Oreo was our grey and white pet gerbil that died today. Oreo was our first real pet, and Coleson's primary responsibility. We were all saddened on Friday when Oreo just wasn't acting normal. He had been running around his ball in the kitchen while Coleson cleaned his cage. Oreo had been there all day and when Coleson went to put him back in, he was limping and shaking. I don't know what happened, but I read online that it is normal for old aged gerbils to have seizures. The seizures don't cause any pain, but you could definetly tell that Oreo was not well, when he just let you hold him and did not run away. Brian was flying home from Billings during all of this, and he called Coleson right when he got off the plane. Coleson was in full tears at this point, and Brian did his best to make things better. We said a prayer for Oreo and everyone that loved him. Oreo had two previous neighbor owners, so we figured he was close to 4 years old, which is very old in gerbil years. We had our tears and remembered the good times. Coleson taught him to run in the hampster ball. It took about a week of slightly moving the ball everyday to try to teach him to do it himself. He was too fat for a normal wheel to run in. Lately he had been getting very picky about eating and only picked out the good stuff from his mix, like sunflower seeds and banana chips. I don't blame him for not wanting brown pellets and seeds that look like they should be for birds. I guess having an extra day before he died was nice because Coleson has already started to talk about getting a lizard today. On Friday when Coleson was in panic mode and we were trying to decide how to help Oreo, not thinking he was going to die, I said it's interesting how Ammon was doing so good and maybe Oreo was taking a turn to have Ammon's seizures. Coleson said, "I wish we could all do that for Ammon, take a day, except not on a school day."
On a happy note Friday was a turning point for Ammon. For the past two weeks he has cried and slept a lot. He had chemo on Monday which did not involve a lumbar pucture, which meant one less chemo and no steroids. He still spent most of the week crying hard when he woke up, but then calmed when you held him until he fell asleep again. He did that cycle every one to two hours during the day and night. Then on Thursday night he had one of his fave friends hold him while I put the kids to bed and he slept so well. On Friday we had some other wonderful neighbors come over to help and he was so happy all day, I hardly held him, just talked and tried to get him to hold things and respond. Yesterday, and even better today, we got him to laugh and shout out. It's so nice when he responds again. He actually did a cute little yell in the middle of the night for me to change him, instead of a 9-10 on the pain scale yell/cry. It made me smile and not even care that it was 3am. Today he went in his walker and walked for about 10min, took a bath, played on his stomach-which he gets to do about once a month. It was such a good day! We go back in on Tuesday and start steroids again. We will savor tomorrow. He still has mouth sores, but everything else seems good. His seizures have increased some, a few petit grand mals at night, but again have been better over the weekend. The doctors are continually impressed by his condition. They said this week he would have a 50% chance of his blood counts falling and becoming feverish, but so far so good-just nobody sneeze.
Things that make Ammon happy:Brynn reading to him
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Brave Like Ammon...
Chemo days stink. They really really stink! That’s intentionally meant to be really really bad grammar. Just the phrase “chemo days” is enough to depress an otherwise perfect day. I sometimes think that most things that are rough, and that are repeated again and again, should get easier as I become more accustomed to it. Sort of like exercising and working out really stinks for the first month, but then as the routine builds and the muscles strengthen, even if the thought of working out hasn’t become easier the actual performance has. That line of logic doesn’t seem to apply to chemo, and quite literally seems to be the complete opposite.
I don’t look forward to chemo days, I dread them for days before, and pray for their rapid passing once they’ve arrived. I’ve tried, but I still can’t imagine what our strong Ammon goes through. I’m not entirely certain he knows and understands when a chemo day has arrived when he wakes up on those mornings, but that realization surely hits him hard on that first chemo night. Yesterday was a chemo day after a two week break in the schedule. Yesterday’s ‘chemo day’ involved a couple different chemos, a lumbar poke, and large dose of steroids. He was also scheduled to receive the PEG chemo again, but gratefully we asked and it was not administered (the PEG is what necessitated a life flight trip, 6-weeks in the hospital, and the most painful recovery yet in Ammon’s cancer journey; so no thanks to the PEG).
Most times when Ammon goes in for chemo, I’m sure in many instances he recognizes the hospital, the doctors, the equipment, the procedures, and the resulting pain. Yet he continues to be our brave little boy. He generally doesn’t cry out or become inconsolable while at the hospital. In a truly sad yet inspiring way he simply submits to the painful lifesaving treatments that must be administered. Ammon has developed a very high threshold tolerance for pain, and that fact alone makes me exceptionally sad at times.
