Putting things in perspective

Last week our baby son, Ryan, had surgery at Kapiolani Hospital for Women and Children in Honolulu. We had anticipated this day for months, but the stress involved took us by surprise. The four of us flew over on a Tuesday late afternoon and everything flowed. We were totally packed and ready, the boys were upbeat and enjoyed the flight, and we got settled into our hotel for the week smoothly. This time we stayed at the Ala Moana hotel right next to the mall. This was perfect for our older son, since we could safely just walk over with him and have loads to keep him entertained. To him, the escalators were supremely exciting, the parking garage and its multitude of exposed pipes fascinating, the mall and its assault of noise terrific.

The next day we went to the hospital to have Ryan do a test that would determine whether or not he’d need surgery the next day. He was injected with a special dye in the morning, underwent an hour-long kidney scan in the early afternoon, and then we met with his doctor in the late afternoon. It was a day spent running back and forth to the hospital. We got to know the hallways and waiting areas intimately. Ryan endured his trials with surprising patience and calm. Conlan was very concerned about his younger brother and kept asking about him, taking everything in. It was no surprise that the doctor wanted to perform the surgery the next day, but I still felt a wave of fear wash over me as he said it. We had been preparing ourselves for this, or so we thought. But how can you, really?

The next day we had a wonderful breakfast at the Vietnamese café across the street, complete with Pho and strong, sweet coffees, then got to the hospital late morning. Ken delivered Ryan up to the doctor at the surgery center and I waited with Conlan in the waiting area. Ryan had been too stressed with me, smelling my milk and not able to have any wound him up too much. I left Ken downstairs with him in the cold hallway, cradling him, waiting. Conlan had a new little race car he rolled over all the chairs in the waiting area. I thumbed through a People magazine and watched pregnant mommies and their nervous-looking men pacing the halls, mommies cradling newborns heading home, and anxious-looking fathers bringing huge bags of takeout food into the hospital. The lobby was buzzing with activity, and yet my baby was somewhere downstairs in the cold, being opened up by skilled hands. I couldn’t bear to think about it. I suddenly felt so tired I could hardly keep my eyes open. I got up and chased Conlan up and down the hallways until Ken came up to tell me the surgery was underway and the waiting would begin.

Instead of pacing nervously for the two to three hours the surgery would take, and to give Conlan a break from the hospital, we elected to leave the hospital to have lunch. I sensed Conlan was also very tired, picking up on our stress, so he and I waited in the hotel room while Ken went out to get lunch. Conlan fell asleep and rested hard until we were called back to the hospital. Ken and I ate our lunch, not having realized until we began to eat how hungry we actually were, rested a little, and then headed back.

The surgery was a complete success and as straight forward as could be. Ken and Conlan waited upstairs this time while I went down to meet with the doctor and wait with my boy in the recovery room. Our doctor is incredibly warm and engaging and assured us that all was well. We trusted him completely. I sat by my boy until he awoke, and then nursed him straight away. He nursed well and his color looked good. Although awkward to cuddle him with all his various wires and sensors, it felt hugely relieving to feel my warm baby, to smell him and look at him and see for myself that he was, indeed, just fine.

I stayed with Ryan in the hospital for the next couple of days, while Ken and Conlan stayed in the hotel. Conlan missed me, of course, but had a fun time with his daddy. Ryan recovered extremely rapidly and was actually released after only two nights. It was impressive, really. He was in one of those hospital baby cribs with the slide-down sides, and he had toys everywhere, some from the kind nurses, and some from home. He lay on his back and kicked and reached and cooed and played happily with his toys as if nothing had happened. He didn’t fuss, he smiled and slept and nursed comfortably. Once we got him home he was doing tummy-time immediately and working on his crawling again. This seems miraculous to me, to be able to move around with such ease after major surgery - particularly abdominal surgery. The whole thing is miraculous, really. I have incredible respect for his nurses and doctors and all the people who worked so hard to ensure his health and comfort in the hospital.

Both my boys have spent time in the hospital now, and these experiences have changed my life. I knew that I loved them, knew that I would do anything for them before they were sick, but seeing them in their little hospital gowns, seeing them so vulnerable made everything that much clearer. Once you have babies, you really do live for them, and I felt this. Their pain was mine, my world, my happiness; my heart is in their little hands.

Our hospital room at Kapiolani faced the Shriners Hospital across the street. The nurse told me that this is for severely crippled children from all across the Pacific. As the traffic flowed by at all hours next door on the highway and day turned into night and night into day and the people-traffic flowed non-stop in and out of the hospital I thought about these kids and all the kids and the parents whose lives are on hold as they wait for their beloved babies to come home. It seems almost obscene that the rest of the world should flow on so blithely when time has stopped for you, but it does, unrelentingly. There is no difference to the moon or the sunrise or the ebb and flow of traffic or the morning news or the tides when your baby is sick. It seems there should be.

Now that we are home we are decompressing from the experience. Ryan is unfazed, back to spending hours each day on the floor doing “tummy-time”. Conlan is feeling a little jealous and came down with a cold, but is slowly returning to his normal, upbeat self. Although shattered with exhaustion, Ken and I feel that a huge weight has been lifted. Since Ryan was diagnosed with his problem at age one month, and we’ve had this fear of him getting sicker/having to have surgery his whole life, it is now as if our lives can actually begin together for real.

I am often asked by guests if I ever tire of the beautiful view from this property. Today, for instance, the sky is perfectly clear, the horizon clear forever, and the sunlight so bright it almost hurts. The ocean looks like satin and the land spread out before us is shining in greens and blacks. The water in the swimming pool is being moved by the wind in gentle, inviting little eddies. The birds are singing. I have always loved it here, loved this property. I have always appreciated the magnificent view and location. But as these things happen I appreciate them even more. It sounds corny, but it’s absolutely true. Each and every day I look out over the ocean and am thankful.