I intended for my next blog post to be about home visits in Rwanda. I have all these great pictures I wanted to post, of the different sorts of houses our sponsored kids live in, and what it’s like to be on the bus while someone else does a home visit. The kids that gather, their mortal fear of puppets, and their love for stickers and arm hair. But what’s on my mind, as I sit in the waiting room at Arise Medical Center, is not home visits, so I’ll save it for another day. Here’s a picture. I can’t wait to tell those stories.
I have definitely spent more time in hospitals this past year than I ever have before (except maybe those ten days I spent in the hospital when my appendix broke). First with Rebeka, as we went in for surgeries and subsequent cast changes. Then with Clay, about a month ago. Those of you who haven’t heard about his daring (Clay says “dumb”) banister feat and resulting broken ribs and punctured lungs missed a great story. Maybe someday I’ll do a blog post about it.
But this morning, it was Alayna we checked in, for jaw surgery. We’ve been meeting with her oral surgeon for over two years, and we’ve known for over a year that jaw surgery was in her future. It has been carefully planned between the end of dance team football season and cross country season, and departing for college. Her biggest concern leading up to this morning was whether or not her braces will be off before she goes to college, but I imagine there will be more immediate concerns once she wakes from anesthesia. We’ve been armed with a very large bottle of pain medication, liquid since she can’t take pills. Alayna hasn’t been able to bring herself to smell it.
We couldn’t help but remember and compare the hospital experiences of Alayna and Rebeka. Rebeka always arrived with “Georgie” (her Curious George stuffed animal) and her little baby doll (the one Clay sat on). Alayna arrived with her purple unicorn pillow pet.
But while Rebeka was deathly afraid of needles, Alayna tolerates them just fine. She just looked the other way when they inserted the IV this morning.
We never saw Rebeka’s IV inserted. She required Versed (a medication that makes you very sleepy and kind of happy) before she would even put on the “clown nose,” with its flavored orange smell that would send her off to dreamland. They inserted here IV back in the OR, It was a difficult procedure since her veins were small and hard to find, due to the arthrogryposis. One time she even had to have the IV inserted in her jugular because they couldn’t find a vein.
Because Alayna could have her IV inserted first thing, they delivered her Versed by IV. Rebeka always took hers orally, and it tasted horrible. She would be armed with a couple paper towels to wipe off her tongue (no drinks allowed), and there was lots of complaining and horrible faces when she took it. We remembered how scared she was, that first time she went in for the operation. No amount of preparation could have prepared her, or us, for that moment we kissed her cheeks and they wheeled her through the big swinging doors. That first time, she couldn’t speak much English. She was so afraid. That first time she didn’t take Versed, but she did every time after.
Alayna was big smiles just moments after the Versed hit the IV. She started giggling and covered her face, laughing, which made us laugh. Part nerves, part hilarity, I had tears rolling down my face, same as when they took Rebeka back. It was a good way to go to surgery, I think, laughing this time.
As they wheeled her away, we called, “Goodbye” and saw her hand flop in a wave from over the back of her bed.
As we waited, I tried not to think about the cuts her doctor was making in her jaw. I completely trust him, but still, he was cutting her bones apart Re-adjusting them. Three hours, and lots of prayers, later, we got a call. He was “closing her back up.” With Rebeka, we always scrubbed in and were with her as she woke up. Maybe because it was a children’s hospital. But here, we won’t see her until they move her to her room. I was anxious, wondering if she was afraid as she regained consciousness. Wondering if she hurt. She is eighteen years old. She signed her own release forms. I was sure she’d be fine, but all those protective instincts were tilled up to the surface, and I don’t like waiting.
So much of life is spent waiting. As a kid, we can’t wait for Christmas morning. I’m waiting for a book contract. Alayna’s waiting to hear from colleges. And I had to wait all morning to see my girl again. She can’t wait for the swelling to go down, and for the braces to come off. But I’m trying not to spend so much time looking forward, I forget to notice the here and now. We have plans to watch a movie this afternoon. Alayna will be on the receiving end of sweet friends and family in the days ahead, sending love and prayers and encouragement and soup recipes (liquid diet, two weeks). This has been a forced pause in the holiday hustle and bustle. I’ve realized, as I remembered Rebeka and received sweet texts and taken time to just sit still and pray for my daughter, that sometimes the wait, itself, is worth the wait.