Saturday, May 1st, 2021

 Day 1 - Imaging Day

It was Saturday. 

A day full of tears and concern and dismay. We had no idea what we were up against, nor did we have any idea of what his prognosis may be. Now that we know something is there, doctors needed to start imaging it in order to verify what it was that had found its way onto Declan’s right side. 

What we had originally come to the hospital in the first place became a secondary concern. Declan was on a feeding plan; nutritionists have a plan for him to “catch up” in his weight… but we didn’t care about that. What good would his weight gain be if we didn’t have a baby to cuddle afterwards? We couldn’t think like that. Trying to tell ourselves to take things one day at a time, but the mind constantly races. What will our job prospects look like? How will home life change? Will either of us be able to hold a job due to his treatment schedule? Will we need to sell our house? Move? In the middle of our 6-month old’s cancer treatments? There wasn’t enough information to make any decisions, nor should such decisions be made in times of crises until the smoke clears and the dust settles. We were moved to the 7th floor… the Oncology floor. This is where every cancer patient or patient with a blood disorder was housed for inpatient or even outpatient procedures. 

There were more rules for this floor (for obvious reasons) and Jen and I had just relocated in this same hospital for the 4th time (8th floor, PICU, 8th floor, now 7th floor), though it seemed this time, it would be for the long haul. Declan’s doctors signed him up for a CT scan which was a challenging thing to keep him happy for. While holding his arms straight up towards his head, I watched Declan move in and out of this donut shaped imaging machine, all while wearing lead to limit my exposure to the radiation that was now piecing Declan’s body. While that imaging was only a piece of it. 

Later in the day we were met with the Oncology Fellow and Attending Physician where we pointed out to the team that Declan’s mobility in his legs had decreased. This seemed to alarm the two and an immediate MRI was ordered. It was unclear whether or not an MRI could be performed because it was Saturday, and it may not have been possible to get any type of sedation for little Declan to sit still long enough for an MRI, so we figured we’d give it a shot and see what happens. 

After stripping down to basically nothing but a hospital gown and some socks (as MRI’s require NO metal present), I took Declan down to this room. Inside we stood by metal detectors to see if we were attractive (we were not… magnetically speaking) and were then shown into this secluded room with one window to the technicians and a large circular, donut shaped machine that was constantly humming and had a rhythmic knocking sound. Towards the back of this dark room was a soft glow of pulsing light that ranged from blue, then shifted to red, then a yellow, a green, then back to blue. A rainbow effect of soft light that silhouetted this behemoth of a machine. The technicians squeezed down some small ear plugs and placed them gingerly into Declan’s tiny ear canals. Then they outfitted him with a DJ style headset to reduce the noise he was about to experience. I also was given ear plugs and a headset, that I outfit myself with in my near naked state. Declan was then swaddled with blankets and strapped down to the bed that would slide in and out… this is where he passed out. Little man was so tuckered out by the CT scan, all the poking and prodding, and physicals he was subjected to, that this MRI room was the perfect napping place (save for the abundant noise to come). 

I was sat in a chair just a few feet away from the machine, outside of a red taped zone (presumably the “danger zone”) and given a button. This is a button normally patients would push in the event of a problem, but as I was slightly more coordinated than a 6-month-old, I was given the reigns. I did not even know what to watch for. He lay still on the slab, I presumed he was fast asleep. The first part of the procedure lasted around 15 minutes. 15 LONG minutes of loud clunks and clanks, beeps and buzzes, mechanical screams and whirs. Finally, it stopped. As I sit, slightly nude on a plastic chair, I look back as the deafening silence continued to fill the room – yet the background noise of the MRI machine hummed and knocked like a clock. An enthusiastic thumbs up from the technician, then reciprocated by myself identified that the first half of the scan had gone well. Declan had remained still enough to capture the images necessary to better care for him, only now it was time for contrast. 

Prior to being swaddled and strapped, his IV was accessed by the technician and a syringe of contrast material stood ready to be administered so the second part of his scan could proceed seamlessly. After squeezing the plunger of liquid through my son’s body, the tech scurried back behind a safe of walls and windows while I sit, continued, in any absence of sound – me left to my own devices to watch my son be subjected to the constant noise and prattles of the machine yet again. 5 minutes go by. 10 minutes go by. Not a peep… no movement. I lean over to peer into the claustrophobic tube they had placed Declan in, and saw no sign of distress. I don’t even know if I would be able to hear any crying at this point. Just then, movement. OH NO. We were so close! He almost made it! The technician did say they could wait out his movements and try to get some good images, but his squirming continued. What was I supposed to do? Hit the button? I nervously looked back towards the window to see the technician, no eye contact. No movement on their end. I look back towards Declan who is still seemingly wriggling around like a caterpillar attempting to metamorphosize into a butterfly. 

Just then the technician walked into the room. 

“Oh crap” I thought, “No good images were obtained, he’ll need to go through all this torture again, only this time sedated.” 

Nope. All thumbs up and excitement from the technician. Once Declan’s slab was pulled out, he still lay there still, eyes closed, fast asleep… and a little sweaty. The technicians shared words of encouragement at how good a 6 month old had done in the MRI without sedation, and had wished how even their teenagers didn’t do as good as he did. 

As proud as a pappa as I could be, I started my long… pantsless journey back to our room to finish out the day and put another moment of this nightmare behind us.