This next piece is lengthy, but I couldn’t have told this story without the backstory. This is a nonfiction piece about my youngest child and the most harrowing ordeal I have experienced to date.
Texas Hospitals
Why do Texas hospitals design their waiting rooms with glass roofs? We’re not tropical plants begging to swelter in the intense heat and humidity. Do they think family members find comfort looking at the heavens, when all they really want is that surgeon to come through the door and say everything went well?
I hope I never have to sit in the waiting room at Cook Children’s Medical Center again. If you would have told me on June 2, 2010, my son, Jon’s high school graduation, that I would become so familiar with this hospital I would have told you that you’re going insane. Jon was a happy, healthy, athletic seventeen-year-old preparing to embark on his lifelong dream: enlisting in Para rescue through the United States Air Force. He had a successful track season, advancing to Regionals in Lubbock, and excelling in the Air Force Junior ROTC program at school. He had even broken every record for physical fitness and orienteering in the school’s ROTC history. How could I be the one sitting in a waiting room, comforted by my husband, Chris, while Jon undergoes not one but two lifesaving surgeries?
Jon was born July 10, 1992, in Fort Worth. It was the most pleasant, most blessed pregnancy and birth that I had ever experienced. No morning sickness or backaches, even my excess weight exceeded fifty pounds. The bigger I got, the more content I became. Throughout the pregnancy my husband, Chris, insisted that I would have our second son on July 4th.
“We will name him Stonewall Jackson Moody,” Chris insisted, being a little overzealous of his patriotism. “We can always call him Stoney.” The only ‘Stoney’ I knew was a juvenile delinquent that had committed numerous acts of vandalism before the age of ten.
On the evening of July 3rd, Chris and I went to see a late movie in Fort Worth. I cannot tell you which movie it was because I spent the whole movie timing my contractions and silently weeping.
“What’s the matter? Are you crying?” Chris said softly while caressing my hand.
“I don’t want my baby named Stonewall Jackson Moody!” I blubbered.
“What brought this on?”
“I’m having contractions, and they’re getting pretty close – within ten minutes of each other.” Suddenly Chris became so doting, holding my hand and pulling me into him.
“Are you having another one?”
“YES!”
“Shhh!” came from the audience. As soon as the movie credits began to run, Chris dialed the hospital’s OB/GYN department.
“My wife is having contractions, and they are about six minutes apart. Should we come in?”
Silence.
“We’re just around the corner. Be there in a couple of minutes.”
“What did they say?” I implored.
“They said you should go in to get checked.” Sobs erupted.
The two-block ride was over in a flash, probably because Chris was ignoring every traffic law in Texas. As Chris cheered at each contraction, I covertly begged the nurses to stop them.
“Please! You don’t understand!” I pleaded with the nurse.
“Why are you so upset?”
“I can’t have the baby now!”
“ You need to calm down, because this is bad for the baby.”
“Being named Stonewall Jackson Moody would be worse for the baby!” After two hours of studying monitors the nurses sent me home. I was still having faint contractions, but the nurses said that they would subside with some rest.
But Chris had not given up hope. We were up bright and early, and after a breakfast of bacon and eggs with LOTS of hot sauce, we spent the day (July 4th) walking around a Gun Show for FOUR HOURS! I felt like an overweight, out of shape dog being dragged by a leash up and down each aisle, pleading with my master for rest. Jon obviously wasn’t too impressed with the show, because there were no more contractions until they induced labor on tenth. Chris’s disappointment was obvious, but I silently thank God for Jon’s delay into this world.
Jon was named after my grandfather and his middle name (Cowin) was Chris’s grandfather’s name. Both of our grandfathers were hardworking, honest family men, and we hoped that Jon would inherit some of their good qualities. As a baby, Jon and I were inseparable. If I wasn’t working, I was with Jon. We even had the chickenpox together: he was one and I was twenty-nine. Each night I’d gently rub his back and sing him to sleep. All my kids liked James Taylor’s “You Can Close Your Eyes.”
Did I tell you that I don’t like hospitals? I developed a dislike of them when my grandfather spent several months in a VA hospital in Buffalo, New York. I was in elementary school, and would visit him several times a week with my parents. The stench of urine and disinfectant burned my nostrils. The food aroma scorched my nostrils, even though the patients complained about it tasting bland. At that time gasoline was rationed, and cigarettes at the hospital PX were only twenty-five cents a pack.
My dislike of hospitals turned to utter disdain the day my youngest child, my baby, Jon, was admitted: June 15, 2010. Thirteen days after he graduated from high school. As a seventeen-year-old he was able to stay at Cook’s Children’s, which didn’t have any of the urine or disinfectant smell nor the nasty food stench. It didn’t have the familiar hospital colors – green and grey – either. It was a circus of colors and sounds. But I hated that hospital even more than the VA because it represented life and death; the difference between life and death of my son. Rainbow colors and children’s tunes couldn’t erase the fact that life wasn’t fair, and I blamed the hospital.
As far as memory takes me, Jon has always expressed such passion for serving his country through military service. He speaks proudly of his father, a United States Marine, and even brags a little about having a mom that actually DID wear Army boots. The first time he picked his colors for his bedroom he instantly chose camouflage. Even today his room is painted Behr ‘Witch Hazel’, which is actually a dark olive drab green.
Jon received his first gun on his fifth birthday: a BB rifle. We lived on a few acres in Grandview, Texas, surrounded by pastures of cattle and horses. The driveway gate protected us from unwanted guests, so it was okay for him to shoot it on our property. There were large dirt piles from the construction of our pool, so Chris placed a target against them and told Jon that he could lay in the driveway and practice.
The first thing he shot was a mockingbird perched on the electrical lines that ran along our driveway.
He and his dad used to sit on the back deck and shoot at the wisteria pods hanging from the back chain link fence. When he was six or seven, he’d pretend he was a sniper and hide in the fruitless mulberry tree while I puttered in the garden. He’d patiently stay up there for an hour or more without me even knowing. He’d just watch me, the cows, the horses, and especially Patch, our Blue Heeler. Even at that age he was my protector, watching over me.
We came home one day and discovered tire tracks going through our drive-through gate and into our back pasture.
“I walked the tracks and they follow the fence line,” Chris commented.
“Did you notice anything missing?” I inquired.
“No, but they didn’t latch the gate back. Lucky the horses didn’t get out. I bet it was those damn gas well workers. Did you notice the orange markers out back?”
“No, but I’ll call Chesapeake and remind them that we opted out of the gas lease, and to stay off our property.”
The next day I caught Jon dressed in camouflage, carrying his BB rifle, and low-crawling through the sunflowers. In the distance I could see the gas well workers along our fence line, but on our neighbors’ properties.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I screamed while running through the horses’ pen.
“Shhh!”
“What do you mean Shhh? This is a good way to get yourself shot!”
“I’m just guarding our property, like Dad said we should.” Jon said as he brushed the horse burrs and dung from his clothes.
“Jon, they don’t know that you only have a BB gun! They might think it’s real. And they certainly can’t tell that you’re a seven-year-old boy while you’re lying on the ground.”
“But can I lay out here and watch’em?” he asked as he sheepishly peered over his left shoulder at the men.
“No, you cannot. Get up to the yard now!”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Jon may have been a little hellion, but no one could ever dispute his good manners. From the time he could talk he said “Sir” and “Ma’am”, “Please” and “Thank-you”, removed his hat while inside a building, and even held doors for girls. He always wanted his hair cut short and never slouched or muttered words. He insisted on shaking hands with everyone he met. It was as if he was already preparing himself for military service.
After his older sister, Sara, graduated from high school in 2005, Jon became bored with attending a small school. Students were treated differently if their father and their grandfather didn’t graduate from Grandview. For sports, he had a choice between football and basketball, and Boy Scouts just didn’t have enough structure and challenge to appease his insatiable desire for military discipline. We began looking at houses in Burleson, Texas, because they had a large school system with an active Junior ROTC program. We purchased a house in the fall of 2005, one and one-half blocks from Burleson High School. Jon was in the eighth grade.
His first day at Hughes Middle School ended with a list of new phone numbers and insatiable chatter about his new friends. Jon was game for trying anything, even attempting the hurdles in the spring of 2006. One day he took a nasty fall, and complained about his right leg hurting. Frustrated and not believing that he was hurt badly, I reluctantly took him to the minor emergency clinic at Cook Children’s Medical Center. Without x-raying his leg, the doctor said that he was okay. Being an overly protective mother and completely unsatisfied with the cursory examination, I made an appointment with the orthopedic specialist.
