The Young Daughter came home from the hospital Friday afternoon, none the worse for wear. After a few hours to get re-oriented, she was back up to full speed. She was in rare form at dinner, making up for lost time by applying a week's worth of torture on her big brother. (He's an easy target.) In short, all is well.
What they didn't come home with Friday afternoon was answers. These "episodes" she has are not common with her malady. We've rung up a doctor back in Texas, who originally diagnosed the Young Daughter back in 2001. This doctor is now in possession of all the records and is presenting the case to her colleagues next week. We expect to have an answer then, and we expect the answer to be low-dose chemotherapy to attack a couple of small lesions on her cerebellum. In the process, hopefully, it might zap a couple of optic gliomas, too.
This is not at all the worst-case scenario. Chemotherapy is no walk in the park, but I'm assured it's not near as bad as it used to be. The problem here is, though, as I write this, nobody's sure it's going to work. It might be a situation where we're "trying" chemo, the same way you'd "try taking a Motrin" if you had a headache.
But sometimes, all you can do is try. We're trying now to take this one step at a time. Right now, everybody's home. The Wife is two hours away at a dog show, her first time out of the Young Daughter's sight in a week. This is a good thing, for all involved. At 10:16 a.m. on Saturday, Nov. 5, we're having a "normal" day. That's all that matters right now.
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