Post-Op

A little more than 24 hours ago, Skip and I were sitting in the surgical waiting room at CHOP (Children's Hospital of Philadelphia, for those not from around here) waiting for news of our little girl's status in surgery. And, while there were really hard-working, amazing people circulating the room frequently to give families updates on their little loved ones, the updates couldn't come fast enough for me, and I adopted this completely ADD-like mini-habit of looking up from my laptop screen every six seconds, then over to my beloved husband, then back at my screen, and then I would say, "it's been too long," or "I'm really getting nervous." Because when your child is in surgery, no matter what that surgery is, time is beyond slow.  It just stops.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Charlotte was born with a crazy right hand. No, seriously. It's nuts. I wrote a teensy bit about it here when she was six months old, but never really elaborated for no reason other than I just never got around to it. So here's the skinny: her right index finger (digit 2) is crooked. That is called clinodactyly. Her middle and ring fingers (digits 3 and 4) on that same hand were webbed up until yesterday. That's syndactyly, for those of you studying Greek. And finally, her middle finger is proportionally larger to all of the other fingers on hand.  That's macrodactyly. Charlotte has the trifecta of "dactylys" on one hand.  Rockstar.

The clinodactyly has straightened somewhat since her birth, and there is no plan or need to address that surgically. Same for her big finger. Nothing they can or should do with that. And there is a perverse part of my brain that finds humor in the fact that it is her middle finger that is so huge. Because I know someday she'll need to flip someone off. They will surely notice.

But on to the syndactyly. The one thing that required surgical correction. And when I say required, I suppose I'm stretching the meaning a bit, since she could have gone through the whole of her life perfectly healthfully with her middle and ring fingers webbed, and probably been perfectly happy. But given that she's a female, and given what we know of girls and the significant degree of crap they already have to manage through to make it out on the woman side of their development with their sanity intact, and given that it's her ring finger, and given that I wanted to ensure her full access to flip people off with her huge middle finger as much as she ever could want or need, we decided to proceed with the surgery, which has been scheduled for the better part of the last seven months.

Her surgeon, we were told, is THE pediatric hand guy. For the rest of my life, I will never forget our first consultation with him. Charlotte was barely two weeks old, and we were sitting in the examining room in CHOP's orthopedic unit, and in walked Dr. Benjamin Chang. And this man is a presence in a room. He doesn't really walk in - he sort of glides. And here he is, in all of his credentialed glory sitting in front of us discussing Charlotte's two-week old hand and the degree of her syndactyly (minor), and how it is only soft tissue involvement and no bone (a good thing). And in the context of discussing the actual procedure to correct it, my lovely, wonderful, extremely intelligent, very educated, worldly, traveled, did I mention lovely, husband says, "oh, so you just do a little snip snip and it's fine."

To which the uber-crendentialed, Harvard Educated, gliding-not-walking-skin-like-silk Benjamin Chang, M.D. replied, "Well, it's a little more complicated than that."

And I wished a giant hole would form in the examining room floor into which I could jump.

Fast forward twelve months. And yesterday, into the able and uber-credentialed Benjamin Chang's hands, I entrusted my baby girl. And she had her little fingers separated. And everything was okay.

Sure, we had some moments that were scary. There were some tears (mine only). There is a giant bright pink cast that is so bright I'm wondering what the hell we were thinking when we picked that color. There were the few moments before her surgery, after she had the "giggle juice" on board where I got to see my one-year old daughter completely hammered (and, may I say, a drunk baby is a funny baby). And through it all, the able and gliding Benjamin Chang and his team of wonderful doctors and nurses took exquisite care of our little girl. And she's healthy and here.

During her surgery yesterday, while we were waiting, I received an email from my mother containing a prayer that Alex had said for Charlotte. She captured it for us to read. It pretty much sums up any feelings I could express about the day.

Dear Charlotte - be still. The doctor will fix you good and decent.


He did. And we are grateful.

