Eight times at least, thus far, but still, I stress every time. I hate signing that list of possible complications that includes everything unimaginable, even death.
You see the problem is, I imagine it all.
Hearing the news, the burial, the endless days that follow...
My brain goes there, too easily.
Maybe its because of those first words: "He's alive but I can't tell you he's going to survive."
My initiation into parenthood.
Or maybe its just part of a parent's psyche to imagine the worst, as a way of warding off the inevitable heartbreak.
Or maybe its just me, the way I'm wired, my imagination turning a gentle cow into a raging bull. A husband late to arrive into a car accident on the way home.
A simple cat-scan of the lungs and sinuses into an autopsy-- a damned funeral procession of the mind.
And yet I'm sure he'll be just fine.
On Monday.
When we return to Providence, our first family home, and watch him go under anesthesia one more time as we check to see if his damaged right lung looks worse and if his adenoids are enlarged.
I'm sure he'll wake up asking to ride the D elevator, or the B or C, and wondering when he can go home.
"When can we take this off?" he'll ask, over and over again, not listening to our answers about the IV, just repeating the question aloud the same way I roll a worry around in my mind.
I dread the needle placement almost as much as the sleeping drugs administered within my boys' working veins-- just the thought of multiple adults having to hold my confused child down.
Elias's "shot" phobia has nothing to do with needles or pain but everything to do with being poked and prodded a thousand times too many, starting long before his nervous system even knew how to operate outside the softness of a mother's womb.
My little micro-preemie baby, now ten, with a killer grip, ripping at every cord, screaming no, not understanding that fighting the process only makes it more painful for everyone involved.
I have been in that room.
And this is a familiar story, Elias ripping at cords.
Elias railing against our limitations, against his sister's creative chaos as it conflicts with his concrete world, blowing a scene wide open with his reactions, refusing to listen to logic or love, fighting an invisible monster that I can not tame.
Like my own imagination.
I guess we all have our demons to feed.
Great post Christy. I get it and its a crazy different life. I hope he is calm, happy and alll goes smoothly.
Posted by: Lexie | 10/08/2014 at 03:04 AM
Deep breaths. This means you.
Posted by: fleming | 10/08/2014 at 06:45 AM
Thank you Lexie and Fleming, I do so often have to remind myself to breathe. And yes, Lex, it is a crazy different life, wish we lived closer so we could meet for a beer, you too Flem:)
Posted by: Christy | 10/08/2014 at 08:18 AM
Those of us who are passionate people and mothers always worry. My special needs daughter turns 18 this year. Even with NT kids, even when they are adults THINGS can happen, believe me I wish I didn't know from experience. Anesthesia is IMO one of the scariest things ever even when your child has no ongoing major health concerns.
take care of yourself on monday.
Posted by: s.e. | 10/09/2014 at 09:31 AM