SHE WAS ABOUT TO JOURNEY THROUGH HELL
My daughter was only 11, but
You’ve had a bad feeling all summer, a nagging in your gut that something’s wrong. She looks thinner, but she just turned 11 and kids that age get taller, thin out. Yet, why is she so pale in July? Why is she tired all the time? Your husband said it was because she’d been staying up too late on her iPad, so you limited her screen time. That didn’t help. She keeps falling asleep smack in the middle of bright summer days.
You notice she isn’t enjoying her summer. She’s irritable, picking frequent fights with her younger sister. “It’s just hormones,” you tell yourself. “Eleven is a difficult age.”
You take her to the doctor for a rash and fever and you learn that she has strep. You’re relieved. Maybe that’s what it was all along. The doctor looks at your daughter’s torso — she looks right at the tiny bulge in her abdomen — but she sees only the rash. “It’s scarlet fever,” the doctor says. She prescribes an antibiotic and sends you home.
A month later, your daughter returns from a five-day trip with your mother-in-law, who insists she was fine on the trip. “I gave her tea to help her stomach,” your mother-inlaw says.
That night, your daughter admits that she was in a lot of pain during the entire train ride home. “I’ll take you to the emergency clinic if it still hurts in the morning,” you tell her. You tuck her in, kiss her forehead and go to bed with a terrible feeling of foreboding.
Maybe, on some level, you suspect this is your last normal night.
The stomach pain doesn’t go away. By morning, she’s walking hunched over, favouring her right side. You Google “appendicitis” and take her to the emergency clinic, concerned her appendix might burst. The doctor looks at her distended stomach, gently touches it and immediately sends you to the emergency room at your local hospital.
You call your husband and tell him to get backup for your younger daughter, who is eight.
“What do they do for appendicitis?” your daughter asks. Her eyes are wide with fear.
“They take your appendix out,” you respond. “It’s a really common procedure. You’ll be OK.” Based on your current level of worry, this feels like a lie.
You get to the hospital and they take her in quickly.
She gets her first IV. She hates needles, but she’s been in pain for days and she’s desperate for relief, so she submits. You watch as big tears spill down her cheeks. They wheel in an ultrasound machine and slather goo on her stomach. She giggles. You giggle with her.
They can’t get a fix on her appendix.
“Her liver is enlarged and blocking her appendix,” the attending emergency physician explains. “She’ ll need a CT scan.”
You Google “enlarged liver in a child” and learn that this can be caused by Epstein-Barr, the virus behind mononucleosis. You briefly relax. This would explain the fatigue and some of her other symptoms. This is something you can grasp. You smile and squeeze her hand. “You’re so brave,” you say. She smiles back.
Four hours pass from the time she gets the CT scan to the time the results come in. They are planning to transfer her to a hospital with a pediatric unit that is two hours away. You go home to pack a bag for both of you.
The ER attending is waiting when you get back to the hospital. White-faced, he pulls you and your husband out of your daughter’s room. Your feeling of dread returns. Continued on next page
‘SHE HAS AN ENORMOUS TUMOUR IN HER ABDOMEN,’ THE DOCTOR TELLS YOU, VOICE SHAKING. HE AVOIDS MAKING EYE CONTACT. ‘IT’S OBSCURING ALL OF HER ORGANS. IT’S AT LEAST THE SIZE OF A CANTALOUPE . ... IT’S LIKELY MALIGNANT.’
DAYS PASS AND YOUR DAUGHTER GROWS DEPRESSED. SHE CONTINUES TO LOSE WEIGHT. EACH TIME SHE STEPS ON THE SCALE, SHE WATCHES YOUR FACE. IF HER WEIGHT GOES DOWN, SHE SAYS SHE’S SORRY. SHE SAYS IT OVER AND OVER AGAIN. EACH APOLOGY BREAKS YOUR HEART.