It’s less than a month before the next big tizz has me in a whirl of panic,
Having me question what the right option is,
Racked with guilt,
(A state-of-being I still cannot seem to get a handle on,
Despite so many many hours, days, months and years now,
In the turbulence of Cerebral Palsy).
It becomes apparent that Isaac cannot breathe through his nose,
An action partly absent as a skill never learnt,
But predominantly according to the ENT specialist,
Is the fact his adenoids are grossly over sized,
And does he snore?
Does he only mouth breathe?
Does he also tend to have a regular swelling response from his tonsils when unwell?
Because they too are moderately enlarged in size.
Well that’s just wonderful.
I hate hospitals.
Well, it’s a love-hate relationship.
One failed him at birth,
While another saved his life after birth.
I can only imagine the type of relationship Isaac has with them,
So emotive in their smell,
Their fluoro glow,
Their constant hums and beeps.
So the thought of taking him back to hospital,
For elective surgery,
Is almost unfathomable,
Bringing back too many memories,
Dragging with it too many bucket-fills of anxiety,
And igniting an ever present underlying fear of things going very very wrong.
I’m told he cannot breathe properly,
The size of his tonsils could also be impeding his speech,
By way of blocking the passageway for saliva trying to make its way down the throat.
A single surgery to just remove the adenoids alone,
Is our first option,
As tonsillectomy’s are renown for their brutal recovery,
For while they are enlarged,
They are not dramatically excessive,
So there’s potential for them to remain without causing harm.
And yet the possibility of reduced saliva for improved speech,
Seems too tempting.
Have I been making his life even harder by not noticing this earlier?
Or am I once again too hopeful for a quick fix to solve all his problems,
Wrapped up in one neat little surgery?
Desperation clouding my rational mind?
I honestly don’t have the answer,
But can confidently say,
I am desperate.
I have been desperate since the moment he was born.
And I may remain desperate for the rest of his life.
And so we opt for the double adenoid-tonsillectomy.
And so on the day of the surgery,
He is wheeled away on a hospital bed,
Draped in white,
Looking so small and vulnerable,
It’s almost unbearable.
I want to scream I’ve changed my mind!
Bring him back to me right now!
But then he’s gone,
With a sympathetic look from staff,
And the reassurance of the routine nature of the op.
Thankfully within an hour it’s done,
And his small pale sleeping face,
Is by my side again,
And we’re told it all went smoothly.
He awakens in good spirits,
Amidst his drowsiness,
Hungry for the promised jelly and ice cream.
It soon becomes clear however,
That eating is painful,
His stomach is upset from the anesthetic,
And the look on his face is heartbreaking.
I’m as helpless as I was the day you were born.
And little did I know then,
That the two weeks to follow would only get worse,
So very much worse.
But I hate myself already,
For putting him through it,
Spilling over with guilt for more pain I have allowed him to go through.
But all I can do for now,
Is sit in my own guilt,
Squeeze his little hand,
Tell him mummy is here,
And stroke his forehead until sleep comes over him once more.
So far filled with too many bravery awards,
For his short four and a half years.
Although without doubt deserving of every single one.