We’re getting a little tired.
Sam is trying so hard, and he’s been hurting so badly. We got his spica cast off two weeks ago today at the ER. Dave and I were supposed to have a date, but instead we took our little boy to the emergency room. His orthopedist met us there (I LOVE HIM!) and removed his cast. Sam screamed complete terror and pain, and I held him, and held it all together, and so did Jim.
“You’re a good boy,” I said cheerfully, hugging him as he bawled and howled. “It’s OK! It’s almost off, it won’t hurt you, you’ve done it before, you’re almost there, you’re so strong, you’re so brave, I love you so much, I’m going to give you a huge present tomorrow, and guess what? Uncle Larry and Aunt Cristy and Jack are coming tomorrow!”
It was an steady babble of anything I could think of to calm him down.
After ten minutes or so, before the air hit his body, he actually did get distracted by the idea of the Beemer visit, and by a Child Life specialist who brought in a noisy Thomas book. (I also love those Child Life specialists. Twice they’ve saved us in the Newton-Wellesley Emergency Room, once with each child. Twice the same specialist saved us at Mass General as we strolled Sam into surgery.)
We’re used to this now. We’re used to a toddler screaming in pain and terror, and I’m comfortable now doing my song and dance to make him feel as comfy as possible after his sixth round of X-rays at 10 p.m. while he’s hurting and just wants to go to bed. Now it’s not even an effort to hold the tears back, now they just don’t come because we know that being strong is the best for Sam. If we trick even ourselves into thinking this is all OK, yeah, it’s tough, but we can do this, it's bound to make him more at ease. And we can do this.
Before we went to the ER that night, Maya started to cry.
“Are you going to be gone a week again?” she wanted to know.
We hugged her, and told her no, we’d be there in the morning when she woke up. Thank God Chris was in town, or she would’ve had to accompany us on this late-night excursion. It tugged when she asked that question, but I didn't have to fight any tears.
In the ER, the X-ray attendant told me how helpful it was to have me in there, when many moms exacerbate the kids’ fears. “We’re old pros,” I told her.
I'm toughened on one hand, so it's easier to keep it all contained. But I am at the same time all raw and exposed. I’m like a crab in its shell and at the same time right after it sheds, simultaneously hardened and ready to do whatever it takes to make it easier for my kids, while also weak and vulnerable, with fleshy exposed parts that could be fatal if somebody so much as scratched them.
Just seeing Sam crawl around tonight, so frustrated, but so determined, wore me down. He’s such a great kid, and it’s getting hard to see him so frustrated by the pain and the inability to walk for a second time.
He was shouting angrily from the couch this morning, no he didn't want to go outside. He wanted to just sit on the couch. I finally gave him the option to take Tylenol himself or I'd hold him and give it. He took it, then just looked at me and said, "Mommy, I still can't walk."
"I know buddy, but you will soon. You're getting stronger, and I know you're sore from practicing so much yesterday. Soon. Just keep trying, but if it hurts, rest."
He's been so fussy the past two weeks. Of course I’ve had deadlines, and a work error that more took work to correct, and plenty of worry on my part. Dave has had a tough couple of work weeks too.
Sam wants me near him always, he wants to be held. He tries to strengthen his muscles, and last week began crying when I told him to take it easy as he tried to jump holding on to his spica chair. He thought I was chiding him, when he expected me to be so proud.
I am proud, but that cast came off really early after his second surgery, a proximal femur osteotomy on his left leg this time, to correct the coxa vara on this side. Four days made such a difference, and he was in such pain. He began crawling less than 48 hours after the removal, and cried for a week as a result, but refused medicine and refused to admit anything was wrong. He had a canker sore, and stopped eating. (But at least we figured out why his appetite had dwindled, and it's on the rebound.) He fell yesterday and hurt his hand. Still, he refused Tylenol. Today I didn't give him the option.
But at this point, we have got to be on our way to coasting. I keep thinking we'll turn that corner every day. Today has got to be the day, and it's promising thus far. Sam's playing, the medicine helped, and he continues to work his legs.
When taking the kids to drop Maya off at preschool on Tuesday, one mom said, “You guys are always smiling! You’re so happy! After all you’ve been through. You’re awesome! You’re such a great mom.”
