Suite 514
Be somebody who makes
everybody feel like a somebody.
----------------
It's hard to live in the midwest, least of all Iowa, and not know of Carson King. The sign toting individual asking for beer money to his Venmo account, who later raised millions of dollars for the University of Iowa's Stead Family Children's Hospital. This isn't a Carson King story. Sorry if that's what you came here for. It is a story about the kindness and good in the human spirit.
As a parent, no one wants to think about the harsh realities life can and sometimes does deal. The pain of assisting a child through an illness or, worse, losing a child to that illness or tragedy is not a reality I'd ever want to face. Every three months for the past two years, I have entered Suite 514 at a local children's hospital with daughter of the year #1. When I first entered that door, I was not prepared for what I would see on the other side.
Suite 514 appears as a very non-descript door where I can only imagine many miracles happen as it is the home of Pediatric Oncology and Hematology. A place adorned with beautiful artwork, a receptionist that I swear literally glows, nurses who make you feel at ease with a glance, and award-winning doctors. When your child is sick, the kind of sick where you must seek the best care possible, this is the type of place you want to be. We see those harsh realities playing out in front of us. Some very sick kids who should be worrying about which game to play at recess and not whether or not their latest cancer treatment will work. I see moms who on the outside give every appearance of being put together. But I know on the inside are full of anxiety, worry, and a passionate determination for their child.
I can't ever claim to know what that is like and I never will. We are lucky. While daughter of the year #1's condition is chronic, it is not cancer. Hematologists work tirelessly to discuss solutions to #1's Immune Thrombocytopenic Purpura (ITP), a blood disorder that results in an extremely low level of blood platelets. Our first doctor, while full of good intentions, brought with him a significant amount of fear. We were new to this and completely uneducated. We didn't even know the right questions to ask. I do know we lived in a new state of fear that was very unhealthy for all of us, when at the root of all of the information presented to us was good intentions.
I still worry. Until recently, I had no idea how much #1 worried in comparison. She is taking a creative writing class this year (yes, I'm super proud). Recently, she was to do quick creative writing pieces, each with a topic beginning with a letter of the alphabet. What would be hard for most, was not for her. As I listened to her words, I realized the fear we had inadvertently instilled. The bubble she wished to live within for nearly a year. How difficult it was to get her to exist outside that bubble that really never was. I can never know, but is this what it is like for a mom with a child with a life-threatening illness? I'm sure they'd give anything for that bubble.
Right now, we leave Suite 514 with more "wait and see" prescriptions than resolutions, but I will take it. It's easy to with doctors you trust. We don't see just one doctor anymore. We see any doctor that is available when we are scheduled. It's oddly comforting to know a team of doctors is speaking about your child's health during a regularly scheduled point in time and strategizing next steps. Sure, we've heard of the trials and risky surgeries. We've done none of them because we haven't been forced to make that decision.
We fully know none of this care and treatment wouldn't be possible without the research that goes behind it. Research that takes money. Money that sometimes must come from generous donations. Donations that someday could mean the difference between life or death for someone. So, from one mom who visits Suite 514 far less than many others, I'm grateful for the ripple effect of random acts of generosity. I hope there are many more to come. After all, our kids deserve it.
As a parent, no one wants to think about the harsh realities life can and sometimes does deal. The pain of assisting a child through an illness or, worse, losing a child to that illness or tragedy is not a reality I'd ever want to face. Every three months for the past two years, I have entered Suite 514 at a local children's hospital with daughter of the year #1. When I first entered that door, I was not prepared for what I would see on the other side.
Suite 514 appears as a very non-descript door where I can only imagine many miracles happen as it is the home of Pediatric Oncology and Hematology. A place adorned with beautiful artwork, a receptionist that I swear literally glows, nurses who make you feel at ease with a glance, and award-winning doctors. When your child is sick, the kind of sick where you must seek the best care possible, this is the type of place you want to be. We see those harsh realities playing out in front of us. Some very sick kids who should be worrying about which game to play at recess and not whether or not their latest cancer treatment will work. I see moms who on the outside give every appearance of being put together. But I know on the inside are full of anxiety, worry, and a passionate determination for their child.
I can't ever claim to know what that is like and I never will. We are lucky. While daughter of the year #1's condition is chronic, it is not cancer. Hematologists work tirelessly to discuss solutions to #1's Immune Thrombocytopenic Purpura (ITP), a blood disorder that results in an extremely low level of blood platelets. Our first doctor, while full of good intentions, brought with him a significant amount of fear. We were new to this and completely uneducated. We didn't even know the right questions to ask. I do know we lived in a new state of fear that was very unhealthy for all of us, when at the root of all of the information presented to us was good intentions.
I still worry. Until recently, I had no idea how much #1 worried in comparison. She is taking a creative writing class this year (yes, I'm super proud). Recently, she was to do quick creative writing pieces, each with a topic beginning with a letter of the alphabet. What would be hard for most, was not for her. As I listened to her words, I realized the fear we had inadvertently instilled. The bubble she wished to live within for nearly a year. How difficult it was to get her to exist outside that bubble that really never was. I can never know, but is this what it is like for a mom with a child with a life-threatening illness? I'm sure they'd give anything for that bubble.
Right now, we leave Suite 514 with more "wait and see" prescriptions than resolutions, but I will take it. It's easy to with doctors you trust. We don't see just one doctor anymore. We see any doctor that is available when we are scheduled. It's oddly comforting to know a team of doctors is speaking about your child's health during a regularly scheduled point in time and strategizing next steps. Sure, we've heard of the trials and risky surgeries. We've done none of them because we haven't been forced to make that decision.
We fully know none of this care and treatment wouldn't be possible without the research that goes behind it. Research that takes money. Money that sometimes must come from generous donations. Donations that someday could mean the difference between life or death for someone. So, from one mom who visits Suite 514 far less than many others, I'm grateful for the ripple effect of random acts of generosity. I hope there are many more to come. After all, our kids deserve it.
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