They’re In

Colin went down for surgery at around 7:00 am and I left him in the OR about 45 minutes later. We got a call from the OR nurse at around 8:45 saying that Dr. Boop had just “gone in.” An hour later, they pulled out the microscope. For Dr. Boop’s team, the real works begins. For our part, waiting.

I will head back to St. Jude for an aptly timed seminar on ependymoma. This is an opportunity for me to learn the latest thinking on Colin’s disease from the researchers and clinicians here, minus Dr. Gajjar, who left for India and will be gone for a fortnight (hey, he’s going to In-dja, so I’m allowed).

On his way into the pre-op “bunny” (no relation to Easter or Harvey) room, Colin got to pick out a toy. Unsurprisingly, he selected a truck with trailer and enjoyed playing with it literally until we put him on the operating table. I geared up, though they hadn’t been told that I would be taking Colin to the OR.

Hospitals vary considerably in their pre-op policies with parents coming into the OR. Evidently, this is a relatively new practice here at Le Bonheur. At Maria Fareri in Westchester, it was encouraged and I actually got to physically carry Colin into the OR and place him on the table.

There is inevitably a moment once he is successfully sedated that there is an “OK, Mom [get the hell out; we have a job to do].” Surgical nurses are especially fastidious. They don’t like when the colors on the EKG leads don’t match up properly, even if they will read correctly otherwise. Everything is in its place, and parents are the most temporary of interlopers, like a mote that accidentally flies toward the sterile field of the operating theater and is quickly ushered back from whence it came.

The Sacrament of Surgery

Yesterday, I saw Dr. Boop while we were picking up last-minute supplies at the clinic. He gave me a hug and met Colin for the first time, sitting on the floor closely watching him play with a strongly neurological eye. I described his recent neurological improvements and physical progress over the time since we met him on Christmas.

We discussed complications, which we are already well versed in (obviously!) and I reiterated that we are prepared for neurological issues. However, we are also prepared for the possibility of residual tumor that we will have to treat with radiation.

Our next encounter was downstairs in the pre-op area. Dr. Boop was in his surgical zone and, while willing to address any last-minute questions, looked serious and focused.

We thanked him, and he responded, “Thank you.”

It would be easy to imagine that elite surgeons like Dr. Boop or Dr. Wisoff would become arrogant. However, as we have seen in the past, the practice of pediatric neurosurgery is humbling, and anybody who does not hold onto and live with that humility will hurt a child thoughtlessly.

Taking a child from the arms of loving parents is a sacrament. The best surgeons consider it a privilege to receive that child and to be in the right place with the right set of gifts, skills and experience to do what very few people could do.

The gravity of the moment is palpable and sacred. For us, seeing Dr. Boop’s focus and reverence for his vocation is reassuring, although it seems that people around us expect us to be more of a mess.

How could we fall apart when we have these tremendous medical resources available to help Colin and amazing support from all quarters? We have more to be thankful of than we could possibly iterate.