Bittersweet Anniversary

Today marks a year since Alistair's surgery. One year ago today we had our worst day ever. It began as a day full of hope as we looked ahead to how having this surgery would change him for the better...more energy, more stamina, and a heart that worked the way it was supposed to. We had a lighthearted morning, trying to keep Alistair from getting too nervous and even enjoyed Alistair high on Versed batting at triangles in the air and making sure we could see the TV that was mounted high-up in the corner of the room. He went back alone, he wanted it that way and even though we both longed to accompany him for as far as we could, we wanted to respect his decision. Hours went by as we paced and checked emails and texts, kept busy with puzzles and books and found things to snack on. The nurse finally came to get us as the surgeon was ready to talk with us on how everything went. He told us things went great, the fix was a success and they were just monitoring his pulse and getting ready to close him and bring him up to the ICU. We were elated and relieved. Phew, we were on the road to recovery.

After lunch all hell broke out and I honestly cannot remember much beyond the tiny room they put us in to talk with us about what had happened. The faces of the people who came in were long and expressionless. They spoke to us and explained things and you could tell they couldn't even believe what they were telling us. Their words were confused and guarded, it was obvious that what they were saying was unrehearsed and they were doing a quick mental check to use their patient and family care training as they tried to put words together. There was no plan, they were coming up with it as they spoke to us. The word 'if' kept being used and I was getting confused and thought I wasn't reading the situation correctly. I finally put my hand up and with all the strength I could muster to not breakdown asked, "is he going to die?" The doctor, who to this point was really trying hard to be calm and collected and explain things to us in a not panicked manner, looked at me with a blank stare for a second and said "we are not thinking that way right now." Then I said, "can you please stop saying 'if' and replace it with the word 'when'? It is more hopeful, 'if' sounds ominous and hopeless." He smiled and agreed that 'when' was better.

The rest of the day was a blur. I don't think we fully understood the extent of everything until days later. The hope we had for his surgery quickly faded away to sadness, confusion and anger. Eventually the hope came back, but it is different. We hope for a full recovery, we hope for a happy, healthy son, we hope for normalcy, we hope for freedom from therapists, we hope for Alistair to play sports again. But mosty we hope for this entire experience to be behind us and out of our heads. 

We recently listened to an interview with Norman Lear, who is a TV producer and writer, known for among others things "All in the Family" and "Sanford and Son." He spoke about his philosphy on life and the two words he lives by, "Over" and "Next." When something is over, it is OVER (you don't dwell on it) and you look forward to what is NEXT. The sweet spot is a hammock hanging in the middle where you live in the moment between over and next. I found this is be a very freeing and intriguing philosophy and find myself thinking about it a lot. This past year is OVER, we don't need to dwell on what if's, why's and how's. We look forward to what is coming next and for the moment we focus on today...our happy son who spent the day swimming with his sister and cousins in Hood Canal, had a picnic lunch of fried chicken, potato salad and watermelon on the beach with his family and got misty-eyed tonight because even though he was happy to have us back home again, he missed his Nana and Papa he just saw 4 hours earlier because he had so much fun. That is what is important and that is what is NEXT.