So…we’re all sitting at Gate 36 at Boston Logan Airport, waiting for our flight to San Diego, the final leg of our massive journey to bring home Angel Boy. YAY!!!
We can literally see the light at the end of the tunnel.
I feel like I gave birth to him all over again.
It all started with the call at 3am that propelled the labor pains to GET TO HIM at any and all cost.
‘Cos you never know, right? What if we had been flying and it was too late? What if we had landed, turned on our cells, and learned the worst had occurred while we were desperately working to make it to the hospital before his emergency surgery? The what ifs were killing us. What if the surgeon couldn’t fix him? What if he had a rupture? What if he suffered a massive infection that couldn’t be controlled? It was touch and go for a while, but he pulled through — we ALL pulled through…
Lucky for him AND for us, none of those fears came true, and that’s why we’re here at the airport and get back to my normal routine of going to the gym, cleaning the house, baking, and of course, SHOPPING!!
On a serious note…
This whole experience got me thinking…always a dangerous thing, right?
I believe that it’s critically important, if you’re ever hospitalized, to have a family member (or two) act in the capacity of an advocate — with the docs, the nursing staff, and the insurance company.
It’s next to impossible for the patient to communicate on his own behalf or even function at all –when he’s in pain and suffering — before surgery, especially emergency surgery, and after surgery when he’s basically comatose and drugged up, during the entire stay and up to the exit strategy.
RNs have about eight patients at a time; because of that, we handled most of my son’s personal care.
DIL and I stayed with him 24/7, taking turns sleeping in the recliner next to his bed.
We took his temp, cleaned him, took him to the bathroom, kept after him every few minutes to use the little tool to keep his lungs healthy, and when he started walking the very next day post-surgery, we walked him further and further every day.
It was back to basics: baby steps. Measuring his urinary volume, charting his temp, checking for gas, helping him to the bathroom — the simple joy of having his naso-gastric tube removed called for applause and cheers.
Baby steps. Walking further every day. Walking with the IV detached. Ditching the hospital gown and wearing his own clothes.
The first meal after eight days was spectacular. Chicken broth and apple juice constituted a feast. My already thin boy had lost so much weight. More baby steps.
Even though they check vital signs once an hour, we were there to monitor any changes minute by minute.
When he started to run a temp, we alerted the RN and she alerted his surgeon and because of our “assertiveness”, a ton of blood tests were ordered along with a CT scan to rule out infection or abcess. It turned out that he DID have a blood infection, but not MRSA, the scary one, and it responded well to antibiotics.
The final issues were insurance-related, and we had to literally drive the discharge process and all that red tape in order to leave the hospital in a timely manner.
They’ve just called for our flight; back to sunny SoCal, back to the beach, back to retail therapy. Holla!
It was a hellish ten days, but I really feel like I’ve given birth all over again…to a healthy thirty-three year old baby boy! Happy Mother’s Day, everyone!