From the Mountaintop Archives

Elias doesn't want to talk about his you know what

He says: I’m feeling a little bit better. Thanks for asking. My mama is still worried about me, especially whenever she has to change my diaper; but with Dada home from work for the summer she has help. Great help. In fact, I think Daddy is better at this whole doctoring thing then Mommy. He gives me my medicine, cuts the whole just right in my first diaper-- I have to wear two--and he doesn’t take it as personally when I squirm and cry in his arms.

I know it still hurts Daddy to see me in pain. Especially knowing where I hurt.

But I don’t want to talk about that. Besides I'm sure my mom will tell you all about it later.

Did you know I can say yemonade (lemonade), and  uh-bator (elevator)? Did you know I like to practice saying aw right with all different voices because Mama says the word all the time? And she didn’t even know she said it so much until I started copying her! Silly.

Hey, look at me, I’m standing: Lubvee (Love you)

No longer numb...

All I can say is watching your child in pain and seeing a precious part of his body bandaged and bloody is worse than when it's your own body writhing in pain.

And there are no words to explain. No words to comfort.

Just the knowledge that this too will pass.

But how do you explain this to a baby boy who expects Mama to make the hurt go away?

Snapshots from Pre and Post Surgery

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HOME FROM THE HOSPITAL

Elias came out of the anesthesia with no complications, even smiling in the recovery room and telling us what a monkey says: ooh, ooh, eeh, eeh.

He is still numb down there-- so we'll see if he is still smiling when the drugs wear off.

We all need to eat and rest now but I'll post some pictures later on this evening. Thanks again for holding Elias in your heart today.

The Morning of....

So I obviously forgot to proofread the title of the post below--one of the hazards of mixing red wine with ice cream.

And thoughts of surgery.

Elias is a champ, sleeping till 6:30 this morning instead of demanding to get out of his crib at 5:00. His normal morning begins by joining us in bed and nursing (or what he calls manana) and though at the moment he's sitting on my lap and trying to get into position, he's been pretty easy to distract.

Here comes Dad to the rescue.

Only three more hours to go...

I drank anextra glas of wine tonight and there are oreo crumbs on my fingers

We played badminton till eleven. Before that I transplanted marigolds and before that we walked through the neighborhood, Nick pointing out fences as I discovered flowers.

I just wanted to say goodnight and good morning to all my readers and tell you that I need to lounge on the couch next to Nick now, savor this bowl of chocolate caramel brownie ice cream, with crumbled cookies, not think about my son's surgery tomorrow, but be a kid myself. And a wife.

I promise to write more than one short update on Tuesday. Thank you for thinking about Elias today.

I wrote this yesterday before we lost power

(Though I intended to take some time away from the computer; I meant to post this last night. But lightning struck somewhere in Anchorage and made me go to sleep early. It took a bolt of electricity for me to realize my exhaustion. And oh, I do love to sleep.)

Elias’s surgery is rescheduled for this Tuesday. I’m nervous just to walk in the hospital with him as a patient again. To hook him up to IVs and monitors. To kiss his head as they wheel him away. To wait while walking the all too familiar hallways. Hallways haunted by my old fears. But comfortable in a weird almost home kind of way.

I need to remember that we’re not there to stay. Not this time.

We spent the day with our friends Reni and Lila, ages three and six, and watching the two of them play with Elias makes me wonder about siblings. I always thought I wanted two kids, a boy and a girl, two years apart in age, with a younger sister and older brother. Hmmm. Looks like my family of origin. But this is when I expected to have healthy children in my early twenties. Not a 24-25 week preemie at age 31.

I don’t know what I want now.

I’m glad I don’t have to decide today but I think about this question often. And it is always a question. And I have different answers each time. From Elias as an only child, to adoption, to pregnancy with surgical intervention, to just plain ole trying again and seeing what happens. But every answer brings more questions, reminding me that nothing in life is simple.

I’m amazed how anyone decides to bring a second child into the world, let alone a fifth or a twelfth. And even if you choose not to decide, how do repeatedly break yourself wide open to embrace the hearts of children? 

Some say the more you have the easier it gets but I don’t know if I trust that statement. Sometimes I think there isn’t enough of me for another child. Maybe it’s the part of me that is still searching for the idealistic young woman wheeled into the NICU two Februarys ago. Maybe it’s the selfish part of me that wants to preserve my life outside of motherhood, to keep my notebooks, soccer cleats and garden beds. Maybe I’m just terrified of having a second child with complex medical needs. Or afraid of losing a baby in the NICU. Not all families get to celebrate discharge day.

And if I did end up in the NICU again, would it be easier because I knew the environment, the terminology, the machines, the alarms that go off again and again? Or would it be more difficult because of this knowledge?  Looking back to those first few weeks I’m often relieved that I couldn’t comprehend the extent of Elias’s medical problems.

With a second child, I’d know.

And I don’t know if I’m ready to do it again. Or to lie down for nine months. Or even to have a healthy full term child to hold on my other hip, to say Mama, Mama, MAMA. 

How do you ever know? 

Mama, are you on the computer again?

I thought I told you to go outside and play.

The first 24 hours

I just wrote pages of a story that I can’t post because my mind raced in a sentence that never ended but ran the length of hospital corridors and a mother's love.

The story of Elias’s birth.

As my words circled the fear, my body told the story better, by starting to shake.

I stopped writing. And walked outside to study the flowers.

To ground myself in living details.

Instead of my rambling mind, I'll  leave you with a short scene, pictures, and words of gratitude:

I wake up from anesthesia in a surgery recovery room with a doctor by my side:

“Where’s my baby?”

“He’s in the New Born Intensive Care Unit.”

I look for my husband. “Where’s Nick?”

“He’s, with the baby.”

“Is he Ok?”

The woman in blue with dark brown eyes looks into mine and says: “He’s alive—but I can’t tell you if he’s going to survive.”

"Can I see him?"

 

To Dr. Parish: Thank you for telling me the truth--as you saw and felt it-- the night my son arrived. 

Thank you for not hiding it in medical terms. Thank you for not dressing it in false hope.

Thank you for delivering only the core that everything else is based on:

Alive
But I can’t tell you
If he's going to survive

No one can

Oh, but we can love each other in the process.

Surgery Postponed

Elias woke up with a cold . And since his lung damage and weakened immune system already put him in the high risk category for anesthesia, the doctor opted to postpone his surgery. I'm glad he made the decision so we didn't have to-- but I wish it didn't mean postponing the anxiety involved with waiting for surgery.

Waiting and wondering.

Which leads to Moreena. Who knows all about waiting for surgery and loving a child with medical needs. She is presently collecting stories--due Friday-- that honor the medical professionals who care for our children.

And since I'm feeling a bit exposed after yesterday's post, and needing to contrast my negative hospital experience with some heartwarming ones, I'm turning the spotlight in her direction. You won't be disapointed.

But I need to leave you with this Alaskan scene:  Nick and I woke this morning to the sound of children playing in the street. I peered out the window and watched as they chased their small dogs out of our garden, giggling and running down the middle of the road. The clock said 2:30 a.m.

Happy Solstice from the land of the midnight sun.