I burst into tears as I walked around the corner after seeing Greg drive off with our 17-year-old who had just been released from the hospital after a successful surgery for an ACL reconstruction. All of the stress of waiting and not knowing had ganged up on me and overwhelmed me. I don’t like doctors, or hospitals, or needles, or anything of the kind (ask me about having toxoplasmosis as a 17-year-old in Germany with nurses that can only be described as Brunhilda, and you’ll understand why). And all I could think about was the last time I had surgery when I ended up with a collapsed lung and didn’t know it for 4 days. I didn’t want that to happen to Jasper. I was scared for him. I was uncertain about his year-long recovery. I was worried about his chances of being recruited for college football after missing all three sports his entire senior year. I was worried for him and his dream. I was just plain worried. I hadn’t been sleeping well and that just added to the stress. No rest, no recovery, no rejuvenation. Just more worry.

Earlier that day, Greg and I waited for Jasper’s surgery to end and for the Doctor to come out and let us know that the surgery had gone well and what we could expect for the next few days. A little while later the post-op nurse, Tracy, came to get us. She looked at Greg and I and said only one of you can come in. I protested and she said, “Oh, I didn’t realize you were the mom.” (WTF!)

As we walked through the recovery area, we saw many patients who looked like they had been run over by a Mack truck. A few beds later, we found Jasper, who had the same “post-surgery, groggy from the anesthesia” look. Ok – he’s alive. Theoretically I already knew this because the Doctor had said the surgery went well, but I wasn’t willing to believe it until I spotted him and laid eyes on him myself. Yay. He’s alive.

Over the next three hours, we waited, as Jasper drifted in and out of sleep while the anesthesia wore off. He looked green, was nauseous, threw up (or tried to throw up). We tried to get him to just sleep, but he was trying to pay attention to our conversation and the post-recovery instructions. Just when we thought he was asleep, he would chime in with an answer that was spot on. He wanted to talk football of all things. Where are my clothes? Why is that machine beeping? If it would stop beeping, I could get some sleep. And so on. His heart rate would slow down so much that when he would drift into sleep, it would fall below the sensitive detection level of the monitoring machine, causing it to beep incessantly until the nurse could reset it. It was this annoying beeping cycle that kept him from actually sleeping.

After they moved him from post-op to recovery, the nurse turned off the blasted machine and tested it every fifteen minutes, letting him sleep. As the afternoon dragged on, each time Jasper awoke, he gained a bit more color and slowly the green look dissipated. He had to successfully walk with crutches before they would let him leave. Anxious to get up and go home, Jasper’s first attempt went well, but he was nauseous and threw up, just making it back to the bed. More sleep.

OK, the second attempt on the crutches worked better and involved a trip to the bathroom and tying the hospital gown around him to not show his butt; oops, too late… I did take some pictures, but I won’t share them here. And no, I didn’t take any of his butt – he already hates that I take or post any pictures of him. I just needed one picture to remind me that “this, too, shall pass!” Of course Jasper wanted to get out of there, the beeping and interruptions alone were enough to drive a person nuts. Finally, they arranged for a wheel chair to take him downstairs and to the car.

Picture by Greg DesBrisay

“Pediatric patient” seems like a funny moniker for him given that he is 17 (technically pediatric), over 200 pounds, and ~6 feet tall. The hospital socks were size XXL and had to be cut at the cuff to wear. His blood pressure cuff was “Adult – Large.” Even the wheelchair was XXL. I think dressing him was the hardest part post-surgery.

The docent wheeled Jasper slowly, ever so slowly, down the hall to the elevator bay. I felt like I was walking through a fog, awkwardly carrying the bag of Jasper’s stuff and the ice machine. (Thankfully, Kaiser now sends an ice machine home with patients. It sure beats having to get up every two hours to put an ice pack on his knee.) I kept imagining wheel chair races through the hallways as the docent negotiated the corner. I kept wondering, what if they accidentally hit the wall with his leg (the one sticking out). I kept wondering, what else could go wrong, and wow, that’s a long list.

Greg was waiting in the car outside the emergency room. We carefully stuffed Jasper into the front seat with his leg, in the industrial strength brace, sticking straight out. The docent put the seat belt around him and shut the door. I put his stuff and the ice machine in the back seat and then hugged and kissed Jasper good-bye. I stood back and watched them drive away, thinking, “Thank god, Greg is good at all this medical stuff.”

Then I walked around the corner and down the street to my car, bursting into tears as I went. It felt like such a release. Like a weight had been lifted off my chest and shoulders. Like I could breathe now. Like I had been waiting to exhale.