My three-year-old
daughter Alicia loves the song “What Doesn't Kill You” by Kelly
Clarkson. Whenever it comes on the radio while we're driving in the
car she sings along at the top of her lungs and dances in her seat.
Alicia is a spunky little firecracker and the upbeat tone and message
of the song suit her perfectly.
“What doesn't
kill you makes you stronger!” Kelly, and Alicia, sing. “Stand a
little taller, doesn't mean I'm lonely when I'm alone.” And I am
only a little bit embarrassed to admit that I am the kind of mom who
will sing and dance along with her. The more embarrassing truth is
that that peppy song actually has special meaning for me.
I was driving home
alone from Primary Children's Medical Center, the car strangely empty
since I am used to having three children strapped into the backseat
of my little Nissan. I had finally left my four month old baby boy in
the care of my husband and and the hospital staff after the longest
twenty-four hours of my life. I had spent the entire night sitting in
an uncomfortable plasticy hospital rocking chair, rocking my baby
while he alternately dozed and moaned, tubes and wires all over him
occasionally coming out of place and beeping jarringly. Every few
hours he would start thrashing around and crying and I would ask the
nurse if we could give him more medication. My little Eli had had
cleft lip repair surgery and his little swollen, stitched-up face was
so painful that he couldn't take a bottle at all. At one point during
that sleepless night, Eli had kicked the IV out of his foot and
sprayed blood everywhere while I frantically pushed the call button.
I had washed up quickly and changed my clothes but I really needed a
shower. My muscles felt like jello, my eyes were itchy with sleep
deprivation, and there was a painful knot of anxiety in the pit of my
stomach. How long would it take for Eli to start eating again? Would
he get home in time for Christmas? Was I ever going to see his
happy-go-lucky smile again? None of the cars in the next lane would
let me in, so I missed the turn to get to the freeway entrance. As I
circled back around to get on the freeway, I turned on the radio,
hoping that some music would perk up my sluggish mind.
“What doesn't
kill you makes you stronger!” Kelly Clarkson's passionate voice
filled the car.
I thought about
those words. Do hard things make you stronger? I wondered. I didn't
feel very strong at the moment. Honestly, I just felt like crying.
My
first two babies were darling little girls with blond hair and blue
eyes that they got from their dad. When I was pregnant the third
time, I was hoping for a boy. At the ultrasound, we found out that I
was carrying the hoped-for boy. We also discovered that he had a
cleft lip. I had heard of cleft lip before, but I had never met
anyone who had had a cleft and I had never imagined that such a thing
could touch my life so closely. I tried to imagine what it all meant
as I listened to the doctors describe the feeding challenges,
surgeries, and speech therapy that our son would need. I searched the
Internet for information and devoured stories of families who had
already been through what we were about to face. The pictures scared
me as I tried to imagine what it would be like to have a baby who
looked so different. Would I be able to adore my child the way that
every baby deserves to be adored by his mother? But as the weeks went
by and my due date approached, the stress slipped away and I found
myself accepting the situation with relative peace and confidence. I
knew that my baby needed me and I knew (at least in my better
moments) that, as I mother, I could do what needed to be done. I was
determined to be as strong and as loving as the most powerful
mother-love.
When
Eli was born, he was perfect and healthy and he had a cleft lip and
palate. I insisted on keeping him in my hospital room and held him
all the time. As I sat in my hospital bed holding him that first day,
I knew that he did look different, but he was mine, and he was tiny
and adorable just as a baby should be. As I worked through the first
sleepless days and nights, trying to figure out how to feed him
enough to gain weight, I noticed his sweet personality and felt lucky
to be his mom. Eli had to have different contraptions in his mouth
and nose taped to his cheeks with first aid tape to position his
mouth in preparation for surgery. It looked uncomfortable and
irritated his skin, but he was still happy, relaxed, and smiling most
of the time. I believed that the constant love of his big sisters,
his dad, and me had given him that joy and security and made that
happy smile possible.
