back into our lawns, just waiting to soak in the golden rays of sun. It's the season of jasmine floating like an aphrodisiac in the air around us, tempting our nostrils to lead us to its origin. Bees buzzing, birds flocking, the geese returning to the lake outside our house where Phin will inevitably shout "The geese are home!" as they honk their arrival, their feet skimming across the shimmering water, their bodies a chorus of shhhhhooooshhhhing into the lake as they come to a rest atop it for the next few months, delighting us with their cackling nighttime honking. Spring is the season of hope and rebirth.
For us, Spring is also the season of trauma. The season Phin was first diagnosed and treated for cancer in 2022, and the season he relapsed in 2024. That first Spring, Phin had begun soccer season--running up and down the field, laughing and kicking, before withering as the season really got started until he could do nothing but stand in the goal, clutching onto the net, halfheartedly trying to block the ball. Soon after, he spent that first Spring in the hospital, hunting Easter eggs, celebrating his sister's First Communion from the inside of the hospital playground, hugging her in her lacy white dress through the iron bars of the newly painted black gate. He spent last Spring in the hospital, too, only this time, unable to attend preparation for his own First Communion--a setback that would deny him his own communion a year later, still hunting Easter eggs in the hallways, watching the newest addition to the Children's Hospital be built in what was once the parking lot, eventually fighting E. Coli before moving onto Atlanta for his bone marrow transplant.
When Spring comes, Dustin and I pull our collars a little tighter against the chill of our anxiety, watch Phin a little closer--are his lymph nodes swollen, are the symptoms he's displaying common for the kind of virus he seems to have caught, is he paler, eating enough, sleeping too much? We inspect his body for bruises or bumps. We wince at parallels: the baby Phin found in the King Cake on Epiphany this year, just as he did in 2022; his request to return to Mathnasium. It has been almost a year since I sat outside Mathnasium in my car, watching him through the window as he bounced up and down in his seat, excitedly earning more tickets toward a giant parrot stuffie he'd been saving for for months. I watched him through tears, holding the phone in my hand having just learned that our fears of his relapse were confirmed despite how healthy he looked, how full of life he was there before me.
If we seem distracted, on edge, snappy, cold, or aloof, just know: Spring is the season of trauma for us.
While the transplant he had is curative in nature, a transplant isn't a guaranteed cure and spring is closing in.
Phin's liver enzymes continue to improve, leading his medical team to believe it was a viral spike that caused them to rise so drastically.
However, he has also been working through a virus for the last two weeks. The first week started with a sore throat, followed by a fever. The fever seemed to dissipate. He was tested for strep (negative) and we were told not to give him any OTC meds unless it climbed to above 102.5. It did rear up again and brought with it a cough, but never broached the 102.5 degree threshold. After a full week of varied temps, he was finally better, but the cough persists. His bloodwork this Friday (Jan. 17), despite the cough, looked great and Phin was given full clearance to return to school (I'll get back to that part).
His Atlanta team has also suggested weaning us down to once-a-month visits with one visit being in Savannah and then the next being in Atlanta. This would put Phin's first Savannah visit in February--a triggering scenario since he was diagnosed with relapse here in Savannah in February of last year. Dustin says he has prepared his spirit for this, and that he will do that which needs to be done; simultaneously sparing me and gifting me time to get ready to eventually do the same.
Phin on the Daily
Phin made his triumphant return to the ice skating rink this year (he was taking lessons when he relapsed last year; it's also probably where he caught whatever virus he's (hopefully) nearing the end of), AND he got to spend three glorious hours playing with his friends, lovingly referred to in our home as The Playground Six. The Playground Six is the group of friends from school last year who Phin used to play with every day at recess. He'd often come home and tell me about the group and their antics--what they'd played, who agreed to play, who broke off to play something else. One friend has truly been a touchstone for Phin this entire last year--FaceTiming him and playing video games whenever they both were able. I once asked him if he wanted to call other friends to talk with them as well, and he responded "I don't know if you know this, Mama, but not all first graders are good at conversation." We have been grateful for the friend who FaceTimes, plays video games, and offers "great conversation" all year, and are grateful for his mom for setting up the three-hour playdate.
Phin has also been given medical clearance to return to school this week. Yes, you read that correctly: THIS WEEK. As in, the possible Snowmageddon in the Lowcountry Week! His return date will be determined by the weather, but if it's good--he'll be back in the classroom on Tuesday, just in time for the 101st Day Celebration! He noted the irony of this--"It's their one-hundred-and-first day and my FIRST day at the SAME TIME!" He will begin with half days—some mornings, some afternoons—as he builds his stamina back up. He returns armed with a flu vaccination. The rest of his childhood vaccines will be repeated in the coming months.
I would be remiss not to give CHOA's Education Advocate (and hospital teacher), along with Phin's team at Tybee Island Maritime Academy (TIMA) a LOT of credit here for navigating an impossible situation. CHOA is phenomenal. They are practiced, precise, and incredibly organized. They sent medical clearance, suggested re-entry information, and accommodations that made planning for his transition almost like following a blueprint. TIMA--who does not require the same kind of expertise in transitioning medically fragile children back to the classroom--has been equally proficient. One of the most endearing parts of Phin's plan this year has been TIMA's determination to find a way to connect Phin to his new classmates (he will enter back into school as a first grader, which is also where he left off; it is my hope that this decision allows him to enter back in as a high-achieving first grader rather than a struggling second grader) by FaceTiming him twice a week in small groups to establish a social-emotional connection. Special shout out and thanks to the principal, assistant principal, counselor, and--most importantly--his first grade teacher for bending over backwards to include him and make sure he had everything he needed--from an academic, social, and emotional standpoint.
Winter was beginning to transition to Spring when Phin was abruptly removed last year, and will be preparing for Spring again when he returns. Phin's re-entry doesn't just mark his transition back to school, but his return to his actual classroom with the same teacher who, when asked what supplies I should send when he comes back, responded by telling me: "I have his seat sack on his chair still and a morning journal, supply pouch..." While the underline and bold on the word "still" are mine, with that word emerged a vision of her first grade classroom, his chair untouched through the end of last school year; her classroom dark and emptied out over the summer save for his lone chair with a blue seat sack still heavy with the nubs of Phin's half-used crayons, stale pencils shaved and blunt, once-pink erasers smeared dull by lead--reminders of the unfinished year; I envisioned that same room filling up again in July with bright new faces, unwrapped seat sacks stretched over all the empty chairs, the smell of fresh wax from unused crayons wafting from their boxes, children bustling around the one desk that remained, that empty seat waiting vigilantly almost an entire year for Phin to return and rummage through its pouch yet again.
And this week, he finally will.
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