Brace yourself.

Speaking of my parents' transition into the Golden Years has led to some reflection on days gone by.  I have many stories to tell: some really funny, others not so much.

In 1996, I was told that I needed spine surgery.  After the initial shock and dismay, I accepted this as the only way forward.  Little did I know that this would result in one of the most embarrassing moments in my life.

Picture a reasonably well-turned out, newly wed young woman, facing spine surgery at 22.  I am told, by my surgeon, to go to an Orthotist in Rosebank  where they will "custom make" an orthopedic brace that I will need to wear after the surgery.  "Sure, fine, no problem" I say - thinking that obviously, they will take some measurements and that will be it.  Of course, things are never just that simple, well not in my life anyway.

Brace yourself.

As I glance around the waiting room, it's clear to see that the average age of patients is somewhere between 70 and 80 years of age.  By this standard, I stick out like a screaming babe in a church service. 

The room resonates with a hum of conversation and machines. There are so many elderly people with casts, walkers or walking sticks.  I hope that I am never that frail, but if I'm having spine surgeries already... maybe I'll need a wheelchair!  As my thoughts drift down this dismal path, my name is called.  I see an older man of about thirty-five, I wonder why his smile is so wide?  I don't remember his name and so for the purpose of this story I shall call him Tom.

I am guided into a little room to the right of the door is an ugly hospital green medical screen, behind the screen is a black plastic chair.  To the left there is a black rubber mat, a bucket, a box of cheesecloth, a tub of white powder and two hair dryers.  What the heck is all this for?  Oh... they must do plaster casts and stuff in here, I mused.

Tom's voice interrupts my thoughts.  "Okay... so, what you need to do is get undressed and slip this on, like a dress...these holes here are for your arms" Tom explains, holding out a tiny bit of mutilated cheesecloth that will barely cover my torso from boobs to butt.  "Please don't leave your underwear on because we are going to make a plaster cast of your torso, for the brace.  Once we are done, we will have to cut it off you, so anything under the cast will be cut off also."

As the light of horrible understanding dawns, I appreciate why it is that Tom is chewing on the inside of his cheek as he explains my fate, he is trying not to look happy!  At least he has the decency to blush! I think as I feel my face redden too.  He leaves the room muttering, "I'll be back in a few minutes".

With a deep sigh I resolve to behave like a grown up.  To my horror this stupid handkerchief is completely transparent.  Oh boy!  I might as well stand here starkers!  "How's it going?" Tom says, making me jump, I didn't even hear him come back in.

"Umm, not great actually, could I possibly have another one of these, this one is just a bit... short?" I ask, peeking my red-faced head around the screen.  Great, he's brought his friends, what the hell?  "Sure, I'll just cut you one" he turns his back and grabs another bit of cheesecloth.  "Oh... and, uhum, this is Mutt and Jeff (can't remember names again - but these will suffice), they are student technicians who will be assisting me.  We have to work really fast because the plaster dries quite quickly."  Mutt and Jeff stand just behind Tom, but I can tell they are equally amused with their assignment.

Fan-freeking-tastic!  I know I am gaping, but seriously? "Great!" I say as I snatch the next bit of fluff and pull it over my head.  Hah ha - now I have a double layer - not that transparent now, yay me!  I step out from behind the screen in my little cream "cookie pelmet", feeling like a stripper at a nun convention.  Subconsciously folding and unfolding my arms wishing I could find a little hole in the wall to crawl into.

I wait for them to show me the next step on the humiliation train to custom-made back braces. With ill concealed glee the three men step aside and show me to the black rubber mat.  "If you could just stand here, we can get started," Tom begins.  Mutt and Jeff wait for me to take my place and then kneel before me. Oh, this just gets better and better, I am sure from that angle they can see right up my little mini, wonderful!  I think I am cringing and try to force myself to roll my shoulders back and hold my head high.  I am sure if they killed the lights the room would glow from the blush that I cannot control.

