Disassociate.

I was watching Celebrity Rehab last night. I love that show; not because I enjoy seeing people struggle, but because I am fascinated and passionate about what fuels ones' hope.  What must we uncover about ourselves and our true intentions before allowing ourselves the opportunity to belong and feel loved?
I know, strange that I look for the answers to those questions via Dr. Drew and a few b-grade celebrities...but, I've never been one to discount an opportunity for self-analyzing. 
Professional hazard.

Dr. Drew, during a group session, discussed the term disassociation.  He described disassociation as an unnatural defense mechanism, learned by survivors of trauma, as a way to cope with the intensity of the hurtful experience they are going through. 

Hmm.

I used that word Friday night while talking to my sister who had come with dinner and a fresh set of legs and arms, willing to hold the Ipad above Deak's head while he cried and whined in agony.

I casually mentioned to her, "You just have to disassociate yourself from this" (this referring to the screaming boy lying on his hospital bed) and I left the hospital room for the first few minutes in about 30 hours.

Disassociate.
Is that what I do?

I've been through heartache before. I've been disappointed, hurt and frightened for my own future.
But, nothing in my life,
Nothing...
Compares to the pain experienced sitting helplessly on the side of a hospital bed, next to my son whose inconsolable cries could not be comforted by even the combination of Morphine, Loratab, Toradol and eventually Valium.
His eyes, swollen from his tears and irrational from the strong combination of narcotics, I could not bear to look into for more than a few seconds. 
It just hurt too badly.

In a quiet moment without nurses, at 4:00 in the morning, I leaned in from my chair at the side of Deak's bed, seeking what hindsight tells me was most likely forgiveness.
The guilt of choosing this surgery, even under his neuro-surgeon's recommendation weighed heavily on my shoulders, and I questioned my decision over and over and over again.
I sobbed my apology to my boy.
I told him that I would do anything to take his pain away.
I told him stories of Lagoon and Bulgy the Whale and the Lady Bug Drop.
I told him how much I loved him.

After a night's sleep that consisted of about 45 minutes, and about 36 hours of listening to my boy's cries, not able to pick him up and hold him (due to restrictions from the surgery), I no longer had the strength to be present emotionally.

I was there.
But, that trusty suit came on and I held him down with the nurses while they cathed him, and comforted him while he hit my arms in anger, and pushed a continual onslaught of buttons on the preschool matching game on his Ipad because his arms were too weak.

I stuck my heart in my pocket and pressed forward, only allowing it brief reappearances on a couple un-planned occasions; one being a momentary encounter with a hospital social worker.

She happened to walk into Deak's room during an especially difficult inconsolable period, and she pulled me aside.
She asked if I had slept
(No.)
She let me tell her my son's story and the medical error that had precedented much of this cycle of hurt. 
(The anesthesiologist gave Deakon 5x the dose required for his surgery, which inevitably lead to an conscious extubation and a tremendous amount of pain due to the fact that they could not give him any narcotics *except a minimal amount of Morphine* until he was conscious and breathing on his own).
She told me, while watching Deakon shriek, kicking and flailing his arms and legs, that what I was going through was difficult.
Then she told me she thought I was amazing.
I turned in response to her comment and said, "Well, I don't think I'm that amazing."
Because never, ever in my life had I ever felt so helpless and weak.
This woman, who I've never met, nor will ever see again, then turned to me, looked directly into my eyes and said, "Well, I know you are."

Validation.
Validation, even from a stranger only briefly sharing your experience, can be so powerful.

Maybe that's why I'm writing about this today.
Maybe I want other parents who are experiencing hard stuff to know that going through surgery (or any kind of hard stuff) with your child is not something to be tracked, or counted, or boasted about.
I hate it.
It is hard.
It hurts like hell.

And, it's okay if we disassociate for a while, because we have been through things with our children that no parent should ever have to experience.
It may not be "normal," but we need to survive.

And, you know what else?
We are pretty damn amazing.
All mothers are.
Even if we need help recognizing that most of the time.

My sweet boy, five days later, is downstairs recovering on his little mattress in front of a big screen TV that has played "Yo Gabba Gabba" or "Go Diego Go" around the clock.  He is smothered with toys and is feeling well enough to control his beloved Ipad and enter and exit out of games faster than a hyenna on meth.  The actual surgery to release his tethered cord (cut the ligament holding his spinal cord downward and putting pressure on his nerves), was extremely successful and proved to be more necessary than we anticipated once the surgeon actually got in there and saw the size of the tendon.

He will recover faster than I.
And, I am perfectly okay with that.

My sweet Abby holding her Deak's hand while he cried.