Several days later the specialist confirmed that Jon had a fractured tibia in the growth plate, requiring him to wear a full leg brace for six to eight weeks. This was my revelation: never take any complaint from Jon too lightly.
At the end of the eighth grade, Jon had to make a decision between football or band for his freshman year at high school. I encouraged him to choose band, because of his weakened right tibia. I had nightmares of an opposing player weighing twice his weight tackling him. Luckily some of the high schoolers enticed him to try-out for the Drum Line, saying that he was a shoe-in. Thanks to them, I wouldn’t spend the next few years fretting about Jon getting injured in football.
The one activity that Jon refused to compromise on was the Air Force Junior ROTC program. He craved the discipline and order that Colonel Taylor and Master Chief Greenwood instilled on the corps. From the summer of 2006 until his graduation, this was his passion, unsurpassed by any other subject or sport. He was even selected to serve as the Corps Commander in the fall semester of his senior year. One day each week the cadets wore their uniforms to school. Jon carefully spit-shined his shoes the night before and took care in the placement of his ribbons. I looked forward to seeing him on uniform day – I swear he grew six inches and aged five years every time he donned the Air Force Blue.
As graduation loomed in the near future, Jon contemplated his options for serving his country. One day it was Marine Recon (follow in his dad’s footsteps), then next Army Special Forces (glorified in recent movies), but finally Jon became committed to enlisting in the Air Force, becoming a member of the Para-rescue Team. This was the most demanding job in the Air Force, requiring grueling physical requirements as well as medical and combat knowledge. It didn’t surprise me that Jon chose this calling, as he has never committed himself to something halfway. This also incorporated helping fellow servicemen in combat situations. His friend and fellow cadet, Joey Rodriguez, agreed to enlist with Jon under the same program, and both became steadfast in their pact. All that was left for senior year was track season and enjoying their final months of civilian life.
Around May first, Jon came home coughing and complaining that his chest hurt, especially on the right side.
“It really hurts right here,” holding his right rib area.
“Did you get into a scuffle with someone?”
“No.”
“Did you run into a table or a door while at school?” Sometimes I think he inherited my lack of grace when in motion.
“No, it just hurts,” he said impatiently.
“Maybe it’s from coughing so much.” I gave him cough medicine, but after a few days it didn’t seem to help. This warranted a visit to the family physician.
After x-rays and consulting with Dr. Hoffman, Jon was given a steroid and antibiotic, thinking that there was some sort of inflammation in his chest cavity. Jon is the second worst person about taking medicine (I am the worst), so I supervised the administration of medication. The sharp pains on the right side slightly subsided, but he still had an incessant cough. The doctor called in another type of antibiotic, suggesting that maybe the infection was bacterial instead of viral. I cringed every time he coughed after standing up suddenly. What was wrong? Not wanting to miss anything, I scheduled an appointment with his childhood pulmonologist. Jon had experienced asthma as a child, but had outgrown it. The appointment was scheduled for June 15th, six weeks after Jon’s initial symptoms appeared.
On Tuesday, June 15, 2010, Jon’s coughing had subsided slightly, but he had begun to complain about shortness of breath. I didn’t think much of this, because he had been competing in track during this time and had even excelled. He ran good enough to place at the District Level and even qualified at the Regional Level in the 4 X 400 relay. Obviously, anybody that could run like a deer couldn’t possibly have breathing problems, right?
Our hectic schedules caused us to take two cars to the Specialist’s office that day: I had school in the morning, and coincidentally Chris had an appointment with the Neck Specialist shortly after Jon’s appointment. I met Chris and Jon at Cook’s Specialty Clinic, which is connected to the hospital, promptly at ten a.m. The waiting room was packed with children coughing and parents talking loudly on their cell phones. I could only watch the colorful saltwater fish in the centrally-located aquarium for so long before I began playing Brick Breaker on my cell phone.
Just as I approached the desk to inquire about the long wait, Jon was called in. The three of us were led into the inner sanctums of the clinic and stuck in an examination room not much larger than my walk-in closet. Jon came and went from the room as various nurses commandeered him for a battery of tests. After the last test, Dr. Pfaff said that Jon had probably contracted pneumonia in early May, and that it would take some time to recover. Dr. Pfaff said that we were through, but as a precautionary measure he’d like to have Jon’s lungs x-rayed on the way out.
After descending two floors to Radiology, Jon disappeared into the inner rooms as Chris and I sat patiently in the waiting room. The plan was for Jon to drive home after his appointment and I would accompany Chris to his, for we feared that surgery would be the only option available for his herniated discs. About five minutes after disappearing, Jon reappeared pasty-faced and robotic.
“We have to go back upstairs,” Jon stated in a serious tone.
“What? Did you forget something up there?” I said jokingly.
“No, they just said I needed to go back upstairs, and that they were paging Dr. Pfaff.”
Color drained from my face, and the upturned corners of my lips drooped to a horizontal line. My Starbucks stomach began to knot and sour. What could be wrong?
Chris’s appointment was in twenty minutes, and he needed to go.
“I’ll get Jon to drop me off when we’re through,” I told Chris.
“It’ll take awhile at the doctor’s, so don’t rush. Call me when you find out what’s going on.”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I know,” I said to Chris in a pseudo-upbeat tone.
“Yeah, I’m sure he just wants to give Jon some other medicine,” Chris reassured me.
“Yeah…that’s probably it.”
“See you soon.” I didn’t want Christ to leave. As long as he was with us, everything would be alright. I watched him disappear down the hallway to the parking garage.
Jon and I made the silent journey to the elevators. After allowing a mother pushing a stroller to exit, I trudged inside and reluctantly pressed the “4” on the panel. We ascended two floors in eight seconds and were solemnly greeted at the entrance to the pulmonary clinic by one of the nurses. We were rushed into an examination room, even though the waiting room was still jammed with sick children. The nurse’s station was abuzz about something, and I feared it involved Jon. I can’t stand that look of pity that someone gives you when they know something but can’t tell you.
Especially now.
It seemed like hours had drifted by, but after ten minutes a nurse came in.
“We’ve had to call Dr. Pfaff back in, and we’re awaiting his return,” she said professionally, yet I could see pity in her eyes.
“Can you tell me what’s going on?” I asked.
“All I know is that something showed up on the x-ray that Dr. Pfaff needs to review.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I sat down on the maroon molded plastic chair and my chest suddenly tightened. Knowing it was my turn to be strong, I grabbed a magazine that had been on the desk to conceal my fear. I was having trouble reading Jon: was it nervousness or impatience?
After another hour or two (actually twenty minutes) passed, Dr. Pfaff swung the exam door open.
“Come here. I want you to see this x-ray.” To the untrained eye (mine) the x-ray looked like a healthy chest with two normal lungs.
“See the left lung, how it fills up the chest cavity?” Dr. Pfaff asked.
“Yes,” I stated in a perplexed manner.
“Now look at the right lung. This entire chest cavity area is filled with air, and this little shape at the bottom of the x-ray is Jon’s lung. His right lung as deflated.”
I couldn’t move or speak. My throat tightened and I couldn’t breathe.
“What we have to do is get all that air out, so that his lung can inflate. It’s called a pneumo thorax.”
“How?” was all that I could eek out. I instinctively leaned to the left so that my shoulder was touching Jon’s arm. He just stood there, staring.
“We’ll have to call in a surgeon, and he’ll determine when he needs to operate.”
“B-B-But it’s not too serious, is it?”
“The surgeon, Dr. Iglesias, will probably want to get a chest tube in immediately. Since it’s later in the afternoon, there’s a possibility that we can get Jon a bed today.”
“That soon? Can he go home first and gather up some things?”
“No, they’re trying to get the bed now. If he has to come back later in the week, I don’t want him doing ANYTHING! I mean no driving, unnecessary walking, coughing, even pushing to have a bowel movement. The right lung is almost completely deflated. Any strain can make the left lung deflate.”
Jon, who’d been standing behind me in shock, interjected, “Hey, I’m supposed to go with my buddy tomorrow and sign the enlistment papers for the Air Force.”
“Well, Jon, that’s not going to happen.” Dr. Pfaff favored Jon, as he had attended the Naval Academy before becoming a doctor.
“How long will I have to wait?” Dr. Pfaff ignored Jon’s last question.
