So I took Jr for surgery today. On the way we passed Kerby's Coney Island and I seriously thought for a second that we should just go in there and have pancakes and call the whole thing off.
It was early this morning, everyone that knows Jr, knows that he is just the sweetest most calm, gentle soul anyone could ever meet. He never fusses, he never cries or misbehaves. He just is, and he engages everyone that he lays eyes on like they are the most wonderful person in the world.
So we get into the car, I had stolen M's pink toy computer that he loves, and he was playing with it all the way south on I-75 in the morning rush hour traffic, listening to Sloan with me, and smiling giggling, pressing his computer buttons and laughing at the "beeps".
I thought, how bizarre, he doesn't even know where I am taking him. What must it be like to be such a small baby-child. I wonder often about how it must feel that people can just pick you up at will and take you somewhere you don't nessisarily want to go. This is a similar thing, I'm sure Jr wouldn't willingly want to get surgery today, but here we are.
Walking into the hospital, i'm reminded of the smells and sounds, I used to work here, I had both of my babies here. I am calmed by the order and schedule of the hospital. On a day like today I feel like my mind and body are an opposite of that though, I couldn't feel more scattered and worried and panicked.
Checking in, everyone is wonderful, the nurses on the Pediatric Floor are just angels. Beck is laughing and saying "Hi!" to them all. I catch a whiff of alcohol swab and almost pass out. I know that means needles, reminded of why we are here.
Jr is put into a tiny gown and tiny slippers, he looks hilarious, like a female Florida retiree waiting to go into Bingo. They take us to the pre-op area, and it's about time for his nap. He is hungry, he is tired, he's in an unfamiliar place, but AGAIN he is just as sweet and kind and entertaining the whole floor or patients and employees. He walks up to one of the nurses and she carries him behind the pre-op desk and let's him play with the phone and the computer. Jr is just as happy as can be. Surrounded by people he just met today, all smiling at him, the adoration is palpable. I'm trying to hold it together. Just standing there watching my son, amazed by his hold on these people, and admiring his calm and contentment in such a strange unfamiliar place.
We walk around the Pre-Op area at least 3000 times. He says "Hi" to every patient, brings a smile to EVERYONE'S face. The patients that looked terrified are now relieved. Jr is surrounded by and trails behind him this air of comfort and joy and grace.
The OR nurses come. It's time to go. They take him away. He is gone from my arms. I cry. I faint. I fall down. I hear him crying down the hall. I have no idea what is going to happen. I just think of people that have no idea that they have an allergy to anesthetic. I think of all the things I've read in the past about how difficult it is to intubate a small child. Of all the botched surgery stories I have read, and all the noscomial infections that he can be subject to. My mind races. And then now I feel numb. I'm still waiting.
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