They begin to mix the plaster and then, (I kid you not) they start rubbing the wet plaster mixture into the cheesecloth and what lies beneath.  The lukewarm sludge turns ice-cold within seconds and I begin to shiver (bear in mind I am cold, wet and in white - super combination really).  Finally, Tom takes pity on me and switches on a little fan heater that I had not noticed behind the bucket of plaster.  The warmth seeps into my cold feet and slowly rises warming my legs and easing some of my physical discomfort.

They continue their fastidious abrasions: my hips, lower back and stomach are now encased in old wet plaster.  There is no eye contact until I am asked to raise my arms (come now - you know what happens to a "dress" when you raise your arms - picture the scene).  Just when I thought I could not be redder my face flushes with a deeper heat of shame.  I raise my arms just slightly, like chicken wings away from my body and say, "Sorry, that will have to do."  They make no further comment but again I note the strain that not grinning salaciously is taking on their poor little faces.

Jeff has obviously won some sort of contest as he now stands before me.  He has a diplomatically sympathetic smile as he explains that he will need to rub the plaster under and between my breasts - so that they can "get the angle" of the front brace right.  I can no longer stand the strain I release what cannot be considered a girly giggle but rather a hacking hysterical snorting laugh.  

I can no longer stop myself, "Wow," I say, "and we haven't even had a date yet!"   This breaks the ice and now we are all laughing, except Tom who is still trying to be professional.  "I guess I will finally have an outfit that even Madonna will be jealous of..." I continue, really getting into the idea that laughter is the best medicine.

Mutt and Jeff are snickering while Tom seriously tries to explain how the brace will look when this is all over.  I don't really care how it's gonna look Tom, I just want to get outta here and never see any of you again... ha ha haaa!  "It's okay," I tell him, "I guess I might as well get used to perfect strangers looking and touching.  During and after the surgery, it'll be a free for all." What the hell did I say that for!  Dammit why don't I just shut up!  I clench my jaw but my treacherous body is still shaking with laughter.

"You have a really nice smile" Mutt says, trying to make me feel better.  Tom snorts and Jeff chuckles openly, "She's married dude!" he chastises playfully. Oh no! Raucous laughter erupts again and tears stream down my face, "Thanks, next thing you'll be telling me that red is a good colour on me!"  I mutter, referring to the deep red blush that still will not fade.  Tom is no longer pretending that this isn't funny but, ever the moral superior, he passes me a wad of tissues to wipe my tear-streaked face.

I thank him again and dab at my face, taking a few deep breaths to compose myself.  The rubbing continues in silence for a while and then Mutt and Jeff pick up the hairdryers and begin my body-blow-wave.  Tom is explaining that they have to make sure this layer is dry before they begin the next.  He shows me a flat metal stick that looks like a long thin tongue depressor.  "Once this layer is dry, I will glue this along the sternum, this will be built into the brace so that you can't bend forward."

"Okay" I reply.

Layer number two goes a bit quicker and by layer number three I am no longer a glowing red beacon visible from space.  I can only imagine how I look now, in my plaster cast mini-dress that goes between but not over my boobs.  I must be a vision of loveliness.

We have progressed to arbitrary conversations about study and this unusual career path.  Mutt and Jeff confirm that I am one of the youngest people they have ever worked on and that usually they are handling geriatric patients, which is more difficult.

Mutt even goes as far as to say, "I was so glad to see you arrive - because every job should have some perks."  Holy hell!  That is a bit inappropriate, but the room erupts with laughter again.  Mutt tries to do some damage control by explaining that their patients are usually not as friendly, he stammers along until Jeff says, "Dude, stop talking you're gonna hurt yourself".  Mutt blushes and I realise that this is probably embarrassing for them too.  "Well," I say " I guess we all have a story for Friday night drinks huh?"

Conversation is  drowned out by the hairdryers and I am relieved to hear that we are almost done.  As visions of the final chapter to this story turn in my head, I picture the horror of this final scene.  The hairdryers are turned off and Tom smiles as he explains, "Next we need to remove the plaster, don't worry you will just feel a little tickle."

Noticing my discomfort he suggests that after they have cut it down the sides, I can remove it behind the screen, if I prefer.  If I prefer?  Are you serious Tom?

