'Twas the night before surgery, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring...except for your mom.
I keep trying to clean the house before we have to leave in just over four hours. I started to pack a bag. I've tried to organize and remember everything that we'll need, and I can't do it.
I get so far, and then I have to stop.
I am terrified of what is about to come. I cannot even begin to imagine what's going through your mind. Do you understand what's about to happen to you? Do you know what Mommy gave consent for the doctors to do? I know we've talked about it, but do you understand? You, with no concept of time-do you understand what we've been going on about for months now, and what will come in the months ahead? You, with the blank look on your face-have you heard a word we've said? Or were you off in your own world, where it makes perfect sense to sing me a theme song in response to a question?
I remember when you were born. The mad last-minute dash to the hospital when your father and grandmother realized what was happening to your mommy...the terror because I knew something was wrong...the anger over how wrong it all went...and then your sweet little face. I remember checking all ten fingers and all ten toes and asking the doctor "Why do his feet look like that?" "It's just positional-he's a preemie, it'll fix itself."
Part of what I feel tonight is nothing but sheer anger, rage at that doctor. Had he done his job right four years ago...had he x-rayed your feet as he should have done...had he sent you to a specialist immediately instead of letting two young, inexperienced parents bring their child home with no further instructions than "Let's see him back in two weeks for a weight check," how different might it all have been? Would I be sitting here tonight, terrified of what tomorrow might bring? Would you be in your room asleep, aware and yet simultaneously oblivious to what is about to happen to you? Would this have happened long ago and be nothing but a bad memory I hope never to repeat?
So many things were messed up for you. So many mistakes made...so many things gone wrong...I failed you in that sense. I knew. I knew when you were born that this wasn't right, that there was something wrong, and yet I sat back and let doctors who surely knew more than I did run what was going to happen to you. Today, that would never fly with me-today, hell would have frozen over about six times before I took that first doctor's words to heart. I would have demanded that you be examined by a competent doctor who knew a little something about an infants feet. Four years ago...I was a frightened 20 year old who just wanted her premature newborn to be healthy. I denied and denied and denied what I KNEW in my heart and in the back of my mind was the truth.
And I failed you.
Today, I fight for you. I fight for you because you are my son and I love you. I adore you. I fight for you because you cannot yet fight for yourself.
I also fight for you because I failed you so miserably. I fight to fix what I allowed to go wrong, to go unchecked, untreated. I fight to fix the mistakes I'll never forgive myself for.
People tell me all the time "Everything happens for a reason" or "God knows what he's doing." I should hope God knows what he's doing, or we're all in trouble. Yes, everything happens for a reason. Neither of those statements make me feel a bit better for what I failed to do. Neither of those statements will save you from what is about to happen. Neither statement will save you if something goes wrong tomorrow.
"Relax, this is a common procedure for children like him. The risk is minimal." Until you add in your blood disorder. Until you add in your seizure disorder. Until you add in your asthma. Until...until...until. You are a walking medical nightmare. The risk is minimal for a "normal," healthy child. You are considered to be neither one. The risk for you is much higher.
Granted, the risk that the person who has to come tell your mother something went wrong will be themselves in need of a doctor is also that much higher.
I don't know why everything failed for you four years ago, and again two years ago when the first scheduled surgery for your feet fell through. I don't know what calamity you may have been saved from. I don't know what happened instead that might not have happened had things gone the way they should have gone. The only thing I know is that I failed you then. The doctors failed you. You fell through the cracks and went untreated far longer than I should have allowed. (I should have allowed not at all...)
You have my word-that is the final failure. I fought like hell to make sure your surgery happens tomorrow. Your doctors bent over backwards this time to get the ball rolling and make sure everything was green light. Never again will I allow you to fall through the cracks.
I am so sorry this didn't happen sooner. I am so sorry that I failed you, that the doctors failed you. I am so beyond sorry that there is no possible way you won't remember this. I just hope you forgive me.
I love you moon back to pizza and all the pepperonis, my little baby blue. Golden lights, my love.
