Houston's Story (Cont.)

Beat the Bad-Guy Cells

Soon after the chemotherapy treatments started, Houston developed a high fever. Large, painful sores began growing on the lining of his mouth, throat, esophagus, and stomach, making it painful for him to swallow even his own saliva. As a result of the pain, he lost his desire to eat. He would still ask for his favorite foods, a lollipop or pizza, but he would be unable to do anything more than savor their smell.

It was difficult for Diane and Gregg to watch Houston suffer. Diane remembers Houston pleading with them to take him home during the first chemotherapy treatments. "Gregg and I told him that bad-guy cells were inside him and that the doctors were putting medicine in him to beat them." To help him in this fight, Diane began to dress Houston in his favorite superhero costumes, hoping it would boost his spirits.

Hope Fades

Yet after three rounds of chemotherapy, his tumor wasn't responding -- in fact, it continued to grow. Even Houston could sense the negative turn his disease was taking. "I think the bad guys are winning," he told his parents one day. "That scared me more than anything," Diane says.

Houston's tumor had grown so large that it began to press against his internal organs, threatening the proper functioning of his liver. And that wasn't all. Further tests showed that it had also grown around his aorta. The surgeons said it would be too great a risk to attempt to remove the tumor at this advanced state. Diane and Gregg were informed that Houston's organs would soon simply shut down because of pressure from the tumor, which now filled his abdominal cavity.

Diane and Gregg tried to convince the doctors at their local hospital to attempt to de-bulk the tumor, a procedure in which a section of the tumor is removed -- in Houston's case the section nearest to his liver -- hoping that would give him more time. They all declined, again stating that surgery would be too dangerous. Diane took Houston to see specialists in Baltimore, who informed her that it was quite possible that he had been born with the tumor and that it had been growing his entire life. Meanwhile, the tumor continued to grow. A radiologist was consulted and declined treatment, explaining to Diane and Gregg that the tumor was too large -- "It would be like throwing a bucket of water on a house fire."

Chemotherapy wasn't working. Radiation therapy wasn't an option. And the local surgeons all felt the tumor was inoperable. With hope for her child's life dangling by its last thread, Diane turned to the Internet, posting a frantic plea on a bulletin board created for parents of children with neuroblastoma. "Does anybody know the name of a surgeon who can do what everybody else says can't be done?" Diane wrote. Messages poured in from across the country, all listing one name: Michael P. LaQuaglia, Pediatric Surgical Service Chief at Memorial Sloan-Kettering. As Diane remembers it, they all told the same tale: "He saved my child's life. If it can be done, he is the man that can do it."

Last Chance

Diane contacted Dr. LaQuaglia and explained Houston's condition. "I asked about every reason that had been given to me as to why it was impossible, and he had an answer for how he would handle each one. He seemed to know as much about the cancer as the oncologists," Diane says in amazement. "And I finally asked him, 'So, are you saying you think you can remove a piece off the right side to relieve some of the pressure on the liver?' And he replied, 'If I go in, I'm going in for the whole thing.' I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I knew then that my child was either going to live through this man's hands or die in them. I finally felt like I had done everything I could, as a parent, to save my child's life."

Diane and Houston traveled to New York and met the neuroblastoma team, including its head, Dr. Nai-Kong V. Cheung. The team has years of experience dealing with children with advanced neuroblastoma, and thanks to innovative therapies and treatment approaches developed at the Center, the survival rates for these children have increased dramatically over the last twenty years. Major operations for neuroblastoma are performed at the Center more than 60 times a year.

Speaking of Dr. Cheung's expertise and kindness, Diane says, "I can't tell you how much time that man has spent with me, educating me, answering all my questions with the patience of Job, and a smile on his face. Dr. Cheung's dedication to not just treating the cancer but trying to find the cure is unsurpassed by anyone I have spoken to in the field of neuroblastoma. His loyalty and concern for the children goes beyond the research lab. These children are not just a medical record number to him."

And for his first meeting with Dr. LaQuaglia, Houston wore a T-shirt that read: "Dear Dr. LaQuaglia, If possible, please do the following: 1) Lift shirt; 2) Remove bad guy cells; 3) Wait until I'm asleep to start. Thanks, Houston."

After a barrage of tests, the tumor was shown to have grown up the aorta and was pushing the vena cava out of position. At the pre-operative consult, Dr. LaQuaglia explained that the only thing that would stop the operation was that if the tumor had entered the aorta or the vena cava, which could not be determined by scans. "Suddenly, when all doors had been closed in our faces, there was a small bead of light coming from one of them," Diane remembers. "It represented hope for us, which was something we had lost sight of a few months earlier."

Not wanting anything to jeopardize Houston's newfound chances, Diane spent the weekend before the surgery praying for Dr. LaQuaglia's safety. "I found myself saying the oddest things in my prayers, like, 'Protect his hand from harm if he goes outside to throw a ball with his son,'" Diane remembers.

The Day Arrives

The morning of the surgery arrived and Diane and Gregg watched as Houston, who had been given a sedative to relax him, was wheeled into the operating room. As the sedative began to take effect, Houston, sitting up in the gurney, his tiny, bald head swaying back and forth, began to sing his favorite song, "Tomorrow," from the musical Annie. "I turned to Gregg and told him that if that was my last memory of my baby, I didn't think I could go on," Diane remembers. Thankfully, it wasn't.

Later that afternoon, as they paced the waiting area, they received a call from Dr. LaQuaglia, who had just completed the most difficult part of the operation. "He's doing fine and we got it all," Dr. LaQuaglia informed them. Seven days later, Diane and Gregg took Houston home.

"I'm a Miracle"

Since his surgery, Houston had another operation to remove his right kidney, which had been damaged by the tumor, and he needs to take medication to control some common side effects of chemotherapy, but he remains cancer-free more than two years after his initial diagnosis.

When Houston is asked about Dr. LaQuaglia, he has a simple answer: "I like New York because I can see Dr. LaQuaglia. I like that he gives me lollipops and that he has a boy like me. I like his hugs. He's my friend."

"I don't think Dr. LaQuaglia will ever realize the impact he has had on our lives," Diane says in conclusion, "or how every time I see a picture of my family, I silently thank him and God. If it weren't for him, there would be one less child in the picture."

Nearly one out of 100,000 children develop neuroblastoma in the United States each year. Houston Moore is one of those children who emerged from the battle victorious. "I'm a miracle," Houston has been heard to say, and it's a claim that would be difficult for anyone to dispute.