The Only Way Out is Through. And You Can do Anything for just a Little While

Yesterday was a very long day.  Actually, it feels very much like I’m still experiencing the same day without interruption.  They’ve made some real strides with those hospital fold-out chairs over the years, but there’s little one can do to block out the lights and sounds of a hospital recovery wing, while still keeping one’s ear finely attuned to the sounds of your child.

Dad was proud to serve as the first line of nausea defense.  Vomitus is normally my kryptonite, but as I said yesterday, I had my “game face” on and I was on point.  Only had to change my shirt once, which was good as I only had one extra.

I won’t spend much time getting into the medical details except to say that she did phenomenally during surgery and was a trooper all day.  Sleep was difficult for us both, and as I write this she’s asleep in her new fancy room upstairs, the recovery center now behind us.

The wife and I were together when her surgeon came out and told us that she was in recovery and that it went “pretty straightforward and she did great.”  I didn’t, as I thought I might, lose it.  I did however feel an immediate relief upon exhale, and it felt like I’d been holding my breath just a little for the past two months.  I felt an immense sense of gratitude. 

I felt thankful for her doctors and nurses and all the staff here at the hospital that have cared for out family in a variety of ways for years.  I thought “Thank God” pretty much right away and I meant just that.  I felt grateful to our friends and family who’ve supported us all and my firstborn in particular of late.  Honestly, I was just so grateful that the surgery part was done and we could then focus on the “taking care of her” part.  The recovery, which won’t likely be a cakewalk began in earnest yesterday, and that, at least, is something we can be a part of.  We can hold her hand.  We can remind her of how loved she is.  We can help her stand up and walk down the hall and feed her ice chips and stroke her hair and show her Hamilton clips when they need to draw blood again.  We can be understanding and patient and all of that stuff.  But she had to get clear of the surgery first.  I felt such a sense of relief when the doctor came out and told us she was ok.  It was like I’d been wearing ankle weights for two months and then, upon taking them off discovered that while I still can’t dunk, I can hit the backboard.  It was a huge relief.

Overnight was a challenge.  It’s bright and noisy and it was too warm in our shared room.  There were moments overnight where it felt like morning would never come.  They had to reposition her body every two hours, so between that and dealing with the nausea, there was very little time to sleep without interruption, if one could fall asleep at all.

We’ve had two mottos over the last few days that we really tapped into last night.  The first one is a line I’ve known for years, and it really fit.  It’s attributed to like 5 different sources, so who knows where it came from, except that I’m certain it came from someone who went through some stuff. 

“The only way out is through.”

The only way to get her spine situated is through the surgery.  The only way to the nice room upstairs is through the recovery room.  The only way home is through the PT and recovery.  The only way back to activity and school is through healing up and learning to move again.  She seemed to connect to this one a lot, especially late last night when all she wanted to do was something other than lay there and try to sleep.  We made it though the night and she’s sleeping much more comfortably now that we are through the recovery wing.

The other one was given to me by a good friend earlier this week as we were talking about the impending surgery.  She mentioned something that had been told to her before she’d faced her own surgery.  She said, “Let her know that while it will hurt, it will only hurt for a little while.  And you can do anything when you know it’s only for a little while.”  I told this to my daughter on the eve of her operation, and it really seemed to help.  We’ve repeated it several times since then. It’s really helped.  She’s been a trooper about her pain and a rock star with the nurses, who have the unfortunate responsibility of making her uncomfortable on purpose at times. 

Anytime I’m in the hospital, I reflect back on my own visits there over my life.  My own back surgery in 2001, the birth of the kids, the wife’s surgeries.  Inevitably, I come back to the time I spent in the hospital with my father during the end of his life.  I think of the years my eldest sister spent in the hospital.  She died when I was a newborn, so I never got to know her, and I can only imagine what that was like for her and my parents and sister.  I always think of these things when I’m in the hospital.  I wonder if I’m the only one who does that. 

I thought of them last night in particular when things got a little extra challenging.  I thought of my dad and my sister and thought, if they can get through their challenges with grace and dignity, which they did, I can aspire to the same.  I’m not even the patient this time.

The only way out is through.  And this is only for a little while.  And my kid is a rock star. 

Waiting on the All Clear: some things matter more than others

This is not really a column about football, I assure you, but my beloved Philadelphia Eagles won the Super Bowl recently.  My family and I enjoyed every minute of it, all season long.  We watched and waited and cheered and groaned and for much of the last few months, it was a huge deal in our lives. 

And it is a huge deal. I’ve been living and dying with the team for over 40 years.  I’ve infected my children with the burden of being a Philadelphia Sports fan, and there’s a lot about the shared experience that we have really enjoyed.  It’s allowed us to share a level of continuity with my parents and grandparents, who are no longer with us, but were very much there in spirit this month when the Eagles FINALLY won a Championship for the first time since 1960. 

