Thursday, May 1, 2014

It All Comes to This

After pleading with the ICU pediatricians and nurses they agreed to hold off the no food rule for Parker as long as they possibly could. Luckily, for us, he slept a majority of the morning and it really wasn't that bad. Also, as luck would have it, the surgery ahead of Parker's got cancelled so he could have gone in a lot earlier than he did. But...we fed him. Oh well. That's our luck.

Ahh, yes, surgery day. The dreaded day of our entire visit. As I've said before, it's not like I didn't know this day was coming. After all, it was the day we were working for all those weeks. Parker was doing so well that we felt bad putting him through surgery. He was eating, laughing, and talking up a storm. Let's not forget his newest addiction to TV too. I mean, the kid, was living it up in the ICU like he was staying in the Presidential Suite at the Ritz Carlton. I had a tremendous amount of guilt looking at that happy baby knowing that in just a couple short hours he'd be in surgery.

I did not sleep a wink the night before his surgery. Anxiety was full force. This time was worse than the others because I had so much time to think about it. The other surgeries were emergency surgeries and happened so quickly.

You know what I do with extra time on my hands. I think. I think a lot.

I was perched up on a fancy high swivel stool sitting next to Parker's crib when I saw the two men in purple walking down the hall. Thank goodness for those glass doors.

Cue panic.

"They are coming, Casey. They are coming to take Parker."

He just looks at me. A serious expression spans over his face.

Parker is 110% content in his crib. He didn't have the slightest idea what was going on. Immediately I look at him and tears sting my eyes. He then gives me his ever famous pout face. Parker knew that Mommy was upset so I quickly pulled it together for my son. Parker does not need emotional people around him right now. He's definitely at the age where he can sense it and he gets super upset. So, needless to say, this extremely emotional Mommy now saves it for the shower. The Anesthesiologists came in and conversed with Parker's nurse about his vitals, which at the time, were all stable. Everything about him was stable, minus the brain cord sticking out of his head.

Then they move to him, forcing me to move from his side. They start asking us questions about his history with anesthesia and reactions to different medicines. Sadly, we have history to share with our extremely young child. I looked over at the clock and could hear it ticking as the minutes passed. I didn't have much time left. Everything happens so quickly right before surgery.

The Anesthesiologists tell me that they will take good care of him. Hmm...Never heard that before. Then they look at us and ask if we want to say good-bye.

Say good-bye... terrifying actually. It then becomes all too real.

Casey does so strongly. Then it's my turn. I walk up to my baby boy and kiss him on the forehead. He makes eye contact with me and puts his little hand up for me to hold. I kiss his hand looking at those beautiful baby blues that he got from his Daddy. Could this be the last time I see my son? I refuse to say good-bye, but tell him, "I will see you later. You be a big boy and don't give them too much trouble ya hungry beast."

The Anesthesiologists chuckle at my beast remark because they clearly do not know Parker.

He didn't stop looking at me until they wheeled him away.

Time suddenly stopped, but I could still hear the clock ticking. Ironically, it didn't seem to be moving. At this point the only thing moving was the room. I was dizzy. Dizzy from not eating and dizzy from the surge of anxiety I got when they took my angel baby away from me.

Casey and I sat in silence. I walked over to grab the Kleenex box and handed him tissue not wanting to interrupt his somber moment. I then sat back on my stool watching the hallway. Waiting for my sweet angel to come back to me.

Over two weeks we had been there. A majority of that time we weren't allowed visitors so it was just Casey and I with our separate set of emotions. There is always a guarantee to have one thing in common and that is the genuine concern for our son. During this time we both had our turns at being crazy. I took my crazy out mostly on objects. For instance, the lovely rented laptop I used that refused to let me use the "a" key or "tab". Just know that every blog I illustrated in that darn hospital was not without choice words, courtesy me.

Sitting in Parker's ICU room, without his crib, was sad. Families walked by and looked at us through the glass door. Some of the mom's I even recognized. New moms looked in the room terrified. Why are those people sitting in an empty room? Where the heck is their kid? I can only imagine the thoughts that were running through their heads because I have been in their place before wondering the same thing.