“It’s better that we found out this way than when you were conducting your first sky dive or scuba dive. The best case scenario would have been an emergency transport to the hospital. I don’t have to tell you what the worst case scenario would have been.” Dr. Pfaff said frankly. As Jon and Dr. Pfaff talked, I began to send a text message to Chris.
“Theu’re taljing surgety,” my trembling hands typed.
“What do you mean? Now?”
“Don’t knoq yet.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“His lunh is colaapsed. R u aalnost thourgh?”
“I’m on my way.”
By the time Chris made it back to Cook’s, we had been escorted to the emergency room for admission. I don’t know how we got there since all I could do was study the back of Jon’s head, wanting to wrap my arms around his torso. Watching the attendants put Jon in a wheelchair and administering oxygen, my knees buckled and acid rose in my throat. The E.R. staff kept looking baffled at the x-ray, then at Jon. Between the ‘Hey, you gotta see this’ and ‘this is unbelievable’ my skin moistened and I shivered. None of them could believe that someone could stand, let alone walk, with lungs in such a poor state. Their panic made me panic and I was never so happy to see Chris come through the emergency room door.
My rock.
My savior.
I just wanted to stand there in his arms and allow him to hold me up, as he’s done for so many years.
Why must an entire extended family come to the waiting room when a child is having surgery? No matter how serious? As I try to think positive thoughts while Dr. Iglesias is probing Jon’s chest, I have to contend with large groups of people playing grab-ass while they let their six toddlers terrorize other families waiting. Can’t they watch television or play tag at home? A hospital waiting room is no place for a family reunion. My headache is worsening – probably from no food and too much screaming. How much longer is it going to take?
Jon was wheeled from the emergency room to the second floor for the insertion of the chest tube. We’re corralled in a pre-op room that looks like a nursery. In the corner, suspended from the ceiling, some nonsensical child’s program was playing on the TV.
Probably Nickelodeon.
“It’s time for the news. Do you see a remote?” Chris asked.
“No! I like this show. I used to watch it all the time.” Jon insists. So much for current events. So we sat there watching a bubbly group of prepubescent teens dance around in a school.
It didn’t matter.
Jon liked it. It was familiar.
A big, burly man came in the room and got us to sign some papers. He said with an edgy tone that he was the anesthesiologist that would be taking care of Jon. Why do all anesthesiologists have such an attitude? Thankfully, a petite woman about my age entered the room and informed us that she was Jon’s nurse for the surgery. She had a soft voice and gentle touch. She carefully administered some medicine that caused drowsiness. Her compassion shown to Jon put me a little at ease and I began to trust her.
Jon’s wheeled into the operating room and we’re allowed to follow. Just prior to Dr. Iglesias making the incision in Jon’s right side, Chris and I are escorted out of the room.
Within twenty minutes, Jon wheels past us and into the recovery room.
“He’s going to have to stay in here for a little while, maybe all night.”
“Why? Is something wrong?”
“No, it’s just that they can’t find a bed for him.”
“Dr. Iglesias already had a bed reserved on the fifth floor.” The nurse leaves to check.
“Jon, can we get you anything?”
“I’m starving.” They haven’t taken away his appetite.
“What do you want to eat?”
“A Subway meatball sub.”
“Six inch or foot long?”
“Foot long.” The nurse returned by this time and confirmed the bed on the fifth floor as well as Jon’s ability to eat. Knowing that we had a good hour, Chris and I left to get Jon’s food as well as a bite for us. We returned in time to ride the elevator to the fifth floor with Jon.
As we passed the fifth floor nurse’s station, all I can see are smiling faces and closed patients’ doors. Each closed door that we pass has ‘Quarantine’ written on the whiteboard outside the door. Some say ‘Contact’ and some say ‘Respiratory’. I later discover that the ‘contact’ rooms contain staph infections, but never find out what ‘respiratory’ illness lurks in some rooms. As the days turned into weeks, however, I did notice that nurses, custodians, and family donned gowns, masks, and gloves when entering these rooms.
Jon’s room was a private room with a view to the west. Room 5404. Chris and I were given yellow bands with the room number written on them. We’re told that these would be our ticket into the hospital anytime, day or night. The staff knows not to bother anyone wearing yellow – they are the parents. It looked like a standard hospital room with a bed, recliner, and couch. There was a television suspended from the ceiling, and we’re informed that each room has cable and internet. There’s also a GameCube gaming system for the patient’s enjoyment.
“How are you feeling?” I asked Jon as he settled in.
“Tired, but hungry.” His discomfort can be heard in his voice.
“Can we get you anything else?”
“Just some napkins,” Jon says with a smirk. I know that he’s trying to make me feel comfortable about leaving him alone for the night, but I can see that he is in pain. He bats my hand away as I gingerly tuck a napkin under his chin. I kiss him on the forehead anyway.
After taking notes on everything Jon wanted brought up from his room, Chris and I prepared to leave.
“Mom, can you drive my car home?”
“I guess so. Why?”
“I don’t like Dad driving it. He thinks it’s too loud and he complains about the transmission slipping.”
“Okay. I will.” As Chris and I take the elevator to the top floor of the parking garage, the day begins to weigh me down like the lead aprons used during x-rays. Chris hasn’t let go of my hand since leaving Jon’s room. I lean into him, trying to absorb some of his strength.
“I’ll drive Jon’s car,” I manage to say while exiting the elevator.
“No, you drive yours and I’ll drive Jon’s.”
“Jon says you complain every time you’re in his car.”
“I promise I won’t complain. You just drive yours and I’ll drive Jon’s.” I give in, because I really had no desire to drive Jon’s Mustang. It IS loud, and I knew that I would be uncomfortable driving it. I climbed into my Murano and followed Chris down five flights of ramps to street level. While travelling down I-35 I called work.
“TCU Police,” Dave’s familiar voice chimed.
“Dave, it’s Cathy. I won’t be in tonight.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Jon’s in the hospital. I don’t know how long I’ll need off.” Tears stream down my face for the remainder of the sixteen mile drive.
Once home, I frantically packed Jon’s backpack with socks, boxers, toiletries, and his laptop. If I stopped, I knew that I wouldn’t be able to get back up. Once Jon’s needs were taken care of, I collapsed onto bed after peeling my clothes over tired muscles. All I wanted that night was the intimacy shared by a husband and a wife. I fell asleep in Chris’s arms until daylight and was awakened the next morning with coffee and breakfast prepared by Chris.
Chris became my chauffeur and my confidante with each passing day. We spent the first morning drive playing the ‘what if?’ game, not knowing what Jon’s journey would entail. It seemed to take longer to walk from the parking garage to Jon’s room than the drive in from Cleburne. As we approached room 5404, laughter filtered out of the room, even with the door only slightly ajar. After a light tap, Jon gave us permission to enter. A cute twenty-something young lady dressed in purple scrub pants and Charlie Brown motif scrub top was crouched down on the opposite side of Jon’s bed, apparently inspecting some medical equipment. From the finale of their conversation it appeared that they were talking about school. Jon laughing about school?
“Hi, I’m Candice, Jon’s nurse for today.” Her chin-length blonde hair bobbed as she swung her head from side to side. She could have been on the sidelines of a high school football game cheering her classmates to victory.
“I’m just checking the suction on his chest tube. Looks great!” Out the door she sashayed after dispensing antibiotic foam from a wall-mounted dispenser. Jon’s breakfast tray sat untouched on the bedside table.
“I brought those things you asked for,” I said as cheerily as possible, placing his ratty backpack into the wardrobe.
“Can you get my phone charger and laptop out?”
“Sure,” handing them to him as I slowly unpacked socks and boxers, placing them on the top shelf. I didn’t know how long he would be staying, so I brought three pairs of each. Tears welled in my eyes as my back was turned, not liking the pitiful sight of IV’s and tubes coming from his hand and right side, respectively.
“Aren’t you going to eat your breakfast?”
“No, I’m not really hungry. Guess I just want to hear what the doctor says.” Dr. Iglesias usually made his rounds around 9:00, so we had about a thirty minute wait. Chris laid claim to the vinyl recliner in the corner, instantly commandeering the TV remote. Some morning show flickered on. I plopped down on the couch made of the same stiff vinyl, the only saving grace was a wall-mounted sconce providing ample light to read.
Jon’s fingers were flying over the virtual keyboard on his I Phone, pausing briefly as each message transmitted.
“Who are you talking to?”
“I’m just letting Aaron and Hank know that I won’t be going with them tonight, and I sent a text to Joey to see if he got a hold of the recruiter.” A slight tap on the door.
