Post 4
On Thursday, July 20th, I got up, brought our dog out, fed her, and made my own breakfast. My husband got up, went through his normal routine, and went to work. I put a change of clothing for Frank into my car and drove the 25 minutes to the hospital. It was sunny and hot, and I was relieved I got a parking space in the parking garage, instead of in the bright sunshine. I got the change of clothing from the back seat, and walked the familiar path to the front door of the children’s hospital, checked in and got my visitor’s pass, and went in the elevator up to the third floor.
When I arrived at the locked doors to the ward he typically stayed in, I buzzed for one of the nurses to let me in as usual. The doors swung open. Another one of his favorite nurses, Ava, was in the hallway. She saw me, and immediately ran up to me.
“Nobody called you?”
I stared blankly at her. “About what?”
He woke up early that morning. He’d been fine the night before, and had a peaceful night, and he got out of bed, presumably to use the bathroom. He fell while walking to the bathroom, and lost control of his bladder. Staff heard him fall, or maybe he cried out, but someone came in and saw him lying on the floor and called for help.
He was unable to move, except for very jerky, involuntary movements. He was unable to speak, and was drooling. He was rushed downstairs for a stat MRI. “Do you need me to show you where Imaging is?”
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I stared at Ava as she explained all this in a rush. I clutched the change of clothing to my chest. “But…I’m supposed to take him home today.”
- ******
Ava guided me to the elevator. We took it down in silence. I followed her through winding corridors, still silent, trying to understand what was happening. He was fine last night. What happened??
We got to MRI just as he was being wheeled into the room. Ava called out, “Wait, the mother just got here- can she see him first?” I walked towards his gurney with Ava. She said, “Frank, Mom just got here.” My son turned and looked at me and smiled and reached out his left hand.
Who was this? This was not my son. My son was a normal sixteen year old boy with an easy smile who spoke quickly. He moved fluidly. This boy, in a hospital gown, was not that boy. His smile drooped on one side, like a stroke patient. He didn’t speak, and his arm shook with the effort of holding it out. A thin line of drool escaped his mouth.
I clutched the change of clothing to my chest with my right hand, and reached out with my left hand to grasp his hand. “Hey, buddy,” I managed to croak out. “I’ll wait right out here while you’re in getting your MRI.” I squeezed his hand, and let go. I watched his hand drop, and one of the hospital staff present gently lifted it back onto the gurney at Frank’s side. I stood and stared as they wheeled him in and the double doors swung shut behind him.
Ava guided me to a waiting area and sat me down. Suddenly, the cancer center social worker was there and Ava was gone. I looked up at Anne and started to sob. “How did this happen??” I asked her. Nobody knows yet, she told me. Hopefully the MRI will show us what’s going on.