One Year

Charlotte is a year old! I can't believe it. I had a longer post planned and half-written for this week, and then this week happened, and it was a doosy. So I put together this short video instead.

One Year from Carrie Hill on Vimeo.

The last twelve months were amazing and make me just so excited for the next many years.

  

Building Our Village...

I've been suffering through a strange allergic reaction since late Friday night. The usual (for me): hives, random swelling in my hands, feet and lips, joint stiffness and pain and a general feeling of itchiness. I've averaged about 1 or 2 of these episodes a year, starting with the Great Allergic Reaction of 1995, during my Sophomore year of college, where it took two weeks and two rounds of Prednisone to finally knock it out of my system. I went on Spring Break that year with hives. It was pretty.

I've never been able to pin down exactly what triggers these reactions, however I do know:
1) They are always worse when I'm experiencing some other kind of physical stress;
2) They ALWAYS begin with an intense itchiness and the sensation of heat behind both of my ears;
3) They may be hormonally related, although I'm not completely convinced of this.
4) They take anywhere from three to seven days to fully run their course, which can be really unpleasant if you like to do CRAZY things like go out in public without scaring small children and pets and sleep through the night without scratching.

Usually, I take Benadryl, but limit it to the nighttime hours when I'm on Mom Duty. This time, Benadryl wasn't helping, and I had the unique and really cool feeling last night of my throat swelling while I was feeding the children dinner and getting the baby ready for bed. So after a conversation with myself about hypochondriasis and possible overreacting, I called my babysitter.

Can I say what a tremendous difference it has made to my life (and I would say, probably Skip's as well) since we developed a relationship with a local sitter whom we trust? Not that our parents wouldn't drop everything to come and help one or both of us (and they have, on a number of occasions) if and when we need it. And we are always grateful for their love, help and support and we know that it comes from their love of us and not out of duty and that we're not a burden. But it's never easy for them to drop everything to come here, especially in the middle of the night, given that they are spread out over different states (sometimes two, sometimes three, depending upon who is at whose vacation home) and they tend to move around A LOT (crazy people who want to have lives). The closest when she's close is nearly two hours away; the furthest when they're furthest require a plane ride. Some of them still work. All of them have their own stuff to do, friends, routines, etc. So logistics are always tricky.

Last year we started routinely booking a local babysitter for date nights...not every week, but at least once every few weeks when I realized that the only things I discussed with my husband were Alex's poop, Alex's potty training and his travel schedule (not necessarily in that order). We slowly developed a strong friendship with her, and her newlywed husband. Alex was and now both of our children are always completely thrilled when they are coming to stay for a while. We've reached that wonderful place with them where we can go out for an evening without spending an extra hour showing them around and explaining the kids' schedules and nuances. They know us, they know our children, they know our house, and they seem to like it here.

When I phoned my sitter last night, I was momentarily worried about being an inconvenience. After all, I was asking for help, something that I have difficulty doing even when I'm paying for that help. It's one of the things that kept me from hiring sitters for so long into Alex's life. It's what keeps me from accepting offers of food from wonderfully-intentioned family members who are coming for parties. It's what kept me from asking for help for almost a year after Alex was born when I knew that something was not right with me; instead I just stopped sleeping completely for a few months. Boy was that fun.

But I've grown. I've changed. I've mellowed. And I've learned that I can't do this alone.

So I called...and she came right over. And then she thanked me for calling her, after rushing out of her home having just returned from her day job, after having cereal for dinner here, after taking beautiful care of our children, reading to Alex at bedtime, comforting him when he was sad that I wasn't home to say goodnight, ensuring he knew that he and his sister were safe and loved. After staying here well into the night while I visited our local ER and waited and waited and waited for treatment. And after all of that, while she was leaving, she told me to call at anytime should anything else happen during the night.

She's a pretty important person. I hope she reads here and knows what a tremendous difference she has made in our lives. She's made this little village just a little broader, and we're all the better for it.

p.s. And I'm getting better. Steroids are good, for short periods of time.