We had been though all of this the day before so it was beginning to feel routine now. Check in. Wait. Go into the MRI prep room. Wait. Go through the medical history and "what to expect". Wait. Prep for the I.V. Scream. Wrestle. Scream. Insert I.V. Scream. Suck on pacifier. Wrestle. Scream. Find out the I.V. didn't go in right. Remove I.V. Scream. Wrestle. Play with toy. Settle down. Turn off lights. Shine light through arm to look for veins. Scream. Wrestle. Prep for second I.V. Scream. Wrestle. Scream. Start I.V. Scream. Oooooh, dinosaurs on the adhesive wrap. Settle down. Wait. Wait. Wait. Go into MRI. Start sedation. Put in earplugs. Loud bangs. Even louder hums. Wait...
When we finally got to the recovery room the race was on. He is not allowed to eat before the MRI, so they would normally give him something to eat as soon as he is awake enough. But the day before they didn't feed him because they thought he might be going into surgery. So we knew what to expect when the irritable after effects of the sedative mixed with the even more irritable effects of hunger. We were hoping they could get him into surgery before he woke up so we could avoid that nightmare.
The recovery room nurses were calling to find out when he would be brought up. They told us the day before that it would be around 10:15-10:30. But Dr. Kestle's first surgery went long, and they had to clean and prep the operating room. Now we were told it would be at 11:30. We were bracing ourselves for the inevitable. Suddenly Dr. Kestle showed up to save the day. He was ready, as was the room. As soon as the anesthesiologist met with us it was go time. Ike was still sedated.
A few minutes later the anesthesiologist showed up. Ike was starting to stir. Dr. Clark was the most unlike anesthesiologist I have ever met. These guys aren't usually known for their personalities. Let's face it, their best work is done when their patients are asleep. But he was very personable. He was also very detailed. I have had my share of surgeries, and sat through both of Heidi's c-sections. Usually the anesthesiologist says he is going to put a mask on you, tell you to count backwards from 100 (good luck getting to 95), and he will see you on the flip side. Dr. Clark spent over 15 minutes explaining everything he had to do and why...second I.V., arterial line, central line, breathing tube. It seemed like the list would never end. But he was thorough, which I liked, and seemed very compassionate and concerned, which I liked even more.
Before Ike got too irritable, we were off. We went through so many back hallways and elevators I didn't know which way was up, and thought we were halfway to Idaho. He dropped us off in a waiting room just long enough to sit down and breathe, then brought us the rest of the way to Idaho. He opened one last door and told us it was time to say goodbye. I didn't want to let go, but I was comforted that I wasn't dropping him off in some anonymous weigh station. I was leaving him in the arms of his anesthesiologist.
Then we began the longest five hours of my life. Luckily I was able to plan some distractions. My best friend Tony called yesterday to tell me he was going to take the day off of work and come hang out at the hospital with us. I didn't know at the time how much of a help it would be, but it turned out to be the best thing anyone could have done for me on a day like today. I also had to go home, check on Pyper, and bring Holly up to the hospital. That takes a big chunk out of a five hour surgery.
The surgeon told us that a nurse would call every hour to an hour and a half to give us updates. They called an hour after we left him to let us know that the surgery started. Then they called to let us know they had sent a sample of tumor to pathology for a preliminary diagnosis. Next they called to say they were beginning to close him up and he would be moved to the ICU.
This is where the brain starts to go on overdrive. They told us it would be a five hour surgery. But was that five hours from when they took him or five hours from when they called to say the actual surgery had begun. If it is a shorter surgery does that mean everything is good or is something wrong. The attendants in the waiting room can't really tell us anything other than the surgery times are only estimates for scheduling purposes, and that you should only worry if the surgery goes too long. We try not to worry, but it's a lot easier said than done.
Finally the surgeon called. Heidi had left the waiting room to make a phone call, so I finally got my chance to speak. Heidi had been so eager for any news that any time someone called she was all the way across the room with phone in hand before I could even stand up. The surgeon actually sounded excited. He said he believed that he was able to remove the entire tumor. He thought it may be imbedded in the floor of the brain stem. That is the sensitive side, and removing it from that area is too risky so they will leave a little bit. But it was imbedded in the side of the brain stem and he was able to completely remove it. He also said that Israel was very stable throughout the entire surgery, and there were no complications. He told us to go to the ICU waiting room where he would meet us once Israel woke up and he was able to check on him.
We couldn't get to the ICU waiting room fast enough. Poor Holly can't move very quickly with her bad hips and oxygen concentrator, and we literally left her with directions and told her we would meet her there. Halfway there we ran into the anesthesiologist. He, too, seemed very excited. He told us how well Israel did during the surgery. So well, in fact, that he had already removed the ventilation tube that he said might need to stay in for about 24 hours. He also said that Israel was responding well to stimulation and was already waking up.
Time seems to fly when you are on an endless procession of phone calls updating everyone, and before we knew it the surgeon was there to talk to us. He was very encouraged by both how well the surgery went, but also at how well Israel was doing. He told us the preliminary pathology report suggested it was an ependymoma. I asked him to spell it because even though I knew I shouldn't, I also couldn't help but look it up on the internet. Giving me a smile that let me know he understood and that he had no chance of talking me out of it, he told me to remember that the internet was unfiltered.
We finally got to go see Israel. I have to admit I was pretty nervous. I have seen people after surgery and it isn't usually their best moment. I was expecting his head to be bandaged and a his face to look grim. But I was pleasantly surprised when I saw him. No bandages. No gray, grim look. He looked more like he was just taking a nap, and not like he had just had brain surgery. And, fortunately, the blankets covered the endless tubes attached to every limb.
I finally felt some relief. I felt a huge load lifted off of my shoulders. He not only made it through the surgery, but they also completely removed the tumor and his recovery was going very well. After another round of calls, I finally had a chance to just sit down, relax, and hold my son. I can't put into words how good that felt.
As the night moved along and settled down, Heidi left to bring her mother home and to check on Pyper. I was able to just relax and sit with Israel. I had so much going through my mind, but being with him did wonders for clearing my mind and calming my nerves.
Later in the evening another baby was brought in to the bed right beside Ike's. He was only six days old and had just had emergency surgery for a malrotation of the intestines. He was so tiny, and I felt so scared for the parents. As scared as I have been for the last two days, I felt grateful that Ike a strong, healthy kid, and that he is not a tiny, fragile newborn. He may be little, but I know he is tough and he will be able to fight this battle.
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