Let her be healed. . . .

Jamie got tubes in her ears last week. If you’re not familiar with this procedure you can get details here, but basically they put a tiny passageway in her ear drum so fluid will drain rather than build up and cause infections – which has happened almost as many times as she is old. We were referred to a doctor at Doernbecher’s Children’s hospital which is wonderful in the sense that it is the best, most advanced hospital in the state but bad in the way that I have always said a little prayer every time one of those telethon things were on that I would never need to step foot through those doors.

But step we did, out of the cold, gray, dawning sky, through the swoosh of the automatic doors and into that uneasy, heavy silence of the hospital lobby. As we waited our turn to check-in, I scanned the room filled with grade school artwork and whimsical statues. A twenty-foot mobile of colorful handcrafted birds soared above us, all of it a fanciful façade for the life and death scenarios playing out within the building. . . . the tests, the prayers, the results, the hopes, the relief, the goodbyes. Every door holding the potential for each, like a game of Russian roulette played between fate and the lives of our children. My throat tightened at the thought.

They called our name at the front desk and then proceeded to batter me with routine questions. . . . Child’s DOB?. . . . SSN#?. . . . Insurance policy number?. . . . . religious preference? Religious preference? My mind reeled as to why they cared about our religious preference and then it hit me. Like a 2x4 to the back of the head. My mouth opened, but it was a second before the words fell out . . . . no preference. I thought about saying Christian, or Jewish, but the only thing swirling in my mind at the moment was, if Jamie was in the position of actually needing prayers, would it really matter which one? Just pray, dammit.

We were sent up to the eighth floor, where all surgeries take place. We stepped out of the elevator and followed the signs to our destination – a place I was guiltily grateful was in the opposite direction of the pediatric ICU. We were led back to a curtained area with chairs, a TV and a small bed surrounded on three sides by white metal bars. The “crib” seemed like something from a 50’s era pediatric psych ward and Jamie helped complete the image by jumping on the bed while holding the onto the bars and babbling. Which was almost as charming as when she decided to throw toys in the direction of passing nurses like some kind of zoo monkey.

Over the next half hour they took her vitals and gave her a sedative that I strongly believe should be prescribed to all children between the ages of two and four. At 8:00am I carried her back to the OR doors and kissed her good-bye. After all the emotions and macabre thoughts that had run through my head in the lobby, I was actually quite calm as I handed her over to the nurse. . . and thankful that I now had a moment to stuff my face with the other granola bar I had brought along for Damonn. Which is exactly what I was doing when the doctor came out a mere twenty minutes later to tell us all was well. After another hour of screaming from our tired, groggy and starving child we were given the ok to go home much to the relief of the weary, worried, tired parents in close proximity, I’m sure.

Back in the lobby, clutching my red-faced wailing bundle of blonde curls waiting for Damonn to bring the car around, I couldn’t help but guess at the illnesses the patients coming and going around us might be facing. My stomach churned at the thought of dealing with more than our mere three-hour procedure. How would I deal? What would I do? I guess, in the simplest terms, I would do exactly what I did today. Hand over my child with faith in the best medicine available and pray to any God available that the doctors hand her back healthier than she came in.