I keep trying to clean the house before we have to leave in just over four hours. I started to pack a bag. I've tried to organize and remember everything that we'll need, and I can't do it.
I get so far, and then I have to stop.
I am terrified of what is about to come. I cannot even begin to imagine what's going through your mind. Do you understand what's about to happen to you? Do you know what Mommy gave consent for the doctors to do? I know we've talked about it, but do you understand? You, with no concept of time-do you understand what we've been going on about for months now, and what will come in the months ahead? You, with the blank look on your face-have you heard a word we've said? Or were you off in your own world, where it makes perfect sense to sing me a theme song in response to a question?
I remember when you were born. The mad last-minute dash to the hospital when your father and grandmother realized what was happening to your mommy...the terror because I knew something was wrong...the anger over how wrong it all went...and then your sweet little face. I remember checking all ten fingers and all ten toes and asking the doctor "Why do his feet look like that?" "It's just positional-he's a preemie, it'll fix itself."
Part of what I feel tonight is nothing but sheer anger, rage at that doctor. Had he done his job right four years ago...had he x-rayed your feet as he should have done...had he sent you to a specialist immediately instead of letting two young, inexperienced parents bring their child home with no further instructions than "Let's see him back in two weeks for a weight check," how different might it all have been? Would I be sitting here tonight, terrified of what tomorrow might bring? Would you be in your room asleep, aware and yet simultaneously oblivious to what is about to happen to you? Would this have happened long ago and be nothing but a bad memory I hope never to repeat?
So many things were messed up for you. So many mistakes made...so many things gone wrong...I failed you in that sense. I knew. I knew when you were born that this wasn't right, that there was something wrong, and yet I sat back and let doctors who surely knew more than I did run what was going to happen to you. Today, that would never fly with me-today, hell would have frozen over about six times before I took that first doctor's words to heart. I would have demanded that you be examined by a competent doctor who knew a little something about an infants feet. Four years ago...I was a frightened 20 year old who just wanted her premature newborn to be healthy. I denied and denied and denied what I KNEW in my heart and in the back of my mind was the truth.
And I failed you.
Today, I fight for you. I fight for you because you are my son and I love you. I adore you. I fight for you because you cannot yet fight for yourself.
I also fight for you because I failed you so miserably. I fight to fix what I allowed to go wrong, to go unchecked, untreated. I fight to fix the mistakes I'll never forgive myself for.
People tell me all the time "Everything happens for a reason" or "God knows what he's doing." I should hope God knows what he's doing, or we're all in trouble. Yes, everything happens for a reason. Neither of those statements make me feel a bit better for what I failed to do. Neither of those statements will save you from what is about to happen. Neither statement will save you if something goes wrong tomorrow.
"Relax, this is a common procedure for children like him. The risk is minimal." Until you add in your blood disorder. Until you add in your seizure disorder. Until you add in your asthma. Until...until...until. You are a walking medical nightmare. The risk is minimal for a "normal," healthy child. You are considered to be neither one. The risk for you is much higher.
Granted, the risk that the person who has to come tell your mother something went wrong will be themselves in need of a doctor is also that much higher.
I don't know why everything failed for you four years ago, and again two years ago when the first scheduled surgery for your feet fell through. I don't know what calamity you may have been saved from. I don't know what happened instead that might not have happened had things gone the way they should have gone. The only thing I know is that I failed you then. The doctors failed you. You fell through the cracks and went untreated far longer than I should have allowed. (I should have allowed not at all...)
You have my word-that is the final failure. I fought like hell to make sure your surgery happens tomorrow. Your doctors bent over backwards this time to get the ball rolling and make sure everything was green light. Never again will I allow you to fall through the cracks.
I am so sorry this didn't happen sooner. I am so sorry that I failed you, that the doctors failed you. I am so beyond sorry that there is no possible way you won't remember this. I just hope you forgive me.
I love you moon back to pizza and all the pepperonis, my little baby blue. Golden lights, my love.
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