Surgery Day Journal: Parenthood

From a journal entry: Monday, August 9th, 2010

Owen had his first eye surgery today. A hard day for us. We had to be to the Genesys Surgery Center (“The 600 Building”) at 6 a.m. Sleep wasn’t easy last night even though I felt pretty calm about what was coming.

We shipped Gage out to my parents’ house yesterday knowing that he would only add complications to an already complicated day.

Owen was thrilled to be awake so early. “It’s so dark out still,” he kept saying. He then told us stories about nocturnal animals including dinosaurs. I liked the one about the black T-rex that we needed to watch out for because he “eats all kinds of things.” I believe he was implying that we were included on the possible menu. It was all very random.

He was afraid of two things going in: The tube (IV) and the lasers that he thought would be shot at him. He was in good spirits in the waiting area. We were the first to arrive for the day. He enjoyed the fish tank.

Things got tense pretty quick when we went back into the pre-op area. He fought us on the one eye drop he had to get simply because the nurse said it might sting a little. It didn’t, and I wish she hadn’t even mentioned that part. It did dilate his eye rapidly.

She attached his blood pressure monitor without incident, but he freaked when she tried to attach his electrodes. She postponed them until after he was unconcious. They even gave him a huge lion balloon that floated in the room with us to calm him a little.

A young girl came in to get her tonsils removed. As we listened, we found we lived in a similar area. On Friday, Owen was stung by his first insect, likely a wasp or hornet due to the lack of stinger and multiple attach sites. This girl had been stung her first time over the weekend too.

The anesthesiologist was a fun guy, but Owen gave into fear when the guy started talking about going to sleep. That was enough to convince him that Owen needed a sedative to make sure he’d cooperate better. It made him loopy, but he was still pretty defiant. He moved around a lot more than he should have until they finally wheeled the bed away from us.

I had to hold back tears at that point. I hated that he had to go through all this.

Pam and my mom were in the waiting room with us. They must have recently remodeled the waiting room because they have a coffee and fountain drink bar there now. That was handy. It took about an hour for Dr. Stack to reappear with the good news that everything went fine.

Fifteen minutes later, they told us that he was waking up. He didn’t wake up happy. They had already had to re-tape his eye patch. He wasn’t opening his eyes, but he was combative. He wanted the patch off. As he awoke even more, he started to defy anything anyone said. Our nurse was convinced that we’d be in trouble if he had to wear the patch for 24 hours. I was worried too.

He wanted the patch off. He wanted the IV left in. He didn’t want a band-aid over the IV wound when the IV was out. He didn’t want his toy, stuffed wolf to wear a fake bandage, surgical mask, or hair net - which I thought was a great touch on the surgical staff’s part.

We left quickly after that. As soon as we were outside, all the fight went out of Owen. He was fine with the patch and everything else. He was still tired, but he stayed awake all the way home. He was pretty shaky for a few hours, not able to walk or sit up straight for very long.

So far, we’ve had no major pain issues. He’s annoyed by the patch, but he’s tolerating it fine.

We presented him with a toy, plush snake from the Rainforest Cafe in Great Lakes Crossing. He had seen it a few weeks back when he and I spent the day together down there. I traveled down there Saturday to pick it up. He seems to really like it. He says the snake looks angry. I told him it was really just concerned over his surgery. I then had to explain concerned, and then explain the word worried.

Owen’s energy level popped back up to normal quickly. He’s had visitors most of the day. Pam kept him the most occupied, which I’m grateful for. [Great] Grandpa and Grandma McBride brought him flowers and another balloon. My dad popped in with a Transformer. My mom is supposed to stop in later.

I don’t know how we’re going to get through this with Gage. We have a month to prepare, but it’s going to be hard. I don’t think he’ll tolerate the patch at all.

Heidi and Owen are napping right now. I’m very tired, but we have more company coming tonight. I’m behind on some other things too. Hopefully there’ll be more sleep tonight. We have to see the doctor in the morning to remove the patch.

Cataract Surgeries - Surgery 1: Owen

There's something about the hardest days in parenting that bring out this undeniable, uncontrollable love that I have for my kids. It was a hard day today, but I wouldn't trade it for the world. I realize how much this love is out-of-my-hands. It's piercing.

