He Takes My Heart With Him

After Surgery

We went right up to the NICU and waited for Jack. We held hands and leaned on each other. We felt relief. We felt thankful. We felt blessed. There was a sense of satisfaction; of having come through this experience okay. A sense that it was over.

They called us to the unit when Jack got there. We hurried down the hall, so anxious to see our son. And, when we came through the doorway and saw him lying in his isolette, we felt the full force of a blow. Our baby was lying there, so still. He was swollen from all the fluids he received during the operation. The anesthesia hadn't worn off completely, yet, and so he didn't even move a finger. The only movement was his breathing; his chest moving slightly up and down. His little face was pale and looked so small. His IV had been moved to his head, because the veins in his arms and legs had kept blowing. I hadn't even known they could do that. But, here he was, a tube in the side of his head, plastered down with tape and gauze. Our son. Looking like he had been through a war. And, of course, in a way, he had. The reality of what he had just been through came to us, again, full force and we cried. We wanted to pick him up and hold him to us and feel him, safe and solid, in our arms. But, we couldn't. He had to stay on his back for 24 to 48 hours until his spinal cord healed. So that no spinal fluid would leak out through the incision.

We sat in the rocking chairs by him and were, once again, left to comfort him, and ourselves, by carressing him through the holes of the isolette. Sobered, but still so blessed.