The cancer floor at Seattle Children's Hospital is not exactly a playground, with its shiny machines and antiseptic cleanliness, but not-quite-2-year-old Atticus Gwilliam doesn't seem to notice.
The tiny strawberry-blond boy has spent the majority of his time there for the past six weeks and has claimed the spotless halls for his own. Still a toddler, it's unlikely he will remember in later years riding a four-wheeled bicycle down the halls with his dad, strolling with mom around and around the building or many of the other not-so-pleasant things that have happened there.
His curls will grow back and cover the zig-zag scar across the back of his head and the pain of medical procedures will fade into nothingness for Atticus.
It's a journey his family will never forget.
Caleb and Emilie Gwilliam celebrated their 10th wedding anniversary in February and with three children and a move from Utah to Pullman on the horizon the future was one of promise.
Caleb was about to begin his third year of veterinary school at the Washington State University Veterinary Hospital and the upcoming summer promised weeks of low-key fun - visiting family in California, trips to Disneyland, a new brother or sister on the way, and a brand new place to call home.
Then, in the midst of all that activity, Atticus got sick.
"He had a really bad viral infection and ended up getting spinal meningitis and was sick for quite a long time," Caleb Gwilliam said. "Then he started getting better and he was doing great and we went and lived with family over the summer and all went to Disneyland together and he ended up getting hand, foot and mouth disease."
While the series of illnesses were worrisome for the young family, especially sleepless nights full of tears, high fevers and trips to the emergency room, it was something they were certain would pass.
These things always do.
As the summer wore on, other changes, not attributable to the illnesses he was fighting through, came upon the little boy.
"As a baby he was very, very happy and loved playing with his brothers and sisters and was very self sufficient," Gwilliam said. "Not that we'd just put him down and ignore him, but he would just love playing with stuff and he'd scoot around on his little butt and follow us around the house."
Gwilliam said it was changes to their little man's personality in combination with obvious headaches that started his parents pushing even harder for answers.
"He'd wake up grabbing his head and then there were just a bunch of funny little mood, personality quirks," Gwilliam said. "He always slept really good as a baby. We would lay him down, give him his little bottle and he was out. All of a sudden he hated his bottle for no reason whatsoever. He didn't want to play anymore."
Something was wrong, the Gwilliam's agreed, but the problem was getting a medical professional to agree as well.
"Em and I just kept pushing, this is not right. We ended up at the doctor four or five times saying something is wrong, something is not right," he said.
Gwilliam said it wasn't until the family began settling into their Pullman home they started to get answers - though not the ones they had prayed for.
"Two weeks after we'd been in Pullman there were a couple of nights in a row that were horrible,' Gwilliam said. "He was crying all night and then would sleep all day long."
The family had just found a pediatrician for the children - one that seemed as dedicated to discovering the problem as they were.
"He was great," Gwilliam said. "He got us right in the next morning and he listened to the whole story."
The first order of business, Gwilliam said, was an MRI.
It was scheduled for Friday, Aug. 26.
"We got up really early and got an IV catheter in and sedated him and did the MRI," he said. "In our brains it was just a precaution, just to rule anything big out."
Since it was a Friday, the family hoped to get results before the weekend, but weren't counting on it.
"Within half an hour of us getting home from the hospital our doctor called us," Gwilliam said. "As soon as that happened we knew something was wrong. He said ... I'll be there in five minutes."
He was.
"He just dropped everything ... at the clinic and came straight to our house and brought the radiology report," he said, his voice lowering over the long distance connection. "It was a very, very sizable brain tumor. It was not a fun day at all."
The ones that followed were a whirlwind.
"We went to Spokane first," Gwilliam said. "The surgeon just didn't feel comfortable with how large the tumor was. Then we were here in Seattle and we were checked into the emergency room and they almost took him into surgery that night."
Gwilliam said because of the size of the tumor - "about the size of an apple" - the hospital decided to wait for a second chief surgeon to return to the city.
A week from the day Atticus' tumor was discovered, it was removed on Sept. 2.
It was cancerous.
"The cancer itself is called the choroid plexus carcinoma," Gwilliam said. "It's a very, very, very rare cancer - they say its about one in 3 million kids or more that have this type of cancer."
While the news was yet sinking in for the Gwilliam family, a realization came to them.
"For the first two weeks of this the older kids were staying with my sister in law in Spokane," Gwilliam said. "Regardless of what's going on we had to keep our family together."
While normalcy is hard to come by in such a situation, the family is making the best of what they have, with the help of hospital personnel.
"His brother and sister come to the hospital every day and do homework and play," Gwilliam said.
Nine-year-old Kezlin has permission to do her math problems with dry-erase markers on the hospital room windows, while 6-year-old Ryker, who began kindergarten less than a month ago, spends quality time with his brother.
With one round of chemotherapy down, the family has five more to go, and Atticus, who will celebrate his second birthday Dec. 10, remains undaunted.
"He's been so good throughout this whole thing," Gwilliam said. "He's always wanting to get up and go running around."
Fortunately for Atticus, the hospital rewards its smallest patients' energy with colorful paper shoe decorations that announce how many hallway miles have been traveled.
The little patient has six, so far.
While the family hasn't asked for a point-blank prognosis, Gwilliam has done his own research into his son's ailment.
"Statistically, the diagnosis of a choroid plexus carcinoma can be a dismal one. In years past, the five-year survival rate hung around the 20 to 30 percent," Gwilliam wrote in an email.
But those numbers apply to cases in which complete surgical removal of the tumor is impossible, he said.
Gwilliam said the combination of Atticus' successful surgery and chemotherapy may bring that five-year-rate up to 65 percent to 80 percent, but it's impossible to be certain, as there is not treatment protocol for choroid plexus carcinoma, due to its rarity.
Although the road to recovery is long and demanding of attention, the Gwilliam family has embarked on a second mission: addressing a problem they didn't know existed until it arrived in their own family.
Only 4 percent of the National Cancer Institute's budget is dedicated to funding research of childhood cancers, according to the St. Baldrick's Foundation, which conducts cancer research. Meanwhile, funds provided by pharmaceutical companies is close to zero, with three new drugs developed to treat children with cancer over the past 20 years.
"We want to raise that awareness," Gwilliam said.
Gwilliam said fundraising being conducted for his family will go first for Atticus' medical bills and, second, for his future college expenses - "We're counting on him being around," Gwilliam said - but another portion will be paid forward in funding research for children and families who will be making a similar journey in the future.
For more information on childhood cancer research, visit stbaldricks.org.
For more information on Atticus Gwilliam and his ongoing journey toward freedom from cancer, visit atticusarmy.blogspot.com.
To make a donation, visit this shortened link: https://goo.gl/BeuaVa.
Shanon Quinn can be reached at (208) 883-4636, or by email to squinn@dnews.com.
