duncan228
03-24-2010, 03:33 PM
http://images.onset.freedom.com/ocregister/article/kzrh8p-b78621248z.120100323175414000gk5ncdsg.1.jpg
Cancer patient Casey Strale, 13, center, examines a hockey stick he was presented with Anaheim Ducks players and cancer survivors Jason Blake, left, and Saku Koivu, right.
Leonard Ortiz, The Orange County Register
Mother and father relearn power of believing (http://www.ocregister.com/articles/casey-240737-believe-says.html)
By Jeff Miller
The Orange County Register
Believe. It's what we do in sports. All the time.
We're asked if we believe in miracles. We're told we gotta believe. We're not allowed to stop once we start to believe.
But now, here's the mother of a 13-year-old hockey player, talking believe. And this, this is different.
"It doesn't matter what you believe or who you believe," Traci Strale says, "just believe in good things."
So believe in her kid, Casey, who spent five weeks in a medically induced coma, machines doing the things for him that he couldn't. Like breathing.
Four times Traci and her husband, Chris, were told this could be the end, Casey once given less than an hour to live.
Mom and Dad knew the disease could take everything. But they had to be told that the cure could take Casey's hearing and eyesight.
"I sit back and look at my son now," Chris Strale says, "and marvel at the miracle that he is."
With his one hand, Dad is fidgeting with a rubber bracelet on his opposite wrist. The words on that bracelet: "Believe The Unbelievable."
For something so powerful, belief can be awfully weak, too, fading at the first glimpse of doubt. And these parents from Irvine have been forced to stare at doubt more days than not the past seven months.
It began with exhaustion, Casey breathing hard after climbing stairs or struggling to make it through one of his roller-hockey games. Kids this age generally don't outrun their energy.
Tests revealed a tumor – first thought to be the size of a baseball but later changed to that of a grapefruit – on his right kidney. Within an hour, the Strales were walking into Children's Hospital of Orange County.
Three days later, in late September, part of the tumor broke loose and lodged near Casey's heart.
"One weekend he's playing in a hockey tournament with his buddies," Chris says. "The next weekend he's fighting for his life."
Casey already could have lost the fight. Had the tumor piece broken loose at home, it's doubtful he would have made it to a hospital in time.
Doctors now wanted to place Casey on something called an extracorporeal membrane oxygenation machine, which bypasses the heart and lungs and basically breathes for the patient.
The Strales were told the procedure could kill Casey. The other option, they were assured, certainly would kill him.
"If we had decided not to try the ECMO machine," Chris says, "they told us, 'You can go in there right now and say goodbye to him.'•"
Casey survived the procedure and the following open-heart surgery that removed the tumor part and cleaned up the mess inside his chest.
Only then did doctors discover the real enemy. Adrenal cortical carcinoma. They told the Strales their first son had a 15 percent of survival.
And this was before his lungs collapsed. And his kidneys began failing. There were concerns about Casey losing his spleen. The Strales' healthy, growing 110-pound boy suddenly was down to 70 pounds.
At one point, there were so many machines keeping him alive that Casey required two hospital rooms.
"I got mad, really angry," Traci says. "There was no way we were giving up."
She took leave from her job as a secretary at Woodbridge High. Her mother, Sandi, moved down from Bakersfield to help care for the Strales' younger son, Kyle, and for Rusty and Roxy, the family's golden retrievers.
People at the bank where Chris works began pausing midday to hold hands and pray. Casey's page at CaringBridge.com attracted thousands of visitors, one of the e-mailers being Arnold Schwarzenegger.
"It's a feeling of disbelief," Traci says. "I remember sitting there looking at him thinking, 'How did this happen? Why did this happen? He's a good kid, a good student. He exercises. He eats right. He does the right things.'"
It's a mom's right to wonder. It's her instinct to protect.
"But there were so many wires and tubes," Traci says, "that I couldn't wrap my arms around him."
So the Strales did what they could. They massaged Casey's feet. They rubbed his arms, kissed his head. They bathed him and washed his hair because at least that was doing something, something for him.
A portable stereo in Casey's room played his favorite music – AC/DC and Edwin McCain – 24 hours a day. Mom and Dad talked to their little boy, believing he could hear them but never knowing for sure.