"Yes, I prefer, thanks!" I say, perhaps with too much enthusiasm and we all laugh again.

The little circular saw did tickle but it was most likely the easiest part of the day.  Then I went behind the screen to remove it I grabbed a thin cotton gown and covered myself and then passed it over to Tom.  As they walked out the room I felt a sense of relief wash over me, thank goodness that's over!

All the world's a stage and we are merely players.

Christmas, holidays, my birthday and Haydn's and Nana Lady's visit have all passed like a high speed chase down the motorway.  An adrenaline rush with a knot of anxiety and a dash of financial relief.  It is a cruel budget that we created... having Christmas and both our birthdays all within 30 days and 1 pay check! With maxed out credit cards and a suntan, I have returned to work for another year at the salt mines.  Lucky for me, I like salt.

I long for my carefree childhood where my biggest concern was how long I could swim before I did my homework. I miss being a kid with no real responsibilities, simply taking direction and focusing on fun and playtime.  "Aah yes Grandma, that was a simpler time". 

My teens were a blast - memories of which make me chuckle with fondness and sometimes, cringe with regret.  The roaring twenties were fantastic, I grew up, married and had children.  Motherhood is challenging but thankfully has a high entertainment value. :-)

Now I am 39 and just one step away from the tip-top of that hill (the one that our parents are already over).  I have reached middle age (I think I am comfortable with being in this classification, the middle is not a bad place to be.  Is it?) and after some serious mentation, have realised that I am the age I always expected my parents to be.

That's right... all you 70's children out there, "We ARE the appropriate ADULTS!".  Not only responsible for our children, who we must ensure are growing into decent and law abiding citizens, but also the folk who need to assess, maintain and sometimes manage our parents well-being.  "How did this happen?  Yesterday I was sneaking a cigarette behind the shed and today I am a "clean living" mother of teenagers, a wife and a daughter of parents who are in their golden years!"

Yes, there is satisfaction in watching my beautiful girls growing into young women but this is mixed with the bitter cup of knowing that our older loved ones are slowly fading away. 

I am reminded of Shakespeare's monologue "all the world's a stage" and the stages of life.   Every act can be as good or as bad as we want it to be, even a time of great hardship can make a fantastic story.  I believe that every stage requires elements of action, excitement, joy and grief, it should stir the blood, anoint the soul and stimulate the mind.

I must admit though, this second childhood that "Olde Shakes" refers to is rather a scary concept.  We have worked so hard to progress, who the heck thought it was a good idea for us to go backwards!  What crap is that?  I can handle this 6th stage, with spectacles on nose but who would willingly sign up for the last? Nobody wants to lose sight, hearing and "everything"!


I am quite happy to grow old enough to see my grandchildren and wear inappropriate swimwear.  Yes, that will be liberating and fun.  I will happily drive around on my mobility scooter and run the insolent youths off the walkway, but not if I must wear a diaper.  Nah!  When I can't move around on my own anymore it is time to shut this bodysuit down!

I'll skip that final bit, I prefer not to act that out on my world stage.  Ummm no thanks, I'll pass, let me fast forward to the death scene with all my faculties intact thank you very much.  I am less afraid of death than dignity.


I salute these golden girls and boys and admit that senescence is not for wusses! Thank you for carrying the torch, not sure if I am glad that you have passed it.  I am not sure I will ever be ready to be this grownup.

2013 and back to reality...

That night she closed the door on 2012, she was happy to see the back of it and hoped that the new year would bring new and better things.

Today I read my friend's blog  (http://planetlederer.com/cuddlebunny) and felt the sting of tears burn my eyes and my throat tighten with sadness.  Lynn an Norwin, your strength and courage are inspiring, Jarrod is a very lucky little boy to have you both.

Yes, we do all come with a story.  My story includes the love of my life and my children; it includes my friends and family and it has seasons of warmth and joy but also some of sadness and loss.  My story is personal and very precious to me and mine.  My story might help others or it might only help me, either way it is my story.


