Home of the Four Trans

We’re in our room at the Ronald McDonald House, now, because we just needed to let go a little.

My baby, he’s laying in his warmer, sedated, but aware. His blood pressure goes up as strangers suction his breathing tube, speak around him, and move his little body to his side. I saw his arms and body move in agitation. He doesn’t understand all this pain, I know. He needs me. But, I can’t even stand to look at him right now, let alone touch him. This guilt, that I did this to him, is just too overwhelming. When I look at the deeply bruised chest scar, tubes extending from his chest, his puffy head (characteristic after the Glenn), the breathing tubes, the medications, the bags of blood hanging by his side, it’s like, he’s not even my baby. Just a week ago, he was an interactive, smiling bundle of chubs, who cried to be held, who grabbed my hair, and pulled his pacifier in and out for entertainment. Now, he’s something else. Unlike last time, I really had to compose myself before entering his room. I wasn’t ready to see his body so traumatized, again, with the knowledge that there’s nothing I can do to ease his pain.

I’m sick of lying to him. I keep telling him he’ll get better, that all the pain he goes through will only be temporary. I tell him that the doctors will take real good care of him. But, what goes on behind those white double doors that lead to the OR, I’ll never know. I tell him, “Mommy will be here when you get back,” but never soon enough.

Today, we let him go with the knowledge that his blood clotting factor was not optimal, possibly due to the heparin (blood thinner medication) given to him the night before. But, the anasteatiologist took him anyway, telling us that they’ll give him medication to treat that before having him operated on. That was 10AM. Two hours later, Dr. Starnes walked out of the white double doors. I dared not look in his face, but leaned against the wall, for some support, bracing for whatever he was to tell me. He approached us with a smile on his face saying everything went well, Justin was OK, and should be out of the OR in 45 minutes. We waited. I paced the hallways. Every time those white double doors opened, it wasn’t Justin. 1hour 15 minutes go by with me worried the entire time. Finally, I run into Dr. Starnes, again. He went to check on Justin. Another 30 minutes go by before I see another surgeon, and asked how Justin was doing. “He’s fine. He’ll be right out,” he says. Okay…another 30 minutes go by…where is my baby?!? I just pray, but couldn’t concentrate. Dr. Starnes emerges from the double doors with news that they had trouble running arterial lines onto Justin, but he’s fine. Another 30 minutes pass…WHERE IS JUSTIN? Finally, Loi smiles at his little boy, as he sees him in a crib being rolled out.

“How’s he doing?,” Loi asked.

“He’s…ok,” answered the anasteaologist.

Apparently, he bled a “generous amount”, and it took them some time to control it. They asked us to wait outside as they situated Justin in his room.

Anxious, I went to Dr. Starnes office to ask, “What the heck is going on?!?!? Is my baby going to have to be opened again?!?!?!?” OK, fine, I was more articulate than that, asking him how confident he felt that the bleeding could be controlled, and that JT would not have to go back into the OR. He went to check. We waited outside of the CT-ICU.

Justin had some blood clotting issues in addition to low glucose levels. They were concerned he might have some liver disfunction, Dr. Starnes reported. But, his heart should recover fine, according to the surgeon. **Sigh** What? Liver disfunction?!?

So, baby, I don’t know when it’s going to get easier. I’m sorry. I just pray, and try to be by your side the best I can. I’m sorry there are times when I leave you in that warmer with only a stranger to watch you. But, I promise you, it’s because I love you. Sometimes, I just need to recharge and recompose to be the best mom I can be for you. Baby, you’re so strong. Without me, you’d do fine. But, I’m here to make it better. Don’t be mad, baby, I love you so much. Let’s just try to get through this…

It doesn’t end. And, I’m almost afraid if it does because, then, what would that mean?

My baby, he’s laying still and aware in the warmer…by himself…because I need to rest. I’m tired, physically, mentally, emotionally.

Lord, please give me strength, and ease my child’s pain. I pray to you, please heal him, and let his recover be quick, and as least painful as possible. Lord, Mary mother of God, St. Cabrini, St. Dominic, and all the angels in heaven, please protect my baby from all harm. Please bring him safely back to us, and give him strength. I pray, let his liver be normal functioning. He’s so sweet. He deserves to be happy. Lord, I promise you if you answer my prayers, it will not be in vain. I will make sure his life will be lived to inspire, and prove that miracles do happen. Lord, please hear my prayers.

Even in moments of weakness, prayer gives me strength, and in turn gives Justin strength. Please continue to pray for Justin. He’s gotten this far, and it’s because he’s loved. Thank you so much.

This entry was posted on Thursday, January 17th, 2008 at 7:17 pm and is filed under Heart Disease, Justin. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.