Counselors met with the Strales to discuss dealing with the loss of a child. The parents were given a book on ways to cope and grieve and move on.
But the Strales still believed. They always believed. Nearly every one of their journal updates at the CaringBridge site ended with "BELIEVE" or "Believe!" or "We Believe!"
They believed when the chemo started doing its killing, weakening their frail son, his hair coming out in clumps, the pain crawling across his face.
They believed through the surgery that removed the remainder of Casey's tumor and during the delicate process that freed him from the ECMO machine, a procedure many patients, especially children, don't survive.
They believed on the great days in the hospital, like when Casey's kidneys started working again – Chris: "I never thought I'd pray for pee." – and on the rough nights, like when Casey's dinner was an ice shaving and the single suck of an orange Popsicle.
"Then one day, a wave came over me," Traci says. "I just felt a rush of good feelings. It washed over my body. All my pain went away. I knew he'd be OK."
On Nov. 22, Casey was discharged from CHOC. Today, he takes daily oral doses of chemotherapy and continues to regain strength. He could be back in school in a few weeks.
Before leaving the hospital, Traci returned that book the counselors had urged the couple to read.
"It was nice to give it back and say, 'No thanks, I don't need this,'" she says.
And now Casey, Traci and Chris are standing deep inside Honda Center. A door swings open and two men wearing shorts, T-shirts and layers of sweat walk into the room.
"Hi, I'm Jason," Jason Blake says.
"Hi, I'm Saku," Saku Koivu says.
The Ducks have just beaten San Jose, and it's time for three cancer survivors – and three hockey players – to share some stories. It's CHOC Night at the arena.
They aren't the first Ducks to meet Casey. Teemu Selanne spent an hour with him at CHOC back on one of his dark days. It's an hour Casey has no recollection of.
When you believe the unbelievable, gatherings like this one aren't at all hard to imagine.
Three days before all this began, Chris Strale lost his mother. Because of Casey's condition, he missed her funeral in Florida.
"That was tough," Dad says. "But we figured she had to go where she went to look over him, to make sure Casey would be OK."
If that's what the Strales believe, great for them. After their past seven months, good luck trying to convince them otherwise.
Cancer patient Casey Strale, 13, center, examines a hockey stick he was presented with Anaheim Ducks players and cancer survivors Jason Blake, left, and Saku Koivu, right.
Leonard Ortiz, The Orange County Register
Mother and father relearn power of believing (http://www.ocregister.com/articles/casey-240737-believe-says.html)
By Jeff Miller
The Orange County Register
Believe. It's what we do in sports. All the time.
We're asked if we believe in miracles. We're told we gotta believe. We're not allowed to stop once we start to believe.
But now, here's the mother of a 13-year-old hockey player, talking believe. And this, this is different.
"It doesn't matter what you believe or who you believe," Traci Strale says, "just believe in good things."
So believe in her kid, Casey, who spent five weeks in a medically induced coma, machines doing the things for him that he couldn't. Like breathing.
Four times Traci and her husband, Chris, were told this could be the end, Casey once given less than an hour to live.
Mom and Dad knew the disease could take everything. But they had to be told that the cure could take Casey's hearing and eyesight.
"I sit back and look at my son now," Chris Strale says, "and marvel at the miracle that he is."
With his one hand, Dad is fidgeting with a rubber bracelet on his opposite wrist. The words on that bracelet: "Believe The Unbelievable."
For something so powerful, belief can be awfully weak, too, fading at the first glimpse of doubt. And these parents from Irvine have been forced to stare at doubt more days than not the past seven months.
It began with exhaustion, Casey breathing hard after climbing stairs or struggling to make it through one of his roller-hockey games. Kids this age generally don't outrun their energy.
Tests revealed a tumor – first thought to be the size of a baseball but later changed to that of a grapefruit – on his right kidney. Within an hour, the Strales were walking into Children's Hospital of Orange County.
Three days later, in late September, part of the tumor broke loose and lodged near Casey's heart.
"One weekend he's playing in a hockey tournament with his buddies," Chris says. "The next weekend he's fighting for his life."
Casey already could have lost the fight. Had the tumor piece broken loose at home, it's doubtful he would have made it to a hospital in time.