“Hello? How was your night last night?” Dr. Iglesias inquired.
“Alright. A little uncomfortable.” The tube gurgled mucus and blood as Jon took a deep breath.
“Our plan is to re-inflate your right lung, then have a CT scan done to see what caused the pneumo. They’ll x-ray Jon’s chest every day to check the progress of the re-inflation. Once it’s fully inflated, then we’ll be able to see the lung more clearly.” Dr. Iglesias’s slight stature and pleasant smile put me at ease.
“So it’s just a ‘wait and see’ game now?”
“Pretty much. Dr. Pfaff will be kept informed and will visit you later this afternoon.”
“Thank-you, Dr. Iglesias.” He exited the room after performing the same ritual that Candace had, dispensing antibacterial foam from the wall dispenser into his hand.
To pass the time Chris and Jon talked about new trucks, Jon surfing the web at each question that Chris asked. I had plenty of reading to do: I had already bought my books for my Creative Writing Nonfiction course in the fall. We settled in like this was our temporary living room, trying to conduct our business like the last twenty-four hours was just a dream. It didn’t take long to learn the quirks of the coffee maker and which chef in the cafeteria made the best omelets. This went on for four days, Chris chauffeuring me to the hospital, spending the day awaiting the x-ray results, then driving on autopilot home to feed the dog and collapse into bed.
I learned during Jon’s stay that celebrities are frequent visitors at Cook Children’s Hospital. One of the first days of Jon’s extended stay, Chris volunteered to get Starbucks from the first-floor restaurant. He raced to catch a closing elevator, and a large hand protruded to hold the door open.
“Thanks,” Chris said while juggling two venti white chocolate mochas.
“No problem.” When the elevator chimed that he was passing the second floor, Chris noticed that he was in the company of Cowboy’s great Troy Aikman. Troy was dressed in hospital scrubs, as well as the young lady accompanying him: presumably his stepdaughter. All Chris could eek out was “Hey.” Mr. Aikman and his assistant exited on the fourth floor, while Chris finished his ascent to Room 5404. A couple of days later I shared an elevator with Randy Rogers, who was delivering CD’s to the fourth floor.
While sitting in the waiting room, I was able to apply my people-watching skills to their fullest extent. I loved to watch someone’s expression and try to guess their inner thoughts. Stories accompanied the gestures and mannerisms of families awaiting news from surgeons. The task seemed easy with most, but there was a young couple sitting in a corner of the waiting room, stoic looks upon their faces and little interaction with each other, let alone other families. The true challenge was reading the surgeons’ faces as they emerged from the operating rooms, sometimes clutching papers and sometimes clutching their skull caps. I began to learn that the papers were photographs taken during surgery, used to explain procedures or the discovery of anomalies. When the surgeon approached with cap in hand, that usually meant bad news. I never wanted to see Dr. Iglesias with his cap in his hand. I was unprepared for bad news.
On Monday, June 21st, Dr. Iglesias informed us that Jon’s lung was inflated enough for the CT scan, which would be conducted in the early afternoon. Tire of cafeteria food, Chris and I ventured out to PF Chang’s for wonton soup and spring rolls. Jon always seemed glad to see us go – I don’t know if it’s because I coddled him or if it was because he always had friends (including the nurses) stopping by to visit. I was thankful that Jon’s friends were all driving, so he constantly had a steady stream of visitors. And the nurses were smitten with his charm and good manners: I would catch nurses playing games with Jon on his X-Box 360 who had found a new home in room 5404.
After returning from lunch, we parked on the third floor of the parking garage. We had learned that the skywalk from the garage to the hospital was on this floor, which expedited our hike to Jon’s room. Candace was at the nurse’s station waiting for us.
“Jon’s CT Scan results are back. Do you wanna come look?” She escorted us around the corner and into the dictation room reserved for the doctors. On one of the computer monitors was a myriad of images that were cross-sections of Jon’s lungs.
“Here you can see the right lung at the very top,” Candace commented. “There’s a hole that measures 1 ½ centimeters by 2 ½ centimeters right there,” pointing with the tip of a pen.
“What would cause that?” I asked as my mind tried to assign guilt to something that I had done while pregnant.
“They’re called blebs, which are little air bubbles on the surface of the lungs. They are common in tall skinny males, usually between the ages of twenty to forty. It’s a genetic thing, and if they are small enough when they pop, the lung will repair itself. My guess is that this was a substantial bleb that caused a rapid deflation of the right lung.”
After putting on my reading glasses, I began to scour the images for more bubbles. Several small ones were evident on the right lung, but there were a few larger blebs on the top of the left lung, causing me to become concerned.
“Are you sure this is genetic? Because I have been trying to figure out what could cause Jon to have compromised lungs. Could it be that I was around cigarette smoke while I was pregnant? I also took antibiotics for urinary tract infections while pregnant. And, oh my God, I had my hair permed, too. Could the chemicals have done this?” my heart racing in panic mode.
“Calm down. None of these things would have caused blebs to develop. I bet if you check with your family, someone else has had a problem with shortness of breath or a collapsed lung,” Candace assured me. Chris’s left fingers began to caress the back of my hand while his right arm gently squeezed my sagging shoulders. Later I would discover that both my father and older brother suffered from a collapsed lung, just not to this extent. Neither would require surgery, as the lung repaired itself in each case.
“So how do we fix it?” Chris asked. He sensed my panic like a wild animal senses fear.
“It’s a procedure where several small incisions are made in Jon’s chest, side, and back. Stainless steel staples will clamp of the hole, as well as any weak spot.”
“How does he know where the weak spots are?”
“Dr. Iglesias will probably place staples anywhere blebs are present. It looks like a couple of spots on both the right and left lung. He’ll do the left lung just as a precautionary measure.”
“When do you think surgery will be?” Chris continued to ask the pertinent questions as I scoured the computer monitor examining my son’s lungs. I still couldn’t help feeling like I had failed him.
“I imagine Dr. Iglesias will want to get this done immediately,” Candace responded.
“You’re right. We have the OR reserved for this afternoon,“ Dr. Iglesias interjected as he peeked into the tiny room.
Wait! Can’t we wait a couple of days? Just give me some more time with Jon. My stomach jumped into my throat as a pale grey washed over my face. This was the time I was dreading. Time to put my son’s life in the hands of a perfect stranger.
“Chris,” I gasped as he placed his arm around me and kissed my forehead.
“Everything’s going to be alright. Now that we know what caused this, Dr. Iglesias can fix it.” We walked the one hundred feet from the small room to room 5404.
“Hey, am I going to get any lunch?” Jon asked.
“No, you’ll have to wait.” Dr. Iglesias began to explain the procedure to Jon, and that it would be happening in a couple of hours.
“Good. Let’s get it done. Mom, can you call Steven and let him know when I’m out of surgery? He’ll tell everyone else.” He retrieved my cell phone and entered Steven’s number. As we waited for the operating room to become vacant, I kept excusing myself from the room for various reasons. The true reason was that every time I looked at Jon tears welled up in my eyes and my heart ached. I wanted to take the pain that Jon was going to experience away from him and shelter him from the surgeon’s scalpel. What kind of mother am I if he has to endure this? The expression ‘it’s going to hurt me more that it’ll hurt you’ seemed to take on new meaning.
Before I was ready, the papers were signed and they were wheeling my son away. Dr. Iglesias had prepared us by going over the procedure and telling us to expect the surgery to last a couple of hours. We rode the elevator with Jon and waited while the anesthesiologist administered some medicine, putting Jon into a deep sleep. A nurse escorted us to the family waiting room, where we would wait out the surgery. After signing in with the receptionist and providing a cell phone number, Chris and I plopped down on the dark cornflower blue vinyl that covered a loveseat. I didn’t want to sit in a chair. A wooden arm would have separated us, and I needed to be as close to Chris as possible. He placed his right arm around me (I always sat on his right) and I laid my head on his chest, folding my legs up under me. Chris sent obligatory text messages to family members letting them know what was going on while I dozed only to be awakened each time the door to the operating rooms opened. It didn’t matter that only fifteen minutes had passed, I still needed to see if it was Dr. Iglesias emerging.
As minutes turned to hours, anxiety was building in my chest.
“You shouldn’t have had all that coffee,” Chris warned.
“It’s not the coffee that’s causing my chest to hurt.” After two hours I began to watch for the pattern of good news/bad news. Finally Dr. Iglesias made his appearance carrying what in his hand?
