As I carried my son into the hospital, I had a feeling of dread.
"What if something goes wrong?" I asked myself. "What if I don't know what to do?"
It was ear tube surgery day — what, hopefully, was to be the last segment of a long, torturous journey of illness for my 16-month-old that began last August. He has had almost 10 ear infections during this past cold and flu season — I lost count somewhere around seven — and it was time to take the step of long-term medical intervention.
It is a five-minute procedure, where the doctor makes a tiny incision in the ear drum and inserts a semi-permanent tube that allows fluid within the ear canal to drain properly. Although it is fast and, from what I'm told, relatively painless, the child does have to be put under general anesthesia because they need to sit perfectly still.
My brain knew and understood all of this medical logic and reason. My heart, on the other hand, was convinced that I would never see my baby again.
It's difficult to articulate "mother's fear," that irrational, basic instinct to protect one's young at all costs. It doesn't matter that this procedure was going to benefit his long-term health and development. What mattered was that he was going to get an "owie" without me being there, and that was just not acceptable.
Of course, like most other mothers, I keep these thoughts to myself, as I didn't want to display erratic, irrational behavior at a place where I'm sure white, strapped jackets are ready nearby. No, instead, I paced up and down the hall. I organized his bag. I made sure his snacks were ready. I texted and Facebooked about the status of the surgery. I got my husband something to eat.
Finally, blissfully, the door to the surgical unit opened, and a nurse came out holding my groggy tot. He had his favorite blanket with him and looked as if he were about the cry. As the nurse started to explain the necessary after-care instructions, I opened my arms wide, and he whimpered as he snuggled into my shoulder.
He never cried. He never whined. He never even misbehaved that day. He is perfectly fine — I'm the one who is a wreck.
— Sarah Leach is content editor at The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at (616) 546-4278 or at sarah.leach@hollandsentinel.com.
"What if something goes wrong?" I asked myself. "What if I don't know what to do?"
It was ear tube surgery day — what, hopefully, was to be the last segment of a long, torturous journey of illness for my 16-month-old that began last August. He has had almost 10 ear infections during this past cold and flu season — I lost count somewhere around seven — and it was time to take the step of long-term medical intervention.
It is a five-minute procedure, where the doctor makes a tiny incision in the ear drum and inserts a semi-permanent tube that allows fluid within the ear canal to drain properly. Although it is fast and, from what I'm told, relatively painless, the child does have to be put under general anesthesia because they need to sit perfectly still.
My brain knew and understood all of this medical logic and reason. My heart, on the other hand, was convinced that I would never see my baby again.
It's difficult to articulate "mother's fear," that irrational, basic instinct to protect one's young at all costs. It doesn't matter that this procedure was going to benefit his long-term health and development. What mattered was that he was going to get an "owie" without me being there, and that was just not acceptable.
Of course, like most other mothers, I keep these thoughts to myself, as I didn't want to display erratic, irrational behavior at a place where I'm sure white, strapped jackets are ready nearby. No, instead, I paced up and down the hall. I organized his bag. I made sure his snacks were ready. I texted and Facebooked about the status of the surgery. I got my husband something to eat.
Finally, blissfully, the door to the surgical unit opened, and a nurse came out holding my groggy tot. He had his favorite blanket with him and looked as if he were about the cry. As the nurse started to explain the necessary after-care instructions, I opened my arms wide, and he whimpered as he snuggled into my shoulder.
He never cried. He never whined. He never even misbehaved that day. He is perfectly fine — I'm the one who is a wreck.
— Sarah Leach is content editor at The Holland Sentinel. Contact her at (616) 546-4278 or at sarah.leach@hollandsentinel.com.
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