November 5, 1997

Fifteen years ago this morning I boarded a plane at the local airport bound for CHLA with my daughter, Cienna.  This would be her first MRI appointment since the scan in spring that detected extra ocular retinoblastoma.  After a difficult few months of chemotherapy that would assault her small body followed by four grueling weeks of radiation, Cienna was beginning to have energy and strength.  The treatment had weakened her so much and turned her skin to such a pale color.  She had curly blond hair and was so excited about it. I felt hopeful and optimistic when we boarded that plane together.  We left behind R and F for the trip.

We arrived at CHLA and  headed to radiology and went through the process of getting the MRI completed. In some ways these trips were like seeing old friends.  After spending three years in and out of this hospital you build relationships.  I didn't have to wait long for the results.  I was on friendly terms with the radiologist.  While Cienna recovered from sedation with the nurses, the radiologist hung the scans and looked at them with me right there on the spot.  What would come out of his mouth rocked me to my core.  I can still here his words echoing through my mind.  "Her eye looks great.  What concerns me is all of this..." as he points to spots on her brain.  It took me a minute to realize what he was telling me.  More was said to me and then he immediately left to go call the oncologist with the results. I left to make a phone call.

I can remember making my long distance call from a pay phone in the hospital's waiting area to give R the results.  I had to call him at work.  First, question for him was the same "How is her eye?" only to have me tell him "The eye looks great, but there is a brain tumor." This was the worst phone call I have ever made.

Cienna awoke from sedation.  As I looked at her she had no symptoms.  She felt great.  The process of her metastatic retinoblastoma would be explained to me in more detail later.  I could not grasp how she was bouncing back and was just handed a death sentence the two did not match.  Words that would later echo in my ears would be the oncologist telling me at the rate of presentation he estimates "three months." I could not imagine, nor could I actually grasp what was said to me. The doctor would be correct... she would die at home February 5th, 1998.  November 5th was simply the beginning of the end.  Cienna's clock was literally ticking down and every minute counted.