PAPERS! It was papers! More like photographs taken during surgery. A wave of relief swept over me and I knew that Jon was going to be alright.
Why do Texas hospitals design their waiting rooms with glass roofs? We’re not tropical plants begging to swelter in the intense heat and humidity. Do they think family members find comfort looking at the heavens, when all they really want is that surgeon to come through the door and say everything went well?
I hope I never have to sit in the waiting room at Cook Children’s Medical Center again. If you would have told me on June 2, 2010, my son, Jon’s high school graduation, that I would become so familiar with this hospital I would have told you that you’re going insane. Jon was a happy, healthy, athletic seventeen-year-old preparing to embark on his lifelong dream: enlisting in Para rescue through the United States Air Force. He had a successful track season, advancing to Regionals in Lubbock, and excelling in the Air Force Junior ROTC program at school. He had even broken every record for physical fitness and orienteering in the school’s ROTC history. How could I be the one sitting in a waiting room, comforted by my husband, Chris, while Jon undergoes not one but two lifesaving surgeries?
Jon was born July 10, 1992, in Fort Worth. It was the most pleasant, most blessed pregnancy and birth that I had ever experienced. No morning sickness or backaches, even my excess weight exceeded fifty pounds. The bigger I got, the more content I became. Throughout the pregnancy my husband, Chris, insisted that I would have our second son on July 4th.
“We will name him Stonewall Jackson Moody,” Chris insisted, being a little overzealous of his patriotism. “We can always call him Stoney.” The only ‘Stoney’ I knew was a juvenile delinquent that had committed numerous acts of vandalism before the age of ten.
On the evening of July 3rd, Chris and I went to see a late movie in Fort Worth. I cannot tell you which movie it was because I spent the whole movie timing my contractions and silently weeping.
“What’s the matter? Are you crying?” Chris said softly while caressing my hand.
“I don’t want my baby named Stonewall Jackson Moody!” I blubbered.
“What brought this on?”
“I’m having contractions, and they’re getting pretty close – within ten minutes of each other.” Suddenly Chris became so doting, holding my hand and pulling me into him.
“Are you having another one?”
“YES!”
“Shhh!” came from the audience. As soon as the movie credits began to run, Chris dialed the hospital’s OB/GYN department.
“My wife is having contractions, and they are about six minutes apart. Should we come in?”
Silence.
“We’re just around the corner. Be there in a couple of minutes.”
“What did they say?” I implored.
“They said you should go in to get checked.” Sobs erupted.
The two-block ride was over in a flash, probably because Chris was ignoring every traffic law in Texas. As Chris cheered at each contraction, I covertly begged the nurses to stop them.
“Please! You don’t understand!” I pleaded with the nurse.
“Why are you so upset?”
“I can’t have the baby now!”
“ You need to calm down, because this is bad for the baby.”
“Being named Stonewall Jackson Moody would be worse for the baby!” After two hours of studying monitors the nurses sent me home. I was still having faint contractions, but the nurses said that they would subside with some rest.
But Chris had not given up hope. We were up bright and early, and after a breakfast of bacon and eggs with LOTS of hot sauce, we spent the day (July 4th) walking around a Gun Show for FOUR HOURS! I felt like an overweight, out of shape dog being dragged by a leash up and down each aisle, pleading with my master for rest. Jon obviously wasn’t too impressed with the show, because there were no more contractions until they induced labor on tenth. Chris’s disappointment was obvious, but I silently thank God for Jon’s delay into this world.
Jon was named after my grandfather and his middle name (Cowin) was Chris’s grandfather’s name. Both of our grandfathers were hardworking, honest family men, and we hoped that Jon would inherit some of their good qualities. As a baby, Jon and I were inseparable. If I wasn’t working, I was with Jon. We even had the chickenpox together: he was one and I was twenty-nine. Each night I’d gently rub his back and sing him to sleep. All my kids liked James Taylor’s “You Can Close Your Eyes.”
Did I tell you that I don’t like hospitals? I developed a dislike of them when my grandfather spent several months in a VA hospital in Buffalo, New York. I was in elementary school, and would visit him several times a week with my parents. The stench of urine and disinfectant burned my nostrils. The food aroma scorched my nostrils, even though the patients complained about it tasting bland. At that time gasoline was rationed, and cigarettes at the hospital PX were only twenty-five cents a pack.
My dislike of hospitals turned to utter disdain the day my youngest child, my baby, Jon, was admitted: June 15, 2010. Thirteen days after he graduated from high school. As a seventeen-year-old he was able to stay at Cook’s Children’s, which didn’t have any of the urine or disinfectant smell nor the nasty food stench. It didn’t have the familiar hospital colors – green and grey – either. It was a circus of colors and sounds. But I hated that hospital even more than the VA because it represented life and death; the difference between life and death of my son. Rainbow colors and children’s tunes couldn’t erase the fact that life wasn’t fair, and I blamed the hospital.
As far as memory takes me, Jon has always expressed such passion for serving his country through military service. He speaks proudly of his father, a United States Marine, and even brags a little about having a mom that actually DID wear Army boots. The first time he picked his colors for his bedroom he instantly chose camouflage. Even today his room is painted Behr ‘Witch Hazel’, which is actually a dark olive drab green.
Jon received his first gun on his fifth birthday: a BB rifle. We lived on a few acres in Grandview, Texas, surrounded by pastures of cattle and horses. The driveway gate protected us from unwanted guests, so it was okay for him to shoot it on our property. There were large dirt piles from the construction of our pool, so Chris placed a target against them and told Jon that he could lay in the driveway and practice.
The first thing he shot was a mockingbird perched on the electrical lines that ran along our driveway.
He and his dad used to sit on the back deck and shoot at the wisteria pods hanging from the back chain link fence. When he was six or seven, he’d pretend he was a sniper and hide in the fruitless mulberry tree while I puttered in the garden. He’d patiently stay up there for an hour or more without me even knowing. He’d just watch me, the cows, the horses, and especially Patch, our Blue Heeler. Even at that age he was my protector, watching over me.
We came home one day and discovered tire tracks going through our drive-through gate and into our back pasture.
“I walked the tracks and they follow the fence line,” Chris commented.
“Did you notice anything missing?” I inquired.
“No, but they didn’t latch the gate back. Lucky the horses didn’t get out. I bet it was those damn gas well workers. Did you notice the orange markers out back?”
“No, but I’ll call Chesapeake and remind them that we opted out of the gas lease, and to stay off our property.”
The next day I caught Jon dressed in camouflage, carrying his BB rifle, and low-crawling through the sunflowers. In the distance I could see the gas well workers along our fence line, but on our neighbors’ properties.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I screamed while running through the horses’ pen.
“Shhh!”
“What do you mean Shhh? This is a good way to get yourself shot!”
“I’m just guarding our property, like Dad said we should.” Jon said as he brushed the horse burrs and dung from his clothes.
“Jon, they don’t know that you only have a BB gun! They might think it’s real. And they certainly can’t tell that you’re a seven-year-old boy while you’re lying on the ground.”
“But can I lay out here and watch’em?” he asked as he sheepishly peered over his left shoulder at the men.
“No, you cannot. Get up to the yard now!”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Jon may have been a little hellion, but no one could ever dispute his good manners. From the time he could talk he said “Sir” and “Ma’am”, “Please” and “Thank-you”, removed his hat while inside a building, and even held doors for girls. He always wanted his hair cut short and never slouched or muttered words. He insisted on shaking hands with everyone he met. It was as if he was already preparing himself for military service.
After his older sister, Sara, graduated from high school in 2005, Jon became bored with attending a small school. Students were treated differently if their father and their grandfather didn’t graduate from Grandview. For sports, he had a choice between football and basketball, and Boy Scouts just didn’t have enough structure and challenge to appease his insatiable desire for military discipline. We began looking at houses in Burleson, Texas, because they had a large school system with an active Junior ROTC program. We purchased a house in the fall of 2005, one and one-half blocks from Burleson High School. Jon was in the eighth grade.
His first day at Hughes Middle School ended with a list of new phone numbers and insatiable chatter about his new friends. Jon was game for trying anything, even attempting the hurdles in the spring of 2006. One day he took a nasty fall, and complained about his right leg hurting. Frustrated and not believing that he was hurt badly, I reluctantly took him to the minor emergency clinic at Cook Children’s Medical Center. Without x-raying his leg, the doctor said that he was okay. Being an overly protective mother and completely unsatisfied with the cursory examination, I made an appointment with the orthopedic specialist.
