Simpson Andy and the Warriors of the Fourteenth Floor

Life, Death, and the Stuff Between
1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 979-8-31781098-6
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 452 Seiten

Reihe: Andy and the Warriors of the Fourteenth Floor

At ten years old, Andy told his mom that she needed to tell their story: 'I've seen you writing in your notebook. Cancer is scary, but I think we've done a good job. A book would help people not to be so afraid.' Andy made his mom promise. Armed with her son's courage, a journal reflecting three years of hospital life, medical procedures, and family stories, this memoir was born.

Penny Simpson was born in Hollywood with a love for the movies and a passion for travel. As she grew up, she found herself drawn to the beauty of Vancouver, Washington, and her grandfather's cabin in the Mt. Hood National Forest. She and her husband currently reside near Mt. Hood National Forest with their immediate family close by. Her love for the movies has never waned, nor has her passion for travel. She adores getting lost in a good book.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Simpson, Penny

Leseproben

Decreasing Possibilities

Andy’s voice seeped through the mist of sleep. “Mom!” I lay there a moment, hoping it was a lingering dream . . . knowing better. I put on my robe.

Lord, please, no pain. I know, Thy will be done. Please let it be your will that there is no pain.

Andy’s teeth were clenched in agony, sweat pouring off his body.

“Be right back, Panda. Hang in there.” I returned with pills and ice packs. I didn’t care that it hadn’t been four hours since his last Tylenol II. He drank the whole glass of water with his pills, and I applied ice to his armpits and the back of his neck. His cries stopped when the ice became water. Throwing the melted packs back in the freezer, I grabbed three more. I stroked his wet hair until he fell asleep, then headed back to bed.

“How’s he doing?” Ken searched my face. My husband had this ability to sleep through anything: ringing phones, crying babies, even 7.1 earthquakes. Early in our marriage, I’d feared I wouldn’t be able to wake him during an emergency. That fear had vanished.

“It’s his neck again. The last couple of weeks have been like clockwork: fever and pain twice a day, every other day. Two Tylenol IIs every eight hours on the bad days. He would at least be able to sleep. Now this. It hasn’t been four hours. These medications aren’t working!”

Ken pulled me close. “They’ll figure it out. Dr. Fuchs will figure it out.”

After Ken fell back asleep, I slipped out of bed and checked Andy. Asleep, his face no longer shined with sweat, and his damp hair had dried.

I looked around his room. His Darryl Strawberry poster kept a watchful eye on him. A half-made card maze lay on the carpet, to be completed the next time Luke, Andy’s best friend, came over. After his hamster died, Andy decided on a white rat, and the boys loved to watch Dirt II race through the road maze to the finish line.

Superman, The Joker, and other DC Comic action figures were piled up in the corner, and books about bugs and snakes lay on top of his desk. I quietly closed the door.

Protect him, Darryl. I’m counting on you.

The clock read 5:25: too late to go back to sleep. The kids would be getting up in a little more than an hour. I put on a pot of coffee, and added two extra scoops, hoping for the healing power of caffeine.

By the time Will and Ben came into the kitchen, I had pancakes cooked and I had showered and dressed. Their mouths hung open when they saw I wasn’t in my robe.

“Andy had a bad night,” I explained. “He’s comfortable now and sleeping.”

Will’s brow creased. “Did you find out if Andy has Lyme disease?”

“No. The lab test ruled that out. Andy’s being tested for arthritis tomorrow.” I tried to keep my voice light.

“I thought only old people got arthritis.” Will picked up his books, heading for the door.

“Me, too. Dr. Fuchs will find out what it is.” I hoped I sounded more convinced than I felt.

Ben put a forkful of pancake in his mouth. “Does he get to stay home again? You never let me stay home.”

“Trust me, Ben. He’d love to be going to school. He hurt pretty bad last night.”

“Doesn’t seem fair.” Ben drained his milk and stood up.

“It’s not fair that he’s hurting, or that you have to go to school and he doesn’t?”

Ben thought for a minute. “Both.” He put on his coat and grabbed his lunch.

My brain remained fuzzy after two cups of coffee. I poured another cup and grabbed the phone. The clinic opened at 7:45. Dr. Fuchs returned my call within minutes. He said not to worry about the extra Tylenol II, but to make sure I came into the clinic after the visit with the orthopedist. I called the school and told them Andy would not be attending that morning or the next. I then called Chopsticks and told David, my boss, that Andy would be coming to work with me.

