The overwhelming feeling of De Ja Vu
The clock mocks us with it’s slow moving hands.
The sensation of being here before overwhelming.
The surgeon steps tentatively into the room,
expecting
I’m not sure what
I know a fortnight ago I felt caged and angry
and I cried alot.
Perhaps, he is expecting more of the same today
but
for all intensive purposes
I have been able to control
the emotions swirling inside of me.
Today,
I have my calm mask on.
He talks of cutting my girl in two places
and placing a foreign object into her body, close to her heart,
risks and problems
and still I breathe
in and out
in and out.
A young surgical doctor mentions that sometimes going in on the left side can make it harder
and sometimes they can nick the lung.
“It’s not a big deal”, he says
“it will just mean a chest tube for a few days”.
I stare at him openly.
He doesn’t mean to scare
he is a surgeon
and they are,
if nothing else,
very matter of fact.
For a moment though, my heart catches in my throat
“Any questions?” he asks.
“No, just don’t do that to her” I respond, referring to the whole lung puncture thing.
The team leave
and we are left to wait.
My mask ever so slightly cracked.
The girl, who has seen all of this before,
is keeping busy with colouring in.
Lost in a world of princesses
but I can see she has her game face on too.
It is just a little bit tighter
and her eyes give her away,
if only to me.
It is only 8am and we have a long day ahead of us.
Nurses come and go,
medications and monitoring
and still we wait
the slow creep of panic
edging to the surface.
The nurses from the Infusion Lounge call
they are thinking of their girl, hoping things go well and I am suddenly buoyed.
There are many, who are waiting with me
and even though I am physically on my own
I am not really alone
and I am thankful for that.
Tears fill my eyes and I swipe them away.
Not today,
today I am going to be strong.
Finally we get the call and just as before
we are swept into the theatre, in that unstoppable wave.
Name, date of birth, allergies, procedure.
My consent glares at me in dark black strokes on stark white paper.
She looks to me, her eyes wide with worry, as we walk toward the doors,
“It’s okay” I tell her, “it will all be okay”
and I quicken my step so I can walk alongside and grasp her hand tightly.
She squeezes back with all of her strength.
The doctors and nurses are talking to the both of us
but we only see each other,
her eyes searching mine for signs of confidence
and mine trying to relay that to her.
Sleeping medicine is pushed into her veins and her eyes start to close
but her hand remains in mine,
it’s reluctance to relax until the very last minute noted,
the last fight as her body gives in to the affects of the drugs.
Just as quickly as we were summoned, I am escorted to the corridor
again.
I sit and stare straight ahead.
It has been such an overwhelming month.
I reach out to others
and they respond with kind words and virtual hugs
all the while patients, nurses and doctors drift through the corridor
with their own agendas
like ghosts they pass each other
barely noticing
barely acknowledging.
I try to look anywhere but to the door of recovery.
I know it will take time but still
I wish that it would all be over
and that I could know that she is safe.
The wait is the most agonising part, I decide
but soon the surgeon is there and the anesthesiologist too.
All went well
she is okay
I can see her now.
I thank them both profusely
and move to recovery.
She is small and unmoving
still drowsy
and her face so swollen.
I wonder why but I do not ask
because really it doesn’t matter.
I stroke her hand and she stirs and looks at me.
I smile and tell her she is brave
but her eyes have fluttered closed again.
Her chest is a mess of incision and tubing and padding and more.
The old port site looks ancient
and shriveled into an obscene wink,
the new looks red and angry
there are bruises already forming.
Tears escape
and I try to rope them in but they are determined to leak.
I try to be thankful but right then I am just sad
that my baby is cut and scarred.
I hold her hand and she whispers something.
I lean in close and ask her to repeat.
“Look, Mummy,” she says, holding up her arm
“the PICC is gone. Now I can have a bath again”.
I close my eyes,
just as she does.
If she can think of the positives
then I can too.
trust Ivy to think of the positives…………..
may she have many,long,lovely baths.
massive hugs my friend.
And may she always look on the bright side.
((hugs))
Oh Tiff, that made me all teary. I’m so glad Ivy can see the positives and I hope she enjoys her bath.
My tear ducts needed a good clearing out! ; )
Always thinking of you guys. Every day.
Hang in there you gorgeous gals!
So happy for you both that it is all over now (again) and that Ivy can immerse herself in the bath. Here’s hoping for a speedy recovery and a looooong breathing space from further trauma. xoxo
I was one of the ones there with you. Virtually wringing my hands and glaring at the recovery room door. I hope she has a wonderful bath, with lots of bubbles. And you? Should probably have a stiff drink. Medicinal, of course. xox
that beautiful girl always sees the rainbows in life …I wish could have been there with you in real life.My eyes are leaking too for this gorgeous girl and her mama.
Thank Ivy for me for reminding me that regardless of the trials of life there is always a positive side, there is always a rainbow after the rain.
Hugs my friend. And prayers too!!!
Sending virtual ((hugs)) for you and bubbles for the Ivy-girl.
Such a strong little lady, to think of the positives. She gets it from her mum you know. *hugs* xx
It seems so never ending for you guys. Tiff that is written so beautifully. I hope you are both doing ok.
Ahh Tiff, make sure the princess has a lovley long bath, and a wonderful time with all the bubbles the girl can thing off.. Go Ivy!!!
That Ivy of yours truly is a little gem xoxox
My heart breaks as tears run down my face reading this post. Praying for little Ivy. You and Ivy have an incredible strength during your journey.
