Memories of Max - A Father's Story

Chapter 10 - Transplant

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The depression disappeared. It was not relieved but Max passed into a deeper world where the concept of depression has no meaning. Within a week the chemotherapy started to show its true colours. The true colours were white and black, brown, green and red. These were the colours of the various bodily fluids which were abnormally excreted in one form or another.

Max was being subjected to the full gamut of symptoms. You are briefed, it is all clearly spelt out to you and you can ask questions at any time to quell the anxieties. The Doctors do their best but yet again you are never really prepared.

The chemotherapy had started to strip the lining of Max's intestinal tract. His mouth was completely white and ulcerating. This was also an indication how the rest of the mucal membranes in the gut and bowel were reacting to the drug. He had been vomiting for some days, but the type of vomiting he endured now was different. The spasms were causing internal bleeding which led to the presence of blood and green bile and also coffee grounds. Coffee grounds are dark brown stains which indicate dried blood and the extent of the internal bleeding. There was nothing to retch because he could not drink or eat. Max was permanently on an intravenous food supplement. His stools were no longer stools but a black mess of dried blood and mucus. They remained that way for over two weeks

It was desperately painful to watch this scrap of a child contorting into the foetal position while trying to retch up nothing but mucous, blood, sputum and bile. He would clutch his stomach trying to stem the pain from the convulsions. I felt so bloody helpless watching this ghastly gagging wretch and seeing the tears silently rolling down his cheeks.

This was his own private hell. So desperately did we want to help but he had passed beyond the grasp of our understanding. He would not let us cuddle him, hold his hand or even offer words of sympathy as he suffered these wretched spasms. This was in a world that even the closest could have no part, no empathy, no comprehension.

When he wanted no intervention, we gave none. I would sit by silently waiting for him to signal that the retching was over and then I'd clean him. After it was all over he would let me stroke his legs or head. This carried on for ten days with him regularly retching one or twice every hour. Nursing him was exhausting, but I have no conception of how it felt to go through this torment. Sometimes he coped magnificently but most of the time he did not cope at all but just endured. He had no escape. He did not have the option of saying "I've had enough, let's stop now".

Max became a distant and lost ghostly bloated wraith, an awful shadow of his former self. Sara and I tried so hard to help him but he was in another world. It was a world which we could sometimes break into and steal a smile. For us a single smile made the difference between a good and bad day. We so wanted to make a difference and to somehow help our poor son through this torture.

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