Brenna had appointments scheduled in St. Louis over the course of two days, so we opted to spend the night. The testing on Day 1 was pretty basic. They checked her lung capacity, listened to her heart and had us speak with the anesthesiologist. Day 2 was lab work, MRI and CT Scan.
While at the hospital, I attempted to talk to Brenna about her upcoming surgery. We hadn't given her a specific date, but as we met with doctor after doctor, each confirming her surgery for next Tuesday, I felt like we needed to talk about it.
"Brenna, they are going to fix your back next Tuesday. They are going to make it straight so that you can stand up tall. You'll be taller than Mommy! There will be therapy dogs at the hospital and Daddy and I will be with you the whole time."
She paused for a second. "No. I have library on Tuesday." Each time I tried to talk about next week, she stopped me to reiterate that she was not available to hang out in St. Louis. After all, her sixth grade class has library on Tuesdays. I haven't begun to break the news to her that she will be home recovering for six weeks.
Denial is a helpful place to live sometimes. It helps one to cope and stay in the moment, not letting fear of the future press in. I don't think there is any way to truly prepare her (or us) for what is ahead. I can hear the talk of PICU, a vent, multiple lines and tubes, but until I see it--- I will have a small, insulating cover of denial to tuck in around me, keeping me warm and allowing me to continue parenting and being of some use at home to my family. I know the cover will wear thin and have holes blasted into it on Tuesday, but until then, it's useful.
As Brenna cried and fretted, a nurse stayed with her almost constantly. At one point she turned to Brenna, "I'm scared, hold my hands and help me feel better." Brenna clasped her hands and the nurse turned them over, to check her veins. A few minutes and one dose of Versa later, Brenna had an IV in and all of the necessary labs taken care of.
Three hours later, I sat on the edge of her bed, waiting for her to wake up in recovery. A father walked past our curtain, holding a preschooler in his arms. Her wispy curls were whipped into a bedhead tower and she was limp on his arm and shoulder as he walked out. Sitting quietly, Greg and I just listened to the conversations around us.
"Oh, no! Roxie forgot her feather again!"
"You're kidding. Not again! She was so excited about it, too."
"She still has treatment upstairs, I'll take it up to her" and then a tiny woman scurried past us, holding a peacock feather taller than she was.
Brenna's mouth hung slightly open and she made a snoring sound. It reminded me of visiting my grandmother in the nursing home. In that moment, to me she looked fragile and precious. I still saw her as my preschooler with a head full of curls, not an anxiety ridden 12 year old who had rolled her hair into dreadlocks in front. I felt grateful that she was having this surgery at 12, when she could be treated at the Children's Hospital, instead of having the surgery as an adult, at another place where perhaps no one cared if you had left your feather behind.
To me, she is still little. And perhaps that in itself is denial. But again, denial can be a pretty nice place to live.
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