Wednesday, November 14, 2012
There is a lot going on with us these days.
A lot of hard stuff.
A lot of hard stuff that is unbloggable.
I hope that some day I can write about the unbloggable stuff, and the ways in which it has impacted each member of our family, but the person/s at the center of the unbloggable-ness do not wish to be a part of this internet record.
And so I let the keyboard rest.
One thing I can blog about, however, is that tomorrow YH has surgery.
That long off date we set with the pediatric urologist months ago is suddenly upon us.
Two weeks ago a nurse from the pediatric surgery center called me to go over the particulars of the surgery schedule. She talked me through each point.
She told me we should dress him in something he will feel comfortable in--does he have some pajamas? She told me he could bring a comfort object with him if we thought it would help.
She said I could hold his hand right up until they put him under and then I would have to leave him.
Leave him on a big bed, surrounded by tubes and wires.
Go wait in the special room for parents and family members of the tiny bodies being worked on by skilled hands.
At the end of our conversation the nurse asked if there were any particular religious or cultural practices that we wanted observed.
And I started to reply, "Well, he's only been a part of our family for six months and we've worked so hard to build a secure attachment...."
And that's when I lost it and began sobbing over the phone to the nice lady.
Because it seems so wrong to have carefully knit trust and attachment and the beginnings of love with this little boy, only to have it undone by a potentially traumatic medical procedure.
I am nervous.
Not so much about the procedures itself.
Nervous about the aftermath, about the look in YH's eyes when they put him on the bed.
When he wakes up from surgery and begins to feel pain.
I'm sorry baby.
I'm really, really sorry.
So in preparation for this unraveling I've been courting good karma.
I have joined a million committees.
I have signed up for multiple care calendars for new parents.
I have funded kickstarter projects, bought from bake sales, donated to worthy causes.
I hold doors open for older persons and/or parents carrying babies.
I am hustling to put positive energy out into the universe in the hopes that the universe might pay me, my family, back in kind.
Ten days ago my facebookery news feed was inundated with messages about our city animal shelter being overcapacity. All fees were waived--the shelter was so desperate for space.
I took YH there "just to look". So that I could advocate for a specific critter, lobby my friends and family to take home a new best friend.
Not for us.
We looked at the small dogs, and the kittens. We watched their paws skitter across the plexiglass walls of their enclosures. Pick me! Pick me!
We went outside to the big dog kennels, where dogs with impossibly large heads leaned against the metal bars hoping for ear rubs.
In the third outdoor building, at the end of the row, a small dog curled into herself at the back of her kennel. We peered in at her and made kissy noises at her. All around us dogs barked.
The little dog thumped her tail, ears flattened against her skull. Slowly she put her paws forward and belly crawled across the concrete to the front of the kennel. She barely lifted her head from the ground and I could only get one finger through the bars to stroke her chin. When I touched her she flopped into a relaxed pile of fur.
All of this to say: we brought her home the next day.
I could not leave this shy, sweet creature in the overburdened shelter.
And so now we have Petunia. And she no longer belly crawls. Now she walks with her tail held up. Now she curls up next to Ruthie on the dog bed. Now she licks the cat's ears and piles into the car with the kids when we head to soccer games.
She's my good luck charm.
And today while I wait for the surgery center to call and tell us what time we need to be there tomorrow morning, I will rub her velvety ears. I will listen to her snore.
I will take comfort in my living, breathing bit of karma.