Several days later the specialist confirmed that Jon had a fractured tibia in the growth plate, requiring him to wear a full leg brace for six to eight weeks. This was my revelation: never take any complaint from Jon too lightly.
At the end of the eighth grade, Jon had to make a decision between football or band for his freshman year at high school. I encouraged him to choose band, because of his weakened right tibia. I had nightmares of an opposing player weighing twice his weight tackling him. Luckily some of the high schoolers enticed him to try-out for the Drum Line, saying that he was a shoe-in. Thanks to them, I wouldn’t spend the next few years fretting about Jon getting injured in football.
The one activity that Jon refused to compromise on was the Air Force Junior ROTC program. He craved the discipline and order that Colonel Taylor and Master Chief Greenwood instilled on the corps. From the summer of 2006 until his graduation, this was his passion, unsurpassed by any other subject or sport. He was even selected to serve as the Corps Commander in the fall semester of his senior year. One day each week the cadets wore their uniforms to school. Jon carefully spit-shined his shoes the night before and took care in the placement of his ribbons. I looked forward to seeing him on uniform day – I swear he grew six inches and aged five years every time he donned the Air Force Blue.
As graduation loomed in the near future, Jon contemplated his options for serving his country. One day it was Marine Recon (follow in his dad’s footsteps), then next Army Special Forces (glorified in recent movies), but finally Jon became committed to enlisting in the Air Force, becoming a member of the Para-rescue Team. This was the most demanding job in the Air Force, requiring grueling physical requirements as well as medical and combat knowledge. It didn’t surprise me that Jon chose this calling, as he has never committed himself to something halfway. This also incorporated helping fellow servicemen in combat situations. His friend and fellow cadet, Joey Rodriguez, agreed to enlist with Jon under the same program, and both became steadfast in their pact. All that was left for senior year was track season and enjoying their final months of civilian life.
Around May first, Jon came home coughing and complaining that his chest hurt, especially on the right side.
“It really hurts right here,” holding his right rib area.
“Did you get into a scuffle with someone?”
“No.”
“Did you run into a table or a door while at school?” Sometimes I think he inherited my lack of grace when in motion.
“No, it just hurts,” he said impatiently.
“Maybe it’s from coughing so much.” I gave him cough medicine, but after a few days it didn’t seem to help. This warranted a visit to the family physician.
After x-rays and consulting with Dr. Hoffman, Jon was given a steroid and antibiotic, thinking that there was some sort of inflammation in his chest cavity. Jon is the second worst person about taking medicine (I am the worst), so I supervised the administration of medication. The sharp pains on the right side slightly subsided, but he still had an incessant cough. The doctor called in another type of antibiotic, suggesting that maybe the infection was bacterial instead of viral. I cringed every time he coughed after standing up suddenly. What was wrong? Not wanting to miss anything, I scheduled an appointment with his childhood pulmonologist. Jon had experienced asthma as a child, but had outgrown it. The appointment was scheduled for June 15th, six weeks after Jon’s initial symptoms appeared.
On Tuesday, June 15, 2010, Jon’s coughing had subsided slightly, but he had begun to complain about shortness of breath. I didn’t think much of this, because he had been competing in track during this time and had even excelled. He ran good enough to place at the District Level and even qualified at the Regional Level in the 4 X 400 relay. Obviously, anybody that could run like a deer couldn’t possibly have breathing problems, right?
Our hectic schedules caused us to take two cars to the Specialist’s office that day: I had school in the morning, and coincidentally Chris had an appointment with the Neck Specialist shortly after Jon’s appointment. I met Chris and Jon at Cook’s Specialty Clinic, which is connected to the hospital, promptly at ten a.m. The waiting room was packed with children coughing and parents talking loudly on their cell phones. I could only watch the colorful saltwater fish in the centrally-located aquarium for so long before I began playing Brick Breaker on my cell phone.
Just as I approached the desk to inquire about the long wait, Jon was called in. The three of us were led into the inner sanctums of the clinic and stuck in an examination room not much larger than my walk-in closet. Jon came and went from the room as various nurses commandeered him for a battery of tests. After the last test, Dr. Pfaff said that Jon had probably contracted pneumonia in early May, and that it would take some time to recover. Dr. Pfaff said that we were through, but as a precautionary measure he’d like to have Jon’s lungs x-rayed on the way out.
After descending two floors to Radiology, Jon disappeared into the inner rooms as Chris and I sat patiently in the waiting room. The plan was for Jon to drive home after his appointment and I would accompany Chris to his, for we feared that surgery would be the only option available for his herniated discs. About five minutes after disappearing, Jon reappeared pasty-faced and robotic.
“We have to go back upstairs,” Jon stated in a serious tone.
“What? Did you forget something up there?” I said jokingly.
“No, they just said I needed to go back upstairs, and that they were paging Dr. Pfaff.”
Color drained from my face, and the upturned corners of my lips drooped to a horizontal line. My Starbucks stomach began to knot and sour. What could be wrong?
Chris’s appointment was in twenty minutes, and he needed to go.
“I’ll get Jon to drop me off when we’re through,” I told Chris.
“It’ll take awhile at the doctor’s, so don’t rush. Call me when you find out what’s going on.”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I know,” I said to Chris in a pseudo-upbeat tone.
“Yeah, I’m sure he just wants to give Jon some other medicine,” Chris reassured me.
“Yeah…that’s probably it.”
“See you soon.” I didn’t want Christ to leave. As long as he was with us, everything would be alright. I watched him disappear down the hallway to the parking garage.
Jon and I made the silent journey to the elevators. After allowing a mother pushing a stroller to exit, I trudged inside and reluctantly pressed the “4” on the panel. We ascended two floors in eight seconds and were solemnly greeted at the entrance to the pulmonary clinic by one of the nurses. We were rushed into an examination room, even though the waiting room was still jammed with sick children. The nurse’s station was abuzz about something, and I feared it involved Jon. I can’t stand that look of pity that someone gives you when they know something but can’t tell you.
Especially now.
It seemed like hours had drifted by, but after ten minutes a nurse came in.
“We’ve had to call Dr. Pfaff back in, and we’re awaiting his return,” she said professionally, yet I could see pity in her eyes.
“Can you tell me what’s going on?” I asked.
“All I know is that something showed up on the x-ray that Dr. Pfaff needs to review.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I sat down on the maroon molded plastic chair and my chest suddenly tightened. Knowing it was my turn to be strong, I grabbed a magazine that had been on the desk to conceal my fear. I was having trouble reading Jon: was it nervousness or impatience?
After another hour or two (actually twenty minutes) passed, Dr. Pfaff swung the exam door open.
“Come here. I want you to see this x-ray.” To the untrained eye (mine) the x-ray looked like a healthy chest with two normal lungs.
“See the left lung, how it fills up the chest cavity?” Dr. Pfaff asked.
“Yes,” I stated in a perplexed manner.
“Now look at the right lung. This entire chest cavity area is filled with air, and this little shape at the bottom of the x-ray is Jon’s lung. His right lung as deflated.”
I couldn’t move or speak. My throat tightened and I couldn’t breathe.
“What we have to do is get all that air out, so that his lung can inflate. It’s called a pneumo thorax.”
“How?” was all that I could eek out. I instinctively leaned to the left so that my shoulder was touching Jon’s arm. He just stood there, staring.
“We’ll have to call in a surgeon, and he’ll determine when he needs to operate.”
“B-B-But it’s not too serious, is it?”
“The surgeon, Dr. Iglesias, will probably want to get a chest tube in immediately. Since it’s later in the afternoon, there’s a possibility that we can get Jon a bed today.”
“That soon? Can he go home first and gather up some things?”
“No, they’re trying to get the bed now. If he has to come back later in the week, I don’t want him doing ANYTHING! I mean no driving, unnecessary walking, coughing, even pushing to have a bowel movement. The right lung is almost completely deflated. Any strain can make the left lung deflate.”
Jon, who’d been standing behind me in shock, interjected, “Hey, I’m supposed to go with my buddy tomorrow and sign the enlistment papers for the Air Force.”
“Well, Jon, that’s not going to happen.” Dr. Pfaff favored Jon, as he had attended the Naval Academy before becoming a doctor.
“How long will I have to wait?” Dr. Pfaff ignored Jon’s last question.
“It’s better that we found out this way than when you were conducting your first sky dive or scuba dive. The best case scenario would have been an emergency transport to the hospital. I don’t have to tell you what the worst case scenario would have been.” Dr. Pfaff said frankly. As Jon and Dr. Pfaff talked, I began to send a text message to Chris.
