Breaking The Surgery Fast

This past Friday, after a nearly two year break, Chase headed back into the operating room. He’s been under anesthesia with MRIs on the regular, but since they last opened up his chest and removed his port, there’s been nothing and no one cutting into him. 

He’s two years older now. Gone are the days when “it’ll just be a quick nap with the doctor” completely cut the fearful look and quiet whimpers, and this was something for which I was not prepared.

During chemo, I thought there couldn’t possibly be anything worse than little ones getting cancer treatments. Our baby, our two-year-old, chubby little should have been running around at a park instead of getting chemotherapies and surgeries; and that felt like the absolute worst.. But I was not prepared for the reaction to the word “surgery” spoken over a fully cognizant, old-enough-to-understand six-year-old. He now understands that what happens “like magic” when he sleeps actually cuts into his body to give, take or change something. For better and greater good, yes, but there’s still dealing with the concept that while he sleeps, things unfold in and around his body; things far beyond his control. With age comes the burden of knowledge.

On the one hand, I am deeply thankful to see Chase mature because there are and will always be questions about how much he understands, in what dimension he understands them, and how he will possibly remember them. 

But on the other hand, it means Bob and I now speak to him like an adult about these things, knowing that words of comfort might encourage and strengthen, but will not always allay the fear.

How do you tell a six-year-old that the only way out is through? It seems perfectly appropriate when applied to cleaning up the basement, and so very broken and wrong in a pre-op room.

And the night before the surgery, I sat on the edge of his bed as he whimpered “I’m scared” and “I don’t want to do this” over a few times as if repeating it would get him out of it. And then we whisper-sang “10,000 Reasons” like we did in the older treatment days and he was finally able to sleep.

Chase and I talked about it now that it’s all over and done and he said that the surgery wasn’t really that scary, but the truth came out in his very next sentence: “But mom, for four days, I was scared.” – The four days before nearly ate him alive, and he nearly took the rest of the family with him. (reference: ninja-star-holding the door jamb while refusing to get on the bus)

This time was good for me because with all Chase’s complications and high-maintenance needs, daily life feels pretty demanding 24/7, but it wasn’t until I sat next to him hearing the words “And on that day when my strength is failing, the end draws near and my time has come…” falling from his lopsided mouth that I realized life actually has been easier than it was once upon a time. I’d forgotten what it looked like in the shadow -of treatment, of procedures, of another something looming. 

I mean, there are shadows now, but they’re further out, like knowing a storm is coming, not like running to the shelter when it’s nearly on top of you. Surgery in the morning is like running to the shelter. It’s on top of you and it’s inevitable. All you can do is duck and cover, praying to survive. And our “muscles” are so out of practice with the run because we haven’t done it in two years.

So yeah, it was hard, and pssshhh… all this irony and metaphor over an eye surgery? 

You bet.

They wheeled my baby out on a gurney and I had to stand at a set of doors and walk no further as the scrub and gown-clad staff reassured me that they’d take him from here and he’d be fine. I had to look at his face while he wouldn’t look at mine because he was drugged and afraid and not even the strongest “mellow” could take away the separation (though he would not remember it afterwards) and sometimes it’s easier if you don’t look. And then they’d take him into a room, tape his head to a table, paralyze his unconscious eyes to keep them from rolling into the back of his head and jeopardizing the surgery, and then they’d intubate him and proceed to cut into his eye and patch and repair him for the next hour. 

And now I carry a little card in my bag, right next to my insurance card and drivers’ license, and it tells the make and model of the false lenses that sit in my six-year-old eye socket.

And all because of the treatment we chose to save his life.

I write this as I’m weeping-breaking-bone-tired. The last 48 hours have been spent trying to amuse a highly active and light sensitive child (whose anesthesia included a steroid dose, and who cannot get wet, wrestle, get dirty, play sports or play outside) by day and stay near his restless body by night to make sure he doesn’t claw at the patch, tape, or tender skin around the eye and skull tape wounds in his sleep.

I know all the right things to think. I know this was just a surgery, and in a few weeks, the pleading/negotiating/wresting-to-the-floor eye drop sessions every few hours will be done. I know I need sleep and I know I need to sustain my soul with God’s word. And I know that until I do these things, everything is going to seem worse and more un-doable than it really is.

But in this moment, this late Sunday night writing time, I’m just laying it all out. How Chase felt, how I felt, what it was like to be back near an operating room – all of it.

Maybe my raw feelings will encourage you because you’ll know you aren’t alone, or maybe it’ll simply bless you because you can quite honestly say “Wow, I’m nowhere near the hot mess that she is!” – And hey, that works too.

Bottom line: We’re hurt, we never really get used to surgeries no matter the age, we’re broken, and this too shall pass because even in this moment when I’ve come to the end of myself (for the 40 millionth time), I know I shall wake to yet another dose of strength and hope for this crazy life because He isn’t at the end of Himself.

Moment by moment.

“God is our refuge and strength, always ready to help in times of trouble.”

Psalm 46:1