Biopsy Results

Joy had her bone marrow biopsy on December 9th. It would take a few day to get the results, but soon we would know if the chemo was working. From her labs, it appeared things were going in the right direction, but the biopsy would tell us if cancer was still wreaking havoc in her body or if it was disappearing.

While we waited for results, we tried to enjoy a week without any appointments on the calendar. But just two days later on Friday, December 11th, Joy developed a fever. Any fever in a child with cancer is almost automatically a hospital admission, so we packed some bags, dropped the boys off with my parents and headed up to Comer. 

Because of Covid, the hospital wouldn’t let Jordan even in the building. He dropped us off and then tried to wait in the ER lobby—nope. Tried to wait in the hospital lobby—nope. Asked if he could stay in the room with us *if she were to get admitted—nope. He went back outside, parked the van in a parking garage, and waited for me to tell him what was going on. 

Joy and I got situated in a room. While ER doctors were running tests, my phone rang. Preliminary biopsy results were in. 

With Joy laying on my chest, I heard the words we had been praying for, “We still need to confirm with Johns Hopkins University, but Joy’s biopsy from Wednesday is showing no disease left in the bone marrow. An MRD value of .0001%. We will call you Monday to verify, but we wanted to share some good news.” 

With tears streaming down my face and no Jordan around to hug, I quietly said to the oncologist, “Thank you for calling. We needed some good news. We’re in the ER now actually.” 

At one point the ER doctor came in and saw me crying on the phone, and I said, “Can I have a few minutes? This is actually a good call.” He graciously backed out of the room.

I talked for a few more minutes with the oncologist and then hung up. I hugged Joy and thanked God for hearing our cries. I then called Jordan. 

After spending a few hours in our van in the parking lot, he finally decided to go home. He would pick us up whenever Joy was discharged. Covid adds so much more stress to everything. 

Anyway, Joy’s arm started to look worse from where her picc was inserted. A picc is a peripheral inserted catheter that is used for her blood draws, iv, chemo, etc. The fever may have been caused by an infection near her picc, we’re not quite sure. She was admitted and given more antibiotics. 

The next day her arm looked even more red and she complained of it hurting. I hated that Jordan couldn’t be with us. She kept crying to go home. Asking for her daddy. I couldn’t even use the bathroom without her freaking out because once I closed the bathroom door, she realized she was alone in the room. The last hospital stay, the bathroom became a safe place. It was a place I could go to pray and cry and FaceTime with friends without having Joy see me so upset. This time the bathroom was a place I only tried to use when she nodded off to sleep or for a few moments at a time so I didn’t have to leave her side. 

Around 5 p.m. on Saturday, they made the call to pull her picc. It was clear she was uncomfortable and something wasn’t right. Thankfully, it’s an incredibly easy procedure, but they only wanted someone from the intensive care unit who was trained in doing it to remove it. So we we waited another two hours until someone was able to come up. Joy’s port surgery was scheduled for the following week, so we we knew that she’d get a few more “pokes” in her arm until the port was in place. I’ll spare you the details, but let’s just say those “pokes” were pretty rough. 

We were discharged around 7 pm and happy to be headed home. I was grateful to be leaving because the next day was my mom’s birthday and I wanted to be able to see her on her special day. 

My mom's birthday lunch was wonderful and sweet. We had Chilis takeout and special cupcakes from a local bakery. All my mom wanted for her birthday was a good report on Joy’s biopsy and it appeared she might get what she (we all) wanted so desperately.

The next day was Monday and we waited all day for our phones to ring. Early in the evening, we got the call. The hospital confirmed Joy was in remission. Happy tears all around! 

I feel like up until Joy’s diagnosis, whenever I heard someone was in remission, I thought, “Great, the cancer’s gone, treatment is pretty much over, and life can get back to normal.” Not so with childhood leukemia. If treatment stopped now, chances are extremely high the cancer would return. Joy must endure two more YEARS of chemotherapy to make sure all leukemia cells are gone—including the ones that could be lurking and not detectable on any test. Think of it like we've taken care of the weeds. Now we must treat the soil so it stays healthy.

But instead of dreading the long road ahead of her, we stopped and celebrated this huge biopsy victory. What started out as a terrible weekend ended up being just fine. More than fine, actually. We could all catch our breaths for a minute and soak up the news that Joy is one step closer to total healing.