Ramblings of a Hormonal, Pregnant, Mother of a Toddler

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Last night Caleb had a really hard time falling asleep. He kept asking to say prayers with Daddy and he wanted juice and he wanted to sit on the potty and he wanted and he wanted... I would get him settled and he would scream the moment I shut the door. I heard his screams for the next 20 minutes while I tried to let him cry it out. He sobbed for five minutes after I caved and came back in. He and I repeated this sequence four times in two hours.

I held him-- he was squirmy. I laid down next to him-- he was talkative. I got stern and told him he was not to get out of bed again. He ignored me.

Finally, two and a half hours after I dragged in a rocking chair and held him as I rocked him to sleep. I haven't rocked Caleb to sleep for months-- since our many excursions to CHOP.

When Caleb was in the hospital, I would rock him to sleep. He had a hard time relaxing with IV's and monitors and NG tubes and everything else in the room. His crib was like a baby prison-- he could never fall asleep in it. So I would hold him in the chair and rock him back and forth until he fell asleep-- hoping that his wires and IV's were all perfectly placed so I wouldn't disturb them when I put him down.

Holding him in that chair, watching him fall asleep took me right back. Watching him fight the sleep reminded me of watching him fight the anesthesia time after time, and test after test. Watching his eyes get heavy, his hand reach out to touch my face, to feel that I was there with him-- I felt the terror that I never let myself feel -- never even realized I was holding back-- terror that I hadn't let go of, terror that I was still carrying around.

Sitting in the darkness of his room, all I could hear were the doctor's words. "We're looking for adhesions, for weak bowel, for a tumor, for anything." I heard them discussing bowel re-sectioning and NG tubes and failure to thrive and colostomy bags. I saw a little boy in pain, with no way to ask for help, for no way to express his fears. I saw a little boy who was stronger than his mother, who comforted when he needed comfort, who loved when he need love.

Except this time, he was different. Even though I could remember those times, and the emotions felt so real, when I looked down, he wasn't the CHOP Caleb. He was the healthy, talkative, I-pick-my-nose Caleb. He was the I-love-Thomas-the-train and Wonder Pets and playing with friends Caleb. He was the no worries, I-do-it-myself, Caleb. He was my little boy. My healthy, little boy.

I haven't thought about doctors appointments or checked his stools in months. Six months ago we waited in the hospital for results from his surgery. Six months ago we knew every detail of his medical history, every hospital admission, every test, every symptom. Six months ago, I knew his every movement. These days, I have to hand a paper to his new pediatrician with all his information on it-- information that I don't know anymore.

Last night I look at him and all I saw was a tired little boy who missed his Daddy. A little boy who wanted to be rocked to sleep.

Last night, I let go of the terror.

Today, I can finally see Caleb.