We took our daughter to the hospital this week for a "routine" procedure. I love how they say that. It's routine. It's normal. It's all to be expected. Unless it involves three cups of coffee, Matt Lauer, and the puzzle page, it's not my routine. And it's not her routine, either. Let me see. When was the last time she was told not to eat or drink anything for 12 hours, walked down a long, white, glass hallway, asked to put on hospital issue pajamas, and poked with needles? Oh I know...Never! Not routine.
Don't let me start off on the wrong foot here. They were all very nice. Explaining everything as we went along. We're going to do this. We're looking at that. Here's a pretty Fairy book for you to look at. Fine. But, then they say that even though they don't expect it, there's a chance she could stop breathing. Excuse me? And then the blood comes. I've given blood so many times, I could probably do it myself. Wrap the rubber band thing, press until you see the vein, stick the thing in. It pinches a bit, but no big deal. Watching it done to her fair skin, however, was an entirely different scenario. My head started to swell. I got sweaty. My stomach felt weak. I had to sit down for a minute. And then, they had to start again because the spot on her hand where they chose to insert the needle wasn't working. Oh, and by the way, we're going to do this one without the numbing agent on her skin so it's faster. The screaming as the needle went in was.....well, it was. And there was nothing I could do. I was helpless to take the pain away. When it was over, they moved on to the next thing in the routine, but the damage had been done. All of the sudden the cool Bugs Bunny jammies and the light-up bouncy ball didn't mean jack. She didn't want to search for the hidden butterflies on the page and she didn't trust anyone anymore. This was scary and painful and hardly routine.
They made her climb up on a rolling bed that had an indent where her head and body were supposed to fit. I helped lift her trembling little frame onto the hard plastic. She refused to lay down. Just put your head here, honey, they said. Fat chance, buddy. I eased her down and she grabbed my hand so tight, I'm pretty sure I felt a crack in my bone. She was crying. My husband was standing back. They were all waiting patiently for me to breathe some sense of calm into her.
We wheeled her into the next room where the MRI machine was. It was huge and dark with a brightly lit tunnel in the center. It took up almost the whole space of the room. It was nothing compared to the cute, little model with matching Barbie that she'd been shown. She knew they were going to put her inside of it and she was terrified. Sobbing, pleading. Her face contorted in worry and fear. "I'm not ready," she kept saying. I stayed right with her. My hand in hers, my other hand on her chest. Helping her breathe. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth." The others waited. Waited for this little red-haired butterfly princess to psyche herself up enough to allow complete strangers to take her away from her parents into the most terrifying abyss she'd ever seen. But, she couldn't do it. And there was nothing I could do to help her.
They decided to give her the sedation medication right where we were instead rather in the next room as they had planned. I watched them inject the white liquid into the IV. I saw her face relax. I heard her cries quiet. Then her body started to twitch and convulse. Shaking under my hands. I thought she was cold. Her chin was trembling. Her arms were jerking. She started to yawn, and then her eyes rolled back in her head. The lids closed just enough that all I could see where the whites. She opened her mouth and let out a long, low, guttural moan. And the doctor said, "This is all completely normal." Her body was releasing the tension of the previous moments. She was relaxing. They put a rolled up blanket under her neck to keep her airway open. I bent down and whispered in her ear. "I love you, Tina." They wheeled her into the MRI room and we were left standing in the puddles of our own fear and anxiety.
The nurse showed us to the waiting room and advised us to go get something to eat and relax. It would take about an hour and she would come back out for us.
We held hands as we made our way back down the glass hallway to the cafeteria. Comforting ourselves with french fries and grilled sandwiches, we sat and ate in silence. This was all routine, right? She was going to be fine, right? Of course, she wouldn't stop breathing. That wasn't part of the routine. Breathe in. Breathe out. That's routine.
My husband was a knot and a bowl of jelly all at the same time. He sat next to me in the waiting room doing a Sudoku puzzle to keep his mind occupied. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to touch. He just wanted to be. Cocooned in his frustration at not being able to protect and provide. He was powerless and it terrified him. I had to stay strong because I could feel that he wasn't. I thought that one of us needed to be, but I felt so completely breakable. I went into the bathroom and locked myself in a stall. I took a long breath, put my hands over my face, and let go. The fear came crashing into me in strong, clear waves. With tears streaming down my face, I felt the relief of release. Then, I wiped my face, checked my mascara in the mirror and rejoined my husband.
I had planned on reading while we waited. I brought my latest mystery novel, but I couldn't open it. It just sat on my lap. The plastic cover the library puts on to preserve the paper crinkled under my hands. I crossed my legs. Then I crossed them the other way. I checked the time. I began to notice things around the room. The pregnant lady across the way texting on her phone. The crazy blond loping down the sidewalk on the other side of the window. The dinosaur movie that was playing on TV. A tear in my pants. A family came in with a baby. Someone grabbed a magazine from the wall rack. I bounced my foot. I checked the time again. Should I call someone? I needed to talk. To connect, but there was no one. I couldn't call anyone because the moment anyone picked up the phone I would feel their strength and collapse all over again. I knew I couldn't let that happen at that moment. So, I just sat. And waited. And for the first time, in a long time, I felt completely alone. I checked the time again.
Finally, after what seemed like a hundred years, but what as actually about 20 minutes, the nurse came back. My daughter was awake. Everything went fine. She had done wonderfully and was now waiting to see us. She as laying in the same bed we had started out in. She smiled when she saw us and said that she hadn't felt anything. They gave her an orange Popsicle and some apple juice. She looked beautiful. I couldn't stop kissing her face. For her, it was as if it had never happened. Very little memory of the trauma of the previous hour. The doctor said, "It's perfectly normal."
We waited for an hour while the medication wore off, then we took her home. We were terrified to let her out of our sights, but she was fine. I've heard that having a child is like taking your heart out and letting it walk around outside your body. It's true. My heart ate yogurt and cereal and a hot dog. It played with a new toy from Grandma. It slept peacefully through the night.
It was all perfectly routine.
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The photos are always wonderful....but never stop writing!
ReplyDeleteBeautiful, Lisa. Thanks for sharing a piece of your life!
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