It's been 11 days since we last sat down to reflect on our journey. It has woven us through a tapestry of trials and triumphs, much like navigating the uncertain paths of an impenetrable forest. Today marks 7 weeks and 4 days into Owen's battle with Leukemia, which has taken everything we thought we knew about strength, resilience, and hope and reshaped it into something more profound.

The road has been arduous, punctuated by sheer terror and boundless joy. We've weathered the storms of blood and platelet transfusions, the bitter taste of chemotherapy medications, and the physical invasions of PICC lines and Ports into Owen's tender veins. Mood swings and cravings have become the unpredictable weather of our lives as we navigated a weeklong hospital stay, a temporary retreat to a hotel, and finally, a semblance of routine from the confines of our home.

Then, 36 days into our ordeal, a clearing appeared in the dense forest: Owen was officially in remission. This news, a beacon of hope in the relentless darkness, was a moment of profound relief and renewed determination. Remission was not the end of our journey but a precarious ledge overlooking further challenges. Like finding a dirt road while surviving the Amazon rainforest, we were grateful yet wary of the path ahead.

The subsequent days brought changes as swift and unpredictable as the currents of a mighty river. Owen's transition to a new oral medication marked a significant turn. The steroids that once fueled his hunger were replaced, and his appetite waned, though we kept a vigilant watch over his hydration. Miraculously, his spirit, once subdued by illness and treatment, began to rekindle. Owen started walking again, engaging with his toys, his laughter a balm to our weary hearts.

Our return to Portland for the second of three lumbar chemotherapies was a testament to our newfound resilience. This treatment, a critical strike against the remnants of Leukemia lurking unseen, was also the first time Owen's port was accessed—a procedure that, thankfully, went smoothly, a stark contrast to the trials that lay ahead.

The following days settled into a routine, precisely why we've paused the daily updates; the semblance of "no news" mistakenly feels like "good news" in our world. But tranquility is often a precursor to turbulence. On Tuesday night, Owen developed a fever, a precursor of the ordeal. Our swift journey to Riverbend, driven by urgency and fear, marked the beginning of one of our most harrowing experiences.

We reached Riverbend at 7:15 pm, expecting swift, competent care. Instead, we were ensnared in a maddening vortex of incompetence. The initial snag was their bewildering inability to determine the needle size needed for Owen's port—a detail that should have been readily available in his chart. Once resolved, the absence of the necessary equipment was the next hurdle, delaying treatment further as an orderly scrambled to procure it from their stockpile.

By 8:15 pm, the situation deteriorated when nurses struggled to access Owen's port, displaying unsettling ineptitude. Their approach was nothing short of brutal. Clamping down on the port with the finesse of a vise grip, they inflicted excruciating pain on Owen, triggering his tears and screams. Witnessing our son's agony and fear was heart-wrenching, a stark contrast to yesterday's port access.

The ordeal continued for three blood-boiling minutes before we intervened, challenging their technique based on our prior observations. Yet, their reassurances were hollow; the needle was improperly placed, rendering it unusable. The suggestion to remove the adhesive buffer as a fix was futile and further traumatizing for Owen.

Reaching our limit, we demanded a halt. We consulted with the ER doctor, whose assurances that "we access ports every day" rang hollow, especially considering Owen's age. His attempt to downplay the pain, citing an absence of nerves beneath the device, was both ignorant and insulting, ignoring that there's nerves in Owen's skin, which is why we placed numbing cream 45 minutes before the access was attempted.

Faced with the decision to either continue this nightmare or seek care back in Portland, we demanded an IV in Owen's foot as a last resort to manage his fever, forbidding them from attempting another port access. This decision, made at 9:30, led to yet another excruciating wait. The numbing cream applied a half-hour later was the prelude to a further forty-minute delay for the IV insertion.

For Owen, the stakes are highest when fever grips him. It's absolutely crucial to peer into the very essence of his blood work immediately, to guard against the treacherous collapse of his immune system. The golden rule, mandated from Doernbecher Children's Hospital, dictates a swift response: blood must be drawn within an hour of the fever's onset, and treatment must follow within the next. Yet, in a glaring display of negligence, Riverbend Hospital's care faltered miserably, despite our oncologist speaking directly with them. Three agonizing hours slipped away before they even managed to draw his blood. And then, adding insult to injury, it was another excruciating hour and a half before they administered the antibiotic. The delay was not just a failure in timing; it was a stark manifestation of incompetence, a clear endangerment of Owen's health.

This experience was not just traumatic; it was a glaring indictment of their failure to provide timely, competent care that children being treated with Leukemia require. The critical window for drawing blood and administering antibiotics, essential for assessing and managing Owen's feverish immune system, was egregiously missed. This wasn't just frustrating; gross incompetence subjected Owen to unnecessary pain and risk, compounding our fears and leaving us to question the local healthcare we rely on outside of Doernbechers.

The sight of Owen, terrified and in agony, will haunt me forever. It was a stark reminder of the vulnerability that comes with this fight, underscoring the disparities in care and the importance of expertise and empathy in treatment. It was a night of painful lessons, advocacy, and anguish, starkly contrasting the care we received at OSHU Doernbecher's, a haven of healing and compassion.

This Monday marks the beginning of our final chapter in the lumbar chemotherapy trilogy, a journey we've navigated together with resilience and hope. As we step into this concluding round, we commit to sharing weekly updates, promising to bring you closer to each moment of progress and any unforeseen turns. We recognize the outpouring of concern and curiosity from each of you, desiring to walk this path alongside us. In response, we're introducing daily micro-updates via email, an intimate bridge between us and you, our cherished circle of support. Your unwavering encouragement wraps us in a blanket of strength, for which we are deeply grateful.