Merry Christmas, Jono
Merry Christmas, Jono. You may or may not read this, but this is the first time I could write about last Christmas. I kept wondering why this year felt so calm, as if I had extra days, extra time, extra blessings. It's because I do. . .
Last December 23rd, I found myself unexpectedly in the Pediatric ICU, staring out the window at a blinking neon sign. The sign said, "Parking," and it was blinking green and red, the colors of Christmas. I remember thinking that I would not ever forget that moment, even if I wanted to forget it forever. The rain, the darkness, the dim waiting room, the lights of the vending machine, but mostly the blinking sign that I was focused on, praying.
We were at Akron Children's for an outpatient surgery for Jono. It was a simple birthmark removal, scheduled over Christmas break because his leg would be set in a full-length cast for two weeks following the short procedure. We figured he could rest at home rather than navigate school hallways and snowy weather. We were to expect one hour, plus or minus the time for anesthesia, recovery, and travel. I had my laptop and my book. Adam had his laptop, and we had settled into the waiting room for our brief stay. Christmas preparations were complete; we would be home in the evening with nothing to do but make Jono comfortable and await Christmas day.
After an hour, the surgeon came and said the surgery was great; Jono should be awake in about twelve minutes. I remember thinking that was a funny number.
We started to gather our things. A half-hour passed. Adam and I started to get antsy. Then another half-hour. Then nurses came to find us, asking us things, telling us things. I remember standing, and then telling myself to keep my balance. I remember telling myself to focus and listen. I remember looking at Adam, thinking, is this happening? Is this us? It's Christmas. The words were swimming together, but I can remember their faces as clear as the day in front of me now.
He's vomiting excessively.
Extreme hives.
In and out. . .
Toxicology.
Cardiology. His heart. . .
In and out. . .
He's responding if. . .
Three breathing treatments.
Oxygen dropping.
In and out. . .
And then. We're doing everything we can.
Could we see him? They would come get us, they assured us, as soon as we could. Wait. . . he's not awake?
And they were gone.
Another forty-five minutes, until they came back. This, after we asked everyone we could, everyone who passed by. By then, we were the only ones in the bright room, decorated for Christmas. When we were taken down the hall, I knew. I knew it was still bad. There were ten doctors and nurses, at least, surrounding a bed at the end of the hallway. Please, please, please God do not let that be his bed. But it had to be. We were the only ones left. Please, please, please. Please, please, please. But as we approached, they parted, and we saw him.
If this was better, what must "bad" have been?
I remember someone nodding in my direction, and a nurse sliding a chair behind me. Did I look like I was going to pass out? I remember putting my bags on the seat.
I remember Adam kneeling by his bed, saying his name, over and over. I asked question after question. Questions I don't remember now, but Adam tells me they were important and that he doesn't know how I knew to ask. I don't either. I rubbed my son's arm. I watched the numbers on his monitors. I listened, but I couldn't understand why he wasn't awake. What was he reacting to?
Morphine.
Anesthesia.
Epinephrine. Twice.
Two nausea meds.
Benadryl.
Steroids
Suddenly, they were moving his bed, beginning to roll him away.
"There's a bed in the ICU. We're rolling," someone said.
"Can I come?" I can hear my own voice, panicked.
A blond nurse, pretty, young, at the head of Jono's bed, told me we could go along for almost the whole way, and then they would have to go down a different hallway.
I'm still rubbing his arm as we walk.
Wait. . . . he's not awake?
We walked with the bed down the hallway as long as we could. The surgeon, who had been called back to the hospital, was walking with us, said this.
"You're in a parallel hallway to him right now. You're here, and he's right over there. They're going to settle him into a room, and then they will come get you. They said it would be a few minutes, but it won't. It will take longer; I just want you to know." I have never forgotten his hallway comment. It was what got me down the hallway.
Once in the waiting room, he settled us in, and started to go to Jono.
"Wait," I said. "He's not awake." I stopped. Could I ask it? I took a deep breath. "Am I supposed to be afraid that he's not going to wake up?"
The day had taken so many unexpected turns so far. What would make me think we were immune to the bad ending? The ending from the TV show, the ending that starts in the waiting room when the nurse says, "We're doing everything we can."
