They say agriculture is your blood. I believe this is 100% true. I can't think of how many people suddenly decide to work 18 hours a day to cope with the volatile Mother Nature and unstable salary. This sounds like a tempting middle-aged career transition.
No, the 2% of the people who feed the world have a bit of sweat, dirt, and silage, and a thick, deep red liquid that flows through pale blue blood vessels. It begins at the moment when God weaves them intricately in the mother's blessed womb. I feel qualified to make these remarks because I gave birth to a farmer.
Max Omer Tilderquist came to this world like a real farmer. He did it his way, and then showed it the way he wanted-the sunny side. No doctor will tell him what to do. Once he is capable, he will wear boots, overalls, and anything John Deere.
His first voice was that of Johnny Popper, and when he actually spoke, it was because he had important things to say. When I couldn't let him settle down, Max would go around the tractor with his father a few times, and then he would be put to sleep immediately. When this small seventh-generation farmer had to go home to take a nap, the strength of two adults was able to buckle him on the car seat.
When Max was 3 years old, we finally moved to a 165-year-old family farm. I was so nervous that he would sneak out to help Dad, and I almost installed a lock on the door that he couldn't reach.
In his own way, my toddler would leave notes on my bedside table that he went to the farm to do housework. By the time he was 4 years old, he could support John Deere Gator better than me. The kindergarten was nothing short of torture for the worker. He firmly told his principal, “I will not go back to class. Dad needs my help. I am a farmer anyway.” After many tricks, he finally went back and became a farmer. An excellent student.
When the school and learning part is over, everything has to do with the farm. Max soon started milking cows, driving anything with an engine on the farm, and helping with housework. He is his father's right-hand man. By the time he was 10 years old, life looked pretty good. Until it is not...
In the summer of 2018, Max and his siblings (Maggie 12, Hank 11, Jack 10) showed the Mavericks for the first time for 4-H. What's wrong, I can feel it in my intuition, because as a mother, this is one of our superpowers. My eldest son is not suitable for me. His color is not as vibrant as my other three, and he did not sweat in the scorching heat of July.
He sits around, a lot, if you know farmers, you will know this is a huge red flag. So, when we got home and the show was over, I quickly made an appointment for him. The blood test confirmed our worst nightmare. In addition to sweat, dirt and silage mixed with this little farmer's blood, there is cancer.
We traveled 50 miles to Rochester, Minnesota, and walked into St. Mary's Hospital for the first time among many people. Max was diagnosed with chronic myelogenous leukemia. This is a type of cancer that can usually only be detected by a blood test of a much older person. This is not the typical cancer that a 10-year-old child is told to have.
We laugh at the sarcasm, because of course, our "old soul" son will suffer from a very rare disease of his age. After two weeks of hospitalization, we went home and only needed to receive chemotherapy pills every day and a relatively normal life. The word "easy" is usually not related to cancer, but in our case, it really is.
I will never forget the conversation between Max and me, shortly after we got home from the hospital. I told him that he has two options: take chemotherapy pills every day for the rest of your life, or have a painstaking bone marrow transplant. He replied without hesitation: "Mom, I am going to undergo transplantation. I don't want the restrictions imposed by pills, because one day I will farm." One of the biggest decisions in our lives is to do it in a few seconds. Out. That is very different from farmers!
The most ideal donor candidates are family members, because the host will more easily recognize these cells. 10 out of 10 matching (with the same organization type) siblings are the best. Max was lucky to play that game against his second brother Hank. His 8-year-old brother doesn't even need to consider whether he wants to.
"I want to save my elder brother's life!" Hank said, proudly puffing up his small chest.
Max is lucky, his family also has two other partial games, his father and his youngest brother. I think this is God's way of giving us the green light. We are indeed moving forward at full speed.
The two boys underwent rigorous testing at the Mayo Clinic to ensure that they are both healthy enough to accept such a major medical job. They all passed the transplant operation date with excellent results, which is June 28, 2019, which is almost a year after painfully adding the word "cancer" to our family's vocabulary. We are ready to delete this terrible word and say it again.
The bone marrow transplantation went very smoothly. Honestly, this is a bit disappointing. No one hurried across the corridor with a red cooler like in a medical drama. The nurses just hung the bag on the IV rack, and Hank's dazzling donor cells entered Max's depleted body.
About 5 days before the operation, the patient received conditioning chemotherapy to completely reduce it to zero. This prepares their bodies to eagerly accept new healthy cells. Hank extracted his cells earlier that morning and joined his brother after he recovered from the ordeal.
Throughout the process, both boys performed very well. Hey, they are kids on the farm. Of course, they did it! I even used farming to decorate Max's ward. His toy tractor was lined up on the windowsill, pictures of our farm were nailed to the wall, and Camp sent some inflatable cows and other decorations. Cards, letters and gifts were sent from 4-H clubs and farmers from all over the country. What an amazing community to be.
We were finally discharged from the hospital to Uncle McDonald's house so that we can get close enough to the hospital and return to normal again. The rest of the children joined us, but the father had to stay on the farm. It is really difficult to separate, because when you are a farm family, you are used to working together, often together. We are very grateful because everything went so smoothly and everything went according to plan. Everyone is so optimistic.
When Max was born, he never cried during our hospital stay. I thought I won the "new mother first prize" until we went home. Then the screams didn't seem to stop. This exact same scene seems to be staged again.
Generally, 100 days after the transplant, you are very safe about anything really sinister. Well, for Max, this is when everything really starts. He developed the main complications of bone marrow transplantation. It is called GVHD, or graft versus host disease. This is an immune condition that occurs when immune cells from the donor tissue attack the host's own tissues. We are not prepared for this because we are a perfect match.
I can't even begin to explain all the damage this disease brings and all the scars it leaves as a twisted souvenir. It affected his skin, eyes, mouth, and worst of all-his lungs.
In the next two years, Max and I went in and out of the hospital more than I thought. If I list everything that happened, every diagnosis and prognosis, I can now write a whole book.
There have been too many times, I yelled at God and shed tears in anger. I begged and begged the doctor to save my son's life. I have been trying to defend him. Despite these terrible experiences, I have never felt closer to God, and I have never seen him work in such a magical way. We will never forget all the amazing people who helped us along the way.
So, let's skip to the good part. Max's journey is far from over. The future is very uncertain, and we are still waiting to see how his body will recover. He wears constant oxygen and must sleep with a BiPAP machine. But Max is still there. He completed most of our field work and was the driving force behind this operation. His will to fight and move on surprised everyone who knew him. We are proud of our eldest son. Max means "the greatest". It suits him very well.
This morning, I am very grateful for my coffee, made exactly the way I like it. I am very thankful that I had a good night's sleep in my bed. I am very grateful to God for letting me one day become the mother of the child and the wife of the farmer. I am grateful to see my four children, reluctantly-I mean happily-doing their studies on the kitchen table. I am grateful that I learned to love my family harder, to forgive more easily, and to treat every day as our last day.
I am grateful for such a wonderful mess in life, and thank all those who helped me write stories.
I hope that each of us can find something to be grateful for during Thanksgiving, although we may face this situation. After all, there is always something to be thankful for.
Happy Thanksgiving to our farm!
Tilderquist is a follower of Jesus, a biscuit baker, the proud wife of a Minnesota farmer, and the mother of four children, who loves her life.