We have not done much to acknowledge our anniversary over the last few years. We always talked about our tenth... We were going to go back to Europe, get a new ring, have a big party. Instead, we spent our tenth anniversary in the pediatric intensive care unit, attempting to stretch Ari's esophagus in hopes of a connection. All we could think about was whether he would survive the extended period of intubation and chemical paralytics. Would he have an esophagus? Would it work? Would he ever speak again? Would he get an infection? Will he make it through? It was the day he had an IV infiltration. A vein carrying strong medication from an entry site in his foot burst in his shin. It went unnoticed for a while, until the surrounding tissue has burned away, from the inside out, creating a crater the size of a half dollar. A child on paralytics can still feel, they just can't do anything about it. He endured that pain, unable to move. Even if he were to awaken and try, he was tied down. I remember seeing a tear leak out of his eye which was unable to open. The doctor was called, it was an emergency, and I was helpless. The scar is still there and every time I see it, I remember that moment, that it was our anniversary, and the emotions of that time in our lives.
We decided to go out again this year. We really needed the time to talk about something... scratch that... ANYTHING other than the upcoming surgery, so we made reservations at one of our favorite restaurants, my parents generously taking the kids on a Tuesday night. The dining room is intimate there and they have a "no children allowed" policy. It's the perfect place to have a leisurely and romantic anniversary dinner. Larry left his phone in the car and I turned my ringer down. For two hours, I wanted it to just be about us. Dinner was perfect- good wine, good food, and great conversation. As we sat and talked, enjoying the last of the wine, the hostess approached our table holding a cordless phone. "Excuse me ma'am." She said. "You have a phone call." She held out the phone to me and my eyes met Larry's. "I bet his button came out." I said to him, reaching for the phone. "I don't know..." He replied. "I bet he has food stuck." Larry's eyes were glued to my face, waiting for a reaction. It was my mother and she had been trying to reach us, but neither one of us answered our phones. Her last resort was calling the restaurant, a scene right out of a '90's sitcom.
"Ari hit his head on the nightstand and we think he needs a few stitches." She said.
Relief swept over me. "He just cracked his head and needs stitches." I repeated for Larry, who also looked relieved. To us, this was nothing. I could handle an injury like this any day. We rushed out of the restaurant and I dropped Larry off at home on the way to my parents. He had an early flight the next morning and we knew it would be late before we got home. Saying a quick goodbye and shaking our heads over the irony of the incident happening that night, I got back in the car and went to get Ari. His history is too complicated to go to any hospital other than CHOA, so off we went... me still dressed up and Ari in his Mario Bros. pajamas. Here's a picture of Ari chilling in the waiting room. We both wear masks in the ER. I believe it's not fair me for me to ask him to wear one if I don't do it, too.
As soon as the doctor put on rubber gloves, Ari's eyes filled will fear and his frown conformed to his signature "brave face". It doesn't matter how much, or little, is being done... the gloves are his sign that he's about to be messed with, poked, stuck, or pinned down. One little touch and he almost jumped off the table. The doctor decided to give him Versed, his typical pre-op "happy meds". Two stitches and we were done and home by two a.m. The Versed still had him wired, slurring his words, and disoriented. I hated seeing him like this. Like all other nights when we are concerned for his well being, I climbed into his bed and snuggled, prepared to wake up and adjust him with each cough and gag. By the time we got up the next morning, Larry was already on a plane.
And just like that, our life was back to normal. We reflected on the night with humor and understanding. Who knows... maybe this will actually be a great year... the year Ari gets over the big challenges and we adjust to our our new normal. I need something to believe in, and for me, right now, this is it. Lucky number 13 it is.
I can't end the post without sharing some pictures we recently had taken. It was impromptu... we didn't plan on it, didn't dress for and I certainly didn't intent on on being in any of them. Ari and I were shopping in a baby store and the in-store photographer offered to take some pictures and email them to me for free. I am usually too cynical to do anything like this, but for some reason I said yes. Here they are...
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