The doctor looked me square in the face.
"He has had anesthesia and Morphine. Benadryl. Two rounds of Epi. Nausea drugs. He's been struggling to breathe for hours. He's tired. He's fourteen. He can't wake up yet."
Which brings me to the neon sign, and where I prayed staring at the parking garage across the street from the PICU. Parking Parking. Parking. Praying. Praying. Praying.
It was another hour before someone came to get us. It was a long walk down the hall; Adam and I didn't talk. What we had seen at the end of the first hallway had been so unexpected, so awful. What awaited us now?
It was a regular hospital room, spacious though, and dark. Jono was in bed, not awake. In the corner, a nurse sat at a small desk with a computer, watching him. We stood in the doorway. There was no oxygen mask, I saw. He was breathing deeply and without any difficulty.
"You can talk to him," she said, "he's been asking for you."
"He woke up?" I asked her. I could feel my heart pounding. I started to cry. Adam was at his bedside again, kneeling.
"You can wake him," she said. "He's been asking if you're okay."
This is the moment I try to go back to when I find myself drifting back to that day. More often than not, I find myself walking down that first hallway, being shocked and stunned by the sight of my son on a stretcher, unable to take in air, unable to wake, covered in hives like I have never seen, not responding, oxygen dropping. When I remember this at night, I lose that night, even though he is safe and healthy, sleeping down the short hallway from our bedroom. When I remember in the daytime, my heart races and pounds, even though he is safe and healthy, probably walking down a crowded hallway at the high school. Adam and I don't talk about the details of that day; there is no need. We were there.
That night, after Jono woke and spoke and we cried and watched the CAVS game, Adam and I went to the hospital cafeteria around 11:00 pm for a bite to eat and drink. I remember staring at the giant gingerbread house in the center of the dining room as we sat, saying nothing.
"Did you think today. . .ever. . .that . . ?" I said.
"Yes," he said.
We all stayed that night in the hospital. Adam curled on the couch that was far to short for his height, and me in a chair by Jono's bed. My feet were propped on his bed all night, watching numbers all night, dozing here and there, waking to speak to every nurse or doctor that came in to check on him. On the 24th, the cardiologist came in and thought he had the wrong room— he had seen Jono the day before and didn't recognize him. That's how bad it was; rather, how good it was now.
Jono's scar, about six inches in length, is finally starting to look healed and like it belongs on his leg. For so long, I could not look at it, red and angry. The beginning of such a scary day. I think scars can be beautiful. I am embracing his, finally.
It would appear that he reacted violently to the anesthesia, but that he also has a severe allergy to Morphine, of which we were obviously unaware. We all went home on the afternoon of the 24th, in time to be home and spend a very quiet Christmas Eve with our family. I cried the entire car ride home from the hospital, simply because Jono was in the backseat.
As scary as those hours were, there was an unexpected sanctuary found in a corner of the dark waiting room. No candles, no sermon, no hymns. Just me, the glow of a neon sign, and God listening to my prayers.
"He's been asking if you're okay," said the nurse.
Thank you, God. Merry Christmas.
Christy ~ what a scary ordeal - i didn't know before this day, but now am Thanking the Good Lord for you... I can't even imagine the fear and absolute horror you felt when you first saw your son after the surgery that day... I've had my own child in an emergency surgery, tho it didn't take this type of turn. I am thankful that you shared, and wish you and your entire BEAUTIFUL family a joyous Christmas-
Nancy
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Christy,
Wow. Your story brought me to tears.
Thanks for sharing a true Christmas miracle.
God bless.
Stefanie
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Christy -
Wow. I read your story, and am wiping my eyes...listening to ave' maria...my heart is with you as you celebrate your family. Hug those babies, everyday. Thank you for the reminder to love the blooming garden that is within the walls of home and know we are blessed. Thanks again for gifting us with your writing. Yours -
Emily
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Beautifully written Christy. Funny how those "God moments" happen in hospitals. Reflection after the passage of time can be so insightful. Thank you for sharing this.
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Christy:
Blessings. Hearing this makes me count my blessings.
What a powerful post, you captured the intensity of the feelings so I felt like I was right there.
Thanks for sharing it.
Chris Brown
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