“Kathleen, there’s no seventh floor.”

This is what started out one day that will live forever tucked away in our hearts.  As many of you reading this have already experienced or will someday, taking a family member to the hospital can be a stressful and overwhelming experience. In the case of taking your child to the hospital, a whole new set of worries come into mind. We knew that once we brought Alexander home in July, that we had many, many trips to the hospital in our future. We’ve tried to stay lighthearted through everything so far, and *knock on wood* it has seemed to help ease our little man’s stress levels as well.

So back to mystery of the seventh floor. When it’s 5:59 AM, and you’re told to report by 6 AM for pre-op with a kid who doesn’t understand why he didn’t get breakfast, the last thing you want to experience is getting lost. In our case, it was not even being able to find the right floor, let alone office. This was not the first, nor will it be the last of my Mega Mommy Fails. In the chaos of handling logistics, precertifications, and whatnot, my handwritten notes from the surgical office mentioned 6 am, 7:30 and a few acronyms. I didn’t pay that closely to the location, I just knew it was on the 7th floor.

However, when we got to the hospital, there was no 7th floor. I panicked and figured that I misremembered, so we went up to the top floor (6 for those of you keeping track) which was identified as Waiting- General Surgery. It was a ghost town. Seriously, there was NO ONE stationed at any desk, waiting around, or anything on an entire floor of a huge city hospital. Alexander and I continued to orbit the top floor, while Brian headed downstairs in search of someone, anyone really, who might know what was going on.

Luckily, Brian quickly found out downstairs that we were in the wrong building, and soon we were shuttling our little guy off to the new wing. As we were one of the first surgeries of the morning, the patient reception desk was more than a little eager for our arrival. The 7th floor “sky lobby” was incredibly dramatic. I joked that it looked the lobby of a really swanky hotel– the entire floor was floor to ceiling windows with a beautiful view of Hyde Park and the Loop, and a player grand piano.

All all-time high/low: photographing our surgical waiting room. Seriously, it was just stunning and a great place to stress out!

Our “pre-op concierge” (yes, I just said that) whisked us off to check-in, where the intake nurses cooed over our little man. Apparently, very few pediatric surgeries are done in the main hospital (most are done next door at the children’s hospital), so getting short patients is quite the treat. They managed to find a tiny hospital gown and those nasty hospital socks, and soon it was revenge of the koalas in spaceships all over again.  We began the grand procession of specialists, as the various medical teams stopped by to introduce themselves and get us to sign off on lots of forms. The highlight was Alexander clapping on cue for the Anesthesia team after their spiel– the look on those doctors’ faces was priceless. It was a much-need lighthearted moment before the inevitable. Pretty soon though, we bid goodbye and good luck to our little boy, and one of the Anesthesiologists carried him away into the OR. I might have wept just a little after they took him away, and Brian’s eyes looked a little misty too.

Convincing his mama that he’ll be fine, as long as she takes care of Mr Clam and Kokkonisto

Without getting into too many details (too late!), the overall surgery went great. What wasn’t so great was dealing with the pager they gave us to keep track of our man. With the idea of giving families more freedom, they issued everyone restaurant-style beeping/vibrating pagers; they’d use these if any news came in from the OR regarding the status of a patient. We were grateful to be able to leave the building and get a coffee and some air, but it felt as though that blasted pager went off every 15 minutes. I think you all know how jarring those restaurant pagers can be, so you can imagine how our nerves were shot by the third page (most of which were just messages like “Alexander’s doing great!”) The funniest surgery-related anecdote is that as we were returning from Starbucks with some much-needed caffeine, we ran into our anesthesiologist with coffee and a donut. Yes, the one that introduced himself as the person who’d be taking care of Alexander! As soon as we made eye contact and he saw my jaw drop, he ran up explaining that Alexander was doing well and that his team had just rotated him into a few minute break. It made sense, but it definitely freaked me out when  first saw him.

Mr Clam waiting not so patiently for his friend in surgery

Little man got all of his anticipated surgical work done for #1 (of about 4 or 5 total) in addition to some auditory repair. All the surgeons seemed really happy, and we were back in the recovery room ahead of schedule. Unfortunately though, we ended up spending close to 6 hours in recovery with some fantastic post-op nurses and anesthesiologists; Alexander didn’t want to wake up but did finally thanks mostly to Mr Clam and Kokkonisto, the sheep blanket from Grandma Amy.  Unfortunately, his hungry raging threw his heart rate monitors into a frenzy. I was touched how kind the staff was and also how ingenious the nurses were in figuring out how to comfort a patient much smaller than they were used to (which included creating a makeshift cleft feeder out of various medical supplies!)

And now for a quick aside– I take back anything bad I’ve ever said about anesthesiologists before (not that I’ve said much).  I was truly surprised at how caring the entire anesthesiology team was long after the surgery was over. The Attending (aka donut man) checked in on us every 20 minutes or so, and ended up calling over to the children’s hospital and insisting on our placement in a higher-care unit (as opposed to a general floor). I also caught him looking from a distance at Alexander’s monitor, and saw him give a little fist-pump when our little man started to calm down. The doctor totally lost his composure when I called him out that I saw him relieved. He admitted that he was really worried for our little guy, and seeing that level of compassion in a doctor who normally never sees the patient awake was refreshing and somewhat redeeming.

Alexander’s transfer and stay at the children’s hospital was exactly what we expected– a lot of primary colors, whimsical nursing scrubs, and friendly staff. We attempted to sleep a little last night, but it’s hard to sleep when your kid is howling in pain.  Luckily, we were able to wean our guy off the heavy meds last night. After eating breakfast this morning, he threw his cuffed arms into the air demanding freedom for him and his stuffed animal entourage– which included a stuffed sheep blanket, a calico cat, and of course, Mr Clam. Because of his facial surgery and that fact that he’s 17 months, we have to use little stiff cuffs that cover his elbows and restrict his movement. This way, Alexander can still move around but won’t be able to rip out his stitches or try sticking toys/anything into his mouth. He absolutely HATES it, but he’s adapted well so far. Brian and I worried that he’d be limited in movement, but as soon as we got home, he took off crawling across the living room floor.

We were out as soon as we got clearance, and the three of us made it home safely by early afternoon today. We celebrated in true Illinois fashion by getting an emissions test on my car and running a few errands  (which was mostly to try and keep awake and not take a too-late nap). Now, our little man is sleeping somewhat peacefully as we finally unwind from a pretty big parental experience. Our surgeon would like to schedule the next round of work for about three months from now, assuming Alexander continues to recover well; though I’m sure each surgery will be an adventure unto itself, I can promise you one thing–

I’ll be able to find the seventh floor!

A formal, rather serious post-op portrait with Mr Clam. This photo was immediately followed by a loud “La!”

And for those of you wondering, Alexander hasn’t lost his smiles or la’s! We think it hurts him to smile a little now, because he does still smile, but the stitches do impact how long he can hold it. He’s still figuring out how to use an upper lip, but after hearing several la’s and watching him eat, he’ll get the hang of it in no time!