Towards the end of last year Jenna needed an x-ray because we thought she had cracked a rib, in that x-ray I saw a curve.  This curve is small and not too scary to look at but, being a mother who has just seen one child through surgery to correct severe scoliosis, it was another deathly blow to my sanity.  The specialist had a look at it when we took Meg for her check up 6 weeks post op.  He said that it did not look like something to worry about but that when Meg came again, next year, we could bring Jen for another assessment.

Since then I have watched her carefully, questioning, always worrying, is it getting worse?  I have tried to take that worry and put it to the back of my mind but I am a mother and worrying is what we do.  It is not something that I can switch off or put in a drawer, it is as much a part of me as breathing.  It does not mean that I cannot have happiness and it does not consume me - because I have faith, but it is there and there it shall remain.

Worries aside though I am pleased to reflect on the year that has past.  2012 was a tough year, we have lost some friends and relatives and welcomed some new little blessings, we have seen our oldest though one of her greatest challenges and our youngest though her proudest moments.

There have been feuds and fights, frustrations and celebrations, moments of utter relief, of sadness and of joy, achievement and success.  I have learned that life isn't fair but it is mine to live and I don't want to regret a moment.  I have discovered that I really should not sweat the small stuff, there are enough big things to worry about.  I have learned that it is better to share my energy where it generates love and joy rather than wasting it on things that darken my days or bring me down.  I am grateful for every blessing and thankful for every kindness and I am stronger and better than I was before.


I have lofty dreams for 2013, I hope that this will be a year of action and direction.

She walked up to gate, opened it and said hello to 2013, lucky for some... I sure hope so!

It's a matter of perspective

I remember having a pity party for myself because my child needed spine surgery at just 14.  Feeling so injured that all this anguish had been visited upon us.  Hadn't we had enough misfortune yet?  How much more were we expected to take?

On the evening of "the longest day" I passed another harassed mother in the passage - not sure which of us looked more stressed.  We had a very brief conversation along the lines of: "What surgery did your child have?" I asked.  "Major surgery on his leg, and yours?" she enquired.  "My daughter had major spine surgery!" I replied and made my way back to Megan with a sympathetic smile and a wave.  At the time I remember ignorantly thinking, "Just his leg - she has nothing to worry about."

It is with both shame and humility that I think of that moment now.  A few days later Anna and I got a chance to talk.  Her son Liam had a part of his leg "replaced" with a donor leg, as if that is not bad enough the reason for this surgery was not some stupid stunt on a skateboard or bike, no... Liam had a cancer, a malignant bone tumour in his knee, he had already had 3 months of chemotherapy in preparation for this surgery.  Liam is only 13.  He and Anna, his mother, have been at Starship Hospital for over 3 months and would be moving back into the oncology ward once he is well enough.  There they will nuke him again to make sure that there are no cancer cells left to mount a fresh attack on his young life.

Anna is the strongest person I have ever met.  She did not wallow in pity or bitterness but rather told me stories of children they had met in oncology who could not be cured.  She felt, as I do, that they were luckier than some.  Her son had not lost his leg to cancer and would not lose his life either.  There are so many other children who are not as fortunate and I salute them and their families.  This character building crap that we as humans endure is really not for the feint-hearted.


Another child was there for over 3 weeks as she had to have her half her pelvis reconstructed - also because of a tumour.  They (Mum, baby sister and Dad) had to stay at the Ronald MacDonald house because they were from Tauranga (where there is no children's hospital) which is a few hours away from Auckland.  The mother had to stay with their baby at night as she was still breastfeeding and so Dad was on night duty.  He was always working on his laptop - trying to get his work done while his 11 year old daughter slept.  I never saw her and while we shared a couple of coffees and smiles in the passages, I never learned any of their names.

Next door was another child, 12 year old Hannah who also had scoliosis (her curve was worst in her neck and progressing fast).  Hannah was put into a halo that was attached to weights (to straighten her out for 3 weeks) before the surgery so that the surgeons would be able to get the best possible outcome for her.  A halo is a scary thing to see on an adult, on a child it is terrifying!

