If today were a novel...

We were able to have Finn's MRI today.  His lungs were clear enough to handle the anesthesia.  I am so incredibly grateful and relieved that we are getting closer to figuring out what's going on with Finn.

That's the social media post.  The quick update.  But if today were a chapter in a novel, it would read something more like this:

Awake. It was a shock. Every inch of me trembled, struggling to cope with the early hour and consciousness. I stumbled through an automatic haze gathering things and halfheartedly making myself presentable. 

I flicked on Finn’s light and found him already struggling to stand as the room filled with artificial brightness.  He gathered his bed lovies in a tired haze as he always did when he first woke up.  One cubby arm cradling two blankets & three stuffed animals while his free hand turned for his water bottle.  I gently pulled the water out of reach, which sent him into a spiral of sobbing that would carry on over the next two hours.  He had to be fasting for his MRI.  No food, no water. 

Finn cried on and off as we drove though the foggy morning streets, joining early morning commuters through the blacked day.  He sobbed as we waited for hospital registration.  Throwing himself to the floor pleading for food.  He thrashed and cried as I juggled his weight and the MRI receptionist.  Finn was determined.   No cooing, rocking, Netflix, game or snuggle was enough to distract his despair for food. 

Stranger danger however, seemed to do the trick.  As we were brought back to a small children’s room next to the MRI machine, a kind nurse tried to befriend Finn.  He would have none of it and his disdain for her attempts at friendship seemed to override any hunger that had plagued him earlier.

The nurse and I played with Finn for about 30 minutes in between more registration questions, medical history questions, and procedure discussion.  Finn was slowly won over as the nurse showered him with sticker pad after sticker pad.  (It wasn’t long before he was covered head to toe in Elsa, Anna & Olaf)  We lined his bed with toy stuffed animals, and a couple of medical supplies.  A blood pressure cuff and gas mask smeared in ‘yummy’ smells to help make him more comfortable in the moment they put him under anesthesia. We cycled through putting the mask on his toys, my mouth, his mouth, blankie’s mouth. On and on, he gushed and gushed of the ‘yummy’ smell.

And then it was time.  They took him into the next room to put him under.  As he was carried away there was a moment of panic for Finn.  His arms stretched out to me screaming my name, his eyes wild with terror.  It didn’t take long for him to calm down once he could no long see me.  I sat and listened to them in the next room. Wondering what on earth could be the reason for the unnecessary separation of child from parent before the child was put under.  It seemed like such a senseless moment of panic.  I hate how quickly procedure can become more important than human comfort.

I was moved to the surgery waiting area. Surrounded by the low rumble of men talking about politics. A stream of opinions flowing over deaf ears. Their complaints babbling on unhindered by a vacant audience.  Blank stares. Still hands. Slow breaths. Air hanging thinly, as our mouths begged for more. There is no hearty air here, only brittle.  And brittle air happens to be the best air for rumbling opinions to talk on. Brittle air carries those kind of monologues.

Finn's yellow hunter boots and a complimentary hospital blue knitted lovie sat beside me.  I stared at the pair dramatically wondering what future they held.  Would this become a common theme in our lives? Hospitals, sitting next to empty toddler boots with cuddly lovies littered about my lap. Would I look back on this moment as just a blip in time or the beginning of a pattern of living.  Why do our brains love to rehears tragedy?  I gathered Finn's things into his little backpack, packing away the thought.

In what felt like a moment, but was closer to an hour, I was being ushered to the pediatric wing.  Placed next to Finn’s bedside we waited for him to come out of his medical sleep. He woke better than any of us expected. And in what felt like a moment, but was closer to an hour, we were heading home. 

Home to wait more.  Stepping closer to answers, while not really moving at all. Stuck.  I’m surprised that in this space I don’t have anxiety.  Just guilt mingled with hope.  This whole experience has been carried on an undercurrent of guilt.  Like somehow this is my fault.  To speak it aloud I know it sounds crazy, but it feels real. 

Guilt that we are in this situation. Guilt that I am worried at times. Guilt that I hope the MRI finds something. I don’t care if it’s bad or not.  Guilt that even a bad outcome feels more comforting than this limbo.  Guilt that while I’m caring for Finn’s health, my own depression feels smaller.  Guilt.