S-Day

I sit here writing this entry looking at my sweet angel baby sleeping in his over-sized hospital crib. I sit here knowing that tomorrow my angel is going to be taken in for his 3rd brain surgery in just a little over a month's time. Words cannot express my level of anxiety, fear and somehow hope all whirled into one.

It's not like I didn't know this day was coming. I knew it was coming over two weeks ago. The thought that he will be taken away from me, yet again, and put under for brain surgery never gets easier. Yesterday we learned that Friday would in fact more than likely be S-Day. Shunt Day. I slept less than 5 hours last night. I know putting the shunt back in is a step in the right direction. I know that this has to happen in order for Parker to go home. Surgery is scary. Brain surgery is SUPER scary.

We were juuust about ready to head out for a MRI when a flash of purple entered our room. Did I mention that Neurosurgeons wear purple here? I know. I know. Purple does not match the camo scrub hat. They are brain surgeons, not stylists.

The Resident Neurosurgeons (or Neurosurgeons in training) are always on the run, literally. I think this particular surgeon has gone through about six pairs of purple crocs (or so we've heard). He runs the rubber thin from all the running he does apparantely. This is also the same surgeon I scolded just a couple days ago for leaving a ventric cap on Parker's crib.

"Did you forget something" I asked holding up the orange ventric cap.

He replied, "The nurses usually get those."

Cue verbal diarhhea...

"Usually is not good enough. Do you see this monster baby with sticky fingers? If he chokes on this with all of his other issues I will not be happy" I replied with a death glare.

Can you imagine if Parker choked on a cap while here? He had to have CPR or something else because of a cap, not because of his situation. Unbelievable!

I took the cap and handed it to him and said, "Throw it away."

GAHHHH!  He did throw it away. I think I scared him. I haven't found an orange cap since. Coincidence, I think not! Nurses are incredibly busy for crying out loud. You removed the cap, throw it away! Drives me crazy. How the heck would she know it's there anyway?  Durp.

He came in and I knew we were about to hear something. The doctor informed us that we would be heading in for surgery either Friday or Monday. It's not considered emergency this time because Parker is stable and has his ventric is taking care of business for his brain. Next thing I know he's fetching the ever so famous release form. The same release form we've signed giving them the right to operate on our son and giving up our right to get ticked if something bad happens. It's always a little nerve wracking, especially given our current situation.

Casey is much braver than me in most situations and he signs his life away. Parker was set for surgery. They officially had our consent.

I of course ask if he will be involved in the surgery and he says that he or another resident would be present. Please remember to pick up all caps and debris from Parker's brain after you are done. Oye.

That was it, Parker was set for surgery. Wrong. It seems that no one, not even the Neurosurgeons, know what time Parker's surgery is going to be. How do you not know? I understand that they are busy people and emergencies definitely happen. However, this child thinks he is dying when he doesn't get to eat every two hours. Literally, every two hours. Yes I am exhausted.

So let's take all of his food away at midnight to only have surgery at 1PM on Friday. That sounds like a brilliant idea! NOT! The nurses who have Parker tonight and tomorrow already deserve a medal of honor. Parker is more traumatized by the fact that he's not eating more than the fact that he just had brain surgery. I know this because we've been through it, twice.

I've noticed an awful lot of coincidences this time around. I can't help but hope that our bad luck is about to end. Remember how I am an ultimate believer in signs? Well, I can't ignore the signs that have been thrown at me. I can only hope that collectively they mean something (knock on wood).

We've literally come full circle with everyone who has treated Parker since his NICU days. Literally. NICU staff doctor - passed him in the hall. NICU nurse-same situation. Parker's doctors and nurses have all been accounted for. It seems so strange that we've run into everyone when we aren't even on the same floor. It gets even stranger. Parker's nurse for his first shunt surgery has been M.I.A. We get here this morning and wouldn't you know...she is his nurse! We even ran into Doogie Howser, our favorite Pediatric Resident Doctor. I don't know, but I feel like it means something. We have run the course. We have persevered. We have come full circle.

On top of that...every penny I've found has been heads up! You better believe I grab those pennies and put them in my pocket. Every time I pull them out, heads up! When we leave here, better than when we came, I am going to place those pennies heads up for the next family. I hope they too have the same blessings we have had.

At this point I am more than likely reading into signs, but that's okay. What-ever gets us through at this point makes it all worth while. I've sat here day in and day out not knowing what each day will bring. Kids have come in and come out, while my sweet angel remains. It's safe to say it's Parker's turn.

Today/Tonight will be horrible for me. The day before and day of surgery is always the worst. Parker has no clue what's going on, thank goodness, but I do. Surgery is terrifying and all of those fears of waiting in the ICU surgery waiting room became reality. The silent prayers, sobs and crying children are in my near future. A piece of my heart is about to be on that operating table once again. My heart will not beat fully until I know he is okay. I swear I can feel it skipping beats as I wipe the tears away and struggle to breath.

Us mothers will give each other the same sympathetic look, tears stinging our eyes. This time we are a little more comfortable around each other having passed one another in the hallways for the past couple weeks. Each one of our stories different, but uniquely the same in that we have to watch our children continue to suffer. We will silently greet the new mothers who's hearts are the operating table for the first time.

Please remember Parker in your prayers this evening and tomorrow. Pray that he continues to show strength. A prayer for the doctors would be helpful as well. Pray that they take care of sweet Parker and that they remove all orange caps from his brain while sparing yet another pair of purple crocs.