I am going to be absolutely truthful. I am struggling to comment positively. I am so sorry but I am pleased when your baby has a good day and your posts are fully of joy. When your family is together as families should be. I read the other day of your disappointment when the school of choice which would be best was not to be and another battle is on your agenda. Truthfully somedays I haven’t the strength of character to actually read a post if it indicates that all is not well and I hate myself for that. I click on the link in my reader with trepidation and in truth somedays I can’t bear to (I am weak I know I am sorry) if the title gives me a hint that its not a good day. So Tiff, it helps no one that when I read a post such as this I weep, it helps no one, its just self indulgent. That is the truth.
What keeps me going when I am feeling sorry for myself is the fact that you each and every do so. I know you have no choice but to do so. But the fact that you do with such verity & probity is the thing.
There is no point me saying everything will be ok just stay focussed or some other platitude. Everything is not OK, you know that, I know that, everyone knows that. However, for Ivy in her Princess world she has no choice but to trust in the adults responsible for her care and Ivy is the one that humbles me. Keeps me returning back to this blog. For she is the shining light here. She is the one who stops me writing on my apology of a blog about this pain or that, this grumble or that. She has endured more than any child should and yet through your words & pictures I see a special human being in this world. Sometimes I ask myself why she has to endure so much, I am sure each and every adult here would rather suffer than see her do so. But I can’t change anything no matter how much I wish I could. I think of you, her father, her siblings, especially her twin and I see a family enveloped in love. When I am cross with my two offspring and one step plus frustrated with the whole step grandmother thing. I read again some of your posts and you teach me something. Patience. Despite your frustrations, disappointments and the rest… you never swear you never in the virtual world lose your dignity. You and your family are the other side of the world and yet I know more about your life than my next door neighbours. I can only thank you for sharing your world. It is a privilege. Without you taking the time to write I personally would not have benefited from your words, when I am being impatient or selfish or more I remind myself that you Ivy and the rest of your family are going through so much and I try if only a little to take a step back. No one is perfect and this is not the Tiff and family fan club for that would be so trite. Its just my thoughts from the Uk to a family and a little girl so far away thankful I guess that you have chosen to share your world.
If you stopped blogging tomorrow I would never ever forget some of the things you have taught me. Some of those things are to me – be grateful for the moment, patience, reslience, laughter, fun, spontenaity, reflection, take lots of pictures lots, humour and much much more.
Thank you for blogging.
Now I will have to be brave again and click on the next post to see how Ivy is doing. So at 46 Ivy is teaching me through your words to be braver. This little girl is an example to us all. I know I don’t always comment but that does not mean you are not in my thoughts. Even if I don’t say so every time, all these miles a way there is a middle aged mum thinking of Amy, and all the other children and you Tiff. I wish with my whole heart when I read posts such as the above that I could take away your pain because you feel Amy’s pain, I can’t do that no matter how much I wish I could.
Rest assured though that there is a candle glowing on my hearth for Amy so many miles away in the UK. Is it selfish of me to think it will help if I light a candle for all of you. I hope not. When I write I have lit a candle its not because I am a great believer that collective candle lighting will make a difference, I suppose its a physical something that I can do because I feel so helpless. If I feel helpless goodness knows how helpless you must feel.
If a hand can virtually reach out and hold a hand I hope you feel mine. I have said enough.
She is a gorgeous, gorgeous girl. I find her optimism just amazing. I think you’re pretty amazing too.
x
After it took almost an hour for 4 people to find a vein for the IV drip before our son’s second operation, we thought about getting a port put in for future blood draws, which will occur monthly during the next year. The surgeon who saw him after the cancer in his arm pit was removed said he would happy to do the port, but then began talking about complications like pnemothorax from a punctured lung, and then there was the possibility of infection, given our son was hospitalized for a week after his first operation with MRSA…. gave us pause for thought. You did such a beautiful job of expressing your feelings about this latest event…. I don’t know what you were feeling exactly, but I sort of do.
I found you via I ♥ Faces and started reading. I am so sorry you and your darling girl must go through this. I’m a former pediatrics nurse and I can tell you right now, without question, your daughter would be on my “favorite patient” list. And you seem to be the sort of mother who is a pleasure to work with. I’m praying for you all.
Tiff your words always move me to tears (more so now I am pregnant again) But lots of well wishes to Ivy & I hope she gets to enjoy that bath soon!
You are so amazing Tiff. You bring me to tears…and Ivy….nothing seems to break her spirit….she’s a special soul. I hope she’s up and dancing soon, and that your whole family will be home together for a long time. xoxo
I was reading this post and I have felt everything you wrote. My daughter is 21 years old now and has had so many surgeries/procedures that I’m sure I’ve lost count. She also exchanged a PICC line for a port. I’m extremely thankful we don’t have any port issues so far.
I sometimes struggle with signing my name to that dreaded consent line. I know deep down in my heart I am making the best possible decisions for my Taylor based on all the info I have. However, that doesn’t take away the niggling doubts that invariably creep in my tired brain.
I also know that there is no one else to step up and make those hard decisions but me. Her father long since abandoned those hard parts for the ability to just write out that monthly check. Honestly, I have my moments when I envy him that. But then I get one of the best, slobbery, tight Taylor hugs & kisses and realize that no matter what, deep down, my baby knows I love her and that I’m making the best life I can for her.
Your Ivy has that same spirit. I think it’s instilled in ones like our girls from birth. She has the same “old soul” as my Taylor. Thank you again for putting your (and my) thoughts in such heartfelt terms. Thank you also for sharing the good and the bad.
I just wanted to let you know that I’ve been following your blog for about a year now. I’ve never commented, but please know there is someone in Canada who prays for your family and thinks of you often.
Just sending positive thoughts to you from across the world.
Oh she’s a gorgeous mind.