We watched the games, sitting in the same positions, with the dog to my direct left, Bud the Dinosaur on the small couch, Pengy and his Eagles scarf, with Boyo sitting in his spot, me in mine, and so on.  We were very driven by mojo…and it seemed to keep working, so we went with it.  I wore the same shirts all season.  In the days leading up to the Super Bowl, I was excited and confident.  Those are not the usual emotions of an Eagles fan, and that itself made me a little uncomfortable.  I didn’t know how to feel and many of my fellow fans felt the same way. I was never really worried.  I didn’t know why at the time, but I do now.

Watching the game itself was intense and occasionally stressful.  When we got to the end, I felt like we had a real shot.  When it was over, there was an outpouring of emotion.  It made me miss my parents and grateful that I got to share the ride with my children. 

In the days following, I couldn’t stop watching the highlights.  Every time that last pass is flying through the air, I still worry that Gronk is going to come down with it.  I feel relief every time.  We ordered all sorts of new Super Bowl swag.  I went to the parade in Philadelphia yesterday and it was an amazing experience.  I’ll tell that story another time, because as important as the Eagles victory is, as transcendent as it is for a rabidly loyal and frustrated fan base, as big of a Sea Change as it is for us all, as big of a shift away from “Nega-delphia” as this cathartic victory may be; it’s not the biggest thing going on in my life right now.

My daughter is currently in surgery as I write this.  She has scoliosis that we’ve been treating for several years now.  It progressed to the point that surgery was necessary.  The operation was scheduled months ago, and there have been tests and scans and other things to get ready for.  And then there was our lives, and lots of other distractions.  The Eagles amazing season was a very welcome one at that, but once the game was over and the euphoria wore off, the next big thing for all of us to look forward to was a major operation and months of convalescence and healing. 

So, as I write this sitting in the waiting room, I’m reminded of a discussion I had after the Super Bowl.  Someone asked if it had sunk in yet that they’d won and I’d said, “Not really,” as at that moment, it felt like it hadn’t.  It felt a little surreal, but I found in the days to come, I didn’t have the same level of emotion about the whole thing.  I thought going to the parade would make it more “real” for me, and in many ways, it has.  Seeing the team and the trophy and celebrating with all of my crazy brethren was truly satisfying.  But the truth is, I realize now that the wife and the whole family have been in surgery-mode for the last two months.  While there have been those welcome distractions, Christmas, New Years, time down the shore, football and other sports, some new movies, eating stuff I shouldn’t, getting to my new gym, considering starting a publishing company, time with friends and family ad so on, I realize now we’ve all been in this and I have been locked into Daddy mode preparing myself for this moment right now, where I’m waiting for them to come out and tell me that she’s out of surgery and that everything went well and that she’s going to be ok.

That’s the release I’m waiting on right now.  The last few months have been about getting myself and the family ready for right now.  Making sure everything’s ready at home, ready with the family and our friends, making sure that everything is in place so that I can be here in this moment, because as important as everything else in the world might be, there is simply nothing more important than my children. 

I know that’s true of every parent, but there are gratefully finite moments and circumstances where we are faced with that reality so acutely and be viscerally and gut-punchingly reminded of how much our children matter.  It was pretty emotional for me just now, seeing her in the hospital gown, laying on the bed as they prepared to roll her into the Operating Room, where my status as “Dad” does not afford me a seat.  I held it together and we told fart jokes and she laughed and was smiling as they wheeled the bed away from me.  I’m still holding it together as I’m not allowing my brain to go off into the realm of “complications” or “well, this has never happened before in this surgery” and other such nervous speculation.  Rest assured, growing up in a family very much touched by way-too-early deaths created in me a penchant for leaning towards the hypochondriacal.  To this day, my brain takes me places when I worry that I don’t care for, but I’ve learned to manage it.  I don’t have full-blown panics when a loved one is late to call or arrive when expected, but I could. 

That doesn’t mean I don’t have moments where my mind takes me to the worst possible outcome of relatively innocuous things, but therapy and maturity have helped me manage all that.  That said, the struggle was and remains real, but my role as a parent has seasoned me somewhat.  In the end, the only thing that matters is that within the next few hours, someone is going to tell me that everything went great and that the wife and I can go back and see her.  

That’s when I’ll lose it and I can’t wait.  Everything else, including the Eagles miraculous run, has been a lead up to this, and rest assured, my “game face” is on.  Then the recovery begins, but that’s a whole new thing.  The whole family will be ready, once we get that “All Clear” that I’m waiting on right now.