“Theu’re taljing surgety,” my trembling hands typed.
“What do you mean? Now?”
“Don’t knoq yet.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“His lunh is colaapsed. R u aalnost thourgh?”
“I’m on my way.”
By the time Chris made it back to Cook’s, we had been escorted to the emergency room for admission. I don’t know how we got there since all I could do was study the back of Jon’s head, wanting to wrap my arms around his torso. Watching the attendants put Jon in a wheelchair and administering oxygen, my knees buckled and acid rose in my throat. The E.R. staff kept looking baffled at the x-ray, then at Jon. Between the ‘Hey, you gotta see this’ and ‘this is unbelievable’ my skin moistened and I shivered. None of them could believe that someone could stand, let alone walk, with lungs in such a poor state. Their panic made me panic and I was never so happy to see Chris come through the emergency room door.
My rock.
My savior.
I just wanted to stand there in his arms and allow him to hold me up, as he’s done for so many years.
Why must an entire extended family come to the waiting room when a child is having surgery? No matter how serious? As I try to think positive thoughts while Dr. Iglesias is probing Jon’s chest, I have to contend with large groups of people playing grab-ass while they let their six toddlers terrorize other families waiting. Can’t they watch television or play tag at home? A hospital waiting room is no place for a family reunion. My headache is worsening – probably from no food and too much screaming. How much longer is it going to take?
Jon was wheeled from the emergency room to the second floor for the insertion of the chest tube. We’re corralled in a pre-op room that looks like a nursery. In the corner, suspended from the ceiling, some nonsensical child’s program was playing on the TV.
Probably Nickelodeon.
“It’s time for the news. Do you see a remote?” Chris asked.
“No! I like this show. I used to watch it all the time.” Jon insists. So much for current events. So we sat there watching a bubbly group of prepubescent teens dance around in a school.
It didn’t matter.
Jon liked it. It was familiar.
A big, burly man came in the room and got us to sign some papers. He said with an edgy tone that he was the anesthesiologist that would be taking care of Jon. Why do all anesthesiologists have such an attitude? Thankfully, a petite woman about my age entered the room and informed us that she was Jon’s nurse for the surgery. She had a soft voice and gentle touch. She carefully administered some medicine that caused drowsiness. Her compassion shown to Jon put me a little at ease and I began to trust her.
Jon’s wheeled into the operating room and we’re allowed to follow. Just prior to Dr. Iglesias making the incision in Jon’s right side, Chris and I are escorted out of the room.
Within twenty minutes, Jon wheels past us and into the recovery room.
“He’s going to have to stay in here for a little while, maybe all night.”
“Why? Is something wrong?”
“No, it’s just that they can’t find a bed for him.”
“Dr. Iglesias already had a bed reserved on the fifth floor.” The nurse leaves to check.
“Jon, can we get you anything?”
“I’m starving.” They haven’t taken away his appetite.
“What do you want to eat?”
“A Subway meatball sub.”
“Six inch or foot long?”
“Foot long.” The nurse returned by this time and confirmed the bed on the fifth floor as well as Jon’s ability to eat. Knowing that we had a good hour, Chris and I left to get Jon’s food as well as a bite for us. We returned in time to ride the elevator to the fifth floor with Jon.
As we passed the fifth floor nurse’s station, all I can see are smiling faces and closed patients’ doors. Each closed door that we pass has ‘Quarantine’ written on the whiteboard outside the door. Some say ‘Contact’ and some say ‘Respiratory’. I later discover that the ‘contact’ rooms contain staph infections, but never find out what ‘respiratory’ illness lurks in some rooms. As the days turned into weeks, however, I did notice that nurses, custodians, and family donned gowns, masks, and gloves when entering these rooms.
Jon’s room was a private room with a view to the west. Room 5404. Chris and I were given yellow bands with the room number written on them. We’re told that these would be our ticket into the hospital anytime, day or night. The staff knows not to bother anyone wearing yellow – they are the parents. It looked like a standard hospital room with a bed, recliner, and couch. There was a television suspended from the ceiling, and we’re informed that each room has cable and internet. There’s also a GameCube gaming system for the patient’s enjoyment.
“How are you feeling?” I asked Jon as he settled in.
“Tired, but hungry.” His discomfort can be heard in his voice.
“Can we get you anything else?”
“Just some napkins,” Jon says with a smirk. I know that he’s trying to make me feel comfortable about leaving him alone for the night, but I can see that he is in pain. He bats my hand away as I gingerly tuck a napkin under his chin. I kiss him on the forehead anyway.
After taking notes on everything Jon wanted brought up from his room, Chris and I prepared to leave.
“Mom, can you drive my car home?”
“I guess so. Why?”
“I don’t like Dad driving it. He thinks it’s too loud and he complains about the transmission slipping.”
“Okay. I will.” As Chris and I take the elevator to the top floor of the parking garage, the day begins to weigh me down like the lead aprons used during x-rays. Chris hasn’t let go of my hand since leaving Jon’s room. I lean into him, trying to absorb some of his strength.
“I’ll drive Jon’s car,” I manage to say while exiting the elevator.
“No, you drive yours and I’ll drive Jon’s.”
“Jon says you complain every time you’re in his car.”
“I promise I won’t complain. You just drive yours and I’ll drive Jon’s.” I give in, because I really had no desire to drive Jon’s Mustang. It IS loud, and I knew that I would be uncomfortable driving it. I climbed into my Murano and followed Chris down five flights of ramps to street level. While travelling down I-35 I called work.
“TCU Police,” Dave’s familiar voice chimed.
“Dave, it’s Cathy. I won’t be in tonight.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Jon’s in the hospital. I don’t know how long I’ll need off.” Tears stream down my face for the remainder of the sixteen mile drive.
Once home, I frantically packed Jon’s backpack with socks, boxers, toiletries, and his laptop. If I stopped, I knew that I wouldn’t be able to get back up. Once Jon’s needs were taken care of, I collapsed onto bed after peeling my clothes over tired muscles. All I wanted that night was the intimacy shared by a husband and a wife. I fell asleep in Chris’s arms until daylight and was awakened the next morning with coffee and breakfast prepared by Chris.
Chris became my chauffeur and my confidante with each passing day. We spent the first morning drive playing the ‘what if?’ game, not knowing what Jon’s journey would entail. It seemed to take longer to walk from the parking garage to Jon’s room than the drive in from Cleburne. As we approached room 5404, laughter filtered out of the room, even with the door only slightly ajar. After a light tap, Jon gave us permission to enter. A cute twenty-something young lady dressed in purple scrub pants and Charlie Brown motif scrub top was crouched down on the opposite side of Jon’s bed, apparently inspecting some medical equipment. From the finale of their conversation it appeared that they were talking about school. Jon laughing about school?
“Hi, I’m Candice, Jon’s nurse for today.” Her chin-length blonde hair bobbed as she swung her head from side to side. She could have been on the sidelines of a high school football game cheering her classmates to victory.
“I’m just checking the suction on his chest tube. Looks great!” Out the door she sashayed after dispensing antibiotic foam from a wall-mounted dispenser. Jon’s breakfast tray sat untouched on the bedside table.
“I brought those things you asked for,” I said as cheerily as possible, placing his ratty backpack into the wardrobe.
“Can you get my phone charger and laptop out?”
“Sure,” handing them to him as I slowly unpacked socks and boxers, placing them on the top shelf. I didn’t know how long he would be staying, so I brought three pairs of each. Tears welled in my eyes as my back was turned, not liking the pitiful sight of IV’s and tubes coming from his hand and right side, respectively.
“Aren’t you going to eat your breakfast?”
“No, I’m not really hungry. Guess I just want to hear what the doctor says.” Dr. Iglesias usually made his rounds around 9:00, so we had about a thirty minute wait. Chris laid claim to the vinyl recliner in the corner, instantly commandeering the TV remote. Some morning show flickered on. I plopped down on the couch made of the same stiff vinyl, the only saving grace was a wall-mounted sconce providing ample light to read.
Jon’s fingers were flying over the virtual keyboard on his I Phone, pausing briefly as each message transmitted.
“Who are you talking to?”
“I’m just letting Aaron and Hank know that I won’t be going with them tonight, and I sent a text to Joey to see if he got a hold of the recruiter.” A slight tap on the door.
“Hello? How was your night last night?” Dr. Iglesias inquired.