Staying in Starship for that week was a very humbling experience.  I met people who were going though stuff that was even bigger than Megan's major spine surgery, some were fighting for their lives.

You see the world with fresh eyes when you consider how much worse things could have been.  I can honestly say that I even began to feel grateful that scoliosis was our only problem.  We were lucky. Lucky that Megan's spine could be straightened, lucky that there was nothing more sinister afoot.

Now, two and a bit months later, Megan is doing so well that you wouldn't even know what she has been through.  Well, not unless you see the red line that divides her back.  She is my amazing daughter who has fought a battle (that most adults don't even need to consider) and has won!  She will go from strength to strength and within a year she will be back to normal. 

Megan being completely back to normal is my my fondest wish.  Nothing will make me prouder than the day she can play netball again or scale a wall or simply do whatever else she wishes to do. Then I will know that we did the right thing.

Alive and well...

Sweet jubilation, we walk into the recovery room only to find our baby - so out of it that she's still not entirely able to open her eyes.  She was under for about 8 hours and has tubes and wires everywhere.  The room is bright and there is a flurry of activity but I am only aware of one little body, in one big bed, looking tiny and vulnerable.  Mine.

This time, remarkably, I am able to stem the tears and find that inner strength that I was certain had been eradicated from my being; (welcome back Mrs Sensible!) Within minutes we are rolling her along to her new room in the ward.  On arrival she is swarmed by buzzing nurses and we are forced to step back and let them buzz.

Time again becomes fluid and is no longer relevant to my returning sanity.  Meg is awake and talking.  Boy oh boy, is she talking!  Her first request, "can I have my iPod?" sends me into fits of laughter (perhaps not all that funny - more response of relief that she is still the same kid, a Gen Z who cannot function without technology at her fingertips). With stoic interest she asks me if she looks taller, "Meg, you're lying down, I can't really tell..." I explain with a smile.  "Well, why don't you measure me then!" she suggests, really put out that I did not think of this obvious solution.

She wants photos of everything that she can't see, from her back to her neck, to anywhere that has a pipe, tube or wire.  At this point my darling daughter looks at the nurse and asks, "what are all these pipes and wires, what is going on?".  The nurse, professional in every way, begins a long explanation of each object, describing what it is and what it is for.  This detailed explanation takes a minute or three and Megan maintains eye contact the whole time.  Once the nurse stops talking she replies, "Thank you but I don't really need to know all of that!" and promptly falls asleep. This naturally once again sends us all into hysterical fits of laughter.

It's dark now, she wants to phone her friends and family, so we let her; she wants water, the nurse suggests ice blocks (ice-lollies for the South Africans) - she has four lemonade ice blocks before she is satisfied.  

She wants and so... she gets.  She is queen of all she surveys.  At about nine that night, it's just the two of us, she has been in and out, awake and asleep.  I am once more stable, lucid and calm.  Her eyes open, Megan looks at me and says, "Mum, I can't believe that I am having surgery today - I really should not be drinking!"  Clearly the morphine is keeping her happy...

It's 2am and Megan is crying, not because she is in pain but rather because I am being so mean!  I won't let her phone her friends and I won't let her phone her Dad, but most of all, I won't let her phone anyone!  She does not believe me that it's 2am.  I am lying when I explain that she called them all hours ago because she would remember that!  To appease my little savage I go and get her another ice block and now she also cracks the nod for some fruit juice.  Distraction is key to getting through this night, sleep - not so much!

Night blurs into day, with nurses in and out checking her every half hour, there has not been much sleep.  That was the longest day.

Day 1 post op:

Today, Meg got up and sat in a chair.  Can you imagine, on day 1 being expected to get out of bed?  Well she did it - then slept the rest of the day away in a haze of pain and morphine.  She woke for visits from her beloved family and that was about it.  I am really craving a bit of sleep but that is not going to happen for a while.  Oh well, things less important will just have to keep.

