On Thursday last week, my husband and I sat down to watch Grey's Anatomy, like we do every week. I had been online earlier in the evening tweeting about our local political debate and upcoming election and inevitably saw a few spoilers for the show and had an inkling of what was coming.
And then IT happened. The final scene. The ICU room, the machines, the ventilator, the sounds, the silence. It was all just too much. I cried, along with millions of others about the death of one of TV's dreamiest characters, but I cried more because it was a scene that was way too close to our not very long ago reality.
Two weeks ago my therapist told me that I have not really processed the trauma that we all went through last year. And like I always do when she brings this up, I countered with, why do I have to? (BTW, my therapist just LOVES me.) I mean, he, we, I... we are all good. We came through it fine, we are on the other side. My son has completely recovered, we are moving on, it's all good now. I DON'T WANT TO GO BACK THERE!
Because whenever I do, my mind plays endless variations of the "What if?" game. And it is not a fun game. I know the statistics now. I've spoken with the doctors who tell me know how many sleepless nights THEY had during those days and while we are now almost a year away from that time, it doesn't take much for my mind to get back there in an instant and for panic and fear to set in.
Thursday night's primetime TV programming was just one part of a very triggering week for all of us. On Wednesday afternoon, I sat in a waiting room at yet another local hospital as once again, my child was being taken away to have more tests.
An MRI this time. There I sat, coffee in one hand, the other on my heart, as I experienced the worst case of deja-vu possible and just tried to calm my breathing and my heart rate, doing all that I could to fend off the impending panic attack!
This was my mantra for the excruciating 30 minutes or so that he was out of my sight. And then the radiology tech brought him back to me and said they needed to do another X-Ray.
When my husband got home from work later, after having spoken with the radiologist, I learned a few new words.
Avascular necrosis of the femoral head, also known as, Legg-Calve-Perthes disease.
And then I had a few choice words of my own for The Universe, Fate, God or whom or whatever is in charge of all of this STUFF....
This kid? After all that he has been through this year? When he is finally starting to feel normal and confident and strong again and all he is looking forward to a summer of playing soccer and... Ok, well mostly just playing soccer. On a team. With all his friends.
Now he can't do that. His age and this diagnosis means that most likely some kind of surgery is going to be needed to correct and/or maintain the integrity of his hip joint to prevent further damage. We will know more when we see the orthopedic surgeon in a few weeks. For now, we restrict his activities and we monitor and manage his pain, both physical and emotional.
And I keep the thought in my head that this child of mine, my warrior babe, who has fought the odds against him since he was in utero and continues to do so 8 years later, well...
He is just not meant for a mediocre life.