Waiting...

Today was the day. The day I have been dreading for three months.  The day that needed to happen before I could commit to flying to New York with John (him for work, me for fun).  The day that needed to happen before I signed Andrew up for preschool.  The day which has been giving me nightmares for more than a week.

Today was the day Andrew got his three month scans.  Scans which will be repeated every three months, hopefully for four years.  And then every six months for one year.  And then once a year for the rest of his life.  If all goes well.

At six a.m, I woke up before my alarm went off.  It was one of those restless nights that made me wonder if I slept at all.  I ate my breakfast, dragged Andrew out of bed, put him in his carseat (still dressed in his jammies) and broke the news:  "We have to go to the doctors' this morning.  They don't want you to eat anything until you are done, but I have a purse full of granola bars and juice boxes. I have your clothes and shoes in my bag."  He protested and cried a bit, but then fell silent for the rest of the drive.

Carrying Andrew in my arms, I made my way to the MRI waiting room.  The nurse walked in, almost immediately, and warned me, "The last MRI was found to be positive, so the radiologist is still talking with the parents.  We are running late."  I felt my whole body jerk back in shock.  Horrible memories flooded in.  My thoughts flew to the parents sitting on the other side of the door.

I wanted out of there. Now. My lungs started to tighten and take in smaller, stunted breaths.

I tried not to let my mind wander into the dangerous jungles of  "what if," but I was not very successful.  "If" this went bad, I pictured myself hiding in my bedroom under the covers in my room, loaded up on prescription drugs and oblivious to the world.  Yes, that is what I would do.

But WAIT.  I couldn't.  I have three boys and a husband.  I have to be there for Andrew.  It could not be that easy.  It would have to be a vivisection.  I would be ripped apart, while still breathing, and still awake.  My heart, soul and body would be dissected, and I would have to be awake and alive for all of it. 

My chest was pounding.

As my mind wandered, I noticed a little girl (about 8) across from me in a chair similar to mine, with light blue cushions.   Her mom was on the phone, several seats away, with her back turned, chatting to someone about how her husband "has been flirting on Facebook and she just won't take it anymore" and on and on.  The little girl's brother, about 2, was sitting in a stroller across from his sister.  The little girl smirked as she poked, teased, and made him cry.  I started to move forward in my seat, feeling like I might need to intervene (because her mother was oblivious to her son's cries and her daughter's bullying), and then I noticed the other side of the little girl's face.  A huge skin graft extended from the middle of her face all the way down her neck.  Her jaw was disfigured, and the scar across her cheek extended from her mouth to her ear.  Where are you God! My heart screamed.  I had to remind myself to breathe.

At this point, the nurse sent us upstairs for a chest x-ray.   After taking the elevator, and "following the lizard tiles," I entered another waiting room, and found another blue-cushioned seat.  My eyes quickly scanned my surroundings and discovered a little girl, no more than two, standing in the opposite corner of the room.  Pink and frilly and bald.  In my own corner, I heard the cry of a newborn baby and watched the concern on his mother's face as she held him close.

I thought of Japan and the holocaust and places worse than this and I felt food in my belly and clothes on my back and I saw people smile and I tried to convince myself that I was not in hell.

A nurse arrived to take us to the chest x-ray and Andrew cooperated, beautifully.  We headed back downstairs to the MRI room.   

During the last set of scans, the anesthesiologist wouldn't let me come with Andrew and as I handed him off to a strange woman in a white coat, Andrew screeched, all the way down the hall, "Where are you Mommy?! Where are you Mommy?!"   He spent the rest of the day asking me, "Why did you leave me?  Where did you go?" So this time, I let them know that I was coming in.  There was no option. They let me (and were actually very sweet).

While I held him, the doctor gave him medicine through his port-a-cath. He fell asleep, and I retreated to the waiting room, where I managed to read bits of my book, keep my eyes focused downward, and wait, again.

"How do these nurses do it?" I wondered to myself.  "Come to this hell everyday.  How do they do it?" And I found myself understanding and resenting the callousness that HAS to build up in order to do this work.

Andrew woke up, eventually.  He ate three granola bars and two juice boxes and held me tight as we made our way out into the wonderful, beautiful fresh air, where the ducks were sitting in the grass and the sky was a brilliant blue.

We drove home together, talking every so often, thankful to be able to escape from that place of pain and horror. 

And then we got home, to the worst waiting of all.  I expected to agonize all night and partly into tomorrow.

But around five p.m this evening, my nurse called to say that everything was clear.  All clear.