What's in a Name?

Ever wonder where the name Roar Little Lion comes from?  Watch this video I took today to find out...  We do this every time Ari goes back for surgery, regardless of how well... or sick, he is that day.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9q8kktGAGXo&feature=mfu_in_order&list=UL

The name Ari means Lion in Hebrew.  We selected the name long before he was born, but it's fitting.  Our strong Little Lion is full of fight and ready to roar his courage whenever it needs to be summoned.

Ari knows the routine in Day Surgery and loves the attention he gets from being a frequent flyer.  Everyone from the registration staff to anesthesiologists know him by name.  He knows when to step on the scale, which finger to hold out for the PulseOx monitor and how to sit still enough to get his blood pressure on the first try. 

Selecting his DVDs (or as Ari calls them, DDDs) for each hospital trip is a treasured process for Ari.  As soon as we get in a room, his DVD goes in and he's genuinely happy.  That is, until the pre-op meds come.  We've done this so often and he still fights the Versed, the medicine that make him relaxed and a little loopy.  It's his indicator of what's next... the breathing treatment, the gown, and eventually the nurse knocking on the door, slowly opening it and peeking her head in, "Are you ready to go?"

I always act overly happy, assuring him everything will be fine.  Before the nurse comes in to get him, but after the Versed kicks in, I always ask,  "Let's hear you roar, Little Lion." 

Sometimes his roars are big, like today, making both of us giggle.  Other times they are so weak, he'll open his mouth and make a noise only audible to his angels.  It's OK... I know they're listening and that roar is a sign to surround him with the comfort only they can bring.  

As soon as the door opens, Ari puts on what I call his "brave face"- a huge frown, eyes full of fear, but refusing to cry.  It breaks my heart.  As they wheel him to the operating room, I hold his hand and tell him I love him and to be strong.

They doors to the OR corridor open and I listen carefully as they page the surgeon, making a mental note of the room number and saying a prayer that I do not hear the words "code blue, OR room ....." over the intercom.  I play out in my head what I would do, then shake away the thought with the fear that thinking about it will somehow give fate permission to make it happen.  Silly, I know, but true.

"Be brave!  I love you!"  I try to be cheery for him, but at this point, he doesn't speak.  He just looks ahead as they wheel him in.  I stand there, watching him, waiting for the doors to close behind his bed, and exhale.  My shoulders slump, there's no need to pretend to be happy anymore.  I walk back to the room and sit in silence.

This routine never gets easier, as I though it eventually would.  I have grown more numb to the emotions, but they're still there.  Every knock at the door makes my stomach rise in my throat for fear of bad news.

Today's procedure was a little different- we've done it before.  He spends about 30 minutes in the OR,  goes to the PACU to wake up a little, then gets transferred to fluoroscopy for the urodynamics study.  I was with him doing my usual role... holding him down while he shakes from anesthesia and writhes and screams in pain.

I feel guilty that he has to go through this,  Guilty that I made him this way, and Guilty that he knows real pain.  I can't forget the look in his eyes, the big elephant tears, and the feeling of helplessness and fear.  I try to channel the pain away from him, literally feeling it for him, but in the end this imagination game only comforts me, not him.

Back to our room and 2 popsicles later, the nurse removes his IV and we're ready to go.  He got a present today- a plastic cup with CHOA's Logo on it.  Ari is obsessed with the little boy and girl in their logo- Hope and Will, though he pronounces it "Hope and WEE-il", like a true Southerner.  He dances all the way to car and even stops to sing happy birthday to his favorite security guard.

We arrived at 6 am, were home by noon and the events are now behind us.  There was a mix up with Ari's Neurosurgeon's office coordinating his spinal MRI for today.  He'll have to go back in for it, but I don't mind- it wasn't meant to be done today.

Thank you for following Ari's story- he is a true hero!