Doctors now wanted to place Casey on something called an extracorporeal membrane oxygenation machine, which bypasses the heart and lungs and basically breathes for the patient.
The Strales were told the procedure could kill Casey. The other option, they were assured, certainly would kill him.
"If we had decided not to try the ECMO machine," Chris says, "they told us, 'You can go in there right now and say goodbye to him.'•"
Casey survived the procedure and the following open-heart surgery that removed the tumor part and cleaned up the mess inside his chest.
Only then did doctors discover the real enemy. Adrenal cortical carcinoma. They told the Strales their first son had a 15 percent of survival.
And this was before his lungs collapsed. And his kidneys began failing. There were concerns about Casey losing his spleen. The Strales' healthy, growing 110-pound boy suddenly was down to 70 pounds.
At one point, there were so many machines keeping him alive that Casey required two hospital rooms.
"I got mad, really angry," Traci says. "There was no way we were giving up."
She took leave from her job as a secretary at Woodbridge High. Her mother, Sandi, moved down from Bakersfield to help care for the Strales' younger son, Kyle, and for Rusty and Roxy, the family's golden retrievers.
People at the bank where Chris works began pausing midday to hold hands and pray. Casey's page at CaringBridge.com attracted thousands of visitors, one of the e-mailers being Arnold Schwarzenegger.
"It's a feeling of disbelief," Traci says. "I remember sitting there looking at him thinking, 'How did this happen? Why did this happen? He's a good kid, a good student. He exercises. He eats right. He does the right things.'"
It's a mom's right to wonder. It's her instinct to protect.
"But there were so many wires and tubes," Traci says, "that I couldn't wrap my arms around him."
So the Strales did what they could. They massaged Casey's feet. They rubbed his arms, kissed his head. They bathed him and washed his hair because at least that was doing something, something for him.
A portable stereo in Casey's room played his favorite music – AC/DC and Edwin McCain – 24 hours a day. Mom and Dad talked to their little boy, believing he could hear them but never knowing for sure.
Counselors met with the Strales to discuss dealing with the loss of a child. The parents were given a book on ways to cope and grieve and move on.
But the Strales still believed. They always believed. Nearly every one of their journal updates at the CaringBridge site ended with "BELIEVE" or "Believe!" or "We Believe!"
They believed when the chemo started doing its killing, weakening their frail son, his hair coming out in clumps, the pain crawling across his face.
They believed through the surgery that removed the remainder of Casey's tumor and during the delicate process that freed him from the ECMO machine, a procedure many patients, especially children, don't survive.
They believed on the great days in the hospital, like when Casey's kidneys started working again – Chris: "I never thought I'd pray for pee." – and on the rough nights, like when Casey's dinner was an ice shaving and the single suck of an orange Popsicle.
"Then one day, a wave came over me," Traci says. "I just felt a rush of good feelings. It washed over my body. All my pain went away. I knew he'd be OK."
On Nov. 22, Casey was discharged from CHOC. Today, he takes daily oral doses of chemotherapy and continues to regain strength. He could be back in school in a few weeks.
Before leaving the hospital, Traci returned that book the counselors had urged the couple to read.
"It was nice to give it back and say, 'No thanks, I don't need this,'" she says.
And now Casey, Traci and Chris are standing deep inside Honda Center. A door swings open and two men wearing shorts, T-shirts and layers of sweat walk into the room.
"Hi, I'm Jason," Jason Blake says.
"Hi, I'm Saku," Saku Koivu says.
The Ducks have just beaten San Jose, and it's time for three cancer survivors – and three hockey players – to share some stories. It's CHOC Night at the arena.
They aren't the first Ducks to meet Casey. Teemu Selanne spent an hour with him at CHOC back on one of his dark days. It's an hour Casey has no recollection of.
When you believe the unbelievable, gatherings like this one aren't at all hard to imagine.
Three days before all this began, Chris Strale lost his mother. Because of Casey's condition, he missed her funeral in Florida.
"That was tough," Dad says. "But we figured she had to go where she went to look over him, to make sure Casey would be OK."
If that's what the Strales believe, great for them. After their past seven months, good luck trying to convince them otherwise.