Answers

You had one request for surgery.  You told me before we even went to the hospital.  I could see you glowing about it through my tear blurred vision on the way home from Dr. Peytons.  "Do I get to drive a car to my surgery?"  How you remembered that small detail from last year I do not know.  You have a great memory.  You keep my shopping lists in your head when I forget to write one down.  I should have known you would remember me telling you about the hospital in Connecticut.   When Brooklynn had her hernia surgery a year ago, the surgeons told me that big kids get to ride a Power Wheels back to the operating room.  You wanted to ride a power wheels into the OR for your surgery. 

You wouldn't say anything to the doctors or nurses at the hospital.  I was constantly reading in to your silence.  It was silence that pulled at my stomach.  The surgeons came to check on you the day before the surgery.  They told you what they were going to do, and asked if you had any questions.  You were very quiet.  I knew you had a request, but you wouldn't say it.  It was the only thing you were looking forward to. They were about to leave, and I waited for you to ask, but you didn't.  They were walking out the door, and I had to stop them.  They all came back in.  Those surgeons were like a heard of sheep, always following the leader.  The head surgeon stopped, and they all stopped behind her. I told them about the other children's hospital, and asked if they could arrange for you to travel in style.  They glanced at each other, clearly not used to a request like this.  But, I tell you the nurses don't take requests lightly there. Those cancer nurses fight for their kids.  They fought. They won. 

 They pulled a big wheel up to your door instead of a stretcher.  You got to wear you own clothes.  You were finally unhooked from your IV, and you could ride.  You stretched those legs that had been aching for normalcy.  Heads turned as you cruised through the hallways, parading your freedom from tubes and poles.  When we pulled up to the OR, they hardly knew who the patient was. They were expecting you on a stretcher.  I wanted to hug those nurses for keeping you off that stretcher. 

They dug up a gown to change into, and your prison break had come to an end.  The surgeons had you captured, and I had to let them take you back in. You got on the stretcher and I could see the weight of your nerves sinking on that bed with you.  You looked helpless. I liked seeing the free Kaylee fleeing in the halls, not the Kaylee filling with fear and anxiety.  You didn't cry.  Your silence set in again.  I wanted to walk with you and stay with you till you fell asleep, but it was only one door down, and they didn't let me.  I watched them push you down the hall, and around the corner.

 I cried.

We went to the waiting room expecting to hear something, but it was a lot of waiting.  I felt tethered to the chairs.  I knew we had a long time, but I couldn't go anywhere.  Daddy held Reese.  I held Reese.  Some little girls came over and held Reese.  She was a good distraction for all us sad, scared families in the surgery waiting room. She was giggly and light.  She blew raspberries through her pudgy cheeks. She made us all laugh a little.  I felt like our whole future, like your whole future hinged on what they would find when they opened you up.  No solid facts, until they could see it with their own eyes.  There was a worker at the front desk who received messages from the surgeons and we eyed her like vultures.  We ate up and dissected every piece of information she threw our way, no matter how small. 

One hour in. 

Two hours in. 

I welcomed the time.  Quick was bad.  That meant they couldn't do anything. That meant they close you back up.  That meant chemo, then surgery, then more chemo.  That meant it was worse than they thought. 

Three hours in.

The lady at the desk left.  The phone rang.  No one to answer it. It rang and stopped, rang and stopped.  For thirty minutes there was no one at that desk.  Finally one of us vultures got tired of waiting and picked up the phone. 

"Palmer!"  It was for us.  Your dad got it.  They removed the tumor.  It was huge, but it didn't rupture. They removed the kidney. Oh, how I never thought I would be so elated to hear that someone removed your kidney! It felt like the best news I had ever heard! More to do, lymph nodes needed to be removed they would let us know in another hour.  I could breath. Oh, how the air felt so much fresher.  We started sending the word out. I felt like those texts were doves spreading the word--tumor gone, tumor gone!  After three days of so much worry, so many tears, so much unknown, we finally had some answers.