At
four months old, it was time for Eli’s first surgery. Having your
little baby going in for surgery is nightmare material for a parent.
It is the kind of thing that you always hope will never happen to you
because you kind of doubt that you would be strong enough. And the
real experience was actually quite nightmarish. The hour in the
waiting room as my husband and I passed our angry, hungry child back
and forth because he wasn’t allowed to be fed for hours before the
surgery, handing him over to the anesthesiologist and forcing myself
to walk away as the doctor’s last words echoed in my ears:
“We’ll
take good care of your baby.”
Next,
hours of waiting, my husband and I gripping hands tightly, meeting
one another’s panicked eyes, and trying to think about anything but
our baby, “under the knife.” Finally, a nurse came in calling,
“One
parent for Eli.” I followed the nurse into a big recovery room,
divided by curtains into smaller spaces. I could hear a baby making
strange pitiful whimpers. Could that be my baby? I had never heard my
child make noises like that. It was Eli. I was going to learn that
day that although the normal fussing and crying of a baby can be
tiresome, the weak moans and whimpers of a baby in serious pain are
much, much worse. My eyes zeroed in on Eli’s little baby face: the
cleft lip was gone. Instead there were rows of dark blue stitches and
smears of blood. One of the nurses was saying something, but it was
like she was on mute. I couldn’t understand. I just reached my arms
out towards Eli. I was too afraid of messing up the tubes and wires
attached to him to pick him up myself, but the nurse placed him in my
arms. He thrashed around and moaned.
“Do
you think he’s in pain? Does he need more medicine?” I nodded
numbly, my eyes wide.
It
was a long day and a long night, holding Eli and rocking him nonstop
while he dozed fitfully. The uncomfortable fold-out bed didn’t get
used that night; my baby needed me to hold him and rock him. We kept
adjusting his medication to try to get the pain under control, but
even all drugged up he would never even let me set him down without
screaming. There was another sick baby sharing the hospital room with
us who always seemed to start crying whenever Eli stopped. Sometimes
I would look at my suffering baby and feel angry towards the doctors
who had taken my happy child and put him through this. I knew that it
was unreasonable; the surgery was necessary for the normal function
and appearance of his mouth and the doctors did a good job. But
there’s no reasoning with Mama Bear.
And
now, here I was, driving home from the hospital as the words “What
doesn't kill you makes you stronger” vibrated through the car. I
thought again of the last night and day, and of the few months I'd
had so far as Eli's mommy, and I knew that I had done my job well. I
had been there with all of a mommy's love and care when Eli needed
me. I was stronger than I had thought, and I would get through
whatever else came my way. I sang along with Kelly Clarkson and
blinked away tears, the knot in my stomach loosening and a little
seed of hope growing inside of me.
It
wasn't suddenly easy after that. Eli's mouth was too sensitive to be
able to take a bottle, but after a couple of days, I had some success
feeding him with a medicine syringe and once they decided that he
wouldn't get dehydrated we were finally allowed to take him home. It
was December 23rd. Just in time for Christmas.
I
watched him shrink for about a week before he was eating from a
bottle again and then he needed me to feed him a bottle almost
constantly for a while. It was many weeks before the pain was gone
and things settled back down into a normal routine. Then suddenly, he
was smiling and playing again, as carefree as if nothing had
happened. At first I was just grateful to have gotten through such a
traumatic experience and tried my best to forget it. But there are
some things that you never forget. Now that it has been several
months, and we have survived another surgery, looking back on those
days is not so painful. Eli is a joy, a good-natured toddling
one-year-old, smiley and mischievous as I could wish. Being his mom
is a gift and a privilege. Although I wish that I could protect him
from the surgeries in the coming years, I know that I can’t. All I
can do is to be there with him and love him, and that’s all he
needs because he is tough. He's stronger than other babies because
he's been tested in ways that they haven't. Sometimes those things
that you didn’t want to happen are a chance to find out what you’re
made of. When you face them with courage, you discover that you don’t
need to be afraid of the future because you are stronger than you
think.
