Dental Surgery
Our sweet Adam had dental surgery today. He’s not completely a stranger to the hospital; all the short little beds and nurses with cartoon characters on their scrubs took me back to December of 2004, when Adam was diagnosed with juvenile diabetes. Back then, he had to sleep in this sterile metal crib (that looked very much like a cage) while he played with a set of primary-colored Duplo Legos the hospital Santa had brought him.
Over the weekend, Adam and I had had a series of conversations about the hospital visit that went something like this:
“Adam, on Monday morning you’re going to the hospital.”
“Hospital.”
“Yes, and you’re going to go to sleep.”
Each time I got to this part, Adam folded his hands together and placed them beside his head in the universal sign for sleep. “Sleep.”
“Yes. You’re going to sleep, and the dentist is going to do some work on your teeth.”
“Teeth.”
“Yes. The dentist will work on your teeth, and then you’ll wake up, and then we’ll go home.”
Despite our preparatory conversations, Adam got just a little unsettled when the nurse came in and told him to put on his little blue hospital gown that ties in the back. Who has ever worn one of those and not gotten a little unsettled about it? Just the fact that you feel compelled to walk around clutching that garment closed over your rear end is unsettling. Almost as quickly as he grumbled, Adam looked from me to Kevin and said more cheerfully, “Yes. I’m with my family.” After this observation, he was his usual steady-self about everything they asked him to do. He played happily in the play area for a while, congratulating himself with a hearty “Well done!” when he completed an activity.
Shortly before they took Adam to the OR, the nurse brought him a sedative to drink that was a happy red. Based on Adam’s expression, I can guarantee you that happy-or-not, it has a repulsive taste. Nonetheless, our little trooper downed the liquid and went back to playing with his Poingo. Within minutes, Adam started getting woozy. We noticed that his words were getting slurred, as though his tongue had tripled in size and completely filled his mouth. We had to chuckle as his movements became slower and more exaggerated. It looked as though he felt like he was swimming in syrup. Kevin told the nurse that we really needed some of this “happy juice” to take home with us.
Not long after that, the nurses came and rolled Adam to the OR, and Kevin and I took our places in the waiting room. I had brought plenty to do, knowing that it was pointless to sit in the grey chairs and watch the minutes tick by. Waiting that way only leads to worry, and as Kevin reminded me this morning, no one by worrying can add a single hour to his life. So, I sat reading, doing some Bible study, and making my grocery list, until the dentist came out covered head to toe in hospital blue and told us that all was well.
As we walked back to the recovery room to see our son, I couldn’t help but reflect on all the failed attempts to repair Adam’s teeth in the dental office. Adam suffers from extreme anxiety about intrusion in his mouth. He is so repulsed by foods with unusual textures that he shivers and gags when they touch his lips. The last two times the dentist tried to fill cavities in her office, I literally had to lay on top of him so that the dentist could finish the procedure. The last time, they wrapped Adam in a papoose board so that he couldn’t move, and still he raged so hard at the sound of the drill (which obviously scared him to death) that I had to stretch out over him so that they could finish. No amount of singing or eye contact (his eyes screamed “Why?! How could you let them?!”)or talking could persuade him to set aside his fear and calm down. So, we ended up at the hospital. Remembering all of this, I found myself relieved that the burden had all been on mine and Kevin’s shoulders this time, and that for Adam, the trip had brought no tears and absolutely none of that heart-breaking fear.
When we got back to the recovery room, Adam was still sleeping. I moved the blanket to cover his feet, and he opened his eyes, trying to focus on my face through the fog of anesthesia. Slowly, he stirred and began talking to us, though his speech was a bit garbled. We asked him questions, and he tolerated us well for a while, until finally I asked, “What’s your Grandma’s name?”
He turned to me with a look of quiet desperation and sighed, resigned. “My grandma’s name is Charlotte.” I laughed at the firm, flat way that he said it. Behind the sentence, I heard another. Please. No more questions. I’m too tired.
The nurse came out and asked Adam if he was ready to go home. He looked over at her, then at me, then pointedly at the hand with the IV still in it. He tugged lightly at the soft green elastic tape, ignoring the dinosaurs that danced all over it. Kevin, the nurse, and I laughed out loud because it was so clear that Adam was thinking, “Home? Somebody’s got to do something about this first.”
It reminded me of all the times I’ve been in the hospital. Each time, the priority after all was said and done was to get that horrible IV out of my arm.
When it was finally time to go home, I got to ride in the wheel chair with my sweet son in my lap. I knew he was going to be just fine as we headed through the double doors of the hospital and he whispered in my ear, “Poingo?” I kissed him on the cheek and wrapped my arms a little tighter around his waist, thinking about how blessed I am to know the love of this beautiful little boy who doesn’t open up to just anyone.
At home, my email inbox was peppered with emails from my shield-to-shield sisters, all of whom had been praying all morning (right along with all of our family) for Adam. Thank you all! The morning was long and the waiting bled into the afternoon, but all day we felt blessed to feel you all there with us in Spirit. The peace we felt could come from no other Source. No matter how unsettling a situation may be, it always helps to know your Family is right there with you.
