Monitored In Recovery

Prologue: This writing is one of five produced while participating in an OLLI – Tucson class, Writing for Self-Discover, Spring 2023. This was the 3rd in the series.

Monitored in Recovery

Daily we spent our time working for a demanding public, recipients of an occasional smile thanking you for a job well done, most ambivalent never making eye contact, and occasionally those with outrageous expectations and/or complaints to be expressed to all in hearing range, expecting an acknowledgement. Service industry jobs, exhausting.

At the end of our workday, we collect our son from day care, head home, and expect normality. Unwind, cook, eat, clean up, hoping for some downtime together, eventually preparing for bed. Baths and showers done, a bedtime story for little one and a few moments of calm, together to share our day.

It is 1975, and my wife and I were first-time parents; and must confess, speaking for myself, clueless. I had seen pictures of babies in catalogs and a few real babies in nature, but I had never held an infant, never. Planned for but clearly not prepared for such an undertaking. Warren was seven months old, and I, an apprentice. The sun was going down, and he whimpered. Then cry. Then cry a lot. Louder and louder. Paused for fifteen to twenty minutes and, having rested, cried again. Not the “I am hungry” cry or the “I have colic” cry, rather something is “not right cry - so figure it out!” We walked him, we patted, we rocked, we drove around the block, yes with him, his cries only became more severe. Then the vomit, not the normal vomit, rather projectile vomit.

Our concern and confusion befuddled us. By now, it was the middle of the night. We quickly cleaned-up and headed for the emergency room at Tucson Medical Center (TMC). The nurses and doctors gathered around him, prodded and poked, collected data and conferred. Finally, carted him off, still crying now nonstop, to an exam room while they placed us in a nearby waiting area. With no one there, just the two of us, we sat. Two novice parents, too young to know how to handle this present threat.

I cannot state how long he was in the exam room and I cannot claim to know what they were doing, but I know he never stopped crying and screaming and my stress level was escalating and anxiety building. Hours passed as we sat wondering, imaging the worse. I felt the warmth of the morning sun now peeking through a window. We have not slept a wink for over twenty-four hours.

It seemed like forever; the crying continued, non-stop. How could one tiny bundle cry without pause? I was exhausted, when finally, the doctor appeared. The doctor’s lips were moving, and sounds drifted out as he explained what they had attempted, but all I heard was the word “surgery.”

It felt as if someone had punched me in the gut. Did I break him? Surgery on a baby? Papers to sign. My breathing felt constricted. Trying to appear brave on the outside while freaking out on the inside is draining!

I needed to take a walk. Quickly, I found a hallway, saw the exit door, and for the moment stuffed my feelings, floated between irritation and fatigue, headed toward the sun. Stepped outside. Leaned on the building, now hidden from the public by a bush, cried.

Release.

Walking back inside, I ran into Dr. Zee, a pediatrician that Norma worked for. I did my best to look brave, but I am sure he saw through my bravado and ensured me the surgical staff would take good care of Warren. Those words appreciated, watched as he left, still feeling fearful.

Upon returning to the waiting room, the doctor eventually reappeared and explained he was treated for an intussusception, a condition usually experienced by boys, in which the last part of the small intestine slid into large the intestine. This telescoping action often blocks food or fluid from passing through. Intussusception also cuts off the blood supply to the part of the intestine that’s affected. Tissue death can lead to a tear in the intestinal wall, called a perforation, more words. Nothing registered until I heard, “he is doing fine and currently being monitored in recovery.”

Relief.

Soon the nurse returned him, and, to my amazement, he was alert and cooing as if nothing had happened. Meanwhile, the nurse, likely noticing my surprise, noted, “babies recover quicker than the parents.”

There on his tummy was a one-inch incision, a couple of stitches, and a Band-Aid. Personally, I was angry, an odd thing to admit. I was a wreck, but Warren was as happy as could be, alert and ready for a new day while Mom and Dad had spent the last twelve hours on a nonstop roller coaster ride of emotions. I doubt this narrative has or can fully express the depth of angst I experienced listening to my son scream in obvious pain, the not knowing the cause, treatment, or likely outcomes.