Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SATURDAY, May 26, 1990 TAG: 9005260017
SECTION: SPORTS PAGE: B-2 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: LOWELL COHN THE SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
Bedrosian puts all of his strength into that whisper, and he hopes Cody hears and understands. Cody Bedrosian has leukemia, and he's fighting bravely for his life - and he's only 2.
"I can't cry in front of Cody," Bedrosian tells himself, although he and his wife, Tammy, have done their share of crying. To cry in front of Cody might make the boy afraid, might weaken his will to fight. So instead, Bedrosian whispers in Cody's ear at night and prays to God for help. He never asks God why He has done this to Cody. Bedrosian acknowledges that there are things he never can understand. He merely asks for the strength to cope.
Last autumn, Cody was a beautiful, healthy, normal boy. Bedrosian would cheerfully tell himself that Cody had "that Bedrosian blood," which meant he was a tough little guy formed in the image of his father, one of the most fearsome relief pitchers in the major leagues. Then, last November, Cody became ill, and his lymph nodes swelled. The doctors thought he had pneumonia and prescribed antibiotics. The swelling went down, and Steve and Tammy Bedrosian felt relieved and got on with their lives.
Then during spring training, Cody's left forearm swelled up as if someone had inflated it with a bicycle pump, and his right shoulder became so sore he would shudder if anyone touched it. Something was terribly wrong.
The Bedrosians took him back to the doctors, who thought he might have juvenile rheumatoid arthritis. Just to be on the safe side, the doctors said Cody should have a bone-marrow biopsy. It was no big deal, Bedrosian thought, just good, careful, conservative medicine. He thought he heard someone mention the word "leukemia," but frankly he didn't know much about the disease, and anyway, leukemia was something that happened to other families.
The night after they had done the bone-marrow biopsy, the doctors informed Bedrosian that his son had leukemia. Bedrosian felt "devastated" - that was the word that kept coming to his mind, although "devastated" seemed so weak for what he was feeling. He couldn't find a word to describe his anguish. He kept telling himself that leukemia meant instant death, and then his mind would reel at the enormity of his pain.
Bedrosian knows more about leukemia now, and he has hope. Ten years ago, Cody would have died in about a month, but medical science has come a long way in treating leukemia in children, and Bedrosian hopes - no, it's stronger than that - he's sure Cody will make it. Bedrosian has been told it is a good sign that they caught the disease before it spread from Cody's bone marrow to his blood. Doctors say a child with leukemia is out of danger after five years, and Bedrosian is counting the days. Bedrosian has established a fund in Cody's name for leukemia research.
He loves Cody more now than he used to. It's odd for him to admit that, because he never thought it was possible to increase his love for his son, which had seemed limitless. He also loves his 4-year-old son, Kyle, more. And he feels closer to his wife.
He lately has come to understand something about the preciousness of life - and its fragility. He finds himself hugging Cody and kissing him and doing the same to Kyle. He tells himself not to let the moment pass because, eventually, all moments pass and you're left with nothing.
Sometimes, he feels emotionally torn. The medication makes Cody moody, and Bedrosian tells himself, "I'm supposed to discipline him." Then Bedrosian will ask himself: "How can I send him to his room now? What if something happens later on, and I've done that to him?"
Cody does not understand about leukemia or death or fear. He thinks every 2-year-old gets injections in his spine and undergoes chemotherapy. If you ask him, he probably will tell you his brother Kyle went through the same routine when he was 2. Bedrosian considers Cody's limited understanding a blessing and hopes his son eventually forgets what he has endured.
The doctors tell Bedrosian that Cody's hair will fall out because of the chemotherapy. It will happen all at once. One morning, Cody will wake up and his hair will be spread on the pillow. To ease the shock, Bedrosian has cut Cody's hair short already, and Cody doesn't mind.
In a sense, Kyle has suffered more. He's seen the worry in his parents and noticed their strained voices and how, sometimes, they stop talking when he walks into the room. For a while, he thought they loved Cody more than him, because his brother always got the balloons and the parties and the presents. Now Steve and Tammy make sure to treat both boys the same - which is to say, they make a fuss over both of them.
Bedrosian pulled into his driveway a few nights ago and found Kyle pacing back and forth.
"What are you doing?" Bedrosian asked.
"I'm praying Cody doesn't get sick again," Kyle said.
Bedrosian pulled his son to him. If Kyle were older, Bedrosian might have told him praying was a fine thing to do. Sometimes, we are visited by tragedy. We don't know why. But we hope. We endure. We pray.
by CNB