After a while the nurse came in and gave me a hug and assured me by the afternoon I'd be feeding Parker, snuggled together. Silently Casey and I pick up what was our home for over two weeks. We looked through cards and other gifts. Some from family and friends and some from complete strangers who wanted to brighten our little angel's day. We are grateful for each one of them.

In situations like this you want so badly to believe people, but being a realist (and I will admit at times a little negative) I can't think that 100% everything will be okay. The unknown will kill you. It kills me. The unknown is absolutely what wakes me and keeps me up at night. I will continue to live on pins and needles until Parker catches a break and is hospital free for a couple months. Until then, I am rather skeptic and on edge. As one of my wise uncles said to me, "One day at a time." He is all too familiar with this sort of stuff. He gets it.

Eventually Casey and I go for a walk on the floor. We choose not to venture too far in case our sweet angel came back. Eventually we made our way to the roof top retreat. Doctors and patients are soaking up the rays. Helicopters are coming in and out steadily. We sat there for a good ten minutes before realizing that neither of us were in any mood to sit on a roof and soak in some Vitamin K.

We went back to Parker's empty room and waited.

And waited some more....

...and some more.

Finally I perched myself back up on my fancy swivel stool so I could spy into the hallway. My nose was stuck in my Kindle reading the same stupid page 100 times over. Last time the surgery was done our nurse came in and told us Parker was on his way up. At this point it had been well over three and a half hours. I was nervous to say the least.

Then all of the sudden I see Parker's Neurosurgeon walking to our room. Why didn't he call the nurse? I hate when he pulls fast ones on me! Like taking days off.

Next thing I know he comes in and sits down on our recliner. Oh hey, have a seat? Do you want something to drink? Wait ... I don't live here. I mean I live here, but don't LIVE here. I do know where the free drinks are, though.

He says, "Well, the surgery was difficult. Parker's head was so flat from laying on it for a couple weeks the shunt wasn't very easy to place."

Blank stare. Tears fill eyes.

"Oh don't worry though, he's perfectly fine. I got it in."

.....................................................................................

Thanks for clearing that up, doc. Prrrrobably should have started the conversation by stating that!

At the end of the day, Parker does have  one heck of a flat head. Picture a cliff. Now picture the side of a cliff. That's Parker's head. His surgeon doesn't want to go the helmet route because it will rub his shunt. So, we are basically not allowed to lay him on his back unless it's at night and he's sleeping. We will have therapy at home. More on that later.

He goes on to tell us that everything was good after that point and he was already down in recovery wiggling around. There would also be another couple days of intense antibiotic treatments. Then he says that we should be able to see him soon.

Thank. The. Lord.

When they brought Parker in he looked completely pale. Almost gray. Instantly I knew that we were in for a long night. I went over to him and was talking to him. He was of course crying. Then the vomiting started.

Parker proceeded to vomit and dry heave for over six hours. Have you ever seen an infant dry heave? I hope not. Not sure what happened, but for some reason he had a horrible reaction to the anesthesia and was a sick little guy all night. He literally vomited everywhere we went. Elevator? Vomit. MRI? Vomit. X-Ray? Vomit. Room? Vomit. Parker has been put under anesthesia two other times and never had this sort of reaction.

I was worried sick. My family reassured me that this was completely normal. I was so hysterical that the doctor came in to check him out and she, too, said it was normal. In fact, he could have been sick like that through the next morning. I was convinced his Neurosurgeon nicked something in his stomach when he was putting the tubing in. Of course that's what happened! Duh.

Luckily for us, he got over this sickness in the middle of the night. Turns out, the brain surgeon knows what he's doing.

The next morning they decided to transfer Parker to the regular Pediatric Inpatient Unit. Finally we were on the right path.

UMMM NOT SO MUCH.

Stay tuned. It's a "cue verbal diarrhea" all over the place.

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