Day 2 post op: 

Meg has developed an allergy to the antibiotic and so all drains, drips and epidural were removed today. She is in a great deal of pain but they are keeping her comfortable with morphine. She has taken a walk around the ward but after that was very tired and slept a lot.  We watched Mirror Mirror at about 11pm but I am sure Meg won't even remember it!  She faded in and out the whole movie but would not let me switch it off.

Day 3 post op:
Megan  is doing really well - had a pretty good night and so far has had 2 big walks around the ward.  Her back is very sore so still quite doped out on morphine but she is resting comfortably. Probably will be able to go home on Monday - then friends can visit :) Allergy is still bad, now they think it may be the Morphine...maybe.  We bought Meg and her neighbour Liam MacDonalds to entice them to eat.  Sleeping at home tonight as I can no longer function, Haydn will do the Hospital Shift.

Day 4 post op: 

Slept a blissful 6 hours and came back to Starship this morning with more food and a smile. Her pain levels are still pretty high and she is frustrated because she has to wait for the nurse to bring medication now, instead of just pushing a button and getting an instant dose.  She is walking remarkably well.  I am so proud. 

Day 5 post op: 

Meg had a bad "trip" last night with a Morphine build up, had nightmares, twitching and hallucinations so they are trying new pain medication - will have to stay another day to make sure all okay. Slept about 2 hours - feeling wrecked!

Day 6 post op:

Well we are home now... 6 days at Starship Hospital - finally over, had my first full night back in my own bed - bliss. Now if I can just catch up on some sleep, I'll be rocking. Started working from home today - lucky me.  Meg is still doing very well but this is going to take some time...

I have so much more to say but now we are almost 2 months post op and Megan is great.  She is back at school part-time and rocking the Mall with her friends.  It is a long road and she still has a way to go but it is all good.

Thanks to everyone for your support and encouragement.

Trace

Part Two of the Roller-coaster...

Okay, so grab a glass of wine, water or whatever; settle in and let me purge my demons...

The longest day of my life...

Have you ever felt each second of every hour sawing through your raw emotions with no reprieve or release for the mounting tension that consumes you?  This is how I felt for roughly 8 hours, I didn't count them, my brain function was reduced to breathing and wiping my eyes.

We were sent up to the Ronald MacDonald family lounge* for the day.  The room is too bright and too open.  I want to huddle in a dark padded room and rock or maybe bang my head against a padded wall until they call me to say the surgery is finally over.   I want to go down to surgery and wait outside the door.  I want to rewind the last 3 years and keep her spine form curving.  Nobody cares what I want.

Like robots, we go through the motions of making coffee and sitting down.  The second I think, I hurt.  I ache with tension; my eyes burn and my throat feels inflamed and swollen.  Haydn sits beside me, his arm wrapped around me - holding me together and the tears flow again.  I can't verbalise my feelings I am too raw and broken.  Hours pass but I remain in my vacuum, inconsolable and lost.  I feel like such a baby but I can't make myself behave how I thought I would.  I am not strong, I am weak and scared and... crying again!

Oh God!  I thought You would never give me something I could not handle.  I. Can't. Handle. This!  Please God, just make it stop! This is where the bargaining began - in my head I was offering God my last breath if she would just be okay.  I was trading my life, my soul - my everything - just so she would be okay. Just let this day be over.

But, when I looked at the time it was only 9am.

I could wring every tear from your eyes, I could drag out this torture - for hours - as it was dragged from me but I will fast forward.  By about 11am I was so exhausted that I could not keep my red, swollen eyes open.  The reception lady offered me a pillow and I tried to lie down on one of the couches.  They were uncomfortable: just too short with arm rests that were too square, too hard and too high.  I lay there for some time just staring at nothingness, battling my emotions and waiting, just waiting.  Haydn was in his own hell and I could not offer him any support because I was a wrung out wet, limp rag of uselessness.

In the afternoon we went for a walk outside, trying to make the stubborn clock tick faster, it didn't work.  We then went to the ward, Megan's stuff was in the nurses office as they were moving her to a high care private room from surgery.  One good thing... no more Sponge Bob.  We collected her things and sat in her new room, Room 8.  It felt so empty, no bed, just two chairs to visit with a patient that was clearly not there. 
The beast within screamed in anguish and the tears continued to flow.  What the hell - how can I still have any moisture in my body for tears?  We waited and waited and waited some more.

