My son had surgery on 6/28. We were in the recovery room for six hours before the anesthesia wore off enough that he could go to a regular room. That sounds awful and scary, and it was. But while my son was in the recovery room, a four year old boy came in who was being treated for cancer. He had just spend a month at a clinic in Cleveland. He screamed in pain and kept begging the nurses that he just wanted to go home with his sister and be in his own pajamas in his own bed with his dog. It was heartbreaking. I couldn’t really feel bad about my baby, who had a surgery that went well and just needed more time to get other his anesthesia cocktail. I realized we were lucky, that someone else always has it worse.
I thought of that kid many times over the following week. When my son was losing blood and no one knew where it was going. When he had a 105 degree fever. When he needed a blood transfusion. When they told us he had a hematoma. When he ended up in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. When we were at the hospital for eleven days instead of two. I always, in the back of my head, thought he still has it better than that boy. There are probably parents who would call the cancer boy lucky, because he is still alive, while their children are not.
My son is home now & doing well. Sleeping in his own bed. I guess I will always wonder, sadly, if that little boy ever got to sleep in his own bed in his own pajamas, with his dog & his sister.