I am always fascinated by the coping mechanisms we intrinsically have when staring trauma in the face. I have been digging deep for any basic survival instincts just to do the day to day chores. Things like getting out of bed, bathing my children, feeding them and maintaining presentable composure as I talk with others. This has taken every ounce of strength I have had over the past 2 days.
And then I remember….. Zehn’s dermatologist appointment is today to get his mole checked for possible cancer. Really God, today? Well, God didn’t have to tell me because the calendar did. “Zehn’s dermatologist appt, 2:30 p.m. w/ Dr. Christopher Hull” Thank you calendar. I will remember this as I am using you to start a fire in my fire-pit next summer.
Anyhow, there it is. So I take a deep breath, shower, put on my makeup, I even curl my hair and put a load of laundry in the wash. I have been feeling better this morning due to the band-aids my children put on my heart last night. I can do this and this will be a step back towards life as normal.
How silly our minds can be, playing tricks on us when we are standing in the middle of a shit-storm.
So, as I sit in the waiting room with Zehn, the reality of this week starts to set in, of course waiting for the most opportune time of weakness to attack (checking your child for possible cancer). Awesome. Thank you erratic emotions.
As I sit in the waiting room feeling my heart begin to race and my breath becoming shallow, I know I have to do something to bring down the blood pressure, and FAST.
Numbness. Works every time. And it did this time too.
So, I can’t help but look around at the receptionist, man in the wheelchair, nurses and people walking hurriedly in the hallway. I wonder if any of them are experiencing the same degree of pain and broken dreams and yet holding it together knowing that if they let go, it’s over. When the flood gate is open there is no “putting a cork in the bottle”.
My mind and body seem to be on auto-pilot at this point, working together still somehow, but with no assistance from me. My mind wanders to the last time I felt this type of out-of-body experience. I can only remember experiencing it once. It was after leaving the hospital empty handed when I was supposed to be bringing home my 2nd child, Dominic.
We had gone to the mall to buy me a “souvenir” (or maybe more politically correct, a “tangible memory”) of my pregnancy and child that I would never see grow into a man. I can remember feeling very foreign in my body and wondering how anyone could be walking and smiling. After all, my world had come to a screeching halt. As we searched for the bracelet that was just perfect for engraving his name and birthday, I remember wondering if anyone, or everyone knew about the perfect storm raging in my soul.
Here I am, having it again. At least we are in the hospital so if I loose my breath and can’t recover it someone can help me find it. This seems like a viable possibility at this moment. I feel sick. I look around for the nearest bathroom because I can feel my lunch working its way up. I have already thrown up 3 times today. Then I remember I didn’t eat lunch, or breakfast, or anything yesterday either. What on earth could be making its way up my esophagus screaming to get out?
Poisonous hate, lies, betrayal, a brain disease, possible cancer, and shattered dreams. That’ll do it.
The doctor calls us back. I feel myself walking down the hallway and into the room. I am holding Zehn’s hand so I know he is close. But I can’t see or hear a thing. We sit in the chairs waiting for the doctor to come in. He enters the room. He is nice. Until his face changes. He doesn’t have to say a word, I want to throw him against the wall and say “I dare you to give me bad news right now”. Obviously he does not read my mind. He tells us that he is concerned. He wants to do a biopsy and because of Zehn’s age it will have to be done in the O.R. under anesthetic. He tells us that they will have to remove the nail and cut out a piece of the skin under Zehn’s cuticle.
Here comes my lunch. I say ok….ok….OK!!!! I need the doctor to leave the room and do it FAST. I can see Zehn doesn’t understand everything, but he understands enough to be loosing the color in his face as well. His poor little chest starts to move a little faster and he starts to breathe a little deeper. I can see him trying to be brave. If he can be brave then I HAVE to. There is no question about this, but making this a reality is a whole other story. I have stopped listening to the doctor and start pleading with God to give me anything to deal with this moment, including making the doctor leave.
God did both. The doctor left and I turned to Zehn and asked him if he understood. He said he did and that his throat was making him feel like he needed to throw up. What a pair we were. I grabbed the garbage can just in case. How do you hold your children and tell them everything is going to be OK, when you are pretty sure that things are NOT going to be OK? In fact things at this moment are as far from OK as they have been in a year.
I turn to him, kiss him on the nose and say “baby, things are going to be OK”. And I mean it. I don’t know where the words came from, but when they left my mouth they were authentic. Maybe I ate a demon, or an angel. Eating anything at this point would be a good idea. No matter, because I said it and I meant it. I watch as the worry and stress melt off his face.
The doctor comes back in and gives us the name of the primary children’s doctor we need to contact for the surgery. I say thank you.....thank you??? HA! I put on my sunglasses, signaling I am ready to leave. I don't care if the appointment is done, because I am. And with that, I crack. Silent tears streaming down my face as we walk out of the office, down the long cooridor of the hospital and into the car. My one goal is to make damn sure that Zehn does not see these tears. I am soooooo thankful I brought in my sunglasses. As I drive to our house feeling the numbness wearing off like the ice in a doomed popsicle in the hot summer sun, I look into the rear-view mirror and see a smile on Zehn’s face. A small victory, but a victory none-the-less. At least for the moment, Zehn is not worried or scared.
Once home, I set him up with a loud distraction and walk to the bathroom. After throwing up once again, regaining the breaths I held so firmly as we drove, and wiping the mascara from my eyes, I am ready for the day…… again.
One day at a time……..not just for AA……..
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