The Procedure
If you’re not familiar with our son’s story, first check out this piece I wrote for Scary Mommy: The End of Innocence
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Monday afternoon – Boston Children’s Hospital – bathroom
I rub up against my wife, Lauren, while she washes her hands.
“What are you doing?” Lauren asks.
I shrug my shoulders.
“You want to have sex in the bathroom of a children’s hospital while our son is having an eight-hour surgery?”
“I just want to forget for a few minutes.
“You mean 30 seconds.”
“Touché.”
We stare at each other and a tear falls down her cheek onto her shirt.
“Okay,” she says.
3 days earlier
Friday morning – New Jersey
We’re late, as I drop off my six-year-old daughter, Liz, at school.
Thoughts race through my mind. Five days. I’m going to miss her. She’s my get-out-of-depression-free card each day. And is she going to get jealous that we’re leaving her behind? If she understood why, she’d be okay with it, but we’re keeping the details to a minimum. Yet I feel like I’m letting her down in some way.
“Bye Daddy!”
“Bye honey, love you.”
She gets out of the car, her oversized book bag weighing her down. I honk the horn and wave, and she waves back and enters the school.
Her innocence. Her health. It’s the last moment I’m going to have with that for a while.
Friday afternoon – Boston Children’s Hospital – Pre-op screening
We told Matt we’re here to get his leg wrapped. Did my parents lie to me this much? And are you lying to someone if they wouldn’t understand the truth anyway?
Somehow the idea of telling him and keeping him in the dark are equally bad options.
The intake person is sitting with us.
“Does he have any personal items that might make him more comfortable?”
“He has two blue owls.”
“Stuffed animals?’
No, he travels with two real owls. They’re in the car sleeping since it’s the daytime. Is it all right if I bring them in later? “Yes, stuffed animals.”
The interventional radiologist, Dr. C, who will be performing the procedure, comes in.
“No drinking this weekend,” Lauren says.
We’ve met him a few times and have a good rapport.
“Of course not.”
“I saw you on Facebook with a drink in your hand. Do you have a problem?”
“We aren’t friends on Facebook.”
A moment of awkward silence as Dr. C realizes my wife might be stalking him.
“Is Matt your only case on Monday?” I ask.
“No, I have another one.”
“Is it better if Matt goes second?”
Dr. C laughs. “It doesn’t matter.”
“You can practice on the other kid.”
Weekend
We were stuck in Boston for the weekend. Normally, that would be okay as there are plenty of things to do. But we were afraid of him getting sick. So we left the hotel room sparingly, with my germophobe level going from its normal 9 out of 10 to: 62 out of 10.
Highlights:
- I exercised because even I couldn’t find an excuse not to go to the gym in our hotel.
- We snuck into the hotel members club breakfast. Within minutes, I slipped and spilled fresh beet juice everywhere, making it look like a crime scene (which kind of proves why they don’t let us in such places)
- We bought Matt presents each day. It’s not right to spoil your kids… except if they’re having major surgery. Then you spoil the shit out of them.
Monday morning – 6 A.M. – Boston Children’s Hospital
Dr. C comes in with his partner, an immaculately dressed man. He also happens to be the genius who named “CLOVES”. 1 <——-click on these boxes for my terrible jokes
They will be imaging Matt’s veins, then fixing the ones which aren’t flowing properly.
The anesthesiologist discusses the flavored gas mask they will use to knock Matt out. The moment is creeping closer. I have a lump in my throat. They’re coming for him.
Up until the last moment, Matt is as happy as a clam.
But it’s time.
Family waiting room
There are people of every descent: women wearing burqas; Orthodox Jews; Christians. The only place maybe on the planet where everyone comes together and pulls for the same thing is apparently a children’s hospital.
I’ve also concluded they should open a lemonade stand in this room, except there will be no lemonade, and just Xanax.
I take Lauren’s hand. I’m not even sure what else our marriage is at this point. Do we even like each other? How would we even know? We spend a lot of time taking our anger out on one another. We may just think we love each other because we’re the only two people who can share the pain of this experience together… and that’s enough for me.
