Cassidy Violet Whitney

This page has been made to keep you updated on Cassidy's fight against Leukemia. Cassidy was diagnosed on January 28, 2002 with type ALL Leukemia. She finished her treatment on August 2, 2004. Please let Cassidy know each time you visit!

Journal

Tuesday, August 2, 2005

**New photo of Cassidy as Flower Girl at Uncle Bobby and Aunt Tiffany's wedding.**

I am a member of a special club. No one choose to join this club. I speak a language that only a few understand—doctors, nurses and other members. We speak in codes, can fill out a chart faster than a nurse and know exactly how many steps are in each hallway. Our “D” is diagnosis day. We never speak of the 4-lettered “C” word (cure) but only 5-lettered “C” words (cancer). We secretly pray for a cure but never say it out loud.

Our timeline is based on before or after diagnosis, whether or not our child had hair, or which hospital admission. We can dictate off with precision the date of each major procedure, surgery and any reactions whether our child had them or not. We remember each roommate and where they were at in their treatment. And, we always look for them in clinic. Every visit brings us to the photo wall to see if our friends have made the milestone of end-of-treatment.

The feeling of being given the diagnosis feels as real today as it did when we were given it. We know what it feels like to have our breath taken away. We know the sinking feeling in our stomachs when a fever starts, blood counts are too low or when we have to tell our child they can’t go visit Santa. We know the wide-eyed look of a new diagnosis and the look of bad news.

Bald is beautiful becomes our mantra. We know how to tell if someone is wearing a wig. We have been known to ask complete strangers to donate their hair to “Locks for Love.” We know that the healthy looking 4 year old is really in a stroller because she is too tired to walk. Staring at a bald head is only polite when they have painted or drawn on the back of it.

We can tell you exactly how many minutes it will take to get to the ER and know what it feels like to be escorted there. By touch, we can tell you when a fever has reached the 100 degree mark and can dial the on-call doctor’s phone number in the dark. Each of us swears we can tell blood counts by the color of blood and how fast it flows. Scarily, we are always right.

Composure is a thing of the past. Tears flow freely in the halls but laughter is our favorite. We teach other patients to IV pole surf. We know where the ramp is and how fast we can run, ride, and slide down it. We search the internet for others with the same diagnosis and pour our hearts out to complete strangers.

We have been awakened at 2 am to a hungry child on steroids. We can list every item in the refrigerator and the cupboards by heart and know that every item is going to get us a more emphatic “NO!” We have called friends at 11 pm to get bagel chips and cream cheese because our neutropenic child cannot go into the grocery store. We know to wait until Wednesday night to make spaghetti because our child won’t want to eat it until then and that it will become the only thing they will eat for the next 2 days.

Visits to the clinic come bearing gifts. We bring toys to fill the toy closet because we remember the especially hard treatment and the nurse letting our child pick out two toys instead of one. Freshly baked treats are the only thanks we can give a staff that have given us so much—our child.

Memory fails on phone numbers and our own name but not on the drugs our child is on that given day. We can spell and pronounce words that make the pharmacist stop. We remember our heads spinning the first day but can’t remember what life was like before cancer.

Each of us has been surrounded by and up-lifted in prayer. We know that God is listening and wish we knew His plan. “God understands” becomes our petition when we miss another Sunday or forget to thank God for another day with our child. The phrase, “He loves your child more than you do” doesn’t make sense until you are here.

People tell us to our faces that they are impressed with our strength. We all know they breathe a sigh of relief that it isn’t their child. We don’t hold a grudge. We wish it wasn’t our child.

I am the parent of a child with cancer. There isn’t a secret knock to get into our club. Please don’t look for an invitation. There are all already too many people here.

Julie Whitney, 2005

This is our last journal entry. Thank you for following us on our journey. God Bless. The Whitneys

Read Journal History

Hospital Information:

The Children's Hospital of Oklahoma, The Jimmy Everest Cancer Center
940 NE 13th Street
Oklahoma City, OK 73125

Links:

E-mail Author: whitfam1@sbcglobal.net

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Note: The foregoing information was authored by the patient, parent or guardian, or other parties who are solely responsible for the content. Such announcements or their content are not necessarily endorsed by CaringBridge, Inc. or any sponsoring agent.  This information does not confirm that anyone is or was actually a patient at any facility.