Eventually Dr. Ferguson walked past our room, I immediately set out after him and he dutifully turned back to tell us that the surgery had gone very well but that she was still in recovery.  We would be called when she was awake. Half the world tumbled off my shoulders at his words as relief flooded within, like warm honey.

Some more time passed and we went to the nurses station to ask if we could go down to recovery and wait there (this is what we had been told would happen).  "No, I'm sorry..." was the reply, "they have not called us yet, she may take some time to wake up."

So we waited some more... time still dragging itself around the clock without any consideration for my lack of patience.  The anxiety began to build again with each tick, tock on the clock.  Why was she taking so long to wake up?  Why cant we just sit there with her?  I want to see my baby!  Another hour passed before we finally were told we could accompany the nurse to fetch Megan and bring her back to the Ward.  At that moment I wished I had the power to teleport, instead we followed the nurse to the elevator and walked at a unreasonably normal pace.

Footnote:

*In retrospect I can say: the Ronald MacDonald family lounge is amazing!

It is a tastefully decorated lounge that can accommodate many people - maybe about 80 or so?  There is a reception desk where you sign in with your child's name and Ward.  Comfortable looking sofas, set in small groups or clusters with little coffee tables between them.  A bookcase (holding reading for young and old) is filled to capacity and there is a children's corner that has toys and block and things to keep little sibling entertained.  There are magazines all over.  The kitchen area has a large fridge, stove and counter, there is also an island counter that is stacked with fruit, and various meals and snacks.  The outer wall is floor to ceiling glass windows that overlook Auckland City making the room bright and light.  There are coffee and tea making facilities and the staff prepare meals and snacks the whole day, until 5pm.  The most incredible aspect... there is no charge and no limit to how often you visit or how much you consume.  This is all based on donations from MacDonald's and the kindness of the staff who service the facility.  So, next time you pass that box on the counter at Mac D's, pop a coin or two in the box!

The Roller-coaster...

11/10/2012: Time has slipped away, taking without asking and yet still somehow drawing things out like pus from a wound.

Let me begin with a very brief recap of the last month...

Tina from Starship Spine Service rang to discuss Megan's first appointment scheduled for about the first week in November.  In our conversation I mentioned how eager Megan was to have the whole thing over and done with.  On the 18th September 2012, I received a phone call from Tina again, she said that while a bit out of the ordinary, a child that was booked for surgery next week was unwell.  The usual process for them to follow is to then begin with the most severe case and ring patients to find out whether they wanted to take this earlier and now available spot.  Our conversation was still fresh in her mind and so she rang me.  "Would you like to take the surgery spot on Wednesday, next week - the 26th September?" said Tina.

After discussion with Meg and Haydn we decided that we would go ahead.  Gulp!

(You know the initial jerk you feel as the roller-coaster begins to move?)

Friday 21st September (Megan's 14th Birthday) we headed off to Starship Spine Service for our pre-op consultation.  First Stop, x-ray... we were there for about 45 minutes and then went to the day clinic rooms where we waited over an hour to be see by the Doctors.  Matthew is young, but professional he is a surgery resident and examines Megan prior to her being seen by Doctor/Mister Ferguson.  During his examination he thinks he feels a lump behind Megan's knee.  Since we are here anyway, he decides to get the knee x-rayed too, so back down we go... another 30 minutes pass and we return to the day clinic rooms and wait another 20 minutes, tick, tick, tick...

(The climb up to the precipice of the track is slow and tedious, clickety, clack)

Finally we are called back into a consulting room where Matthew assures us that there was nothing on the knee x-ray and hands us over to Dr Ferguson.  He briefly discusses the surgery and introduces his little team of students that hang on every word like gospel.  I feel my stomach tighten as they explain how they will straighten her spine.  All too quickly for me to process, the surgical team are gone and the anaesthetist arrives to explain his bit.  He puts us at ease with his professionalism and kindness, he does not talk down to Megan and explains to her all the needles and tubes that she will be subjected to, he does not miss anything but delivers the information in such a way that we are confident in his ability.  He is also the head of the pain team who will see and treat her after surgery, we all agree that he is very nice.