But we do still have one thing we do well together: Bicker
“Anyone call?” I ask.
“Like 30 people.”
“Who?”
“Rachel, Cara…”
“Anyone else?”
“No.”
“So why didn’t you just say two people called? I hate when you exaggerate. Six people or more, you can say thirty.”2
I take a stroll and get lost in my thoughts.
I’m simultaneously grateful for the surgeons’ genius, and angry that they’re only human. It’s one of the best hospitals around, yet there are imperfections. There’s nurses asking the same question twice. There’s paper towels on the floor in the bathroom. The doctor missed a spot shaving. When it’s your child’s health, you want a perfection that just doesn’t exist.
I pass a robot moving on its own, carrying food. Any chance it can operate on Matt instead of the humans?
In the lobby, there are clowns entertaining kids and a choir singing.
I pass a Red Mango. Could they at least put it outside, so I’d have to put my jacket on? Can they deter me a little?
I enter the cafeteria. I’m looking for Dr. C, even though he’s operating on my son at this very moment. Am I trying to catch him in here?
I see a girl in a wheelchair. She is bald and pale as a ghost. When you see someone in this state, especially a child, it overwhelms you. It makes you angry. Frankly, it makes you sick. Yet you feel guilty for feeling sick. And you feel guilty for worrying about your own child’s situation.
After seeing her, I order a healthier breakfast, as if that makes any fucking sense.
4 hours later – Family waiting room
Every hour, a woman with a clipboard goes from family to family with an update. So far the updates have been generic: They’re taking images; they’re working on his leg.
We’re seated at the end, so we’re last in line, waiting anxiously. (Occasionally she comes at an off-time, and you hold your breath, hoping she’s not coming to talk to you.)
“When did you cut your hair?” I ask Lauren.
“Four days ago. Thanks for noticing.”
“Why? You need to look good for this?”
“It’s healthier.”
“I’ve never heard of somebody getting sick from unhealthy hair.”
“It was just hanging.”
“What else is hair supposed to do? … sex again?” I ask.
“When do you get serious? When he’s in a coma?”
“When the pain stops.”3
3 P.M. – The doctor comes out
“He did great,” Dr. C tells us. “We put coils in the veins in his upper leg, and below the knee we used laser and glue.” [Condensed version. Real version was 25 minutes and included 180 questions by me and 82 eye rolls by Lauren.]
4 P.M. – Recovery room
The first moment you see your child after surgery is the worst moment of the whole experience. Matt is hooked up to a million wires and monitors, There’s an oxygen mask over his face. He looks like he got hit by a truck.
As the anesthesia slowly wears off, he is disoriented and angry. Having Mommy and Daddy (really just Mommy) provides some comfort, but not enough.
It’s a helpless feeling to watch your child in pain. Until this moment, we had created a beautiful world for Matt, free of suffering. Now we can’t fake it anymore.
Lauren goes to the bathroom. I get into bed with him and hold his hand.
“Is my leg wrapped, Daddy?”
“Yes buddy.”
He looks down and feels the bandage.
“Like a mummy,” I say.
“I’m a mummy.” He smiles and rests his head on me and closes his eyes.
Epilogue
Matt stayed the night. The next day we got in the car and got the hell out of Boston.
His prognosis is complicated. Real life isn’t interested in Matt’s happy ending. He’s eventually going to need another procedure to address veins in his foot and thigh.
As for me, I’ve made a million mistakes as a parent. I made about twenty mistakes last weekend: I got Liz to school late; we snuck into a breakfast; I ate Red Mango three times; I tried to fornicate with my wife in a hospital.
I am constantly defeated by distraction, instant gratification, and the belief that I’m owed something because I have a child with health problems.
Yet somehow I made a son who, while filled with physical flaws, has a perseverance and spirit that are flawless.
For the first ten days following the procedure, he couldn’t straighten his leg or put any pressure on it. Then this:
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Brett’s memoir, WHAT COULD GO WRONG? – My Mostly Comedic Journey through Marriage, Parenting and Depression, is now available! Half of all sales will support CLOVES research and education. Click the Amazon button:
