I should be used to this

{ This photo was taken in November of 2009, at Cedars Sinai. Liz wore her "Hope" shirt (of course bedazzled with a crown) to show how brave she was. I remember this day so vividly, as we were at a hospital that was new to us and meeting with new doctors. On this day, Liz was meeting with an anesthesiologist who specializes in pain management. We were hoping that injections would help alleviate some abdominal pain she was having, but that was not the case and she ended up having surgery #6 two months later}


I should be used to this by now. Elizabeth has had more procedures than I can count that required anesthesia and the six operations. I should be used to the nerves, the feelings of loss of control, the worry. I should be used to the fact that come surgery time, my faith and reasoning will kick in and I will have a wave of strength and calm take over me. Nine years into this, I should be used to this.
But I am not.

I know that in the morning, I will wake my sleeping beauty and carry her to the car as she groans "is it time?" I will hush her back to sleep as we make the drive to the hospital. I will listen to Liz object to having to wear "such an ugly thing!" as she puts on the hospital gown. I will carry her into pre-op and sing her songs in a whisper as nurses hover, prepping her for the operating room. I will meet with her doctor, who for the millionth time (not quite, but close. At least it feels close) will put his arm around me (God bless him) and say he's sorry we're at this point again, and promise to take care of her. And I will know he means it with every ounce of his being. I will carry her into the cold operating room and know that as a dozen people talk in unison to her, she hears nothing except the words of her mommy, promising all will be well. I will watch the anesthesia mask go over her face and her eyes will start to tear and she will cry out for me to not leave her, to make "them" stop. She will ask me if this is the last time she has to do this, and I will be able to only answer "I pray so." And then she will fade to sleep and I will follow a young tech. out of the OR and make the long walk to the waiting room... digging deeper within than I can ever describe, so as not to run back into the OR just to hold her hand. Just to make sure that the doctor keeps his promise.

I will sit for the next 2 to 3 hours visualizing each step the doctors are taking, praying for their hands and skill. Praying, praying, praying.
Praying for Elizabeth to be kept safe and for wisdom for the doctors. Praying for comfort for my baby and peace for us. I will pray that her first procedure went well and she will be able to eat again without pain.
And this time, different than all of the other times we've been through this, I will pray that her bone marrow will have recovered and that this will all just be over.

When Liz wakes, she will smile and ask if it is over, and again ask if she ever has to do this again. I will smile and say, again, I pray it is all over.

I should be used to this by now, but I am not.