. They had all kinds of toys and games and crafts there; even an old-fashioned
switchboard all set up for the children to enjoy. They could paint or model with clay. Volunteers
operated a lovely library and there were many parties and films for the kids, but when you were in
Isolation, you didn't get in on any of the fun. Also, I think the children felt safer in the play room,
because no one gave medicine, needles, or blood tests in there. The lady in charge of the play room
was a very lovely person and she would come daily to Jeff's Isolation room with toys, games, etc.
She even put up a basketball hoop over his door and hung many brightly colored pictures and mobiles
to make his room more cheery. I shared many talks with this special lady. In fact, the day I had been
given Jeff's diagnosis, she had opened up the play room for me to go in and collect my thoughts in
private, and she also shared with me that day. It really was a beautiful hospital with many dedicated
staff who really did care about others.
Another thing Jeff did not like about Isolation was the fact that everyone looked different with
masks on. He said to me once, "Mommy, I hate it when I can't see your smile". Now, I must admit,
after hearing that, there were many times I cheated and when no one was around, I would take the
mask off so Jeff would be happier. He thought this was a great joke -- mommy was playing tricks
on the doctors.
Jeff loved a rocking chair and so we manipulated until we found one for him. He'd sit right
on the borderline of his room and the hall. If he couldn't get in on the action, he certainly intended
to get as close to it as possible. Often he'd sit there with his I.V. pole attached, and he'd hand out
'speeding tickets' to tease the nurses.
One evening, while he was still in Isolation, it was injection time again, and he had simply had
all he could take. He screamed, and for the first time in his treatment, he ran away from the nurse
who was trying to give him the shot. I could not bring myself to help them hold him. Finally, I ran
from the room, fighting hysteria. I even felt like clobbering someone myself. It was just too much
to bear! I felt a great need to lash out at anyone or anything. I sobbed and sobbed uncontrollably.
Running towards the end of the corridor, I looked out on the cold, dark city of Ottawa. I felt so very
lonely, so terrified! I couldn't even seem to get my breath. Right then, I must confess, I did not even
feel I could pray and ask God for help.
A student nurse came up and put her arm around me. She tried to console me, telling me
everything was going to be all right. I felt like snapping at her, "No, everything is not all right. My
little boy may die, and he isn't even having any joy in life at this moment. It just isn't fair. Why don't
you all just leave him alone?" She seemed so very young -- what did she know about problems?
God forgive me, but that night I found it almost impossible to be nice to anyone. They kept hurting
and hurting my little one, and I could not do one thing about it. Also, I missed the rest of my family
so much. Even though Jeff and I were together, we were lonely. I also knew Jeff's prognosis was
very poor, even with the treatment, and it just didn't seem worth all the heartache. What if he went
through all of this for nothing? I had seen so many of the other children suffering from cancer die.
I really hit bottom that night.
Jeff also became very angry. He lashed out at me when I returned to his room, and together
we cried as I tried to explain to him how much it hurt me to see him so upset. It got so he would not
even talk to the medical staff, except to say, "When can I go home?" .
A couple of days later, when I returned from lunch in the cafeteria (more cookies and tea),
I discovered Jeff had dumped talcum powder in every corner of the room he could reach -- even in
the goldfish bowl. Jeff was not, and had never been, a child who was deliberately naughty like that,
and when I asked him why he'd done it, he shrugged his shoulders and replied, "Well, I figure maybe
if I'm bad enough, they'll have to kick me out of here". He was desperate enough at this point to try
anything to be discharged from hospital. I felt it was time I took a walk to try and unravel my
thoughts. I went outside and walked and walked as the tears flowed freely. Finally, I went and sat
in the car in the parking lot and poured out my heart to God. When I glanced in the back seat, I
noticed Jeff's 'Charlie Brown' pillow case. Somehow I felt that perhaps something from home might
help his loneliness at this time and I took it back to his room with me. He greeted me with a smile,
the first in a long time, when he saw his pillow, and it really did help immensely to cheer him up.
Jeff's temperature continued to fluctuate. The doctors told him he could not go home until
it stabilized. He would constantly be feeling his forehead and asked me repeatedly to do the same and
would ask over and over "Am I getting hot again Mommy?" Finally, I literally begged the doctors
to please let me take him home and see if tender loving care and being more relaxed might work
wonders. I realized that as long as Jeff was as emotionally upset as he was in hospital, it would take
a long time to bring him out of it. I promised I would keep charts recording his temperature. After
much coaxing, and I might add almost threatening on my part, they agreed to allow us to bring him
home over a long weekend. Jerry was working that particular Saturday, unfortunately, and when I
telephoned to inform him I was going to bring our boy home, he nearly jumped for joy. We found
one of the most difficult things we had to cope with concerning Jeff's illness was the fact that as a
family we had to almost constantly be separated from one another. We could hardly stand that!
It was a beautiful, bright, sunny Saturday in May. I stopped the car at a little private beach
along the Ottawa river just to let Jeff feel God's fresh breezes and sunshine on his little face. Oh the
joy he was feeling -- the beautiful smile on his face -- he was so delighted to be going home! He
wanted some ice cream and so we stopped at the Dairy Queen near home and he ordered a large
chocolate sundae. He devoured it in no time at all -- we hadn't been able to get him to eat anything
in the hospital, and I just knew that we had made the right decision in insisting he be allowed home,
at least for a few days. The doctor telephoned me the next morning to see how he was doing, and
I was delighted to tell her that at that very moment, he was out in the family room rolling on the rug
with Jamie having a great time. It was somehow imperative to me that Jeff be happy. Within a
couple of days his temperature was normal and he was eating much better.
X-rays in May were normal and his blood count continued to climb. It was so good to watch
him help his daddy plant the garden and our family enjoyed many car rides, bike rides, hikes, and
picnics, and especially we enjoyed to be once again able to worship together with our church family.