Today is a special day. Today Jake is eight years old, but it's not quite turning out how he planned it. Instead of wheeling off to school to celebrate the day with friends, Jake is lying on the couch trying to recover from a nasty stomach bug that just won't relent. I'd be lying if I said he was anything but sad about this. However, we are going to try our hardest to make the best out of a cruddy situation anyway.
As I sit here, looking at my sweet boy, my mind is immediately taken back to that beautiful September morning, eight years ago. The rare Seattle sunshine streaming in through my hospital room window told me it was almost time.
It had been a sleepless night, filled with tears, and fear of what the next morning would bring. I lay in my lumpy hospital bed, cradling my round stomach, wanting to keep this child safe inside, knowing that a whole slew of problems awaited his arrival. Beyond knowing that he would be born with Spina Bifida and Hydrocephalus, I had no idea what those diagnoses actually meant for my child or how they would effect him individually. I knew he would be going to surgery almost immediately after birth. But how such a tiny person would handle that surgery was an unknown to me, and I was terrified for the life of my yet to be born son.
My nurse came in around 5:30 to prep me for surgery. My C-section was scheduled for 7:30, and never before in my life had I wished so badly for time to slow down. As she went about her work, the nurse asked me if I was ready. I tried to look brave, but she could see it in my face. Saying nothing at all, she simply squeezed my hand, letting me know that it was okay to be scared. Before leaving the room she quietly said, "You're in good hands, it will be alright". As they wheeled me toward the O.R. later that morning, I said yet another prayer and her words came to my mind. They were exactly what I needed to hear and brought much needed comfort.
I lay on the operating table, with my arms strapped down on either side of me, slightly feeling the tugging and pulling going on below the blue shield blocking my view. It was the strangest sensation I had ever felt. Knowing that I was giving birth, but I wasn't doing any of the work, nor could I see or really feel anything. I tried concentrating on the music playing in the room, but it didn't work. I promptly threw up, and thankfully a nurse was right there to catch it. Trying to ease my tension, Spencer stood up and took a peek below the blue shield and said, "It looks like the Grand Canyon in there!" His attempt didn't go over very well at the time, but of course now I think it's hilarious.
Trying not to rupture the bubble-like membrane surrounding Jake's open spinal column, the doctor carefully took her time performing my C-section. After what seemed like forever, but I'm sure was only 30 or so minutes she announced that I would feel some pressure and then I heard the sound that I had been waiting so long to hear. The child I had worried about for so many months made his arrival known by letting out a long, healthy cry. They quickly cut his cord and lifted him gingerly above the blue shield, letting us have a quick first look at our son. In the brief second that I saw him, I was instantly in love. I could see that he, like his older sister and brother, had a full head of light brown hair, and his father's perfectly rounded nose. I wished so badly that I could tear off the arm restraints and take my child in my arms and I ached when they whisked him away to a clean room to perform his APGAR and other tests before his impending surgery. I fell asleep listening to the faint sounds of my baby's protesting coming from the other room. My last thoughts before drifting off were of how strong he sounded, and again I said another prayer, this time of gratitude.
I woke up in a groggy haze about an hour later in a recovery room. It took a little while for the fog to lift, and then I instinctively looked around for my baby. I wanted to hold him. I wanted him to feel his mother's love before he would be taken to surgery. But he was nowhere. I lay in bed, with the anesthesia still preventing me from moving much, crying. I was afraid I had missed him leaving, that I didn't get to say goodbye to my son. Finally a nurse noticed and reassured me that he hadn't been taken to the other hospital yet and they would bring him to me before they left. As previously agreed upon, Spencer was with Jake, so I lay there fighting the overwhelming urge to go to sleep and waited. It was hard. So hard.
Just before noon, I saw Spencer walking down the hall, followed by a team of nurses and doctors pushing our baby boy in a covered Isolet. They brought him to me and said I could have 5 minutes with him before they would be taking him to Seattle Children's Hospital. He lay on his tummy, connected to countless wires and had a thin blanket covering his exposed spinal column. I couldn't touch him except through the Isolet's circular, gloved holes. It was a strange, yet completely tender moment that will always be imprinted on my heart. Before I knew it, they and my husband were wheeling him down the hall and out the door, leaving me alone with my tears.
I must have fallen asleep again, because the next place I knew was my hospital room. I could hear a baby (or babies) crying and again, instinctively looked around for my own baby, but quickly remembered what happened and realized that the crying I heard was that of other mothers' babies. They had placed me on the L&D recovery floor, which I will forever remember as quite thoughtless on their part. Hearing other babies and knowing that I couldn't see or touch my own, or even know how he was doing was agonizing. I spent the next several hours waiting for a phone call from my husband. It finally came around 8 'o clock that night, with him happily telling me that the surgery had gone well and Jake was in the ICU recovering. He spoke of the doctor's shock at how strong he was, how much more movement he had that they didn't expect, and how each of them had remarked what a fighter this little 5 lb. 10 oz. baby boy was. I went to sleep that night for the first time in months feeling at peace. Finally my heart believed what my head had been telling me. Just as the nurse had said. He was in good hands and everything would be alright.
In the eight years since that very long day, he has shown time and again the strength of his spirit. He is happy beyond belief. He loves life and loves to learn. He is such a blessing to this family and has a special job of teaching others. And I have the privilege of being his mother.
Happy Birthday sweetest boy of boys! We love you Jake!!
