Monday, November 26, 2012

No thank you.

We're on the other side.
We're past the endless weeping, and the pain with each step YH takes.

The seemingly endless course of antibiotics is done.
The bottle of pain killer sits undisturbed for most of the day.

YH is back to running and playing with his brother and sister.
He is sleeping through the night again.
He is eating lots and lots of food again.

And it is SO GOOD to see my baby feeling better.
There is nothing like a health crisis to cement the notion that this child is of my heart, if not my blood.
The degree to which his whimpering cut into my soul--unimaginable.

This baby is wholeheartedly his firstmother's child--I will never deny this fact, or prevent their relationship--but my lands, he is in my heart. I love him fiercely and seeing him suffer was awful.

 This morning we had our second-to-last post-operative appointment.

YH has quickly figured out that the children's hospital is not his favorite place; he drags his feet and kicks at the ground as we approach the building. We park illegally in a neighboring strip mall parking lot so as to avoid the garage fees. He tries to redirect me to the Starbucks.

"Mom! Mom, cookie. Mom, coffee. Coffee mom?"

We plod on, undeterred.

In the office waiting room he is warily optimistic. Maybe today we'll just play with the toys and then leave! Maybe if I look extra cute "reading" 'Mujer' magazine she'll let us leave.
(Nope, sorry bubs.)

He protests mightily at the weigh in. I *always* have to hold him as we stand on the scale together. Then I hold him (sobbing) at arm's reach as the nurse weighs me separately.

In the exam room he whines for a few minutes and then begins to zoom his toy car all over the spinning chairs. He opens every cabinet and presses every visible button. He is still YH, after all.

When the nurse practitioner walks in he tries to hide behind me.
She preps the exam table and sets out her tools for his scheduled catheter removal.
He becomes ever more still, trying to disappear.
She invites YH to climb up on the table but he is no fool.

"No thank you" he says and he burrows deeper into my shoulder.

I lift him up and lay him down on the table. There is a white towel spread beneath his abdomen.

"No THANK you" he says again, slightly louder this time.
The nurse practitioner begins to remove his diaper. 

"No thank you. No thank you" again and again, delivered in a voice clouded by tears.

My poor boy--so polite even in his distress.

The catheter comes out with no problems and we skip on our way out of the building.


We are looking forward to baths, to playgrounds, to preschool--to all of life.
We are not taking it for granted any more.

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