There is so much to say about the week of Aidan's tube, and the events that took me away from my blog. I have to start somewhere. How about the beginning?
It's morning, and so very early in the morning, at that. We're bleary-eyed, hungry, and anxious. Aidan gets cuddles from Daddy before we head off. It's finally here - tube day. May 31, 2012.
Traffic is as bad as expected, but I planned for that. We've come far too far for snags like traffic to derail our plans. Bug even naps in the car. Maybe this day will be easy! (ha!)
We arrive at Pre-Op at 8:30. We know we're early, but "better early than late!" - right? We sit, we play, we make new friends. It's 9am. It's 9:30. It's 10am. Finally - blissfully - Aidan's name is called. But wait - it's only to tell us that our surgeon is running "several hours" late. Oh boy, it begins. Time is killed, songs are sung, books are read. We're patient. This will be fine.
Aidan's finally taken back around 11:45, and he takes the giggle juice well.
He has friends with him to keep him company. He's calm, he's safe, and he's happy. Toby's feeling remarkably brave as well.
I aimlessly wander the halls of the hospital. I'm killing time, I'm thinking about my Bug, and I'm trying to pretend I'm able to think about anything else. Fail. I'm not. I buy him a Smiley Face balloon at the CHOP shops and head back to the surgical waiting area.
There's awkward forced-casual conversation to pass the time. I read, I text friends and family, and I replay last night's happy, silly bedtime in my head. I hope I've made the right decisions. I hope there will be so many more happy bedtimes.
1pm, a doctor comes out calling Aidan's name. I perk up immediately and begin to gather our belongings, but the receptionist puts her hand on my shoulder, tells me that I can leave our things there for now, and tells me that the doctor wants to speak to me privately in a counseling room. I have never felt so sick in my entire life.
I don't even know how I got to the counseling room. I don't remember walking there, but I'm sure I did, because I found myself sitting on a well-worn couch across from an eager young doctor. I suppose he's been talking, because I suddenly register that he's asking if I have any questions. Do I have any questions?! Are you kidding!? I'm confused, and I'm still not sure what we're doing here. All I manage is to timidly ask Is he okay???
Dr. Eager sighs and (I'm guessing?) repeats himself. Yes, he's fine. He did wonderfully. He's waking up now, his nurses are getting him situated, and they'll be out for you soon. Do you have any questions?
Um, yes. Just one. Have you considered leading with "He's fine."? Seriously - I asked that. I mean, really? I'm told that they always take families into side rooms so as not to breach confidentiality. I still think it would be okay to mention that he's alive while bringing me back to the room, what whatever. The world makes sense again. I can breathe again. He's fine, Dr. Eager is just an idiot who doesn't know how to start conversations properly. Hint: If you are in possession of my toddler, and you say that we need to talk about how his SURGERY went, open the conversation with how completely fine and utterly alive he is, please.
It's another half hour before I'm taken back to be with him. He's awake, but only barely. He's totally limp. I'm told that he awoke in a lot of pain and required some morphine to calm him down and take the edge off. I hold him, snuggle him, and cover his tiny face with kisses as I think about what we'll do once we're home.
It's morning, and so very early in the morning, at that. We're bleary-eyed, hungry, and anxious. Aidan gets cuddles from Daddy before we head off. It's finally here - tube day. May 31, 2012.
Traffic is as bad as expected, but I planned for that. We've come far too far for snags like traffic to derail our plans. Bug even naps in the car. Maybe this day will be easy! (ha!)
We arrive at Pre-Op at 8:30. We know we're early, but "better early than late!" - right? We sit, we play, we make new friends. It's 9am. It's 9:30. It's 10am. Finally - blissfully - Aidan's name is called. But wait - it's only to tell us that our surgeon is running "several hours" late. Oh boy, it begins. Time is killed, songs are sung, books are read. We're patient. This will be fine.
Aidan's finally taken back around 11:45, and he takes the giggle juice well.
He has friends with him to keep him company. He's calm, he's safe, and he's happy. Toby's feeling remarkably brave as well.
I aimlessly wander the halls of the hospital. I'm killing time, I'm thinking about my Bug, and I'm trying to pretend I'm able to think about anything else. Fail. I'm not. I buy him a Smiley Face balloon at the CHOP shops and head back to the surgical waiting area.
There's awkward forced-casual conversation to pass the time. I read, I text friends and family, and I replay last night's happy, silly bedtime in my head. I hope I've made the right decisions. I hope there will be so many more happy bedtimes.
1pm, a doctor comes out calling Aidan's name. I perk up immediately and begin to gather our belongings, but the receptionist puts her hand on my shoulder, tells me that I can leave our things there for now, and tells me that the doctor wants to speak to me privately in a counseling room. I have never felt so sick in my entire life.
I don't even know how I got to the counseling room. I don't remember walking there, but I'm sure I did, because I found myself sitting on a well-worn couch across from an eager young doctor. I suppose he's been talking, because I suddenly register that he's asking if I have any questions. Do I have any questions?! Are you kidding!? I'm confused, and I'm still not sure what we're doing here. All I manage is to timidly ask Is he okay???
Dr. Eager sighs and (I'm guessing?) repeats himself. Yes, he's fine. He did wonderfully. He's waking up now, his nurses are getting him situated, and they'll be out for you soon. Do you have any questions?
Um, yes. Just one. Have you considered leading with "He's fine."? Seriously - I asked that. I mean, really? I'm told that they always take families into side rooms so as not to breach confidentiality. I still think it would be okay to mention that he's alive while bringing me back to the room, what whatever. The world makes sense again. I can breathe again. He's fine, Dr. Eager is just an idiot who doesn't know how to start conversations properly. Hint: If you are in possession of my toddler, and you say that we need to talk about how his SURGERY went, open the conversation with how completely fine and utterly alive he is, please.
It's another half hour before I'm taken back to be with him. He's awake, but only barely. He's totally limp. I'm told that he awoke in a lot of pain and required some morphine to calm him down and take the edge off. I hold him, snuggle him, and cover his tiny face with kisses as I think about what we'll do once we're home.
I'd soon find out that nothing was going to go as planned. More to come. Stay tuned.
Phew! Step 1: Tube In, Check.
ReplyDelete(that's a for real "tube in" not a "tubin'")
What a trooper (you and A)! Your in my thoughts!
ReplyDelete*you're
ReplyDeleteI'm so glad you told the doc about his approach sucking. He needed to know that.
ReplyDeleteOh man, Aidan! He is such a trooper! I hope his recovery goes well. Caroline, you are such a strong mama! *hugs*
ReplyDeleteHe is such an amazing little boy <3
ReplyDelete