“Alright. A little uncomfortable.” The tube gurgled mucus and blood as Jon took a deep breath.
“Our plan is to re-inflate your right lung, then have a CT scan done to see what caused the pneumo. They’ll x-ray Jon’s chest every day to check the progress of the re-inflation. Once it’s fully inflated, then we’ll be able to see the lung more clearly.” Dr. Iglesias’s slight stature and pleasant smile put me at ease.
“So it’s just a ‘wait and see’ game now?”
“Pretty much. Dr. Pfaff will be kept informed and will visit you later this afternoon.”
“Thank-you, Dr. Iglesias.” He exited the room after performing the same ritual that Candace had, dispensing antibacterial foam from the wall dispenser into his hand.
To pass the time Chris and Jon talked about new trucks, Jon surfing the web at each question that Chris asked. I had plenty of reading to do: I had already bought my books for my Creative Writing Nonfiction course in the fall. We settled in like this was our temporary living room, trying to conduct our business like the last twenty-four hours was just a dream. It didn’t take long to learn the quirks of the coffee maker and which chef in the cafeteria made the best omelets. This went on for four days, Chris chauffeuring me to the hospital, spending the day awaiting the x-ray results, then driving on autopilot home to feed the dog and collapse into bed.
I learned during Jon’s stay that celebrities are frequent visitors at Cook Children’s Hospital. One of the first days of Jon’s extended stay, Chris volunteered to get Starbucks from the first-floor restaurant. He raced to catch a closing elevator, and a large hand protruded to hold the door open.
“Thanks,” Chris said while juggling two venti white chocolate mochas.
“No problem.” When the elevator chimed that he was passing the second floor, Chris noticed that he was in the company of Cowboy’s great Troy Aikman. Troy was dressed in hospital scrubs, as well as the young lady accompanying him: presumably his stepdaughter. All Chris could eek out was “Hey.” Mr. Aikman and his assistant exited on the fourth floor, while Chris finished his ascent to Room 5404. A couple of days later I shared an elevator with Randy Rogers, who was delivering CD’s to the fourth floor.
While sitting in the waiting room, I was able to apply my people-watching skills to their fullest extent. I loved to watch someone’s expression and try to guess their inner thoughts. Stories accompanied the gestures and mannerisms of families awaiting news from surgeons. The task seemed easy with most, but there was a young couple sitting in a corner of the waiting room, stoic looks upon their faces and little interaction with each other, let alone other families. The true challenge was reading the surgeons’ faces as they emerged from the operating rooms, sometimes clutching papers and sometimes clutching their skull caps. I began to learn that the papers were photographs taken during surgery, used to explain procedures or the discovery of anomalies. When the surgeon approached with cap in hand, that usually meant bad news. I never wanted to see Dr. Iglesias with his cap in his hand. I was unprepared for bad news.
On Monday, June 21st, Dr. Iglesias informed us that Jon’s lung was inflated enough for the CT scan, which would be conducted in the early afternoon. Tire of cafeteria food, Chris and I ventured out to PF Chang’s for wonton soup and spring rolls. Jon always seemed glad to see us go – I don’t know if it’s because I coddled him or if it was because he always had friends (including the nurses) stopping by to visit. I was thankful that Jon’s friends were all driving, so he constantly had a steady stream of visitors. And the nurses were smitten with his charm and good manners: I would catch nurses playing games with Jon on his X-Box 360 who had found a new home in room 5404.
After returning from lunch, we parked on the third floor of the parking garage. We had learned that the skywalk from the garage to the hospital was on this floor, which expedited our hike to Jon’s room. Candace was at the nurse’s station waiting for us.
“Jon’s CT Scan results are back. Do you wanna come look?” She escorted us around the corner and into the dictation room reserved for the doctors. On one of the computer monitors was a myriad of images that were cross-sections of Jon’s lungs.
“Here you can see the right lung at the very top,” Candace commented. “There’s a hole that measures 1 ½ centimeters by 2 ½ centimeters right there,” pointing with the tip of a pen.
“What would cause that?” I asked as my mind tried to assign guilt to something that I had done while pregnant.
“They’re called blebs, which are little air bubbles on the surface of the lungs. They are common in tall skinny males, usually between the ages of twenty to forty. It’s a genetic thing, and if they are small enough when they pop, the lung will repair itself. My guess is that this was a substantial bleb that caused a rapid deflation of the right lung.”
After putting on my reading glasses, I began to scour the images for more bubbles. Several small ones were evident on the right lung, but there were a few larger blebs on the top of the left lung, causing me to become concerned.
“Are you sure this is genetic? Because I have been trying to figure out what could cause Jon to have compromised lungs. Could it be that I was around cigarette smoke while I was pregnant? I also took antibiotics for urinary tract infections while pregnant. And, oh my God, I had my hair permed, too. Could the chemicals have done this?” my heart racing in panic mode.
“Calm down. None of these things would have caused blebs to develop. I bet if you check with your family, someone else has had a problem with shortness of breath or a collapsed lung,” Candace assured me. Chris’s left fingers began to caress the back of my hand while his right arm gently squeezed my sagging shoulders. Later I would discover that both my father and older brother suffered from a collapsed lung, just not to this extent. Neither would require surgery, as the lung repaired itself in each case.
“So how do we fix it?” Chris asked. He sensed my panic like a wild animal senses fear.
“It’s a procedure where several small incisions are made in Jon’s chest, side, and back. Stainless steel staples will clamp of the hole, as well as any weak spot.”
“How does he know where the weak spots are?”
“Dr. Iglesias will probably place staples anywhere blebs are present. It looks like a couple of spots on both the right and left lung. He’ll do the left lung just as a precautionary measure.”
“When do you think surgery will be?” Chris continued to ask the pertinent questions as I scoured the computer monitor examining my son’s lungs. I still couldn’t help feeling like I had failed him.
“I imagine Dr. Iglesias will want to get this done immediately,” Candace responded.
“You’re right. We have the OR reserved for this afternoon,“ Dr. Iglesias interjected as he peeked into the tiny room.
Wait! Can’t we wait a couple of days? Just give me some more time with Jon. My stomach jumped into my throat as a pale grey washed over my face. This was the time I was dreading. Time to put my son’s life in the hands of a perfect stranger.
“Chris,” I gasped as he placed his arm around me and kissed my forehead.
“Everything’s going to be alright. Now that we know what caused this, Dr. Iglesias can fix it.” We walked the one hundred feet from the small room to room 5404.
“Hey, am I going to get any lunch?” Jon asked.
“No, you’ll have to wait.” Dr. Iglesias began to explain the procedure to Jon, and that it would be happening in a couple of hours.
“Good. Let’s get it done. Mom, can you call Steven and let him know when I’m out of surgery? He’ll tell everyone else.” He retrieved my cell phone and entered Steven’s number. As we waited for the operating room to become vacant, I kept excusing myself from the room for various reasons. The true reason was that every time I looked at Jon tears welled up in my eyes and my heart ached. I wanted to take the pain that Jon was going to experience away from him and shelter him from the surgeon’s scalpel. What kind of mother am I if he has to endure this? The expression ‘it’s going to hurt me more that it’ll hurt you’ seemed to take on new meaning.
Before I was ready, the papers were signed and they were wheeling my son away. Dr. Iglesias had prepared us by going over the procedure and telling us to expect the surgery to last a couple of hours. We rode the elevator with Jon and waited while the anesthesiologist administered some medicine, putting Jon into a deep sleep. A nurse escorted us to the family waiting room, where we would wait out the surgery. After signing in with the receptionist and providing a cell phone number, Chris and I plopped down on the dark cornflower blue vinyl that covered a loveseat. I didn’t want to sit in a chair. A wooden arm would have separated us, and I needed to be as close to Chris as possible. He placed his right arm around me (I always sat on his right) and I laid my head on his chest, folding my legs up under me. Chris sent obligatory text messages to family members letting them know what was going on while I dozed only to be awakened each time the door to the operating rooms opened. It didn’t matter that only fifteen minutes had passed, I still needed to see if it was Dr. Iglesias emerging.
As minutes turned to hours, anxiety was building in my chest.
“You shouldn’t have had all that coffee,” Chris warned.
“It’s not the coffee that’s causing my chest to hurt.” After two hours I began to watch for the pattern of good news/bad news. Finally Dr. Iglesias made his appearance carrying what in his hand?
PAPERS! It was papers! More like photographs taken during surgery. A wave of relief swept over me and I knew that Jon was going to be alright.