Somewhere in the wee hours of May 13, 1989, I gave into the
power of an epidural, against my LolaGranola-No-Med-Birthing-First-Time-Mother-Stubborn-Uniformed-Stance. I didn't care if the needle gauge matched PVC pipe. I was tired.
I had been pregnant for approximately five and a half years, or so it
seemed.
My baby’s due date had been projected as “any time after April 1”.
Six
weeks later, with stretch marks the size of zebra stripes, I
opted for induced labor to try and get this kid out. At
7:30 a.m., I watched Maria and Luis, of Sesame Street fame, rushing to the hospital to have
their first baby on the little TV screen up in the corner while my water was
broken. ( The riots in Tiananmen Square were raging and I had opted for kindler,
gentler television fare whilst I was immobilized.)
About eighteen hours later, while through a feverish haze I
caught snatches of sleep and re-runs of I Love Lucy, I had not inched any closer to actual motherhood,
and asked for the epidural. Blessed relief.
I actually fell asleep for a few hours, only to wake to chaos.
An oxygen mask was shoved over my nose and mouth and the nurse explained to me
that I had a fever and that the baby had a ‘cord pattern’ running on the
monitor. My OB came rushing into the room. “ What happened? I just went home to
have a sandwich,” trying to make me less panicked. I looked at him and said, ”We’re
in trouble,”, as they wheeled me down the hall past the ashen faces of my
family in the hallway. I knew we might not be okay. After a C-section and several hours of morphine,
Little Randall never stopped swimming in utero – apparently spastic
from conception. LOL. He had swum THROUGH his umbilical cord and looped a true
knot, which presented no problems until full contractions began. That kid. :-)
The boy was amazing. Not simply by virtue of being
first-born, but amazing. He recognized the letter W, on a school bus, before he
was two. About the same time, while in the grocery store during the brief spate of the Gulf War, a
friend stopped to coo over him and asked him how old he was. Much to the
amazement of both of us, he replied, “20 months.” ( I may have talked to him a
little too much…) He knew the states and their capitols by the time he was in
first grade, and could talk baseball with his dad at age 6. During the Pokemon craze of 1996, he could recite names and attributes of all 100+ characters in order. Backwards even. He loved his little brothers and led them in merry antics at every opportunity, and was a joy, 99% of the time, to behold.
While playing on a merry-go-round, the kind we all used to
run around pushing it faster and then jump on hoping not to die, in the olden
days, my nine-year-old wonder boy banged his hip bone and got a bruise the size
of a small eggplant. Swollen, deep blue-black color. Jim ran him to the
pediatrician while I was at work that afternoon. That evening a pediatric
oncologist called and asked how close we were to Community Hospital. Puzzled, I
said, “Five minutes?” He told me to get Randall there post haste, bring his
pajamas, and that he would be screening him for leukemia that night.
I went into a dead-stoic, on the ledge calm. Told his dad quietly, got Rand in
the car and somehow made it to the hospital. Checked him in, walked down a mile
of empty hallways to Admissions, signed all the papers, walked back through the
echoing hallways formulating a plan for getting him to City of Hope, and waited next to Randall’s bed. Happily eating ice cream on
a school night with no homework in sight, he sat oblivious to any danger.
No leukemia.
But, to sum up a fourteen year journey, four
bone marrow aspirations, a series of IV infusions that did nothing but rack up
thousands of dollars on the Air Force’s tab, a miserable freshman year full of
nosebleeds, surgery, and fatigue, several dumb doctors and a few good ones
later, he started a band at church, got his friends to come hang out, and made it through high school with the added bonus of getting a Make-A-Wish and meeting the guys from Linkin Park. We love those guys still! After a four year run of mostly mild symptoms, Randall has met a slew of professional musicians, sometimes setting up for touring bands in
town, and establish bonds with little kids in a children’s program before
becoming a barista at a bookstore coffee bar.
Friday noon, we flashed back to the post-merry go round day.
“Your
son is gravely ill. Can you get him to the ER or does he need an ambulance?”
Compounding the fear, after an
assessment in our preferred ER facility, he WAS taken in an ambulance to a
hospital where he lost his greatest mentor and sports/beer/baseball buddy to a
rogue infection six months ago. Panic set in.
Yesterday I looked into the eyes of the man that my son has
become, and saw the baby I knew once upon a lifetime ago in that NICU, full of
fear and incomprehension and pain. Words can’t describe the twisting of my
heart at that moment, as I leaned down and told him it was time to let go, and
trust.
“ We just have to trust, Randall, and wait to see how this
all turns out. I am as scared as you are.” With that eked out, I prayed in gurgling sobs that Jesus would
reach down and relieve my grown baby boy of his fears, of his pain, and give him
peace in all this confusion.
This morning I know he is not yet fully healed, and I have
no idea what will happen to him in the days to come, but grateful for the gains
he’s made in two days. Deeply concerned, but optimistic. He's on the mend, and has hope for healing.
Yesterday while conferring with the lead physician on his
case, a patient expired down the hall. A room full of family and friends
suddenly emptied, and the body was wheeled from the ward, under a bright blue blanket,
right past us while we talked.
My friend tried to shield me from the sight. I didn't even blink. The ward is truly a place of life-and-death. There's no escaping that simple fact. The stoic calm of my walk when he was first diagnosed fourteen years ago had returned, at least for the moment.
I had a serious meltdown later, with the corner of a hallway standing in for Jonathan's arms around me, as I sobbed into the phone and prayed from the depth of my being for my son.
I have been through emergency c-sections, wondered if two
out the three babies being delivered would make it, had cancer, several
emergency surgeries of my own during the StupidCancer, and watched my
first-born suffer like no one should have to suffer for most of his life. But never have I been so worried, and at once, so prepared to let
my son go into the next life should he need to escape the bonds of mortality to
gain healing. I hope and pray that we all get to stay together for a while
longer. The four of us are hilarious together, and growing up with my sons has
been a tremendous blessing to me.
Randall’s tiny toddler hand, at eighteen
months of age, grasping my fingers as we walked up to the house after an
errand, validated me in a way never known before. I was his mama.
I grew him, I
knew him, and he would forever be mine. Better yet, I knew he was God’s gift to
me, and that is a validation that far exceeds any human bonds.
Nearly 23 years later, I love that kid as much as I did when
I first knew of his existence. Fiercely, tenderly, unabashedly, and joyfully. He's a pretty wonderful man. Often an idiot, but who isn't? :-)
May the Lord bless you and keep you, Rand, may He make His face to shine upon
and give you His peace, now and forever. Amen.