The rest of the day passed quickly. When we got to the restaurant, I made up a bed for Andy in a back-banquet room with my old quilts. He slept and read during my shift, bolstered by food. Every half hour, a cook would enter the back room with plates of chicken wings, fried rice, and Shirley Temples. Andy’s gait and neck were stiff all day long, but the medications kept his pain at bay into the evening. I’d learned not to forgo his bedtime Tylenol, and miraculously he slept through the night until seven.

The orthopedist appointment revealed little. The discomfort in Andy’s hips, under control from the extra Tylenol II, allowed him to walk, bend and stretch as told. I asked the orthopedist what he thought, and he said he would send his notes and findings to Dr. Fuchs immediately. The doctor’s face, devoid of expression—smile or frown—contrasted against Dr. Fuchs’s demeanor and reminded me that I’d only been around pediatricians the last few years. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

I took in the change in Andy while waiting to see Dr. Fuchs. I’d given him his meds at noon, but his fidgeting betrayed him. He moved between building Lego towers and reading. His coloring remained pasty, and the circles had deepened under his eyes. When genuinely pain-free, the twinkle in Andy’s eyes and his impish grin could be seen. Within the last few weeks, those moments had become rare. He looked worn.

Dr. Fuchs’s brow furrowed once we’d come out of the exam room, leaving Andy to sleep. He stared at the paperwork in his hand.

“The orthopedist says our kid doesn’t have juvenile arthritis. There’s no sign of swelling in his joints. I’ve scheduled an MRI for his pelvic area and another for his neck. They are both set for tomorrow morning. That’s our best diagnostic tool at this point.”

He paused. “I think we should get Andy in to see a pediatric oncologist. There is a great one at OHSU, Dr. Robert Neerhout. He’s brilliant. Andy’s still uncomfortable, so I’ve added a prescription for Methadone to his Tylenol II. One tablet every eight to twelve hours.”

I’d searched for answers in library medical books, pouring over pages into the night, desperate to discover my son’s illness. I knew what an oncologist was. I hoped I’d misheard him.

“What’s a pediatric oncologist?” My voice caught.

“A doctor who specializes in childhood cancer.”

I received a call at home from Judy later that afternoon. Andy’s appointment with Dr. Neerhout was set for Monday, six days from now.

The boys were in Andy’s room playing Mario Brothers. I slipped outside to the backyard, walked all the way to the enormous fir at the back fence, stepped behind it, and wept.

I missed Mom. She’d died on February fifteenth, three months previously. The loss still raw, the essence of her strength and warmth remained. One of her sayings repeated over and over in my head: hope for the best, prepare for the worst. After over two months of watching Andy’s pain increase and become more frequent, my hope for the best had diminished to a shadow’s flicker.

I came from a family of educators. My mom, dad, siblings, and two grandparents were teachers. We were taught knowledge is power and that learning is the lifelong questioning of all we know to be true.

The library and its books had left me only more confused. There seemed no truth to question. My best asset, to problem-solve, had vanished, and this inability to deduce Andy’s illness left me feeling hopeless. This would not help my child. Ineffectiveness was not an option.

Okay, Mom, I’ll try. Maybe the MRI will solve the mystery. Hope for the best.

I leaned against the tree, hidden in its silence, wanting more.

My answer arrived in my family roots. The Presbyterian church represented the last piece of the jigsaw puzzle of our family. By the time my ancestors arrived in America, in 1735, Princeton University had added history and non-religious literature to their curriculum for future ministers.

By the time my grandfather completed seminary in Auburn, New York, his education included biology, government, the vast literature and poetry of the times, and world religions.

On boarding the ship for missionary work in Siam, my grandfather was warned, “If you don’t respect the religion of the people you will be serving, you show disrespect for them. Build schools and open the world of knowledge. Faith will follow.”

Darwin did not cause my grandfather’s faith to falter, and reading the Koran did not weaken his resolve to minister to the mountain people of Thailand. Knowledge enlightened but required service to those things that were personal: faith and grace.

When a door is closed, God opens a window. Open the world of knowledge. Faith will follow.

I walked back into the house armed with my family history, picked up the phone, and called my brother. Greg insisted he and Carol, his wife, would meet us at OHSU for Andy’s appointment with Dr. Neerhout the following week. I didn’t argue. It meant they would miss work, but I needed family right now.

The methadone prescription Dr. Fuchs had added helped. Andy’s pain resided in one hip only. He limped but didn’t wince. I called the school and advised...