Tumor Toby

Photo Credit: https://stjosephgrafton.org/marian-art/

Toby was born in 1924 with IRNS (idiopathic recurrent neoplastic syndrome). His father, Heath, called it tumor tantrum. When they left the hospitals, all the doctors and nurses claimed the lumps on his left leg and mid back were nothing more than simple swelling—bruised up from the birth trauma, they said. Before the boy was a month old, more lumps developed on the front of his neck and his forehead. The neighbors began to talk. Toby began to cry. The pain got so bad that Polly, his mother, kept the dryer running around the clock so there were always fresh, warm blankets to swaddle him in. It was the only way he could sleep, wrapped in a hot towel and laid on his left side where there were no tumors. 

A year on, the family was in medical debt that they would never pay off, but they had bought their four letters: IRNS. Somewhere along the way, the specialists at John Hopkin’s discovered that morphine was slowly killing Toby’s liver, so they switched to a new, experimental drug called Frolampa. It was developed and prescribed quite liberally in Russia in the aftermath of the first world war, mostly to dull the pain of shrapnel to small or deep to extract from the soldiers returned home. It was great for long-term use but never approved by the FDA and never tested on babies. When Toby’s parent’s learned they could get it for free by entering him in a clinical trial, Toby became the first infant to ever receive the drug. It was a radical success; the pain, at least, was gone.

The tumors by now covered every inch of little Toby’s body, even encroaching on his eyes, ears, and mouth. They were technically non-cancerous and mostly small, grape size at most, but they were so numerous that every organ was compromised to one degree or other. “Another 6 months without surgery, 12 months with it,” were the doctor’s exact words to Heath, Toby’s father. Without meaning to, he visualized life without Toby. He saw himself flicking on the light of the nursery in the morning to find his Toby pale and rigid. He saw himself taking the crib apart. Throwing away the little blue shirt Polly loved so much to fold. 

All this set a deep loathing in his heart, and he knew he had a choice to make. That night, he told Polly he would give Toby his Frolampa drops and that she should go to bed. She gave him an exhausted hug of appreciation and trudged off to bed. Heath set the unopened vial on the armoir, turned off the light, and watched Toby in his crib by moonlight. Restricted though he was, Toby could still smile and thrash about as little babies do when excited. He did this for a while, staring at his father’s face, hoping to be scooped up. When he wasn’t, Toby began playing with the sheets and gnawing on the crib rails. Eventually, he began to fuss. Health picked the baby up and bounced him on his knee, humming their goodnight song. The baby’s eye’s fluttered shut. Still, Heath only stared at the child in his lap, counting the tumors and the minutes until he woke again. Without Frolampa, it was only a matter of time. When he did awake, Toby was crying in earnest, this time from the pain just as he had planned. Time to go.

Heath shuttled him out of the house wearing nothing more than his pajamas. If any of his neighbors had seen him or heard the baby, they probably would have called the police. But none did. Half running, he made it to St. Gianna’s Catholic Church in less than 5 minutes. Toby’s howling was amplified in the empty church, and it echoed down the dark, stoney corridors, into the nave, and right to the altar. Never stopping to genuflect, he marched toward the crucifix hanging above the golden tabernacle, the baby extended out in his arms. 

“Do you hear the cries of your creation?” he shouted above Toby’s wailing. “Have you tasted his tears as I have?”

He stopped, panting in the dull, red light of the sanctuary lamp. Toby was thrashing now, trying everything to break free of his swaddle. 

“Answer me!” he cried. “What sin has he committed, and why have you, the God of tender mercy, thrown the first stone?”

Just then, Toby broke free of his swaddle, but his thrashing was no longer aimless. He was throwing his full weight in the direction of a white marble statue to their left. Heath noticed it for the first time as Toby successfully swapped a finger around one of the statue’s outstretched hand. In a moment, Toby was fully embracing and being embraced by the Mother Mary. A tear came from the statue’s eye and fell on Toby.

Then a bright light consumed the whole scene. Heath blinked awake. Polly was standing over him in the nursery, embracing Toby just as Mary had been a moment ago. Too dazed to understand her reprimands for falling asleep with the baby in his arms, Heath simply stared at the two of them. Polly’s frown evaporated as she uncovered Toby’s head from the swaddle. Even from where he sat, he could see Toby’s smooth face smiling up at his mother.