February 24, 2011

Decorations & A Poem

 With a lot of help from Grandma and the craft store, and a little glue here and there, we have successfully turned the IV pole (G-tube pole) into something that looks a bit more ... interesting.



I think it's got to be the first ever baseball themed IV pole.

I'd also like to post a poem I wrote, and I won first place on Mary Beth's poetry contest!
http://patientpress.blogspot.com/

First Place: He's Not Gaining Weight

by Lydia Samad

Lydia Samad is the mother of a 7 year old boy with Cystic Fibrosis. She lives in Texas, and her website can be found at AzersCFWebsite.com

He’s not gaining weight.

Feed him more frequently,

more calories, more glasses of milk.

I’m sick of this. What do they expect me to?

Watching him sit at the table.

Chewing each bite for ages.

Frustration.

Why can’t he eat faster!

He’s not gaining weight.

Pushing, forcing, coaxing, convincing, lectures.

Just one more bite.

He’s not gaining weight.

Try these milkshakes. Lots of fat. Surely this will work.

Blenders running all day long.

Countless tubs of ice cream.

Millions of gallons of milk.

He’s not gaining weight.

Doctors and dieticians. We’ve tried these options, you’re not a failure.

He’s not gaining weight.

Facing surgery. Feel like blaming my child.

Feel like blaming myself.

Pointing fingers at self.

If only I had given him two more bites.

Just forced and prodded a bite more.

No, it wouldn’t have worked.

He’s just never hungry.

Doctors and surgeons talk to me.

Day of surgery.

Feeling like this is my fault.

My heart is in my throat.

Trying not to throw up.

What will my life be like next week.

My son is mad at me. “I don’t need a G-tube.”

“Please Mommy. I’ll drink my milkshakes faster. I don’t want this thing in my body.”

He’s being sedated.

Try to be strong for him.

Tell him things will get better.

It’s my son’s turn.

The sedation medication is going through his veins.

He’s not nervous anymore.

One more sweet kiss with my son before he’s wheeled through green double doors.

Telling myself not to break down.

It’s a minor procedure.

Waiting, pacing, nervous.

Texting family and friends.

Finally the surgeon comes out.

Everything was fine.

He was in capable hands.

Feeling grateful.

Time to see him. Nurse warns us it will be noisy.

What does that mean?

Walking through strange hallways.

Bracing myself for what I will see.

Curtains hanging around each child.

Countless children waking.

They are crying and moaning. Are they in pain?

One child is crying and trying to get out of the bed.

One girl moans, and looks like she had surgery on her head.

God, why must these children suffer?

My ears are filled with the sounds of children crying.

Oh God, what will my son look like?

Will he be crying?

Will he be in tremendous pain?

Nurse points, there he is.

The familiar face I know and love.

His stomach is covered with blankets. I want to see what it looks like.

My son’s eyes meet mine and he starts to cry.

What’s wrong, honey? Does it hurt?

More morphine. It still hurts.

His cries join with the cries of the children in the room like a chorus.

Be strong for him.

“I’ve done this to him. I’ve caused him to suffer.”

Back to our hospital room. He’s sleeping, moaning.

The day goes by at an agonizing pace.

Too slow.

Afraid to touch him, to move him, afraid of hurting him.

Nurse explains information.

Too much information. My head is spinning.

It’s too overwhelming. I don’t understand what she’s saying.

Giving me phone numbers, numbers of sizes,

numbers of milliliters per hour.

Why is she talking so fast?

“Call me if anything goes wrong”.

What?

Fear.

Trying to hold back tears.

A sleepless night.

He’s crying in his sleep.

I finally drift off.

Metal clangs in our room and I startle awake.

A nurse is removing tubes from his stomach.

I can see the button now.

It’s not so bad.

Shouldn’t there be bleeding? That looks pretty clean.

My son looks down at the button.

He looks up at me and smiles.

“Wait till my buddies see this! They will think it’s cool!”

Making jokes.

“You have a balloon inside of you. I knew you were always full of hot air.”

Time goes by faster.

He’s walking across the room.

Another day and it’s time to go home.

New fears.

Can I do this myself?

A metal pole with a machine in my child’s bedroom.

That doesn’t belong here.

More medical equipment to decorate our home.

Cans of formula, plastic tubes and syringes.

I can’t do this.

It’s too difficult to manage.

I sleep on the floor next to him.

Afraid to leave his side.

I drift off to sleep.

Morning sun hurts my eyes.

I look at my son’s bed. He’s not there.

The metal pole is missing.

I hear noises coming from the kitchen.

My son is rolling on the metal pole like a scooter.

He is happy.

The next week rolls by as fast as his new scooter.

Doctors and dieticians, waiting to find out the news.

He has gained weight.



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