My Eyes and My Heart

This entry is an attempt at catharsis for me. You might find it somewhat whiny. If that's the case, I apologize.

My family has a "genetic predisposition" for childhood cataracts on my father's side. As far back as we can trace, it has made life more difficult. Those of us born in the last seventy years or so have actually been the "lucky" ones. Corrective surgery, especially in children, is a recent development. From what I've heard, my great grandfather never had any form of corrective surgery, even after it became more common place. He simply learned to live blind.

A cataract is a medical condition that causes the lens of the eye to become progressively opaque. Treatment involves removing or at least destroying the defective lense (I still have some remnants of my original lens floating in one of my eyes). In most cases, artificial lenses are inserted at the time of cataract removal.

Cataracts in children are rare, and the causes are varied. It's hard to find statistics. My wife read that there were 3 cases for every 10,000 children. They can be caused by infection, hereditary factors, and various syndromes.

My grandfather used to tell the story of his surgery, and it was horrifying. He woke up with a brick on either side of his head to prevent movement, he was tied to the hospital bed for days, and had to be hand fed.

My surgery wasn't that traumatic, but it was one of the most traumatic times of my life. I was almost four years old. I was the first child that my surgeon had encountered with cataracts. I had to spend two to three days in the hospital in a children's ward. My parents were only allowed to stay overnight on the first night, and that was in the waiting room area. They tried to make me more comfortable by telling me that my parents were actually just retiring to another room after visiting hours, but even at that age, I knew that didn't add up.

It didn't help that they had a ward instead of individual rooms. The kid across from my bed had been badly burned. He was in his teens, and he hated it whenever I'd get whiny or cry for my parents.

One night it hit me like a ton of bricks. I knew my mom had left for the night, and that I couldn't see her. I started screaming and tore the protective patch off my recently operated on eye. The nurse calmed me down, replaced my patch, and rocked me to sleep. I don't remember a lot of pain, just fear and separation.

After the operations, I could only sleep at night if I was in bed with one of my parents. I had an extreme fear of separation that I'd never had before. I'd wake up screaming with nightmares about the hospital.

In those days (1977/1978), they didn't replace the defective lens with an artificial one. I had to wear what are commonly known as "Coke-bottle glasses." The vision isn't bad. There's no peripheral sight of course, but the vision is pretty clear. Without the glasses, everything is extremely blurry.

You can imagine the stereotyping and bullying I endured for most of my childhood because of these glasses. By the time I was ready for contact lenses, my self esteem was firmly set at low. I only recently received artificial implants.

As a young man, I'd daydream about what it would be like to be a husband and eventual father. It was always something that I looked forward to, but a dark thought would often fill me with dread: what if my kids inherited my eye problems?

The nightmare came true for me this week. My oldest son, Owen was diagnosed on Monday. Since his birth we've had him periodically checked. Last year he went to see an optometrist who confidently stated that he was cataract free even though he was showing signs of being near sighted. His failure of two recent vision tests for kindergarten had us visiting a new optometrist who quickly noticed the cataracts.

I've been trying to be brave and strong, but it's heartbreaking. I hate that he will never have 20/20 vision. I hate that he has to go through any kind of surgery, even though the process has gotten so streamlined that he'll likely not have to stay in the hospital at all.

More than anything though, I pray that the process doesn't traumatize him. I pray it doesn't take away an ounce of his innocence, his fun.

It's doubtful that he'll have to wear thick glasses, so I think he'll escape most of the bullying and stereotyping, which I'm grateful for. People keep saying that all of those hard situations molded me into who I am now, they made me a stronger person. I see their point. I see how the same situations molded my cousins into good people, tolerant people, but I can't imagine ever wanting my kids to go through it all the same.

My parents are especially understanding, and have pledged to do everything possible to help (as have many friends). My mom is taking it pretty hard. All of Owen's grandparents have stepped up their doting.

We're still in the early stages of the process. He has another appointment with the actual surgeon next Tuesday. We're being told he's the most experienced pediatric cataract surgeon in Genesee County, which is a relief. I'm full of anxiety about weeks filled with eye drops that Owen already hates, after surgery pain, Owen's frustration over everything. I know, in the end, it has to be done, and Owen will be able to see at least as good as I can. I know there's light at the end of the tunnel, but we're at the farthest point away right now.

I've been praying and will continue.