The first signs that something was wrong occurred some time before the diagnosis. Colton's femur snapped from simple over-extension; he was desperately anemic; he frequently suffered fevers; and the lower section of his abdomen was becoming oddly distended and painful.
After a full gamut of tests, on Dec. 10, 2009, Colton was diagnosed with hepatoblastoma, a kind of liver cancer. Treatment began immediately, because the cancer was already aggressive - stage IV, in fact.
Next week, Colton begins his fifth round of chemotherapy. There is a scar on his side from the liver biopsy, and a bruised bulge over his heart, where the doctors installed a metal port to ease the administration of injections he must receive daily. If he is to survive, he must undergo several more methods of treatment and a liver transplant.
Colton Taylor is eighteen months old.
Jennifer and Scott Taylor have been married for six years. He is active duty National Guard; she works as a paramedic firefighter at Fort Carson. They tried for more than four years to have a child, and rejoiced when Jen became pregnant with Colton.
Colton was fifteen months old when he was diagnosed. The previously mentioned distention in his abdomen was a cancerous tumor so large that it had outgrown his bloodstream and begun to die in the center, causing an infection that overworked his white blood cells and resulted in anemia. Because cancer, as a rule, attacks rapidly dividing cells like marrow and hair, Colton's bones are very weak - which is why his leg was able to be broken during something as undemanding as play.
Hepatoblastoma is a rare cancer, usually only seen in children about Colton's age. Colorado Springs and Denver hospitals together hardly ever see more than two or so cases per year. At the time of his diagnosis, the cancer had already spread into his lungs, creating a collection of small tumors that are being shrunk to operable size with chemotherapy.
Soon, doctors will attempt to surgically remove those tumors. Should this operation prove successful, Colton will become eligible for a liver transplant.
"They don't even need a whole liver," Jen said with a small smile as she fed Colton yogurt with the ease of much practice, placing the spoon in his little mouth and sweeping its edge along his lip to remove the excess. It is possible that Jen herself will be able to donate a portion of her liver, which, once adopted into Colton's system, would grow along with him, though he would forever risk its rejection by his body. "He'll have to be on immunosuppressants for life," Jen explained.
Jen is tall, and spirals of long blond hair frame her face, on which res
ts a wide smile which belies the trial of her son's illness. There is a shadow, though, behind her eyes, at the corner of her countenance, a worry and a weariness, which she hides well. Perhaps it is her occupation - firehouses are notoriously closed hierarchical systems - or perhaps she is simply uncannily courageous - or maybe it's just the way in which she copes right now - or maybe it's that I still get worked up when I talk about the time when my mother had cancer, despite the fact that she's been well now for over half a decade. Whatever the reason, the blitheness and nonchalance of our conversation was almost unnerving. Had our conversation been observed on mute by someone else, we could have been talking of the weather. "I don't know anything else," she said at one point, referring to their struggle together. "He's our only kid."Scott's emotions are less well concealed. His high-and-tight and mannerisms cry military life, but there is a storm in his eyes, a silent rag
e and a raw hurt at the sufferings of his firstborn. But the lines in his face were not always so deep; it was made for an easy smile that expresses a broad heart. I saw brief glimpses of that version of Scott only once or twice, when Colton's face scrunched comically in attempts to wink. Unlike Jen, Scott keeps each stage of Colton's treatment specific and cataloged in his mind, each as much a scar upon him as on his child.The Taylors thank Heaven for the insurance Scott receives through his work for the National Guard: Colton's medical bills are being taken care of. Jen does worry, though, for his future. What if, she hypothesized, his body rejects the transplanted liver after he graduates college, when he'll no longer be covered by that insurance? How will he pay for the medicines he'll have to take throughout his entire life? Not to mention the problems they face a good deal sooner: the intentional suppression of Colton's immune system will decrease chances of organ rejection, but also eliminate possibilities like daycare or nurseries, where illnesses are likely to spread. "I just want him to be happy and grow up as healthy as possible," she said with an expression that explained that any problems after these, so early in her son's life, will be cake.
Colton is serving this year as a poster child for St. Baldrick's, as hosted by the firehouse for which Jen works. Today at 5:00 p.m., at CC's Armstrong Hall, a number of people will gather to shave their heads in solidarity with children who suffer from cancer. These soon-to-be-baldies garner financial sponsorship from their friends and loved ones, all of which is donated to research cures for childhood cancer. My sister-in-law, Jenn, and my brother, Adam, are both participants. It's not too late to participate in the cause.
Jen and Scott's needs are fairly met right now - they're grateful for the support of their friends and family, and, as always, for God's grace in their heartbreak and trial. They ask for nothing but prayer, and Colton's bright blue eyes and greenly flirtatious smile speak nothing but hope.
Thanks for listening.
Avalon.
"The monsters are real, but they're not in your dreams/ Learn what you can from the beasts you defeat,/ you’ll need it for some of the people you meet...Goodnight, Demon-Slayer, goodnight." -Voltaire