But the counter to that sadness is the joy I feel in simply knowing and being near Ammon, and experiencing with him all the miracles and blessings. His strength in the face of such afflictions is an inspiration to me. It’s interesting, but one of Ammon’s favorite things to do is ‘read the paper’. ‘Reading the paper’ usually entails wrinkling it, shredding it, throwing it, waving it, and sometimes playing peek-a-boo with it. Some days when Ammon’s at the hospital waiting for his next treatment, he’ll be laying on an examination bed with the white paper underneath him. This is the best kind of paper, and Ammon knows it. In what is generally a difficult thing for Ammon to physically do, he’ll reach behind him and under him and start shredding and playing with the paper. Summer will sometimes text me a picture of Ammon having a blast with the paper and include a message of “Dad, doing great, and loving the paper!”
When I get those messages I feel strengthened and inspired by Ammon’s undaunting bravery. Through his actions, I can see him saying to me, “Dad, I know this place, I know what’s about to happen, I know how it’s going to make me feel, but I’m gonna make the best of a really bad situation. Dad, don’t you know that they have the best crinkly paper around!” There are lots of places other than the hospital receiving chemo treatments that I’m sure Ammon would rather be, but sometimes the right place to be is not the same as where we want to be.
There’s so much I’m learning from Ammon and expect to continue to learn. Yesterday at the hospital, Summer saw Cecily, one of Ammon’s favorite nurses from the PICU. It’s been a couple months since we’ve seen Cecily last, but she still draws strength from knowing and serving Ammon. She told Summer that she keeps in her room Ammon’s badge and remembers to be ‘Brave Like Ammon’. Ammon has proven, in every way, that his level of bravery is one that we should all aspire to.
I don’t look forward to chemo days, I dread them for days before, and pray for their rapid passing once they’ve arrived. I’ve tried, but I still can’t imagine what our strong Ammon goes through. I’m not entirely certain he knows and understands when a chemo day has arrived when he wakes up on those mornings, but that realization surely hits him hard on that first chemo night. Yesterday was a chemo day after a two week break in the schedule. Yesterday’s ‘chemo day’ involved a couple different chemos, a lumbar poke, and large dose of steroids. He was also scheduled to receive the PEG chemo again, but gratefully we asked and it was not administered (the PEG is what necessitated a life flight trip, 6-weeks in the hospital, and the most painful recovery yet in Ammon’s cancer journey; so no thanks to the PEG).
Most times when Ammon goes in for chemo, I’m sure in many instances he recognizes the hospital, the doctors, the equipment, the procedures, and the resulting pain. Yet he continues to be our brave little boy. He generally doesn’t cry out or become inconsolable while at the hospital. In a truly sad yet inspiring way he simply submits to the painful lifesaving treatments that must be administered. Ammon has developed a very high threshold tolerance for pain, and that fact alone makes me exceptionally sad at times.
But the counter to that sadness is the joy I feel in simply knowing and being near Ammon, and experiencing with him all the miracles and blessings. His strength in the face of such afflictions is an inspiration to me. It’s interesting, but one of Ammon’s favorite things to do is ‘read the paper’. ‘Reading the paper’ usually entails wrinkling it, shredding it, throwing it, waving it, and sometimes playing peek-a-boo with it. Some days when Ammon’s at the hospital waiting for his next treatment, he’ll be laying on an examination bed with the white paper underneath him. This is the best kind of paper, and Ammon knows it. In what is generally a difficult thing for Ammon to physically do, he’ll reach behind him and under him and start shredding and playing with the paper. Summer will sometimes text me a picture of Ammon having a blast with the paper and include a message of “Dad, doing great, and loving the paper!”
When I get those messages I feel strengthened and inspired by Ammon’s undaunting bravery. Through his actions, I can see him saying to me, “Dad, I know this place, I know what’s about to happen, I know how it’s going to make me feel, but I’m gonna make the best of a really bad situation. Dad, don’t you know that they have the best crinkly paper around!” There are lots of places other than the hospital receiving chemo treatments that I’m sure Ammon would rather be, but sometimes the right place to be is not the same as where we want to be.
There’s so much I’m learning from Ammon and expect to continue to learn. Yesterday at the hospital, Summer saw Cecily, one of Ammon’s favorite nurses from the PICU. It’s been a couple months since we’ve seen Cecily last, but she still draws strength from knowing and serving Ammon. She told Summer that she keeps in her room Ammon’s badge and remembers to be ‘Brave Like Ammon’. Ammon has proven, in every way, that his level of bravery is one that we should all aspire to.
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