
Friday, June 3, 2011, 8:30 p.m.
in room 339 of the children’s hospital
[handwritten in my journal and retyped here]
Dear Daniel,
I’m not sure which was harder: the agonizing anticipation of your surgery—especially as the clock dragged on an hour past the scheduled 11 a.m. and your patience ran out and you were so hungry—or the helpless feeling as you writhed in pain in recovery and there was nothing we could do to help (especially that morphine wasn’t already doing). It’s 8:30 p.m. and you’ve finally calmed some, thanks to the Tylenol. You drank 1 1/2 ounces Pedialyte and when you kept it down but were still so upset the doctor said you could nurse. You were so glad, but you’re so tired too so we mostly snuggle between gas pains. The anesthesiologist said a lot of air got in your tummy during the surgery. And according to the older kids who have this surgery, the gas pain (which goes clear up to your shoulders) is worse than the surgery pain. [Mommy found out later that they have to pump the cavity with air in order to perform the surgery, and then that air has to be absorbed into your stomach before it can be passed out as gas—no wonder you were uncomfortable!]
Of course, your I.V. keeps blocking and they come and check it and wake you up, so you and I haven’t gotten much real rest yet. So I keep my eyes open writing to you, texting Grandma pictures, and updates to Facebook. The 20 ounce iced coffee is helping, too, though I am sure I could be out in a minute if only I could stay on the couch that long without someone coming in. Pediatric units are heartbreaking, even when you don’t see but a patient or two—you hear and imagine.
Okay, kissing you isn’t allowed when you are sleeping. You want to wake up for food but you’re too tired.
You and your daddy got to spend some very nice quality time today. I do believe it is the most he’s ever held you. With him, you relaxed instead of constantly looking for food. He took good care of you today. I love my men. I’m glad, so glad your daddy could be here with me. I’ve sent him off to surgery three times, two of which I spent alone. That is not fun.
Our pastor—Pastor Dan—came and was with us for the two hours before you went into surgery. He has that special gift of just being there, not making nervous conversation, just being available and being a person to have random conversation about the weather with when one needs to talk about something, think about something other than surgery. He prayed for us right before they came to get you.
I didn’t bring my camera, not knowing whether it would be safe, but there are snapshots embedded in my memory (and some on my cell phone)…
Your daddy rocking you, sweetly swaddled, finally sucking a pacifier, as we waited for surgery. The anesthesiologist yelling to tell us, over your hungry cries, that they would take good care of you. The nurse carrying you away, having successfully transferred your once-again-resting little figure from Daddy’s arms to hers—after I kissed your little forehead one more time.
Those two hours of waiting with your daddy, eating, reading, trying not to think—varied by the little girl screaming about her upcoming dental surgery. The grandfatherly gentlemanly doctor coming back and telling us it all went well. Me moving to your daddy’s lap and trying not to cry out of sheer relief.
And then, then, finding this tiny bundle, swaddled in a too-big hospital blanket, in the middle of a too-big bed. A tiny oxygen mask by your face, and all these tubes and cords going to you. Your extra-puffy face. Your little sounds of grunting complaint. The hoarse breathing from the tube having been down your throat. The tiny I.V. site in your tiny hand. The tiny blood pressure cuff on your ankle. The itty bitty pulse reader on your big toe, with a red light that made your toe rival Rudolph’s nose.
It broke my heart to see my little bundled boy lying there. I knew you were okay. I knew others had it so much worse. But you are my son, my only son, and you were in pain and I couldn’t even comfort you with my breast. I leaned on your daddy then and silently thanked Jesus that you were okay, that you would get better, that it wasn’t serious.
Now I’m hearing happy sighs. No more hoarse breathing. Just the beeping of your blocked I.V. and the beautiful strains of the classic music station.
I cried tears when you were so upset and I couldn’t feed you yet. I cried more tears when your daddy left to go home to put your sisters to bed. They just called, Ru in tears missing us. I’ve never spent a night away from your daddy—at least any farther than the hay field—and no this is the second night since you were born. At least I have one of my men with me.
And now, I think I’ll try the silence button on this I.V. and maybe we can get some sleep.
I love you, little man and I am so thankful God granted us a few more hours with you. I was willing, but not ready, to say goodbye. I love you, little son. Goodnite.
Always,
your mom
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