This comment couldn't have come at a better time. Maybe she sensed that we were all wearing a little thin. Or maybe we just all genuinely seem happy. I hope that was it. Basically, I think we are happy. Just a little thin.,
Her comment was so appreciated at that moment, I had to measure myself to make sure my emotions went one way instead of another. I could've beamed with pride, or just as easily wept.
Being able to control which emotion shows itself has gotten easier, but the ability to do this has taken its toll too. I thanked her, and told her this compliment came at a crucial time.
“At least I’m faking it well!” I joked. She told me if I needed help, she'd be there.
I’m sure Sam feels me getting worn down, and I’m trying hard to stay strong so he can feel comforted by me instead of uneasy.
He’s always sending repulser blasts everybody’s way and saying he’s bad. “Sam can you pick that up please?” (Repulser blast noise and hand.) It’s funny now, but his whole attitude seems different. Maybe it’s just because he’s three. I do know they get possessed around this age. But I also think he’s finally frustrated by his situation and lack of mobility.
Sam’s cruising now, and last time, it made me so happy to see him hit this milestone again. It still makes me proud, and I’m encouraging him more now than last week. But in all honesty, seeing it a third time when he’s three years old hurts.
Knowing that he will, as Dr. Albright finally prepped us two weeks ago, be immobilized yet again when they remove the metal from his legs, has me down. He won’t be in a body cast, but it’s six weeks of little movement, no running, jumping, climbing. I’m not sure how you tell that to a 3-year-old boy. We will have to stay in the hospital overnight again.
Maya wants to go to playgrounds, but I just feel too awful bringing Sam there when he can’t even walk. I feel awful for Maya, who just wants to play as we normally would on a lovely spring day. We go outside and I'm CONSTANTLY working to find something fun they both can do.
Yesterday I pulled their play kitchen out of the garage and cleaned it, and their shopping cart filled with play food, and put it into the “cafe” part of the swing set Dave built. I opened some sparkly cider and we sipped it out of plastic cups while Sam and Maya prepared me an array of foods at their cafe. We must have done this at least for an hour.
I dropped $40 on new games at Target, money well spent just because it was something engaging we all could do together.
But still, they’re watching too much TV and I’m not engaging and playing the way that I want to. I’m trying now to stop the guilt by changing our habit of flipping on the TV after a moment of frustration from any of us. We’re reading more. My house is filthy though, and we rarely eat before 7:30.
Like I've said a million times, it could be so much worse. But right now, I fluctuate between being proactive and strong to being a sludgy stagnant puddle. More than ever before in my life, I lack motivation when I need it most, and I just want to withdraw.
But then Sam kisses my finger, holds on to me, tells me I’m such a sweet mommy. Tells me I’m a precious mommy. Maya smiles at me, kisses me, tells me I'm the best mommy in the whole world, and also figures out a new way to race so a crawling Sam can tie with her each time.
“We both won!” she’ll shout, and he laughs, so proud and thrilled.
They make it impossible to withdraw, or to stop feeling altogether.
They are so funny and awesome, it helps, and makes me feel kind of guilty even admitting to all this. Sometimes I don’t even want to write this down and share it with the world because I don’t want to feel like I’m complaining. But that’s exactly what I’m doing.
Or maybe it's not complaining, so much as venting. I know other parents have to feel this way, even if the challenges are different. I had put a status update on Facebook exalting Sam's first post-cast bath. He had been so happy. One mom commented how strong and brave we all are (I totally feel like a fraud when people say this) and how she shouldn't take something as simple as bathing her children for granted.
To which I responded, "We're not saints, we'll be taking it for granted in two weeks when Sam is kicking and flailing and doesn't want it ... it's what I tell people who think I'm doing a special or good job ... the reality shifts, and then it shifts back. Each reality comes with challenges. None is bigger than another."
Everyone goes through their parenthood challenges, and maybe it's not as obvious or overt as this one, but there's always something.
I think it comes down to this: I know I have to be strong for my family, but I get worn down seeing their frustration and pain. I try to keep things light when they’ve just had it, but sometimes I feel like I’ve had it too ... we’ve been so resilient to this point, but all are beginning to wear thin.
Knowing there’s more to come in the six months just when we thought we were all done, a whole new round of surgery, another hospital stay, more immobilization .... I’m going to try not to think about it yet. I knew the metal had to be removed, but I guess I hadn’t considered the magnitude of that surgery.
I think if Dave and I could just get out to a movie and dinner to recharge, to actually talk, it would help. Anyone know a good babysitter who doesn’t charge money?
