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Hmmm, where do I begin? I think I’ve said that before starting off a new post. I apologize for being repetitive, but once again I have thoughts in my head circling like a tornado (Remember Twister? This is a category 5 tornado). Maybe I should start with the probable catalyst for these spinning thoughts: it’s been five days since my last post and exactly 48 hours since Ben underwent open heart surgery. (My stomach churns miserably thinking about it.)
The operation took 6 hours and 23 minutes. It was the longest I’ve ever went without breathing. Really. I don’t remember breathing. I don’t remember blinking. I don’t remember thinking. I don’t remember much of what happened in that time span. Everything is hazy and unclear. Now and again I’ll start to see snippets in my mind, playing out in short, broken images, but that’s all.
I do remember, though, seeing Ben right after the surgery. It was shocking. He didn’t look like my son. With all honesty, Ben didn’t look human. His face and body were swelled beyond belief. He looked yellow (the nurses later told me the yellow was from the Bentadine they scrubbed him down with). There was a blue respirator tube coming out of his mouth, a forest of IV poles around him, and a big gauze patch covering his entire chest.
I have a hard time looking past all that. My stomach feels like a tangled mess of knots. I have to push myself to walk into his CVICU (Cardiovascular intensive-care unit) room. And the most frustrating issue right now is my lack
of control. I’m just helplessly standing by. I haven’t held him in four days and I want nothing more than to hold him, dress him, change his diaper; but I’m powerless. There were very brief moments that I felt useful, but his life is truly in the hands of others.
The doctor’s say he is doing okay. But being a parent of a preemie for some time now, I know how quickly the status quo can change.
“He is doing well,” the doctor assured us. “His heart rate has been consistent. That’s what we want to see.”
“Is he in any pain?” Pam asked.
“No, he is sedate and will continue to be for the time being,” he said and ran his finger over Ben’s little head. “I know he doesn’t look okay right now, but trust me. He is doing very well.”
Pam is trying to cope much like me. She has good days and bad days. I try to be patient and understanding, but I really don’t know what to do sometimes. Needless to say, the day of the surgery was a bad day for both of us. We almost didn’t proceed with it. The hardest part was when Ben’s little fingers loosened their grip around Pam’s index finger when they sedated him. We felt our own heart bursting as the nurses took him away, not because we thought he might die, but that he might die without us. I knew I had to be strong for Pam, but I broke completely. Both of us did.
Since then, the only thing keeping us going is Cece. We have to keep a daily routine down for her. Otherwise, Pam and I would be two hot messes. We get up because she’s up, we eat because she has to eat, and we sleep because she sleeps. She also never let us forget to smile.
Cece knows Ben’s heart is sick, and knows he needs to have mom and dad at the hospital with him. She is aware that when mom and dad are not with her is because they are helping Ben get better and not out at the park with him. But she’s three and the jealous bug still lurks around, but not as frequent as one might anticipate, considering the amounts of time we spend at the hospital.
“Daddy! Whea you goin’?” She asked one day.
“I’m going to the hosp—”
“Ahh you goin’ to see Ben?”
“Yeah and then I’m going to work.”
“Is momma goin’ toooo?”
“Momma is staying here with you.”
“Daddy, can I come wit you? I ammm a big sistah.”
I racked my brain and tried frantically to come up with an excuse I hadn’t used yet. “You are the best big sister in the whole world, but if you make him a card like you did for momma I’ll bring it for him to see.”
“Oookay, daddy. I’ll make Ben theeee best card.”
She’s made about three cards since that day and all three can be found taped to Ben’s incubator. My office has about seven of her cards and our fridge is completely covered in cards she’s made for Pam. To anyone else it’s just scribbles and uneven lines. But to Pam and I Cece’s cards contains all the courage we need to get through the tough days.
Yesterday I stopped by Hallmark on my way home and got Cece her own card. There’s a bear on the front and when you open the card the bear opens his arms and it reads in big letters, “Lots of love and hugs.”
“Daddy, dis is the best card!” She said hugging me.
“You like it?”
“Daddy, dis bear is like Meeestah Fuzzs.”
“Yeah, that’s Mr. Fuzzs’s brother, Mister…… Fluff.”
“Meeestah Fluuuuff?”
“Yeah, why don’t you go put it next to Mr. Fuzz so he can see his brother.”
“Daddy, I haff a bwother jus like Meestah Fuzzs!”
I also got Pam a card. I wrote a small note inside and gave it to her. She was a little surprised to get a card. She didn’t open right away. She said she would read it later. I didn’t see when she finally read it, but she cuddled closer to me that night.
When I felt her moving near me, I immediately turned towards her and instinctively placed my arms around her. She settled her head under my chin and for a few brief seconds it felt like it was spring outside and not a bitter fall night.
“Should we be there with him?” She asked, her voice a notch above a whisper.
“With Ben?”
“Yeah… He’s all alone,” she said and released a frustrated sigh.
Yes, we should be there, I thought to myself. I wanted to be there. But we had been alternating shifts at the hospital and we had gotten very little sleep since Ben's surgery. “I think he is better off having parents that are awake with him during the day.” I said, hoping my words made sense, because my brain really wasn’t functioning properly.
There was a hitch in her breath, and I could hear the beginning of her tears. “What if something happens?”
I wished she hadn’t asked that because she materialized my greatest fear. “They will call us if something does happen.”
After a moment she said, “He should be here.”
“Yes, he should be right here,” I agreed, patting my chest.
“I want him home.”
“Me too.”
Our conversation didn’t go beyond that. The silence that reigned afterward was comforting. We are good at silence. I think we speak better when our conversations are devoid of words. I understand her more from the way her eyes lingered on me than I ever could from words she strung in sentences
I’m just outside Ben’s CVICU room summing up the courage to go through the doors. Pam’s is there with him. I can see her through the small glass window. I think she’s singing to him, like she does with Cece before she puts her to bed. (Although I call it singing, nothing really comes out. It’s just a rushed whisper she intones of a lullaby.)
She couldn’t wait to see him. The wires and the tubes and everything Ben’s attached to doesn’t bother her one bit. He’s still Ben to her. He’s still her little boy. And the same holds true for me, but I can’t seem to get over his current condition. It’s just… I don’t want to see him like that.
I think I’ve been avoiding it long enough now.
I’m going in.
-Jim
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© 2006-2023 More Than That | Skin created by Kali
© 2006-2023 More Than That | Skin created by Kali