November 18, 2016

It's so difficult to sit in a waiting room. There's a tv screen that shows patient numbers and what part of the procedure they're in; "in pre-op, surgery, to post-op recovery" etc. It's agony watching the screen, so today Dan and I decided not to look at what number Louis was. 

Louis' surgery was for the placement of a dual chamber pacemaker and delayed chest closure. Last Thursday, Louis' open heart procedure, that put him on ECMO, forced the surgeons to leave his chest open (covered by sterile tape, but not sewn back together). So today, they placed a pacer and finally closed his chest. I couldn't bring myself to look at his open chest all week. I always made sure the nurses had it covered with gauze or a blanket. I thought, if that were me, I'd want to see it.

I hemmed.

I hawed.

And then decided, for future-teenager-Louis, to take a photo. I had the nurse remove the gauze and blankets (still covered by a clear sterile sticker) and I snapped a few quick photos which I won't be able to look at for a long time. I COULD SEE HIS CHEST BEATING. IT WAS RIGHT THERE. And that's all I have to say about that. 

In the OR waiting room, each time a nurse walked in, for a moment (that felt like forever) it seemed as though everyone stopped breathing and their hearts stood still. Then the nurse smiled at the family for reassurance and escorted them into a consultation room to wait for the doctor to discuss their operation. 

We sit. 

We wait. 

We watch each family enter the waiting room, and each family escorted out. 

Time stood still. 

When our nurse finally came into the room, I quickly realized that we had picked the table that is the furthest distance away from where she's entered. At least she was smiling while she walked the length of a dozen football fields to get to us. In reality, the length of the room was no more than 35ft. 

I always appreciate that the first thing they say is, "He's doing well." And then she could literally say anything and I will not hear her. My ears start buzzing like fluorenscent lights do and I have to remind myself to take deep breathes or I'll pass out. The last time I remember feeling remotely similar is when I went skydiving. And now I think, WHY DID I DO THAT TO MY MOTHER?! In fact, I said this to my mom last week and she said, "NO KIDDING." My dad said, "I actually thought it was kind of brave." And that basically sums up the duality of EVERY EMOTION I'VE EVER HAD MY ENTIRE LIFE. 

Once we finally made it to the consultation room the surgeon came out and explained the procedure and answered all our questions (I always have a thousand). He told us that during the procedure, there is a period of transition time between Louis' temporary pacer and permament pacer and that Louis was able to keep a steady heart rhythm and maintain his blood pressure. This means there is a chance that his heart could retain full fuctions and not need the permanent pacer....permanently.

That sliver of hope was the best news we have heard in two weeks. Now we are back to square one, pending any further complications, in the healing process. And again, there is no timeline. We follow Louis' lead and make sure he has everything he needs to get well.