When we left for the hospital on Wednesday morning, we were all dragging because you know, none of us wanted to get up, or get ready, or leave. None of us wanted to go to the hospital for a four year old's heart surgery.
Except for Teenybop. All excited about her "sleepover" at the hospital, she's down the steps before any of us, and encouraging my grandmother to get a move on. She's waving her little hands and going, "Come on Nana, come on!"
So then we get there, and during the registration process, my pastor shows up, and Teenybop asks him if he's planning to sleep over, too. Funny, and my pastor is awesome!! You can check him out here.
Next, they took us upstairs to a room in the Pediatric ICU ... scary to hear, and to see, but in the end, not so bad. They did her bloodwork in there, and got her prepped with a lot of numbing cream on the backs of both her hands, and on her groin areas. Finally, it was time, and they came in with some "happy juice." This might sound terrible, but let me say that this was the point where it got a little easier for us to pretend that it wasn't that big a deal, because it was like Teenybop was drunk, and that was big time comedy.
At one point, she was trying really hard to sit up and see my younger brother who was standing in the doorway of her room, and she couldn't see him so I helped her sit up. And I said, "Well, honey, are you okay?" And she goes, "I don't know, I can't sit up too good Mommy." And she said it with eyes half closed, and a little drunken grin. Cute.
As the meds really kicked in and she started getting really sleepy, she said, "Help me. Help me, mommy." And I asked her what she needed and she says, "I'm all 'tatched up, mom." I think she was remembering a conversation I'd had the night before with my brother about his other sister being all "tatted" up. It was just so funny. All the drunk-ness made it easy for me to laugh which was good because otherwise I'd have been bawling.
I'm proud of myself though. I had told me that all I had to do was make it without crying until they took her away, and I made it. I cried when the pastor prayed for her with Fiance and I out in the hall, but other than that I managed to keep it together until we got downstairs. That was the scary part.
The doctor took me aside to talk to me about the procedure. All stuff that I'd read before, but somehow it was different at that moment, you know? And then he says, "Okay, we need to talk about complications." I cried then too, because I knew that one of the things that could "complicate" things was what he called "loss of life". Like it's no big deal ... but what it means is clear. He was telling me he could accidentally kill my four year old, you know? Hard. And then as I'm crying he says, "Okay, here's the hard part. I still need your consent to go forward with this." So I had to sign releases and consents ...
And now back to the funny stuff ... As they finally wheeled her away and I was breaking down because I didn't have to keep it together anymore, it was about 11:30 and she'd had nothing to eat all day. And I heard her say, "Excuse me ... Isn't ANYBODY going fix me some lunch!?"
These are memories that while horrifying, are almost good for us. They symbolize yet another major trial for Fiance and I, another lesson for me as a mother, and the solid strength of my child.
Not to mention the hands of God on our lives, which is not to be forgotten.
