Why We Support St. Jude's
October 25, 2006 at 8:54 (First in a three-part series)
Yesterday E-Grrrl watched us sorting the mail, and her dad noted that we’d received Christmas address labels from St. Jude’s Children’s Research Hospital in Memphis, Tennessee .
She was immediately intrigued, first by the labels themselves, featuring drawings by sick children, and then by the story of St. Jude’s, a hospital devoted to researching and treating catastrophic illnesses in children. I shared with her why we were connected to it.
E and I became supporters of St. Jude’s ten years ago when our son was only a year old. He had to have surgery for a minor condition, a simple outpatient procedure that nonetheless loomed especially large in our consciousness because we were new parents, he was our first child, and our need to protect him from any kind of harm was ingrained and fierce. I was pregnant with our second child, and my maternal hormones were in full swing.
No matter what my logical mind absorbed regarding the need for this minor, common procedure and the outstanding credentials of the surgeon and hospital involved, my emotions were churning.
On the morning of his surgery, we rose while it was still dark to get to the hospital early, and I could see from my son’s face that he wondered why he was being pulled from his crib and strapped into his car seat before the sun was up. We spent the hour long ride to the teaching hospital in silence.
Once there, I dressed my son in a hospital gown and slippers and gave him the sedative the doctor supplied. We waited for it to take effect as he pushed a shopping cart around the patient playroom, admiring how cute he looked in his mini Tweety Bird gown and slippers. When the time came to actually hand him over to the surgical team, I felt my heart drop in my chest. My drugged son didn’t cry, but I did, my eyes welling with tears, which ran down my face as soon as we were alone in the waiting room. All I could think: THEY ARE CUTTING MY BABY AND I’M LETTING THEM DO THIS. I felt sick.
When the nurse came out about 45 minutes later, I thought she’d take us to our son and we’d all go home together—just as we’d planned. Instead she delivered bad news: there were complications, it would be a while. I broke into sobs this time, burying my face in E’s chest. The surgery took hours.
When I finally was led into the crowded recovery room, I was shocked by my boy’s appearance. He was pale and lethargic and mewing like a kitten. He couldn’t even cry. I tried to nurse him, and I held him, singing a lullaby.
Because the surgery had been more involved than expected, the surgeon wanted to keep him overnight. He was placed in a stainless steel crib in the pediatric ward, and E and I settled into chairs in his room.
This was the beginning of a nightmare. That night we hardly slept at all, disturbed by the day's events and a baby crying relentlessly next door. Every fiber in my body wanted to go in and comfort that child, but the nurses told me I could not. I wondered where the baby’s parents were, what was wrong with it, why no one was there. And, of course, I spent the night praying for my own child. When the sun came up I had only one thought on my mind:
I couldn’t wait to get home.
(To be continued...)
October 25, 2006
Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.
Reader Comments (9)
My Aunt heads up a comitee that raises TONS of money for St Judes every year. They have a hige auction for richie-riches. The stuff they auction off is AMAZING! Such a good cause. My grandpa left a lot of money to St Judes in his will, too.
:)
I'm busy catching up on posts since I returned from Kentucky. I saw the pictures you had taken. They were so beautiful. Your daughter is quite striking.
I never realized you had gone through so much.
We have had three very close friends who have had children hospitalized this year and it is a very scary ordeal.