“I’m angry.” My husband says as he explains the recent FDA position statement on the use of anesthesia in kids under 3. “Was the first doctor just so spineless, as to simply capitulate to our concerns, rather than truly explaining these risks?”
I hear him, but I’m breathing. I haven’t breathed in 2.5 months. 2.5 very long and dark months. I’m watching the passing brick borders. Orange and silver striped cones line the road. I’m deep in my own world.
I consider how Sacramento feels more tropical than I’ve ever noticed in my life; humidity daring to choke me. I notice how my heart yearns for the hint of winter promised at home. I think of a dear friend who now lives here, and wonder if she misses the crisp fall breeze? On another day, I’d do something uncharacteristic of me, and stop by to say hi. Just to wrap my arms around her trim waist, and breathe in her scent. To tell her the good news. To celebrate with someone who has held space for me in this journey into my underworld. But, today, I have a therapy appointment to make. I spent the last month in darkness without a guide to see me through. This appointment is non-negotiable.
“For me, this makes the decision simple. He doesn’t meet most of the diagnostic criteria, according to 2 specialists, and I’m not willing to risk neurotoxicity just to assuage my own fears.”
My husband is still fuming. About the responsibility of physicians to know the most recent data. About informed consent. His potential doctor within is philosophically enraged. I feel more forgiving. In the past, I may not have. But, today I’m learning that we are all human. That imperfection is part of the experience.
Anybody could get my forgiveness today, because I’ve been told more definitively that my son is almost certainly safe. At least, for now.
I realize that I had to take this journey to heal old wounds, to remember who I truly am. I had to sit in mystery and fear, to come to a greater sense of peace about the reality that none of us will escape this life without experiencing profound loss.
And today, I am filled with gratitude that nestled into my bones, and gives me a sense of giddiness that I get more time to be in full-hearted presence with the people I love, in all of our glorious and messy imperfections. To watch my chunky-smiling-boy blow bubbles at his sister, and realize that anything could change at any moment, but for now, there is love.
In sharing parts of this journey openly, I’ve received a deep outpouring of love and support from others. The weight of uncertainty is heavy to bear, and I have to acknowledge that some of the people who offered me deepest comforts, were those who themselves have suffered profound loss in their lives of late. I am deeply grateful for your love, and I am deeply sorry that you have experienced grief for someone you loved. May you have peace, may you have rest, may you find joy again. May you always remember the ways they made your heart smile.
You know who you are.
Jess and The Fiat 