Today is July 18th. Probably not so much a significant day, in the most people’s lives anyway. But in our little family, it is the day the world tilted a bit off its axis.
Our little boy Landon was born in May of 2005. He seemed like a perfectly healthy big boy. Ten pounds, ten ounces, to be exact. The first 24 hours of his life were like a dream, with lots of cuddling and kissing and visitors floating in and out.
However, the next day, his doctors discovered something wrong with him. I remember his pediatrician saying, “It’s probably not biliary atresia, but if it is he needs surgery before he’s 3 months old.” It’s probably not what? We’d never heard those words before. And surgery? On our healthy boy? On a baby?
Sent to another hospital. Lots and lots of meetings with his wonderful NICU doctors. Lots and lots of lab tests, which translates to lots and lots of heel sticks on our precious little one. More of the dream-like state, but now it was a nightmare, and not a good dream. One doctor casually said, “We hope it’s not biliary atresia, because those are the kids that go on to liver transplant.” Not exactly something you say to a mom who is already on the verge of emotional collapse.
I remember laying in our hospitality-house room- crying and thinking, “Why? Why us?”
Fast-forward 7 weeks. After much time spent in prayer on our part, and much diagnostic testing on the doctors’ part (he’d been transferred to another hospital at 1 day old), July 18th was the day it all boiled down to. The surgery we’d hoped to avoid, from the moment it first slipped from the pedi’s lips.
The surgeon, whom we trusted from the minute we met him, told us he would spend about one hour finalizing the diagnosis by exploratory surgery, then come out to tell us the verdict and return to the operating room to complete the corrective portion of the surgery (if needed).
Two hours passed, then three. Three and a half. I finally decided to go pump, since I was determined to keep breastfeeding him after surgery.{I needed some normalcy in all the abnormality.} About five minutes after sitting down in the private room with my sister-in-law, Ben called. The surgeon was there to talk to us. I threw everything down and told my SIL to get everything for me. I can’t remember if she made it out with me or if I left alone. I ran as fast as I could to the elevator and took it down, shaking all the while.
When I stepped off the elevator, all eyes were on me. {We had about 25-30 friends and family members there that day to support us.}
The surgeon told us, in so many words, that it was in fact biliary atresia. Ben slid to the ground, head in hands. It was the second time in the 7 week, eternally-long journey that I had seen my strong husband utterly break down. That hurt.
After the doctor returned to the OR, we still had 5 hours before the surgery was finished- this would bring the total time to 9 hours. Five more hours to try to hold our composure together {pretty much a failed attempt}, while we could not hold our baby boy. After the surgery was completed, the surgeon then came to tell us a few more things- of which the only words I remember are “weeping bile.” Yes, that is all I can recollect from our meeting with him in that cold, sterile “family room.”
But then I got to see him. I saw lots of tubes, and drains, and monitors, but underneath all the medical entrapments, I saw my son. So tiny {relatively anyway}, but so strong. Enduring what many people never endure in their entire lifetimes- a 9 hour surgery- before his 2 month birthday.
Yes, July 18th may seem like an ordinary day for most, but for me, I remember it with pain and joy- because it represents my son’s second chance at life. The little boy that would become a cowboy-hunter-baseball player, and the joy of our lives!
{You can see evidence at the top of the cowboy/hunter baseball player combo! Cowboy hat, baseball shirt, camo pants. Awesome!}
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About Kelli Hays
[…] firstborn was born with biliary atresia, so his vaccines got pushed way back. There were much more important issues to deal with, like […]