It's no secret Dempsey has trouble swallowing pills. No matter how small we make the pieces his little tongue seeks them out, separates them from their transport solution, and hold them in his mouth. This is a failing on my part. I have not taken the time to train him on swallowing pills. Why? Because it's overwhelming. The sheer thought of working with him, getting him from failing to passing with flying colors, appears to require more strength and stamina than I currently possess. Honestly, I don't know if I will ever possess the tools necessary for such a task. Believe me, I know that I should be digging deep, deep down into the recesses of myself to summon the ability to tackle this task... however, my arms are too tired from swinning a stormy ocean, trying to keep my head above water to try and pick up a shovel to dig to a depth of unknown existence.
So, perhaps you can kinda sorta maybe begin to imagine, now, what it felt like yesterday to stare across the hours knowing that we would have to get Dempsey to swallow not just one pill... but SEVEN. Yep, SEVEN. *cue fainting spells* Granted, six of the seven were small... but still. That multiplied the mountains we needed to conquer.
I'm not an optimistic person by nature so my natural tendency is to acknowledge the good, say something positive, and then run straight into the halls of mental negativity. In those halls I play out all sorts of possible hurdles, failures, what ifs, etc. Pep talking myself is EXHAUSTING. Words of Affirmation is the absolute BOTTOM of my love languages. What do I do, then? I fake it till I make it. Seriously, I should be nominated for an Oscar. You would nominate me too if you actually saw the difference between what's in m head and what's being portrayed. I'll dust off a space for that award now.
I had dropped in little conversations about needing to take a lot of pills throughout the day so Dempsey would have some preparation time. I find it exponentially helpful to frontload my kids so they can attempt to prepare themselves and we can build trust. I hate when people lie to their children, tell them a shot or procedure "won't hurt" and then the child experiences the pain we all knew was coming. That doesn't build trust. Instead, I tell my kids there will be pain. It will hurt. But it won't last forever and I'm right here. When they pain comes, they see that I was right. When the pain leaves a little bit later, they see I was right once again. And when they see I'm right there with them, they see not only that I was honest but that their comforter is dependable.
Pill time came.
I cut every pill into the smallest pieces possible. The night before we discovered that bananas helped Dempsey swallow all the pieces with a bit more ease. So, he asked for bananas to help him this time and I obliged. I dropped the pills into a glass bowl, each one making a slight sound as it hit the glass. I sliced up bananas and then mashed them in the bowl with the pill pieces until all the pills were coated in banana essence. All the while, I'm feeling adrenaline surge through my body.
1. Is he going to be successful?
2. Is he going to be unsuccessful?
3. Will there be joy?
4. Will there be tears?
5. Dear God, will there be vomit? I can't handle vomit. I really don't want there to be vomit. Well, at least he's in the tub.
6. What if this takes hours?
7. What if he gets them down in record speed?
8. How do I encourage him? Encouraging people is exhausting.
9. I hate cancer. I hate chemotherapy. I hate not having choices. I hate this, I hate this, I hate this!
I take the bowl of mashed bananas and pill pieces into the bathroom where Dempsey is detox bathing. I also brought a cup of water for assistance, as is our custom. He took the first bit. A bit of mulling it around and down it ALL went. All of it! Pill pieces and everything!!! Hallelujah! Second bite didn't work quite as efficiently but the rest of the bites were total successes. Oh, praise God!! A thousand more positive words flow from my mouth to my baby's ears.
When I asked Dempsey, "How are you feeling?" His response touched me so deeply. He said, "... happy cry...". He was so proud, so happy, so thankful to be done (and with relative ease) that his eyes and emotions were all about happy cry.
I do believe bananas are our thing for the time being. I can live with bananas. Now I'm just praying he doesn't develop an intolerance before we get him to swallow whole-ish pills.
But now comes the recooperation period. Y'all know adrenaline doesn't just up and leave. Nope. It hangs around a little while, knocking things from their resting places just to make sure you know it's there. This phase brings the guilt of not believing this was going to be easy. The guilt of feeling like a lowsy cheerleader. The joy of it being an easy task this time. The resentment of having to do this at all. The acceptance that this is our life for the next 3 years (not seven pills per night but at least one pill every single night). The thankfulness that bananas are gold right now. The fear of him never being able to swallow pills without me or Jake present (this is scary because that means we have a curfew of 8pm every night for three years).
Just when I start to get a grip on adrenaline, fear sets in. See, it's bed time now and Dempsey has seven pills worth of chemo in his stomach. Sure, I made him drink some Aloe Vera Plus to help stave off nausea or ulcers caused by the chemo... but still. It's the first time he's had this drug in his system in pill form... that means new territory which means the potential for new side effects. Suffice it to say, I didn't sleep well. Waiting for all the possible go-wrongs.
I wake up not rested. Fearful of what awaits. I quickly start praising God when I hear a happy go lucky Dempsey in the living room. He's fine. He's happy. He's feeling "fantastico". Even now, 9:45am, he is still running around, playing with Sawyer like a normal five year old. Thank you, God!!!
Prayer requests:
Pray as you feel led- I don't have strength to come up with a list right now.
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