This morning finds me sitting in a rolling chair, amidst cords, machines, and monotonous beeping. The walls are made of glass, with curtains used as coverings. The room next door is playing lullabies, and I've been watching the light show on the ceiling off-and-on since yesterday. I'm tired, drained, and exhausted. But this post isn't about me.
It's about Mason.
He's only just gone to sleep a few hours ago, fighting it in every way humanly possible. First, there were the innocent requests to play games; generously brought to him by his thoughtful cousins, there was no shortage of possible activities. Next, it was the requests for movies; of which he would change his mind many times, on what he wanted to watch before the opening act was through. Then came the crying.
He wanted to go home.
He missed his family.
He missed his grandma.
He wanted his grandma to come take him home.
Hospitals are not fun.
It wasn't long after the crying that he fell asleep. And I couldn't help myself. I crawled into the hospital bed with him and fell asleep. It may be the last time I sleep with my son. It may not. I won't know until the 6-12+ hour surgery is over. Oh, the possibilities of outcomes I could come up with in just 6 hours. I haven't been letting myself think of anything close to that. It wouldn't be good.
He's awake, now, and is very thirsty. And hungry. But he can't eat or drink anything because he's having surgery at 10:00. Even though he's tired, grouchy, and angry for waking up still in the hospital, he is still my sweet Mason, telling the nurse in a sweet voice: "It's okay," when she says sorry for having to wake him up early. His breathing had been consistently shallow.
And now he sits, not quite content, but pacified (for now) at the prospect of watching Mickey Mouse on the TV. And I can't help but think of how different my life will be from this point on...how different his life will be from this point on. I feel selfish, taking the time to write this while he's obviously awake. But I need something to do besides cry, because that's the mood I am in this morning.
You see, my son; my sweet, playful son, has a brain tumor the size of (or bigger than) a golf ball...and it's growing fast, expanding and stretching its reckless self in every cavity, and through every vein and nerve it can. It's starting to make its way down his neck, blocking fluid, and expanding his vertebrae in the process. This thing is ugly. And it picked my son.
I don't know the name of the tumor. In his wisdom, the neurosurgeon withheld that information from all of us, saying he knew we would just drive ourselves crazy researching it on the internet. Funny how he knew that; he said the words as I was thinking of the search terms I would type, in my head. He isn't too sure if he knows what it is anyway. It could be malignant or benign; they have no idea. They just know it's aggressive. So, our information is limited to what I have typed above, until after the 6+ hour surgery. By then, a decision will have been made in the operating room, and I will have had no part in it. I can only trust that my son is in good hands.
I may post more when the surgery is done. But in all honesty, that depends entirely on the outcome.