This post is part two in a series of posts about my son Jude and his fight with cancer.
Part 1 – The Day You Find Out Your Child Has Cancer
Part 2 – A Goliath Named Neuroblastoma

Once the doctors had given us a diagnosis of cancer in our son, Jude, while heartbreaking, it was also oddly reassuring. We had endured over a year of severe gastrointestinal and growth issues with him, and no doctor had been able to determine why. Now we had a diagnosis, and even though it was the embodiment of our worst nightmares, at least we knew now what we were up against. We knew what we were fighting, and we could form a plan.

For months, it was as if a phantom monster was attacking Jude. We couldn’t see it, but the evidence of its presence was with us always: Jude’s sunken eyes, the bloated, distended belly that made our two-year-old look pregnant, the limp, thin strands of hair, the constant vomiting and diarrhea. Something was obviously wrong. Most doctors seemed to think it was a strange food allergy, some protein that Jude was unable to digest, or some adverse reaction to cellulose that caused his intestinal transit to occur far too rapidly. We had tried all sorts of various diets: gluten free, dairy free, lactose free; and gone through all manner of food and protein supplements. (All of them taste horribly. Trust me.)

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This post is part one in a series of posts about my son Jude and his fight with cancer.
Part 1 – The Day You Find Out Your Child Has Cancer
Part 2 – A Goliath Named Neuroblastoma

We had gone to the hospital, like so many other times before, to consult with a team of doctors and have more testing done. We knew in advance this time would be a little different. The plan was for our two-year-old son, Jude, to have a CT scan done and possibly admit him into the children’s hospital for a day or so in order to monitor his eating and bowel issues closely and try to pack some weight on him. It wasn’t the most convenient time to be planning a multiday stay at the hospital. My wife Ashlie was 8 ½ months pregnant with our second son, and I was afraid that he might be born any day. But we knew our lives were only going to become more hectic after he was born, so we were taking care of things now.

For over a year, Jude had been struggling with severe gastrointestinal distress. He had a small appetite, and suffered from constant diarrhea. As first-time parents, we were understandably alarmed. Jude was checked out by our pediatrician, who then referred us to the Gastrointestinal Clinic in the hospital, the same hospital where my wife was employed as a pediatric ICU nurse. Although they couldn’t pin down exactly what was wrong, they were pretty sure it was simply a bad case of “toddler’s diarrhea” or possibly a hard-to-diagnose food allergy. And so this dance went on: we’d visit the hospital and meet with a team of specialists who would recommend new diet restrictions and feeding schedules in order to isolate the problem, and after a few weeks of seeing no change we’d come back and meet with a new group of specialists who’d make their own recommendations. Nobody seemed terribly alarmed, and so we tried to not be neurotic parents and trust the doctors knew what they were doing.

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