Day 1: The Wait
Our alarm rings at 3:15AM sounding the final feeding before the big procedure.
I snuggle you close, loving all 17 pounds of your weight in my arms.
*poooop* Oh no. All weekend your booty was runny and our visit to the pediatrician on Tuesday said it was most likely viral gastroenteritis. BUTT you were hydrated and healthy for surgery (because you were on the mend). Over eight stinkies Friday, roughly eight Saturday and Sunday, four on Monday, and then. Tuesday. Regression. Bag to six.
Please, don't cancel the surgery! Jacob and I prayed.
Most importantly, please bless Chloe's body to be STRONG for surgery- and for the surgeons to know whether rescheduling is necessary.
Our second alarm was set for 4:15AM, so we change you ca-ca and decide to stay up and complete the packing. I leave a yellow sticky note for Great-Grandma and Grandpa Linford, "I love you! Heart, Chloe (P.S. Leaving at 5:00AM).
Daddy unzips your lamby sack pajamas and last, but definitely THE MOST IMPORTANT, we pack our precious Chloe girl in the carseat.
I lick my lip.
Yikes!
A TRIBE of stress-induced cold sores have positioned themselves in the bottom left corner- ready for BATTLE! I arm myself with expired Abreva from the medicine cabinet. A faulty weapon.
The L.A. traffic is barely beginning as we drive to L.A. Children's Hospital. Street lights flicker in through the opening of your carseat cove. I peak in- smiling at your forehead, trying to memorize the cute little ridge that will soon be NO MORE.
The parking lot still has spots on Level G. We pull in past other families with worried looks and calm looks, anxious looks, and peaceful looks, tired looks and trying to be brave looks. And I look at their children, saying little prayers for them that their surgeries go well.
It's 5:30AM and the operation waiting room is filled with families.
We all smile sympathetically at each other. I want to leave you in the carseat so you stay healthy. I want to take you out so I can cuddle. The cuddle-urge wins.
Your observing eyes scan the room. You briefly watch the news station about Barbara Bush's passing and then turn to my sweatshirt strings for a low-calorie snack.
"Chloe!" the nurse calls.
A wellness check is performed. Caution about your diarrhea bouts. Uncertainty if the surgery will continue or be canceled. The worst. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. EVER!
We change you into an adorable 'sleepy little tiger' operating gown. (The bottoms were toddler-sized so they slipped right over your size 3 diaper. Ha!)
Now it’s 7:00AM and daddy’s holding you because your milk hound sniffer is strongly sensing Mama. Finally a nurse comes in and says he’ll be taking us up to surgery prep where they’ll make the FINAL DECISION.
Another family with a girl just a few months older accompany us up. Silence. Nerves. Slow breaths. We smile at each other, nervous smiles.
In the large room we are assigned cubicle #4 (unfortunately, there wasn’t a nine and three quarters available). Nurse Kristina introduces herself and says, “Chloe! You and I share a birthday! Except, I may be a little older.” She assists Dr. Urata in plastics. Then we meet Jessica (wearing a Disney princess cap so she was my automatic favorite) and Monica. Dr Tony Romo with neurosurgery (P.S. he was not a football player) comes to assess the diarrhea detriment. Jacob's brother, Derek, later texted, "Don't look up his fumble video. It may make you nervous."
“This is a major surgery,” Dr. Romo says, “and on someone so young it’s important we operate only when they are in optimal health.”
He orders a blood sample to check electrolytes (while I secretely slip Gatorade in your bottle… hehe) Since my fainting spell last week at your blood draw, I gave them the courtesy of stepping on the other side of the room. There was still no barrier between me and your cries which made my mommy heart hurt.
Another one of Dr. Urata’s assistants sat beside me, “Well, they got a sample quick. That means she’s probably not dehydrated. But the lab will take an hour to process.”
Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. AGAIN!
Daddy snuggles you as you surrender to Mr. Sandman.
Nurse Kristina says delays are common. What is unusual is for them to start on time.
8:30AM now and Dr. Romo is reading the labs.
Baby! You are well hydrated! High-five, breast-feeding momma!! Surgery is a GO!
Your daddy and I were squished between a ROCK and a HARD PLACE, worrying whether it was CONTINUED or CANCELED. However, the anxiety from the possibility of needing to reschedule brought us some peace as they wheeled your bed towards the operating double doors. Since you were sleeping in daddy’s arms, they skipped the HAPPY JUICE and had him lay you on the mattress.
A deep breath, a wiggle, a smile, and you were out again.
Having you asleep made parting SO MUCH EASIER. I would have bawled if your beautiful blue eyes had followed me, confused, while they wheeled you, and my heart, through those double doors. Instead, I made it around the corner, passed a teary eyed-man, pushed the elevator down button, and then collapsed while Jacob held me. I KNEW you were going to be all right- which meant so would I.
Chloe, I think your name was in every temple west of Denver. And I know your name was in every prayer of those who knew you. And I know that operating room was filled with angels watching over the operation. And most importantly, I know that God was with you because you are His precious girl.
