Up early to the sound of my phone, shower, dress and off to the hospital, wondering how bad Andrew slept. Turned out that he slept on a roll-out bed, I feel so guilty sleeping in a double bed alone in a quiet place.
I told him to go back to the room and sleep till lunchtime, Josh was due for his I.V. anyway, and my King might be big and strong, but he’s not strong enough for that. That’s why we are a good team; he can deal with some things better than I can, and vice-versa.
Putting the I.V. in wasn’t much fun at all, and the nurses all learned what “unhappy Josh actions”. They thought they were in for a cruisy time with “happy Josh”. Uh uh. He kicked and screamed the room down. The poor young Doctor was doing her best, but Josh’s veins are just so little and difficult. 3rd time lucky, with only one spill.
Luckily the i.v. was in as he was fasting and it wasn’t long before he had his first hypo (low blood sugar),I was having a nice little nap with him until the dr came in and we began talking, and I realised that Joshua was not waking up even with our talking. I did a BSL (Blood sugar level) just to check, even though it wasn’t time. 1.7 is low. He was non responsive and crashing, the dr was ordering glucose and the nurse was busy “on the phone” it caused quite a stir between drs and nurses, and we ended up with about 6 in his room. All I cared about was getting my kid right and it took so long, about 15 minutes in total for the glucose to be put up.
Dr after Dr came to see Josh, all with their area of speciality, and I have full confidence in them. None of them beat around the bush, telling it as it is and I was grateful for that. This is major surgery and its tough on kids like Josh.
Andrew was back in time to see us off to theatre, and I went in with him until he was asleep. If anyone has ever seen their child off to sleep for an operation, you will know exactly what I am talking about. You know they are going to look after your child, you know it’s for the best, you know all that but still it feels wrong; leaving your baby behind those doors. I cooed to him that “Mummy’s here” and “its ok”, as he was crying in protest with the anaesthesia, but it feels like we are betraying him.
Its now 7.45pm. It’s been 6 hours since I have seen my baby and I’m getting very anxious – so out comes my little book to write in. I just can’t look at these walls any longer. My brother Chris came to visit and that was a welcome distraction, as is my phone which is forever buzzing. My friends and family are all sending love and best wishes ~ it feels nice.
I know he’s out of surgery – the surgeon came to see us and was happy that all went to plan – but that was over an hour ago – where’s my kid?
I expect he’s having a tough time in recovery, part of me wants to bust in there & the other part of me wants to stay in the dark and “not know” how bad it is. Torn. So we sit here in silence. Waiting. Waiting.
Going quietly crazy.
People come, people go – others are in and out within hours & I look expectantly at the volunteer with every call she gets, willing her to call our name but each time I is not… until we are the last ones left. He was first up to.
Finally the call… and I steady myself to walk, not run, to his side. As I walk in I cannot hear him crying. Last time was so shockingly bad with screaming and kicking they needed to up his morphine, I wonder if they’ve already done so before arrived. I look at him and am immediately surprised and relieved. He is asleep, he looks so incredibly peaceful. His skin is pale and very cold. His whole body is covered in a “bear hug” a big blow-up bag kind of blanket that has warm air pumped in to warm him. He doesn’t hold his temp well. He’s been cold, and they have spent the last hour warming him up.
His epidural has worked and he has other medication on board to help. It’s working and I feel like crying with relief that he is not in pain. Andrew holds it together when he sees him come back to the ward. He is pale and looks so small in the bed. There are so many machines hooked up to him, and lines everywhere. He has taken all the power sockets on his side of the bed, he’s had to use some from next door too.
I had a peek under the blankets… surprise… there was a willy under there, so I didn’t get a good look at the operation sites, but he has a wedge cushion holding his legs apart and plenty of bandages and such. His feet are plastered. It looks all mighty uncomfortable, but he’s a tough little man, I am sure he’ll cope.
One day at a time.