(The first dip is so quick that before you realise you are afraid, you are going up again and taking a deep breath to reassure yourself, that was not so bad!)

It is at this point that the team realise that today is in fact Megan's birthday and so they insist that the rest can be done next Tuesday when she is admitted and that we should go and enjoy what is left of our day.   It is 16h30 we have been there since 12pm.  What a fun 14th Meg is having so far... The weekend passes in a blur of birthday activity and shopping for hospital attire, etc.  Before we realise it is is Tuesday and Megan is to be admitted at 2pm to Starship hospital.

(A couple of twists and turns, ups and downs and one loop de loop, yeah we can do this!)

Ward 24 A, Orthopaedics
Room 11 is a 4 bed ward, there is a chubby boy, same age as Meg across from her, he has a drip in his hand but all in all looks well enough.  Beside him is a younger boy - Jack who has a broken arm - so far he has had 2 surgeries to fix the damage that a fall out of a tree will do.  He is 7 and full of beans - seems quite happy and perhaps a little bored.  The bed beside us is enclosed with curtains - no sounds emerge...

Megan feels silly being forced to sit in a bed when she feel fine, soon enough things begin to happen.  The nurses take some personal info and then put some special creams on both her arms to numb them as she will need bloods drawn.  Meg is afraid - her aunt and father have managed to convince her that needles are the most terrifying thing on this green earth.

When the bloodsucker arrives I tell Meg not to look, she pops in her earphones and listens to music on her iPod looking out the window, her face is scrunched with fear.  She looks at me nervously and asks if it has started yet, I smile and say, "No, not yet, keep looking this way".  A moment later the blood has been taken and the needle is out.  I tell Meg and she turns her head - disbelief evident - she felt nothing at all, "Wow, Dad and Neen are real wussies!" she laughs.  My brave girl.

The day passes in a haze of Sponge Bob and other awful shows blaring from the TV mounted on the wall.  I feel as though my head will implode, just to relieve the frustration, how I hate Nic TV.  I am aware that this is an unexpected reaction, I can still, very clearly, remember a time when I thought I would always love cartoons.  That was before Sponge Bob and other such crap!  Bring back the Gummi Bears and I'll watch, okay? Parents are invited to room in with their children and so I get to "sleep" on a plastic covered sponge mattress on the floor beside her bed that night.  Sleep is as elusive as the Yeti, I read until about 3am and finally succumb to slumber.

(Jerk, we are approaching another really steep incline.  I am afraid!)

It's 6:30 am and the ward is bustling.  Megan is given a special bar of soap and told to go an shower, making certain to wash her back with the antiseptic bar.  I am not invited.  My stomach churns with dread, it is today.  Haydn arrives and at 8am we are wheeled down to the pre-op room where Megan is already buzzing from the pre-med that she swallowed down at 7:45, the lure is put into her hand with almost no fuss, she is a happy little cloud.

My heart is thumping in my chest, my hands are cold and I taste bile at the back of my throat, it is hard to swallow past the lump in my throat, my eyes ache with unshed tears.  I know that I am not going to be able to hold it together much longer.  Tears roll as I give her a hug and say, "see you later".  Haydn and I have already discussed this and he will go into theatre with her, he is my mighty oak.

As the bed carrying my precious baby is wheeled away my strength and courage are purged like they never were.  I go back into our little room and the floodgates burst!  I have the unnatural feeling of a mother bear who has not only let them take her cub but also knows that she is in harms way - even if it is to heal and not to harm.  The primal scream in my broken and fearful heart is anguish like I have never known and never want to know again - not ever!  It is 08:37am on Wednesday the 26th of September, this is the start of my longest and hardest day.

(The roller-coaster is on a downward spiral that feels like it will never end!  I wish I could stop this thing!) 

To be continued..